I had a rough conversation with my boy today, about him and his girl. It put me in mind about the time I found my ma sitting alone in the kitchen on a hot summer day after she had a doctor’s appointment, looking out the window and across the empty, overgrown fields. She’d tried calling my dad at work about something, she said, but he wasn’t there. I asked was Dad gonna be home late and she said no. She told me to sit down; I did. Most boys have their rebel phase around fifteen, but I’ve been a mama’s boy all my life.
I sat opposite her at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do or say. She reached out and grabbed my hand. Didn’t say anything, but kept a hold on my hand. Tight. She had that look, when you want to say something but can’t, you know what I mean? Then she got up and went to the cupboard, took out a two-thirds full loaf of white bread and jar of peanut butter. Setting it on the table with a couple of knives, she said, ‘I’m going to eat all of this, d’you want to help?’ I said sure, not like I had anything better to do, and we set to it.
Now, the peanut butter was smooth and I’m a crunchy guy, but it didn’t matter, not with the white bread, and I could still lick out the bits that stuck to my teeth. That was always my favourite part with peanut butter. It tasted sweet somehow. Time we finished, my ma had flakes of PB smeared around her lips.
She held my hand again and looked at me for what felt a lot longer than the few seconds it had been, then turned and looked out the kitchen window. The sun had started to set and hovered above the fields. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said, before coughing. I agreed with her.
Things were good back then, I thought.
Conrad Gardner’s writing has previously been published by AutoFocus, Superlative, and AEL Press. He is based in Herefordshire, England.
At their annual family reunion inside the National Guard Armory in Hays, Kansas, he was placed at the head of the table – once occupied by his mother, and, before her, his grandparents, great-aunts, and great-great uncles – the spot reserved for the eldest.
Words and sounds ricocheted, reverberated.
She used to-
He said-
Then she-
When they were-
At one time, he-
It was the same thing every year: photos, newspaper clippings, gossip. And he loved it. Maybe it was the only reason he came.
His favorite cousin stood next to him. He watched her push one chair away, then pull out another almost identical chair, and plop down. God, she looks like our grandmother. Then he heard a slap, slap, slap as if she were dealing cards. He looked at the photographs splayed across the table. She’ll have her own agenda for this.
She detailed each picture. Descriptions written on the back. The 1953 Flood, The Grand Canyon, Pikes Peak, Grampa John, Aunt Josephine. Then, more photos – Pauline and Eddie – That’s your mother and my dad. Pauline and Adolph – That’s your mother and Uncle Gus. Followed by newspaper clippings interspersed with her commentary.
Check the dates.
Gra’ma died in March of 1918.
Grampa remarried in December 1918.
Uncle Johnny was born in April of 1919.
Now, read this.
Grampa’s second wife was a nun at the convent next to the church.
Across the street from his house.
Then he saw the photo labeled – Pauline 1937. An old photo, a print-out actually, in various shades of coral and sienna. The photo of the woman who bore him, and who knew everything worth knowing about him.
His mother as a young woman in a flapper’s shimmering dress, long cigarette, bell-shaped hat, and wavy hair. His mother in her mid-twenties, fresh out of nursing school standing outside a plain frame house with two bare steps leading to the peeling front door. Her head bent – demure or disappointed? Lonely? Isolated? Eyes cast down – remorse or regret? Hands forming a cradle – embarrassment or expectation? That’s my mother before me.
His mind drifted toward her stories – of dancing in Chicago at the Palmer Hotel, skating in the below-ground ice rink, the unexplained large white leather cigarette case with the engraved initial on top – the one she kept jewelry in all her life.
He was dizzy with memories. Stories from ghost towns, graveyards, country schools. School books in German with her name written in them. Nashville wanderings, then to Topeka, then Goodland. That period in her life when she followed another independent, young woman from Goodland to Pratt. The woman who would become his Aunt Gayle. That one photo – the old one in sepia tones – sealed it all. She had a life before me!
That’s it! That’s who she was. He had completed his mother’s puzzle –loops and sockets, keys and locks – photos on the table, letters nestled in the bottom of cedar chests, stories about her brothers and sisters. She – the Volga-German ethos crystalized: Strive! Achieve! Achieve more! He had heard the words himself, and more likely than not, so had everyone at the reunion. Achieve! But don’t think too much of yourself. Achieve! Do better than we did. Achieve! But you’re no better than anyone else.
