Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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"The Bronze Horsemen" Opening Chapter By Dave Mallegol

Chapter 1:  Eastern Europe: 3,000 BC

I am Daven, head of the Horse Clan and lead hunter for all of the Botai. Since you are interested, I am happy to tell you of my people and the adventures that take place during the next year, but first, here is what I remember about early life in my village.

Screams woke me and my father early one morning. It was dawn when the men with the red armbands attacked our village for the third time this year. Our villagers were in panic as they ran from their burning houses. I was afraid I might be killed when I came out and saw the Smolens leader. He was the same man who had killed my mother on the last raid. I recognized the fresh scar that ran from his scalp across his right cheek to the point on his chin. It was my father who cut his face as they fought hand to hand with knives the last time we were attacked.

I was nine years old at the time and armed with a boy's bow. It was far from effective against two dozen hardened raiders. Still, I fired an arrow with a flint tip and struck the one with the scar on his face in his right shoulder. He laughed at the wound I inflicted and raised his hatchet to kill me, when a woman named Ruth pulled me away from the fight. We ran with the rest of the women and children, led by an elder named Emma. My father killed two of those men with red armbands before he himself was killed that day. 

My friend Bruno was ten years old and a big kid for his age. He fought alongside my father and grandfather and killed one raider and wounded two others as the marauders ran between our pit houses, setting more fires. When it was over, several of our homes were ruined and three more Horse Clan members were dead. A year ago the Horse Clan had twenty-two people, but after the latest hit-and-run attack by the Smolens, there were just sixteen of us left, and only six men, including Bruno, who could fight. They did their damage and killing and retreated as fast as they came.

That night, Sandor, who we call the Oldson or chief, called our small band together. His features were rigid as stone and he raised his arms to be sure he had our full attention. “The Smolens are too many and too powerful for us to fight any longer. We have no choice if we are to survive. We must leave our homes and move.” He waited for a response or an argument, but there was none. His people knew they had no choice.

Sandor spoke again. He nodded to his friend and companion, Tedd, and said, “Tedd has located a new land on the other side of the Ural Mountains. The new land has plenty of grain, a good supply of salt, fruits and berries and horses to hunt. It will be hard work and a long trip. I see no other choice. The best thing about the new lands is that the Smolens will never find us. This brought smiles and a voice of approval.

“Tedd and I will attend the summer gathering. With any luck we will be able to convince our relatives in the Bear Clan and the Aurochs Clan to unite with us. They have also been under attack by the Smolens, and their numbers are reduced from last year as ours are.” Sandor glanced around at his audience. “If we continue to live here as an independent clan, we do not have enough hunters to defend ourselves. As leader of the Horse Clan, I will take you to a safer place on the other side of the mountains. That is my decision. We leave tomorrow and we will not return. The trip will be difficult. I caution each of you to bring only what you can carry.”

The announcement was a shock. No one wanted to leave our territory because of the crops we had planted and the plentiful animals to hunt, but everyone realized there was no choice. We left twenty years ago.  The first winter was very hectic, with building pit houses and hunting what we could before the harsh weather set in. We ate what we had been able to gather or kill in a relatively short time, and there was little meat for our stew pots. Luckily, the winter was mild and of short duration for once, and we made it to spring without losing anyone else.

That spring, the Bear Clan joined up with us in our new home, and the Aurochs Clan soon followed. Both had fought the Smolens during the winter and lost those battles to superior numbers.  Like us, each clan had been reduced significantly from the preceding year.  Abandoning their villages was also the only option left to them.

Our settlement is located on a branch of the Ob that runs north to an ocean some call the Arctic. We are south and east of the Ural Mountains, probably two hundred miles or so from the Smolens. South of our village are grasslands that run from east to west for a thousand miles, maybe more. No one really knows.  What we do know is that there are wild horses in those grasslands, and they will provide the meat we need to survive.

Tedd likes this location for several reasons. Of greatest significance, there is fresh water and salt for meat preservation. Because our village is on a sharp bend in the river, the water runs faster here and remains unfrozen all winter. As an added advantage, our village is situated on high ground, so we avoid spring floods. The area has adequate supplies of fruits and vegetables growing naturally in the area. No other people live close to us, thus there is no longer a need to fight to hold our territory. With the dreaded Smolens out of the picture, we have no enemies and few dangers other than an occasional bear or mountain lion that might roam too close. Of course, there are always wolves in the area if someone gets careless.

                                                                  

The weather has already cooled as we approach the late summer. Horse hunts are a group effort involving all three clans. Two hunts will not meet our needs for a typical brutal winter, during which temperatures drop to thirty or forty degrees below zero and stay there for months at a time. We have already been successful with two hunts and this will be our third. A fourth will follow.

Gathering peas, lentils, berries, mushrooms, and wheat has become part of everyday life in the fall for our women, but without horse meat we would not survive the last two months of winter, those we used to call "the starving months." Before we learned to hunt horses effectively, we often saw the oldest and youngest of our people starve to death as winter wore on. I am told by Tedd and Emma, our oldest members that the total number of clan members has generally never increased. Starvation always held our population to a small group. Since the three clans joined together as one people, the hope is that we will develop better gathering and hunting methods and our food supply will improve. 

Our women already have good supplies of most of what we need, except for gooseberries, raspberries and blueberries. Berries are essential to make pemmican, a combination of peas, berries and horsemeat packed into horse intestines and then smoked to preserve them. Pemmican is eaten as a cold meal on long horse hunts like the one I am planning. It is a crucial staple, since campfire smoke would be smelled from a long distance away by horses, alarming them and sending them deeper into the grasses where we would have no chance to hunt them.

In the Botai, as the three clans are called collectively, it is not unusual to have women included as hunters; actually it is quite common. They have to pass the same tests as the men, except for lesser requirements with the spear and Atlatl for which males have more natural shoulder strength. Our hunts this year have included three females along with four males who just came of age and passed the skills tests. Hunters, whether they are men or women, are the most respected clan members. As the lead hunter, I live for this time of year.

As I indicated in the beginning, the chief of a clan is called the Oldson. He usually inherits his title as the oldest son of the past leader and takes over when his father passes away or steps down due to age or injury. Upon inheriting the title from his father, Sandor rarely used his original name again. Since the other clans joined us at our new location, their clan leaders deferred to Sandor, and he is chief over all three clans.