He had long been puzzled about her stories, searched for stray pieces. From Hays, Kansas, to Nashville, Tennessee, nursing school and graduate school. Why had she abandoned Nashville to go to forlorn Burlington, Colorado, then tiny Topeka, then isolated Goodland, Kansas, then to desolate Pratt, Kansas?
Still more questions. Why would a professional woman, the head of a county public health agency, a women in charge of an entire department in a building twenty feet off Main Street, marry a man so clearly a momma’s boy, a raging alcoholic who morphed into a dry drunk with an anger quotient that never balanced?
That elegant lady who wore Chanel-inspired clothing before it was commonplace, who eschewed traditional nursing whites before it was acceptable. Who, as Director of multiple nursing departments, dominated hospital corridors before it was in her job description.
#
And now, in the National Guard Armory, tides of relatives rushed forward. He felt dizzy again – familiar faces with no names. Younger bodies with faces of his long-dead granddad and his septuagenarian cousins with youthful voices without accents, faces of all ages as familiar and unfamiliar as yesterday.
He sat where his mother once sat, where the great aunt after whom she was named sat, her father, a great-great uncle before that – at the head of the table reserved for the oldest – the one most likely not to be here next year.
Thomas Elson’s stories appear in numerous venues, including Blink-Ink, Ellipsis, Better Than Starbucks, Bull, Cabinet of Heed, Flash Frontier, Ginosko, Short Édition, North Dakota Quarterly, Litro,Journal of Expressive Writing, Dead Mule School, Selkie, New Ulster, Lampeter, and Adelaide. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas.
Just when you think you're dead you're not--you're up
in Heaven or down in Hell, eternal
life is what it is in either place swears
my Sunday School teacher, she's 25,
old enough to know or to know better
I guess and I'm only 10, I don't know
beans but I do know that I like living
and I don't want to die but I have to,
it's like a law of God's although Adam
and Eve and Satan account for it but
then again God always knew they'd bring death
into the world, that's just the way it was
and without all the bad stuff (which ain't so
bad but good) we'd have no Jesus and that's
pretty much religion. I hope that’s all.
If you're religious then you never die
swears our Sunday School teacher but it's got
to be the right kind of religious and
that's ours she ends then smiles so we ten-year-
olds smile back and then she sets us free for
another week when we'll return for more
God-and-Jesus-and-the-Holy Ghost and
as I walk home from church and Sunday School
I'll be thinking a little more about
death than I did the week before and I
still don't want to die even though I get
eternal life in Heaven, if God sees
that it’s good--I'd be satisfied with life
that never ends down here on Earth but no
luck. Even Heaven doesn’t measure up.
Everybody loves Jesus my Sunday
School teacher says, that's why we crucified
Him, then she set us ten-year-olds free for
another week but after class I asked
her what she meant, it sounded some stupid
or at least very intelligent but
she looked up from her Bible where she was
buried in the red words, they belong to
Jesus or at least He's the one who spake
'em and I wanted to ask, too, what red
words look like when they're spoken, it’s a fair
question, but I forgot it when she said
What I mean, dear boy, is that it's all in
God's plan for everybody so I said
Yes ma'am. Then left and walked home. But quicker.
When you die you're dead for good my Sunday
School teacher says and maybe she's right but
maybe she's wrong and I guess I'll find out
when I die and if I do, find out that
is, I'll report back, if that's possible,
but I'm betting it's not, no one has yet
that I know about but then I'm only
ten years old, I don't know about any
-thing, really, except that I don't want to
die at all but I'm not sure that's knowledge
and after Sunday School today I asked
our teacher if there's a way I can tell
everybody when I'm dead what it's like
over there but she only smiled and asked
Over where, Dear? Do you mean over here?
One day you die and then there's the resur
-rection but not really, you stay dead, on Earth
anyway but maybe there really is
an immortal soul and it lives again
up in Heaven or down in Hell if you
can call Hell life, maybe so though at church
and Sunday School it's not much of one but
anyway if I get to live again
I'd rather do it hereabouts, on Earth
I mean, and kind of take up where I left
off before I kicked, still alive that is
and maybe having fun--maybe I died
by falling off a mountain but if I
could live again I'd have a parachute
or a longer, stronger rope. Or not leap.
Gale Acuff has had hundreds of poems published in a dozen countries and has authored three books of poetry. He has taught tertiary English courses in the US, PR China, and Palestine, where he teaches at Arab American University.