Normally the Oldson attends the hunters' meeting to offer advice and encouragement to the hunters, especially the newer ones, because if new hunters perform well during all four hunts, they become full clan members and can take a wife. Due to Sandor’s advanced age of 40, he is no longer able to take part in the hunts himself.

Mostly he spends his time counseling people who have disputes, regardless of if it is a man and his wife or if it involves members from different clans. Many issues are trivial and could be settled without him. Since he can no longer hunt, he has time on his hands and has gotten involved with minor issues as well as major disagreements. The reason he did not attend the hunters meeting this time has nothing to do with handling disputes, or his age.

He severely cut his foot while going to the scat pit during a moonless night. The injured foot became infected and has not healed. In truth, it has gotten worse, and our clan is worried that he might not survive this injury. Sandor has been our respected and beloved leader for almost twenty years, ever since the Smolens killed his father and both my parents.

He takes his time with decisions, whether they are between individuals or something bigger that might affect two clans or the whole village. When he makes a judgment it is final, and most often the parties are satisfied. I do not envy his getting in the middle of family arguments and clan disputes.

Being a hunter, I have no interest in settling petty arguments. I would only be comfortable deciding those issues that affect the Botai people as a whole. My hope, as with everyone else, is that he recovers by the time we return from this hunt.

Before we departed, I led the discussion regarding travel and the overnight camping rules. Bruno, head of the Bear Clan, and Janos, head of the Aurochs Clan, helped with the planning. Each took part, but it was my plan overall. When we hunt horses, we wear horsehide clothes and look like horses. Since human sweat gives off such a strong smell, we wash before we leave. My thinking is that it is better to smell like a horse if you are hunting one.

We also bring horse manure in sacks that are traditionally carried by the youngest hunters. This rite always draws minor complaints, but the young hunters become the experienced hunters in a year and do not have to carry manure for more than one season. As we travel, the manure ripens and smells worse. By the time we arrive at the hunt site, we all smell like horse droppings. It can get to be pretty bad. Yet, just before the start of the hunt, to be certain all of our natural scents are masked, we rub manure on any exposed skin.

On the morning of the hunt we ate an early meal and set out at daybreak. We have been walking and running for four hours and my mind wanders to memories from the past. I will always remember learning so much of what I know about hunting and fishing from Tedd, who is actually my uncle and two years senior to the Oldson.  At 42, he is considered ancient.

Uncle Tedd is the one person who always made time to teach me how to make bows and arrows and how to attach the feathers so the arrow would rotate while it was in flight. One time I decided to try a shortcut and make an arrow without feathers. But it would not fly for more than a few feet in a straight line or steady arc, so from then on I followed his advice rather than questioned it.

Tedd showed me from which trees I could make the best bows and arrows. He also taught me how to chip flint arrowheads, but I was never the best at flint knapping, as he called it. I learned it was better to trade horsemeat with the older men for better arrowheads. Tedd also showed me how to string a bow correctly and how to properly affix a leather strap on my left arm so the bowstring would not cut my arm as I practiced hour after hour. 

My next learning experience was fishing, which was not all that dangerous compared to hunting…unless you cannot swim. So, naturally, before I was allowed to fish I had to learn to swim. Later he taught me camping skills and the importance of keeping one or more fires going at night. Because of their natural fear of fire, this would keep dangerous animals away. I remember Tedd saying, “It is far smarter to keep bears and mountain lions away than to have to fight them off in the dark.” I never forgot that lesson.

The odd thing about Tedd is that he was never considered a good hunter, yet he is such a great teacher. Maybe it was because he was more interested in coming up with new ideas and showing others how to do things instead of practicing his skills to get better. I do not need new ideas. I need practice so I do it continuously. I think that my son, Mikl, takes after my uncle more than me. The boy always has new ideas. When my father was alive, as strong a hunter and a fighter as he happened to be, he was always too busy to teach me. This seemed strange to me. However, my uncle always had time.

  

My mind came back to the task at hand, this hunt. At midday we stopped for a quick meal, but never left the trail. I quickly ate my pemmican and motioned for everyone to move forward again. Horses and deer can be hunted in two ways. The first way is what we call drive hunting. Several of us walk in a normal manner at a walking pace. We make just enough noise, talking in a normal tone to move the herd forward. We refer to these hunters as, drivers. They push the game forward to what we call the lead line of hunters. Men in the lead line are a half mile or mile in front of the drivers and remain hidden until the animals come to them.

The second way to hunt large game is called position hunting. With this type of hunting, a hunter in disguise stays well hidden from sight, and waits for the animal to come to them, usually on a trail the animal uses regularly. 

Position hunting is done by one or two hunters and offers a kill of a single animal. Driving horses or deer requires a large group of hunters, but offers the chance to kill many animals. My plan for this hunt is to have five drivers and nine lead line hunters. Drivers are not usually in on the kill because the animals are being pushed forward and move away from them. Their work is to move the horses toward the lead line, but not to fully alarm them. They also have to stay alert in case a horse turns back toward them in an effort to escape.

As the drivers move forward, they have to sound natural. When horses hear their voices they move ahead of the sound. Too much noise alarms them and they gallop from sight or reverse direction. To our right is the northern edge of the grasses where wolves prowl. Horses avoid the woods. To the left are open grasslands which offer an escape if they run that way. Behind are the drivers and in front are the lead hunters. Our methods allow us to cover three of the four directions a horse can run.

We carry long bows and flint tipped spears with Atlatls for distance throwing. An Atlatl attaches to the end of the spear like a hand and in effect makes the thrower’s arm longer adding distance and power to the throw. It takes practice and strength, but once the skill is perfected, a hunter can throw a spear almost twice as far as normal. It is rare that a hunter has enough strength before the age of fourteen to master a spear and an Atlatl, so fourteen years of age is the usual cutoff date for a young man to become a full hunter.

Bruno is a year older than I am and throws the Atlatl spear farther and better than anyone who has ever challenged him. At the summer gatherings, he has been the best at it for as long as I can remember. Only one man, a big Hungarian called Kraven, gives him a challenge, yet he has never defeated Bruno in the Atlatl throw or at any of the strength contests.   

Kraven is not happy about losing to Bruno year after year and we know he will be well prepared for next year’s summer gathering contests. Bruno is just too strong. I am not a small man, but he towers over me and weighs a lot more than I weigh. We wrestle and challenge each other on just about everything. He always wins contests where strength is a factor. I win when it comes to expertise with the bow. I practice more and rarely lose to anyone. When it comes to strength, without a doubt, Bruno is the strongest man I have ever known. 

One time several years ago we were hunting a bear and it turned on us. I struck it with my spear from a short distance, but the spear hit a shoulder bone and glanced off. The bear was wild with rage and almost reached me, roaring and snarling. The brown monster slashed at me with its massive claws as I tried to ready my second spear.

It was about to tear me apart when Bruno drove his spear deep into its chest and saved my life. Mortally wounded it turned toward Bruno and I rammed my second spear into its neck. Between the two of us and three other hunters, we finally killed it.  We have many memories like that one and have been friends since we were kids.  I think of him as my older brother and I know he feels the same.   

After a successful hunt, we remove any parts of the horse we cannot use for food. Little is wasted. We remove the head, lower legs and large bones to lighten the load on the trip back. After butchering the meat we always have a feast of the best parts, the tongue, the liver and heart and special cuts of meat. We empty the intestines, but we save them for use in making pemmican for the next hunt.  

If we kill one or two horses we carry the horse meat back to the village packed in horsehide sacks. When we have better luck and kill several we transport whole animals by tying their feet together at the knees and slip a pole between the legs. Now the whole carcass can be lifted off the ground and placed on the shoulders of the carriers. We usually have two people in the front and two people at the back carrying the ends of the pole. Bruno never needs help on his end. He lifts the front of the pole and leads the way. We rotate positions and move the poles from one shoulder to the other as we walk. Due to the weight, the return trip always takes longer than the trip going out. 

My hunters continue to walk all afternoon as the sun moves lower in the western sky. I remember another experience with my uncle. When I was a boy I asked my uncle Ted how he could make a lariat that was fifty feet long when a horse was on only about eight or nine feet long. It seemed impossible. He was just about to start making one and said, “Sit down Daven and watch. I will explain as I work.” This could take all morning and I was wondered if I should have asked.    

Tedd spread a tanned horse hide on a flat plot of ground and took out his sharp flint knife. He poked a hole in the middle of the hide and made a circle cut around the hole. Then he continued the circle around the first circle and kept slicing in a continuously larger and larger circle with the cuts never touching. Finally he reached the edge of the hide and stood up holding one end of the circle. The hide became a long piece of leather instead of a flat hide. It was still tangled in a circular design, but when Tedd stretched it out it was about fifty feet long, just like he said it would be.  He placed it in water and let it soak.  The next day he stretched the leather strap in the sun and held it down with a few rocks. When it dried, it was straight.

Our hunters have tried to capture live horses with their lariats, but we have always failed. We talk about it over fires during the winters. Getting a lariat over a horse’s head has been done many times, but horses are so strong they easily pull a hunter off his feet and drag him. When dragged even a short distance, a hunter’s arms are cut by the grass and they have to let go or be sliced to pieces. A few times there have been broken arms when a man was dragged over a hidden rock. This time we will try again. We always try. 

Our travel so far has been over familiar trails. Main trails coming out of our village run north and south along the river and east and west along the edge of the grasslands. From these smaller trails others split off in many directions. For the first day, we used our fast travel method of walking for a 1000 paces and then running for 1000 paces. This gives us a much higher rate of speed than if we only walk. We have done this for many years and we can maintain this pace for a ten or twelve hour day and for many days.  

As we leave the east to west trail, we enter five foot tall grass and the walk becomes more difficult and much slower. This is where horses live. With plenty of water and grass for fodder, they thrive. Their natural enemies, including hunters like us, have difficulty hunting them due to their sense of smell, their eyesight and their speed through the grasses. With these ideal conditions, the herds continue to grow. Wolves prowl the edges picking off the old and weak just as we did years ago, but not anymore.  

The four young men I mentioned have passed the skills tests and are ready to take a position in the lead line, where the kills are made most often. Skills tests are bow and arrow tests at fifty paces plus spear and Atlatl throws. Lariat throws are included as part of their tests.

The most difficult skill test for a new hunter to pass is what I call the panic test. This test is where a hunter must launch four arrows into the air, before the first arrow hits the ground. I still practice this skill when teaching them. The beginning of the test is easy because the first arrow is already notched and ready just like it would be on a hunt. The second arrow must be pulled from your quiver on your back, notched and fired with a full pull of the bow as are the third and fourth arrow.

A mistake with any of the four arrows will cause the hunter to fail the test. If the hunter does not take a full pull of the bow, the arrow will not launch high enough and the first arrow will hit the ground before the fourth one is released.  The hunter must concentrate on what he or she is doing and fight off the tendency to rush or panic. This test is designed to prepare them for hunting dangerous game.

At times a stallion or a mare with a foal will run at a hunter in an attempt to escape. If a hunter panics and runs away, they can easily be trampled. The hunter must fight off his fear and continue to fire the second, third and fourth arrow at a charging one thousand pound angry horse set on killing instead of being killed. I have felt that same fear many times and have seen experienced hunters drop to the ground in an attempt to hide or turn and run. When this happens, the horse usually becomes the killer unless others in our group can take it down before it reaches the runner. Most of the time it all happens too quickly and the hunter is trampled. If a hunter is badly injured, they often do not survive the return trip, because we have no medicine women on our hunts.

Among the four new hunters are Flint and Jon, twin sons of my good friend Bruno. Flint barely passed the four arrow panic test. He did do well with the spear and Atlatl and scored accurately with the long bow. I am concerned with his preparation, but Bruno assured me he is ready to prove himself.

Another new man is my son Mikl. He easily passed the long bow and panic tests and he does well with the spear and Atlatl due to his size and upper body strength. Mikl was born in the third month of the year so he is well past his fourteenth birthday and is bigger and stronger than I was at the same age. He only lacks practice. He is confident, maybe too confident.

The second twin son of Bruno is Jon, Mikl’s best friend. He also passed the tests without problems.  Although they are identical twins and born the same day, Jon was born before Flint by a few minutes, not that it makes any difference. The fourth new hunter is Joe, a member of the Aurochs Clan headed by Janos. Joe is physically the smallest of the fourteen hunters with me today. I comment on his size only because three of the hunters are women, yet Joe is still smallest.