“Be careful you don’t get lost in those woods”, her friend Beth always warned her. But ever since she was little, Emma had walked among the trees, first with her mum and then on her own, and she felt she knew every stump, grove and bramble patch. So, she all but dropped her basket of herbs when, pushing through the ferns, she came across the beck, right where it shouldn’t have been. Catching herself from falling just in time, she looked upstream and down, as the water tumbled past her feet. “Have I got myself turned around?” she thought, looking back the way she had come. It was supposed to be a hundred yards or more away on the other side of the meadow, which was now across from where she stood. But that would mean she had crossed the stream somehow and that … well, that was just not possible, unless she was going the way of poor old Margaret Dobson.
She cast about for another landmark and hit upon an ancient oak, gnarled and coming late to leaf, that should’ve been many yards distant from the beck but now felt the waters carving out the bank between its roots. As she watched, the old tree began to list, then with a terrible groan and crash it fell, branches snapping off and bouncing away into the undergrowth. For a moment or two, Emma just stood, stock still, thinking about how her mum had pointed out the tree as a fixed point to help her orient herself in the woods, how she had climbed it as a young girl while her mother picked mushrooms below, how it had endured harsh winters and fierce summers. Then, shaking her head, she clambered up the roots and strode across the trunk’s rough back, to jump down on the other side. “Best to pick up the pace and head home sharpish”, she thought to herself, striding across the meadow where it shouldn’t have been.
Long before she entered the village, she heard the raised voices, carried on the breeze. A small crowd had gathered on the Green, surrounding several important looking figures, watched over by a small group of armed men. Emma could see the head of William Leigh above the rest, shaking from side to side, an arm raised with index finger pointed to the sky. “I see William’s invoking the Almighty again,” she murmured to her friend Beth, standing at the back.
Beth turned, her face grim. “Lord Rothwell is laying claim to all the land west of Wyke Beck, which they’re saying includes Asket Meadow and most of the land we’ve been using to graze the cattle. William there is telling Rothwell’s men the meadow is to the east of the beck and always has been but … well, for some reason, they’re not having any of it.” She turned back toward the speakers. “They say they have a plan or something, with the land all mapped out on parchment that proves Rothwell’s contention.” Beth shook her head and added “As if some lines on a sheet could prove what we know to be false from our own memory …”
Emma stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of her friends and neighbours. Facing Leigh, whose neck was becoming increasingly red – so she could only imagine how fierce his features must have looked – was Thomas Grice, Rothwell’s Steward, who looked as composed as if the two were merely arguing about the price of a cow. However, Emma’s focus was drawn to the man standing to the left and a little distance behind Grice. Dressed in a long black coat, this stranger carried a scholarly air about him and seemed detached from the hubbub. It was he who held the disputed map, occasionally presenting it for Grice to gesture at.
Muttering apologies, Emma eased her way through the crowd to better hear what was being said. “… Master Wright and his men have extensively surveyed the land and he has drawn up this plan, this map, to set down once and for all Lord Rothwell’s rights … and yours too! It’ll all be clearly laid out for everyone to see,” Grice stated, calmly but forcefully.
From the position she’d reached, Emma could see that William’s face was beginning to turn a darker shade as he thundered, “But your man is wrong!” He turned towards Wright who held the map behind his back as if Leigh would snatch it away. “I don’t care about your surveys or mapmaking”, Leigh continued, “We all know what’s Rothwell’s and what’s ours and what we have a right to. Our mothers and fathers knew it and theirs before them … And we’ll not see those rights taken from us through some strokes of pen on parchment!”
He made to move towards Wright but was blocked by Grice, who placed his hand carefully on Leigh’s chest and said, in a low voice, “Easy now, William. We don’t want any trouble, do we?” And he looked over towards the guards, who had reached for the hilts of their swords and were looking hard-faced at the crowd.
Leigh glanced their way, then back at Grice. “You’ve not heard the last of this, Master Grice”, he spat.
Grice just shrugged and raising his voice, replied, “The map has been drawn and Lord Rothwell’s lands clearly represented. A copy will be kept at the manor for all to consult and tomorrow the original will be conveyed to York to be safely held within the county registry.” He looked straight into Leigh’s eyes and told him, “It’s done,” before turning and walking off with Wright, surrounded by the armed escort.
Leigh glared after them, joined by Mary Brotherton. “We’re not standing for this, William,” she muttered. “No, we’re bloody well not” he replied, before turning back to the crowd. “Meeting, tonight, after supper, back here. Because we are definitely not standing for this!” The villagers roared in approval and Emma saw Thomas Grice look back, his face momentarily fearful.
“Beth”, she said, pulling at her friend’s sleeve before she walked off, “Your Jenny works up at Lord Rothwell’s, right? Could she find out when Wright is taking that map to York?” Beth frowned. “I don’t know, Emma. She has a good job up there and I don’t want her mixed up in anything.” “If she helps us now, there might not be anything to get mixed up in”, Emma replied, before adding “Or at least, not anything too serious.” Beth nodded at that and left Emma looking after Grice and his men, as they disappeared round a curve in the road.
A few hours later they were both back at the edge of the crowd of friends and neighbours, listening to Mary Brotherton recall the history of the injustices inflicted by Rothwell and his family: “… and not content with depriving us of our ancient rights and keeping us in what he considers to be ‘our place’, he wants to hem us in even further and block us not just from our rightful grazing land but also all the meadows and fields and woodlands that belong to everybody, not just him and his lot!” She paused and drew breath before adding, “Are we going to stand for it?!”
Fists, cudgels and whatever implements had been at hand were raised and a fierce collective “No!!!” shouted in response. “Here’s what we think of his bloody map”, she continued and holding up what looked to Emma to be an old scrap of paper with some hastily drawn lines and figures, she set it alight using the torch held by William Leigh, standing to her side. The crowd roared again as Leigh now stepped forward.
“Friends,” he shouted, “We’ve had word that while Rothwell’s minions were talking to us today, he and some of his men were already out, putting up fences and marking his new boundaries.” The villagers fell silent. “If we don’t do something now, it’ll be his cows eating that grass, our grass, his feet walking them woods, our woods … If we don’t do something and do it now, we won’t be able to do anything. Rothwell will have done what he wanted all along and we’ll be left shaking our fists at the clouds …” He paused, until someone helpfully piped up with, “Tell us what we can do William!”
Emma sidled up to Beth again. “Anything from your Jen?” she asked. Beth looked around before answering, “She said it looks like Wright is going to York first thing and will be leaving Rothwell’s house at dawn.” Emma nodded. “Good. That means we have a chance of stopping all this before it gets out of hand.” Beth looked back at her, frowning and then nodded towards Leigh, “You think you can stop all this?! It’s not right what’s been done and I reckon William’s made a fair point: if we don’t stand together and do something, Rothwell and his lot will just roll over us …”
Emma sighed. “I agree. But it’s a question of doing what?” She paused as the crowd shouted again in response to something Leigh had said. Setting her shoulders, she pushed her way to the front. “I’d like to speak” she announced. “What are you going to do woman,” someone yelled from the crowd, “stop Rothwell with a few herbs and one of your incantations?!” People laughed. Leigh held up his hands. “We all have the right to speak here,” he said, before turning to her. “Go on Emma, say your piece.” She swallowed and looked to the ground before facing her neighbours.
“I know what you’re all thinking”, she began, “that we should go and tear down Lord Rothwell’s fences and let our cattle back loose over the fields.” She paused, as people nodded and an older man shouted “Just like we’ve done before. And more!” “Aye,” Emma continued, “We’ve stood side by side, me and you both, Martin Ainsworth, all of us in fact and we’ve faced down Rothwell and his lot. But this time, it’s different. This time, he’s got that plan, that map, that Master Wright has produced.” ‘What of it?” someone else asked, “We can tear that up just as easily as we can tear down the fences!” “And what will that achieve in the end?” Emma replied. “With the map held at the registry in York, Rothwell will send for the Sherriff there to enforce his claim. And the Sheriff will come with his men to ‘restore order’ and crack some skulls along the way …”
“Let ‘em,” Ainsworth interrupted, “and we’ll crack a few o’ theirs!” “And then what?” Emma asked. “Will you try and crack the skulls of the troops they send here after that? Will you face off to their swords and pikes with hoes and flails?” She paused to let that image sink in. “And then, after we’ve buried our dead and tended to our injured, do you think Rothwell’ll say “Well, they put up a good fight them villagers, let’s give ‘em back their lands”?” Emma stared round at the faces in front of her, as people glanced to the side and shuffled their feet.