One person who is taller and maybe stronger than Joe is his sister Agi. She is older than Joe by two years and has proven herself on many previous hunts. I have my doubts with Joe. He struggled during several skill tests. He gives in to panic and probably should have waited another year until he was fifteen. His mother pushed him because Agi already hunts and more likely, because his father died while hunting horses years ago. Tomorrow will tell the story.   

When a hunter proves himself he can take a wife. Wives must always come from another clan, never from your own clan. Many times wives are from other groups of people with whom we trade at the summer gatherings. It is not as important for women to pass hunting tests because only a few of them have any desire to be hunters. Most women want to become wives and mothers and leave hunting to the men.

I am confident in my son Mikl as tomorrow approaches. I have to admit, I would like to see him practice with his weapons more than he does. Maybe he practices less because it comes too easily to him. He is good, but all of us can be better. I constantly work to perfect my hunting skills while he is usually looking at something new. He thrives on anything new.  

As an example, last year he spent a lot of time on a new idea for a bow that does not seem to work. It was made of the same ash wood we make all our bows from so it is not the wood itself. The piece he cut was from a tree that had a natural second curve at one end. His thinking was that if a bow normally has one long curve in the middle, an extra curve at the end should make it more powerful, similar to a bow with an Atlatl at the end. He calls it a two-curve bow.

He finished the bow and practiced with it. When the extra curve of the bow was at the top, it drove the arrow into the ground.  When the second curve was at the bottom, the arrow flew too far over the target. He was still working with it when we left for this hunt. Since the arrow cannot be controlled, the bow seems to be useless. The thing that makes me wonder if it has any value is that when he shoots an arrow at very close range, it drives the arrow farther into the target than any other bow. 

All these thoughts run through my mind as we walk forward pushing tall grass aside. The trail has become less distinct. I notice the manure on the ground has become fresh a sure sign the herds are close. The sun set as we arrived in one of our old camp sites, one that we have used before and we stopped for the evening.

This site is a good one with fresh water and open ground offering us protection from possible predators. With a group this large, it is unlikely any predator would bother us. Just in case, I set two guards on opposite ends of the clearing. Tomorrow morning we will move into position. It is not far now.

 


Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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"As Ye Sow" Opening Chapter by Tom Collins

Chapter 1

Starting her senior year at Royal High School in Armagh, Ireland, 17-year-old Hanora Doyle was 5-foot 11-inches tall. She was afraid she would never have a date, much less find a man to marry her. But, today, two years later, with her head of thick, copper-colored hair covered by a white hat and her face by a lacy veil, she stood before Father Grace and married 5-foot-9 Sean Flanagan. The day’s rain couldn’t spoil things for her. She was married. It was the happiest time of her life.

After a two-day honeymoon in Dublin, the happy couple moved into the back bedroom at the home of Sean’s parents.

“It’s just temporary, hon,” Sean said. “I’ll do better now that I have you.”

They were married three months when Hanora’s discovery filled her heart with joy. She was pregnant.  But her joy and excitement soon faded as she realized the living conditions that awaited her baby.

            Their room was not much more than a narrow space, enough for their bed and a chest of drawers and nothing else. There was no mirror and only one small window. The walls stayed wet after every rain, until the heat of the sun beat through the thin plaster and dried the droplets that formed on them. I can’t let my baby start life like this.

            After a dinner of boiled ham and cabbage, spoiled by the family's bickering and the coughing of Ol’ Mike, Sean’s father, Hanora wanted some privacy, and her stomach warned her to get away from the smell of dinner.

            “Sean, want to take a walk?”

            “Okay, hon, I’ll grab our jackets.”

            A block away, a group of Irish brats, throwing stones and yelling loud enough to wake the saints, spoiled their walk. One of the kids noticed Sean and Hanora and ran over to them, yelling, “Penny mister. Penny mister?”

            The ragamuffin, a girl of around nine or ten, had iodine splotches on her neck and face; an attempt to control ringworm.

            Hanora stopped, but Sean took her by the arm and kept her moving.         

            The skinny child yelled to their backs, “Up yours, the cheap fookers that ya are.”

            Soon, Sandy Hill came into view, with its larger houses, well-kept lawns and clean streets. They were nearing St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

            “I’ve something to tell you, Sean.”

            “Let’s hear it.”

            She gave his hand a squeeze, and with a tender expression on her face she coyly looked away. There, beneath the magnificent twin towers that protect the Celtic Cross of Saint Patrick, Hanora said, “I’m pregnant.”

            Sean took a deep breath. “I’m to be a father?” He made the sign of the cross, “I’m to be a father? Dear God, I am truly blessed.”

            He put both arms around his Hanora, looked lovingly into her eyes, and kissed her.

            After the kiss she leaned back. Sean saw the tenderness fade from her face, replaced by a sullen look.

            She stared hard at him and said, “I want better than the fookin streets of Armagh for our baby.” She looked up at the huge cathedral for a moment, closed her eyes. “Bye or girl, I’ve made up me mind, it’ll be born in America.”

            “America,” said Sean, as he released his grip on her. “We canna’ afford a flat of our own here, how the hell are we gonna’ get to America?”

            “There’s got ta be a way. Me brother did it, an if he found a way ta get there, so can we. I’m writing him.”

            They turned toward home. At the other side of the cathedral they saw a bedraggled lot waiting in line at the side door.

            Hanora nodded toward them and said, “I’ll have no child of mine standing in line for a bowl of potato soup. Over in America, people are standing in line to see movin' pictures that talk, for crissake.”

            Hanora squeezed his hand and they walked on in silence for nearly a block. She stopped and faced him.           

            “I love you, Sean, and I’ll be a good wife, but you’ve got to see this my way. Even if we could get our own place, with what you earn here it’d be just another rat hole. No . . . we’re going to America.” With steel in her voice, she repeated, “Yeah hear me, luv? One way or another, we’re going to America.”

            As they walked, he saw the set of Hanora’s chin and the determined look on her face. He felt sorry for her. There was no way they would ever get to America.

* * *

            Back in their room, Hanora got her tablet and pencil, sat on the lumpy bed, and wrote a pleading letter to her brother. The next morning she waited out front to hand it to the postman.