Mary Brotherton stepped forward. “What choice do we have?” she demanded, “What choice but to fight for what is rightfully ours, lest it all be taken?!” The crowd shouted their agreement. It was Emma’s turn to raise her hands. “I have an idea,” she told them. “If it works, there’ll be no need to take back the land by force. But you’ll need to trust me.” “Why should we?” someone shouted from near the back. “Because you trusted her to get you over that fever last winter, Robert Croft!” That was Beth and Emma smiled in thanks. “Give me ‘til noon tomorrow”, she said, “If what I’ve got in mind doesn’t work by then, you can take down all of Rothwell’s fences and do what you will.” Mary squared her shoulders, about to respond but a fair number of the villagers were nodding now and Leigh, sensing the mood, interjected, “You’ve got ‘til noon tomorrow then,” he told Emma, “But no longer. After that, if nothing’s been done, well …” He grimaced and walked off, with Mary Brotherton and several others following.
Emma asked Beth to gather some of the other women she was close to and told them what she planned. One or two looked at each another and even Beth raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure about this, Emma?” she asked. Emma sighed. “Not really if I’m honest. But if it works, we’ll restore things to how they were without the need for violence.” “And if it doesn’t?” someone asked. “Then we’ll be standing alongside the men with cudgels in our hands.” Emma looked around and added “As Martin Ainsworth reminded us all, it’s not as if we haven’t done that before now, is it?!” The others nodded and Beth spoke up again, “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Right, let’s get you what you need.”
At dawn the next day, with mist rising over the fields, the group of women waited behind the trees above the York road. “I need to pee” someone whispered. “Shhh,” Beth admonished her, “They’re almost here.” In the distance they could hear the sounds of horses trotting, men’s voices talking low. Round the corner they came, Wright and Grice riding side by side, chatting to each other, with one of Rothwell’s men in front and another behind. Emma strode down the slope and stood, hands on hips, in the centre of the road. The leading man pulled up his horse and drew his sword. “Out of the way there!” he cried, “We’re on Lord Rothwell’s business!” “I know you Matthew Parker, as I know your mother and sister,” Emma replied, “what are you about, drawing your sword on me?” Parker looked embarrassed and told Emma directly, “Look, we don’t want any trouble. We’re just to escort Master Wright here to York and that’s all.” Before Emma could reply, Grice had urged his horse forward. “Remove yourself woman!” he commanded, “Or else I’ll be forced to order these men to run you down.”
At that, the other women emerged from the trees, some armed with cudgels, others with staffs. The horses shifted nervously and the men twisted and turned in their saddles as the women surrounded them. The guard at the back drew his sword and crying, “Stand back there!”, slashed down at the woman nearest him, cutting her arm. She fell back as the man spurred his horse forward, only to be knocked flying by Beth’s staff. Rolling onto his back he reached to retrieve his sword and the woman he had cut smashed his hand with her cudgel. Screaming with pain, the man clutched his broken fingers. “Move again and it’ll be your head” the woman hissed. Parker simply threw his sword down and offered no resistance as he was pulled from his horse. Grice angrily brushed away the hands that reached for him and dismounted without their help.
Wright, on the other hand, although slow to react at first, had by now turned his horse and looked set to gallop back the way they had come. At that, Emma strode up and grabbed the reins, looking the horse directly in the eye. “Oh no you don’t Master Wright”, she said, raising her face to him, “You and I have some business to transact.” “I’ll be doing no business with you …” he replied but before he could finish Beth came up from the other side and yanked him down. With an expression of surprise, Wright sat in the dust, looking round at his companions, now tied and gagged.
“You’re coming with me”, Emma asserted, grabbing him by the collar. Wright made to struggle and Emma slapped him twice, hard. “You might be a man, Master Wright but you’ve been sat on your arse most of your life I’ll warrant. Whereas I’ve been working the fields and walking the woods all of mine. So come nicely or I’ll slap the living shit out of you!” Head bowed, Wright asked, “What do you want of me?” as Emma led him off the track and up the slope into the trees. Behind her the other women did the same with the horses and the rest of the men, the guard with the broken hand still weeping softly while the woman he had slashed had her cut cleaned and bound.