            Three weeks later a reply from her brother, Marty Doyle, arrived. She took it into the bedroom and closed the door. At the window, with trembling hands, she opened it. As she unfolded what was a single page, a check fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it and clutched to her breast. Then she dropped to her knees and with tears in her eyes said a Hail Mary.

            Her older brother had written a short note that said he was happy to help out and anxious to have his baby sister in Chicago with him. But the check covered only their passage. The money they needed for incidentals was scraped together by their clan and from the help of a priest at St. Patrick’s.

            They obtained their passports, and after the Christmas holiday was over, Hanora packed for their departure. All they owned fit in two suitcases.

            Sean was apprehensive about moving so far from family, but he accepted the fact that Hanora would lead him forever.

* * *

            Sean stayed in his bunk, seasick most of the voyage. Hanora spent as much time on deck as she could. She loved the sapphire color of the cold Atlantic Ocean, and she inhaled deeply of the oft-swirling winds. She never tired of the endless rolling waves. The swaying of the boat reminded her of being lulled in her mother’s arms. Most of all, the ocean and the sky were clean, and the salt air gave her a heady feeling she enjoyed. Hanora knew the great ocean blessed her and would make her unborn child strong and healthy.

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

For authors, The Perfect Write® will provide a
Free Opening-Chapter Critique (material up to 5,000 words)
Post your opening chapter to mailto:theperfectwrite@aol.com(no attachments).

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"The Devil's Backbone" Opening Chapter By James Babb

Brody came in from the evening chores. His Momma fretted around the kitchen, passing back and forth in front of the glowing cracks in the potbelly stove. He breathed deeply through his nose, expecting the scent of meat cooking, but found no such smell.

    “Time to eat?” he asked.

    Momma untied her brown apron and laid it on the counter next to her, but remained silent.

    He went to the table, sat down, and waited. Daddy’s boots thumped on the wooden porch outside. The sound stopped, only to be replaced with a rhythmic rapping on the wall. Brody didn’t get up to answer the door because Dad always removed his boots, banged them against the wall to knock the dust off, and then left them outside until the next morning. This time, the banging carried on longer than normal.

    “Why don’t he stop?” Brody asked.

    Momma sighed, but didn’t turn away from the wash-pan. “Got things on his mind,” she whispered.

    The wooden lever on the door rattled and Dad came in.

    Momma turned. “Anything?” she asked him. Black strands of hair had come loose from her bun and rested against her cheek. Mother normally kept her hair perfect, but not today. This caused Brody to study her face closer. She had sunken eyes and wrinkles, something he had never noticed before.

    Dad rubbed a troubled hand across the stubble on his chin. “Nothing.” He sat at the table and looked at the boy. “Brody.”

    “Yes sir,” he answered.

    Dad took his dusty hat off, pushed his brown hair back, and then repositioned the hat. “Tater needs brushed.”

    “But I already brushed my pony.”

    “Son.” Dad’s tone warned him not to argue.

    “Yes sir,” Brody said on his way out the door. “Have it done in a jiffy.”

    Brody knew why he had been sent out. Grown-ups liked to talk alone. He closed the door behind him, but immediately ducked around the corner. The thin chinking between the logs on the old house did little to muffle the conversation.

    Dad coughed. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. The crops died.”

    “All of ‘em?” Momma asked.

    “It’s all brown.”

    Dishes clinked together. “Jim, what are we gonna do? It’s mid-July and we’re outta food.”

    Dad sighed. “Well-”

    Momma interrupted. “We’re out of money, and we need somthin’ to eat.”

    “I hunted all mornin’,” Dad said. “The game is scarce. They’re feelin’ the pinch too.”

    “This is not a pinch,” Momma argued. “We’re in trouble.

    Brody pressed against the rough logs and heard his dad’s chair scoot across the wood floor. “I can go to Fort Smith. Maybe there’s work.”

    Momma’s voice rose. “There’s no work, and how would you get there? On Brody’s little pony?”

    “I’ll walk,” Dad said.

    “It would take you days. It won’t work.” She remained quiet for a moment. “You could’ve taken the old horse, if you hadn’t killed it.”

    “We had to eat,” he said.

    Brody clutched his gut. His father had told him the farm horse ran off. We ate him? Brody thought. He took a step back, lowered his head, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The thought of eating horse meat twisted his stomach around.

    The conversation inside continued. “Jim, we can’t last long enough for you to go to Fort Smith.”

    “Maybe we should all go,” Dad suggested.

    “You and I ain’t eaten in days, Jim. I don’t know bout you, but I don’t have the strength to walk for close to a week.”

    Brody leaned closer to the wall. Not eaten? He thought about the past few days. Momma had cooked for him, but he now realized he had not seen her or his father eating.

    “Brody will be back any minute,” Dad said. “Let’s sleep on it, pray about it. We’ll find a solution in the mornin’.”

    “Jim, we moved here in eighteen seventy-seven. We’ve been lookin’ for a solution for three years.”

    Brody heard the booming sound of his dad’s calloused hand slapping the table. “It’s the best I can do.”

    Brody ran to the barn and quickly brushed Tater while he pondered on things. Was it his fault? Had he eaten more food than he should have? He patted Tater on the side. The pony’s ribs stood out under Brody’s fingers. “You’re safe,” he said. “There’s barely any meat on ya.”

     Brody put the brush up, and closed the barn door. The red sunset cast the last of its glow across the rolling hills in front of their property. He paused and looked toward the dark woods behind his house. There had to be some kind of game animals left in there.

    A lit candle sat on the table. He took it and walked across the creaky floor. Brody stopped at his parent’s bedroom doorway and could hear Momma crying softly.

    “You okay?” he asked.

    Dad’s voice came from the dark bedroom. “Come here.”

    Brody went inside. In the dim light from the candle he could see his Dad’s strong arms holding Momma. Dad shifted, and held out a welcoming arm to Brody. The boy went over and Dad pulled him close. Momma took the candle and set it on the nightstand. They shared a family hug, longer than normal.

    “Everything’s fine,” Dad said. “Go get some rest.”

    Brody wanted to tell them he had overheard the conversation, but thought Dad might be mad on account of the eavesdropping. He kissed Momma on the check, and then headed to his room.

    Brody rolled and tossed, and though he tried, sleep avoided him. His stomach growled with hunger. If he felt this bad after only going a day without food, then he couldn’t imagine how hungry his parents must be. They needed food and he felt responsible. There just had to be game left in the woods.

    My spot, Brody thought. He didn’t try my spot. Brody had found a wonderful area a year earlier, but kept it a secret. He never told his father about it because Brody wasn’t supposed to be that far from home. He had seen three deer in the secret hollow the year before, but couldn’t get a shot at any of them. This time would be different.

    He started constructing the plan in his head. He knew he would get in trouble, but it would be worth it. Brody drifted to sleep, thinking of how excited his parents would be when he returned with something to eat.

    He woke early, lit a lantern, and got dressed. Instead of doing his morning chores, Brody rushed to the corner where they kept the guns. Dad had gotten up earlier than him and had taken the rifle. It only left Brody with the old flintlock his grandfather had left them when he died. Brody had used it before. The pitted barrel made the gun hard to load, but it still shot straight.

    He gathered the wadding, balls, and bag of powder. A leather pouch hung on the wall, so he grabbed it and threw the stuff inside. He found his jacket and big hunting knife, and then went to the front door. It creaked as it swung open, so he paused and listened, making sure his dad had left.

    Brody put his jacket on, eased the door shut behind him, and then headed to the barn. Tater tried turning his head to keep Brody from putting the bridle on, but it didn’t work. After he finished, Brody found a leather bag hanging from a post. He tied his bag to it with a short piece of rope, and then threw them across Tater’s back. He crawled up, and even though Brody weighed no more than a sack of corn, Tater still grunted.

    Brody buttoned his jacket. “Let’s get goin’,” he said. “The sun is risin’ and we’ve a long way to go.”

    He kicked his pony’s sides and they were on their way. The cool morning air instantly started the boy’s eyes watering, but he did not care. His special hunting spot would provide. He just knew it.

    He kept Tater at a trot. The first hour of daylight could sometimes be the best time to hunt, and the thought of missing it angered him. Brody made his way up a long ridge. After going down a slope, they went through a grove of cedars. The prickly green limbs rubbed against his clothes and coated him with the smell of fresh cedar.

    After leaving the cedars, they crossed over two smaller ridges, and then arrived at the old wagon trail that led to his secret spot. The trail had not been traveled by wagon for many years. Large saplings and brush grew in its middle. Tater settled into the path’s depression where countless wild animals had traveled, and trotted along.

    The oaks towered above them. Winter’s leftover leaves crunched under Tater’s hooves. Brody slowed him to a walk to keep from spooking any game. A large, low hanging branch blocked the old path. It looked like a good place to stop, so Brody climbed down, and then tied Tater to the limb. He patted the speckled gray hair on the pony’s shoulder, retrieved the gun and packs, and then eased down the side of the point.

    About halfway down the gentle slope, Brody found an oak tree with a large root that curled around. It formed a perfect sitting spot. He raked the leaf litter out of the way and settled in.

    He opened the pack and took a quick inventory. There were about twenty balls, lots of wadding, and a large bag of black powder. He knew his dad kept the flintlock loaded. He just had to prime the pan. Brody reached into the bag for the powder flask, but it wasn’t there. He had forgotten it. The task of filling the pan would be hard without it, but he felt he could do it.

    He untied the bag of powder, and then balanced the gun across his knees. Brody managed to load the pan without spilling very much. He sat the powder between his legs, and cocked the hammer all the way back. The time for waiting had come.

    The birds woke, flew from tree to tree, and chirped. A squirrel jumped onto a branch above him, sending down a shower of morning dew. Brody ignored the cool drops and entertained the idea of taking a shot at the tree rat, but then figured he could not hit it up in the tree anyway. But, if the thing ventured down to the ground, Brody knew he would give it a try. While he waited, his mind drifted.

    Memories, good memories, of his first fourteen years and much better times kept his thoughts busy, until a twig snapped in the hollow below. Brody sat a little straighter and got ready. The echo of old leaves crunching sent his heart racing. The boy’s secret spot had not failed him.

    Deep in the hollow, a shadow moved. The figure came around a large tree and stepped into the sun’s morning rays. A deer. Life had been hard on the skinny animal. Its ribs pushed against its hide. The deer stood motionless for a long time, but its ears twitched constantly.

    Brody’s mind raced with the pace of his heart. The excitement of the hunt and promise of food overtook him. He knew there would be enough meat to feed his family for a week, maybe more. Brody eased his knees up, to give him a good rest for the shot. He waited until the deer lowered its head. Then, Brody rested his elbows on his knees and brought the butt of the gun to his shoulder. His hands shook with deer fever.

    The deer fed along, coming closer with each step. The dry leaf litter announced its every move. It stopped fifty steps away, threw its head up, and looked around.

    Brody froze and strained to keep from blinking.

    The deer stomped its foot, a sure sign it had caught his scent. Brody knew he would have to take the shot now. He peered down the long barrel, lined the sight up, and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked hard and smoke filled the air. Brody thought he heard the deer running, but couldn’t see through the white cloud. He turned the flintlock on its side, and then heard something hissing between his legs.

    Brody looked down in time to see that a spark of burning powder had fallen into the bag he had neglected to close. In an instant, a searing, orange flash of exploding gun powder shot up. The blast hit him square in the face, and Brody sucked in a surprised breath. His eyes, mouth, throat, and whole head burned.

    The boy slapped at his face and rolled on the ground. Brody’s voice cracked with each attempted scream. The remnants of burning powder covered the inside of his mouth and throat. His face stung all over, but his eyes worst of all. The smell of burnt hair filled the air. He tumbled, flopped, and prayed the whole time for it to cease.

    Brody stopped flailing long enough to realize there were no flames, only pain. Intense pain. He opened his mouth and cried, but the salty tears burned his cheeks. He tried to cry louder, even louder than the time the horse kicked him, but his sobs were silent. The scorched vocal cords in his throat no longer worked. A tingling feeling ran up Brody’s legs, and then he passed out.

    Sometime later, he woke. The pain had lessened to a dull throb that kept time with his heartbeat. Brody guessed he had been out for awhile. The hot, stiff breeze told him the stillness of the morning had passed.

    He sat up and tried to open his eyes. Brody cracked one of his lids slightly, but everything remained dark.

    I’m blind!

    A panic rushed over him. He rolled onto his side and touched his face. It hurt, but Brody ran his fingers over it anyway. Leaves were stuck to his burnt skin. He cringed and brushed them away.

    He found that his face didn’t feel like his anymore. Brody’s eyes and lips were swollen, almost shut. He had no eyebrows and some of his hair had burned away.

    Brody gritted his teeth, and pressed one of his eyelids upward. The pain kept him from holding it there long. Nothing. No hint of sight. He staggered up onto weak legs, and held his hands out in front. He had to get to Tater.

    After three or four cautious steps, Brody stopped. He knew he should be walking up hill, but wasn’t. The boy turned and eased forward. His hands brushed against the rough bark of an oak tree. Brody leaned against it for a moment, and then continued in a small circle. He felt no rise in the lay of the land. During his throws of pain, Brody had rolled to the bottom of the hollow.

    He paused and tried to think past his throbbing face. Three ridge points emptied into the bottom. That’s what made it such a good hunting spot, but that very thing had Brody in big trouble. He had to pick the correct ridge, he had three choices, and he couldn’t see any of them.

    Brody sat on the ground and rocked back and forth. Dad will come, he thought. No he won’t, his mind argued back. Dad doesn’t know where you are. No one does. You snuck out and didn’t leave a note.

    Brody punched the ground. He ran his hands through the leaves until he found a rock. He threw it, and then hit the ground with his fist again. After the tantrum, he got back on his feet and took a deep breath. He had to find the pony.

    His first ten steps were slow. The next ten came quicker. After that, Brody couldn’t seem to slow down. He kept his hands out, feeling his way from tree, to nothing, to tree again. His breath came hard. The land began to rise under his feet, bringing a small amount of excitement to Brody. He had found a ridgeline. He scrambled up, swinging his arms wildly in front.

    The boy ran into a limb and it slapped him in the face. He clutched his head with both hands and went to his knees in a crumpled heap of pain. Brody’s chest heaved, trying to draw in more air. He attempted to cry out, but his voice made no sound. Brody struggled for another breath, but it barely came. He moved his shaking hands to his neck. The boy’s tortured throat had swollen shut. A ringing in his ears turned into the crunching of old leaves.

   

    The chirping of crickets and buzzing of locust woke him. He listened to the constant noise for a moment while his thoughts cleared.

    I’ve got to find Tater, he thought.

    Brody sat up and fought off another bout of panic. After calming down, he tried to think. The swelling in his throat had mostly gone away, allowing him to breathe normally again, but running into the limb had made his face hurt even worse.

    Brody knew the sun had either just set, or would soon. The crickets always came alive in the evenings. He knew the day was dying, because their annoying chirps sounded all around. The air had cooled, but not considerably. Late evening had come and Brody knew his dad would be mad and worried by now.

    He staggered back to his feet and continued up the ridge. Each time his hands found a tree, he used it to steady himself. He pulled on a small sapling and it cracked. Brody ran his hand down its length, until he felt the break. He yanked on it until the last bit of sinuous fibers broke free. He swung the stick around and it smacked into a tree. This’ll work, he thought.

    The boy kept his pace quick, but unrushed, hoping to avoid another swelling episode. He kept moving the stick side to side. More than once, it stopped him from running into another limb.

    The pony would get him home, if he could just find him. A loud whistle usually prompted Tater to neigh. Brody tried it, but the attempt only brought him pain. Another hundred steps had Brody sweating. A drop ran down from his hairline and burned his raw forehead.

    The ground leveled out, telling Brody he had reached the top. He eased along while dragging his feet, feeling certain he could find the old wagon trail. The number of steps ticked away in Brody’s head.

    Twenty-nine. Thirty. Too many. I should’ve crossed the path by now.

    Brody shook his head. He had picked the wrong ridge point and knew what had to happen. He would have to go back down and find the next one. Such a long way, he thought. Dejected, Brody sat against a tree and rested.

    In a desperate bid for help, he tried to call out. The air escaping his throat did nothing but hiss. The boy slapped the side of his leg in frustration.

    An owl hooted down in the hollow, a certain sign it would be dark soon.

    Brody pushed one of his swollen eyelids up again. Nothing. A mosquito buzzed in his ear. He started to swat at it, but froze when he heard Tater neigh. The sound echoed and Brody could not pinpoint it. He cupped a hand behind his ear and waited.

    Yes, oh yes, just one more time, he thought. He wished with all his might for Tater to make another sound. Are ya on the left ridge, or right?

    Something growled in the bottom below. Brody sucked in a quick breath, and the hairs on his arms and neck stood tall. The animal let out a scream. A woman could not have out done it. Brody squirmed around to the other side of the tree. He had heard a wildcat before. Apparently Tater had too. During the commotion, the pony squealed. Hoof-beats sounded, and the boy knew Tater had broken loose. He could only hope the panther followed the pony. He wished Tater no ill, but if he had to choose the pony or himself… Brody tried not to think about it.

    The boy’s very core shook with tension. He couldn’t hear the cat and it worried him. They were sneaky. It could be anywhere. Brody wanted to run and hide, but decided to stay put and remain silent. He thought if he were completely still, maybe it would not notice him.

    All sense of time left him. He wasn’t sure if ten minutes had passed, or thirty. His legs cramped, making him want to change positions, but he could not risk the noise it would make.

    Slowly, the woods came alive with things rustling in the leaves. At first, the boy’s heart skipped, but he soon realized the noises were too small. Even the padded feet of a wildcat would be louder than this. He decided coons and opossums were probably making the small sounds. At least he hoped he was right.

    Brody’s leg pain worsened, until he couldn’t wait any longer. He shifted. A small stick cracked under his weight and the leaves crunched softly. He waited for the terrible attack to come, but it didn’t.

    Hours passed. Three? Four? He did not know for sure. Regardless, the night wore on, and sleep soon called to him. Not being able to open his eyes made it even harder to stay awake, but Brody knew better than to drift off with a panther creeping about.

    The owl hooted again, this time from a different place in the bottom. Brody jolted at the sound, and then pulled his jacket tight around his neck. Far in the distance, another owl answered. Its call carried on and the boy desperately wanted the sound to change, and become his father’s voice yelling for him.

    A blue-jay screeched its warning. The bird’s call quickly told Brody two things. Morning had come, and the jay wanted him to leave. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Brody didn’t even remember lying down.

    The cool night air had felt good on his burned skin, but the day’s warm breeze brought discomfort. He made his way down the ridge, moving through the shadows cast from the massive trees, knowing each time the sun hit his skin. The heat from the rays doubled the pain from his burns. Though it hurt, he tried glancing toward the sun, to see if he could detect a glow through his eyelids. Still nothing.

    He lowered his head, sighed, and continued swinging the stick. If he did make it home, he would be blind forever, nothing but an additional burden for his family. Brody had set out to make things better, but only made it worse, much worse.

     He paused occasionally and listened to make sure nothing followed. Brody could not help worrying about the wildcat. His steps quickened. It would not be wise to spend another night in the hollow.

    He stumbled and shuffled his way across, tripping and falling more than once. His shoulder muscles burned from holding the stick out. Finally, the ground rose again. He walked left, and the land sloped down. He went back over and to the right. The ground dropped. Brody prayed this would be the correct ridge.

    Forty steps up, left him exhausted. He sat and rested. Brody’s legs ached and his head throbbed. A terrible hunger came from his empty stomach. The lining of his mouth and throat were much too raw to eat anything, but the thought of cool water teased him. He ached for a drink.

    At sixty-two additional steps, the land started to level off. Brody drug his feet, but did not feel the trail. The thought of having to go back into the bottom to look for the third ridge did not sound good. This had to be the right one. He got down on his knees and crawled, feeling his way along the top of the knoll. A bug squirmed between his fingers, and Brody jerked his hand back. After a moment, the boy moved on, searching the ground carefully.

    At last, his hands fell into a slight depression. He paused, crawled one way, and then the other. The indention continued. Relief washed over him. He had found the wagon trail. Left would lead him toward home. He stood, centered his feet on the path, held the stick out in front, and eased along. His best guess put him almost four miles from home. It would be a long, slow walk.

    He wondered what his dad would think when Tater came home without him. Brody hoped Dad could follow the pony’s back-trail. It would at least show him the direction the boy had gone. Brody stopped walking for a moment. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Dad had found their original trail. He could already be on his way. Brody shook his head. He had taken Tater across two ridges where there was no trail. It would be almost impossible for anyone to track them through there.

    Brody moved slowly, making sure to stay on the path.

    One hundred and sixty-four. A bird fluttered in a tree close by. The crow blurted its scolding cry and flew away.

    A few seconds later, Brody’s stick hit something hard next to the trail. He ran his hands around the object. His fingers told him it was an old log. Time for a rest, he thought. Just for a little while.

    After he began walking again, the trail started downward and Brody’s hopes lifted. He had made progress. He tried to picture the way. After reaching the bottom, he would need to turn right and cross over two ridges. After that, the cedar grove would be the next challenge to find. During his thoughts, Brody lost count of the steps. He gave up on remembering the correct number and started over. He wasn’t sure why he counted them, other than it kept his mind busy and helped give him a rough, mental map.

    Ninety-seven. Something sharp cut across his hand. Brody pulled back, and it snagged the skin on his fingers. Briars.

    The thorny stalks were nothing new to the farm boy. He had picked his way through many briar patches, but this one worried Brody more than any other. He had not come through this area with Tater.

    The boy backed up, went to his knees, and felt the ground. His hands found the trail’s indention easily. It led straight into the briar patch. Brody’s head drooped. He had not lost the path. He had followed the wrong one. Right there, in the middle of the woods, at the edge of a thorny patch, he fell apart. The thought of going back and having to find the correct ridge broke the boy down. He curled up on the ground and sobbed. Without a parched throat, Brody’s cries would have scared the animals for miles, but his silent sobs went unnoticed.

    A deep rumble of thunder rolled across the land and shook him out of his pity. The wind stiffened and weaved its way between the limbs above. Leaves fluttered and another round of thunder came. High in the trees, a few lonely raindrops smashed into the broad leaves.

    Brody stood, and then moved back up the trail. At twenty-eight steps, he strayed from the path until his stick smacked a tree. The first one felt too small, so he kept going. Brody needed a huge tree with lots of branches to protect him from the rain.

    At nine careful strides, uneasiness came over him. He couldn’t go too far, or he would have trouble getting back to the trail. Brody failed to complete the tenth step. The ground disappeared from under his feet and he toppled over an edge. His mind barely had enough time to grasp his dire situation before hitting the ground.

    His right foot smashed into the earth first and a searing pain shot up Brody’s leg. His hip and shoulder hit next. The boy tried to cry out, but couldn’t. The impact had knocked the breath out of him.

    Brody’s lungs finally filled and his head cleared. He shifted, trying to see if anything could be broken. He tried to roll onto his side, but his injured ankle was tangled in something. Brody reached for his foot, only to find the force of the fall had lodged his right leg between a tree root and a large rock. Brody took a deep breath and pulled. It did not work. He let go and his hands shook uncontrollably.

    Lightening struck close by and every muscle in Brody’s body jumped. His sudden movement told him the location of every bruise. He twisted his ankle, trying to free it, but he could not handle the pain.

    Brody tried to open his eyes, but his lids would not budge. He found the swelling had gone down, but his eyelids felt like they had healed shut, or been glued together. He pried at them, fought through the tearing pain, and finally managed to open one, and then the other.

    Rain drops, larger than any he had ever felt, pelted him all over. The musty smell of wet leaves filled the air. Rolling thunder and the roar of rain kept Brody from hearing anything else. He opened his mouth, attempting to coat his raw throat with water, but then stopped. Brody found it hard to believe his situation could be worse. He had no strength left. His will broken.

    Let it come, he thought. Let my last day find me here.

    Sometime later, the rain stopped, and Brody’s sprits lifted. He placed his free foot against the tree root and pushed. It did not work, and Brody huffed from the effort. Hours tumbled past. Exhaustion took over, and his body begged for rest.

    Let me find a way out, he prayed.

    The rain had brought cooler air, which started the crickets early. When the annoying noise stopped dead, Brody took note. Something growled to his left, and he jerked his head toward the sound.

    Brody held his breath and listened. Lingering drops fell from the trees and splattered on the ground. The crickets started again and he began to wonder if he had imagined it.

    He tried pulling on his leg again. His pants were soaked and the moisture must have helped. Brody’s foot came free, but he winced in pain.

    A loud hiss sounded, at the base of the bluff. Brody’s heart fluttered. It was the panther. It had to be.
_______________________________________________________________

Robert L. Bacon
theperfectwrite.com

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