Once they’d come to a clearing in the woods, Emma stopped. “Now, Master Wright,” she said, “What I want with you is to undo the damage you’ve done and set things back as they were.” She bent down to a pack placed on an old stump and started to take out the contents. Wright looked at the collection of objects arrayed on the ground between the two of them and snorted “What? You think that you, some kind of hedge-witch, can reverse what I’ve done?!” Emma looked him calmly in the eye but said nothing. Instead, she stepped quickly forward and before he had time to react, she removed the folded map from the inner pocket of his coat. “Wait! No!” he cried, “Don’t touch that. It’s important!!” “Oh, I know full well how important it is to Lord Rothwell,” Emma replied, “but this land is more than just important to us.” She stopped and looked at him again, appraisingly. “I wonder if you can understand that” she mused. “Well, whether you can or not makes no difference. You may dismiss me as a hedge-witch but who do you think calved such elevated magicians as yourself, eh?”
While she’d been speaking, she had started to arrange the various items carefully on the grass. First, she laid out four white candles in a square. Within the square she set a loop of tightly wound hair, taken from all the women in the group. Unfolding the map, she then placed that within the circle and lit the candles. “Careful!” Wright cried. “Oh, I’ve no intention of burning your precious map,” Emma said, looking at him, before taking a bundle of herbs from her pack. The magician smirked and Emma paused. “And I’ve no doubt you’re thinking that candles and hair and some smelly herbs aren’t going to do the trick”, she said and laughed a little. “No, I appreciate the power you had to use, so I’ll need to counter that with some of my own.” And she took out a knife from the pocket of her skirt and quickly cut across the base of her thumb. Holding her hand above the circle she let drops of blood fall at regular intervals onto the loop of hair. Wright made to stand up but Beth grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back down onto his knees. Lighting the bundle of herbs from one of the candles Emma waved the smoke round the circle and chanted,
“A circle round, this cord was bound
And now with blood
This spell I do unbind
As I cut this thread, may the spell be dead
And so let the power cease and the land be at peace.”
Bending over the map, she then took a knife again and cut the circlet of hair before throwing the smouldering herbs high into the air. She hadn’t been at all sure what to expect – a clap of thunder and a blinding flash perhaps – but instead there was a sudden gust of wind that caused the branches to shake and some nearby crows to launch into the air, accompanied by a kind of twisting that she felt deep inside her. Wright bent his head to the ground and vomited. Beth staggered back as if she’d been struck. Rothwell’s men looked panic-stricken as Grice clutched his head, crying “What have you done, woman?!”
Emma looked down at the map and picking it up, replied, “Put things back the way they were, I reckon.” Holding the parchment in the air, she showed them all how it had been redrawn, with the meadow now restored to the correct side of the beck, the fields back where they always were, bounded by the woods as before. “The copy at the manor-house will look the same.” she announced, “Both now set down for all to see the boundaries of what is rightfully ours to use.” Wright looked up, a thin trail of vomit hanging from his lip. “And what will this avail you, hedge-witch?” he asked, “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll gather what I need and magic it back the way Lord Rothwell wants it.” “Will y’now?” Emma replied, and drew one last thing from the pack – two hammered sheets of iron. Seeing this Wright finally seemed to deflate completely and fell over on to his side, curling into a ball. Grice looked puzzled. “What do you hope to achieve with that?” he asked, “Two bits of cheap metal? How will that stop anything?”
Emma laughed again. “Not so cheap Master Grice. This is cold iron. Fallen from the sky. Kept for a significant occasion. Hammered into shape by our own smith. Master Wright here knows what this means …” And she took the map and placed it between the sheets, wrapping the cord of hair tightly around so that maps and iron were held tight. “You can tell Lord Rothwell he can send the copy to York to be held in the registry if he wants but this’ll be kept secure in the village,” she announced. “Hidden and protected and warded, so no one will be able to re-draw the land again. Our land.” She emphasised those last words and tucking the plated map under her arm, she set off through the trees. “Come on,” she said to the other women, “They’ll be able to free themselves from their own bindings soon enough.”
Not long after, Emma was strolling through the woods again, looking for mushrooms after the recent rain. With her skirt hitched up to stop it dragging through the wet grass, she came out into the meadow and stopped, shielding her eyes from the sun. There was the beck, over on the other side where it always had been, with the old oak tree standing tall. She thought back to when the women had arrived home, only to find that instead of waiting ‘til noon, William Leigh and Mary Brotherton had gone on ahead with a small group at first light, “To scout out the lay of things”, they’d said. But shortly after they’d spotted some of Rothwell’s men across the fields, making ready to fence off the land, a wind had blown up and they’d felt some kind of shift in their guts and when they’d recovered, the men were suddenly nearby, as if the distance had instantly been closed between them. For a moment the two groups had stared at each other, one with staves and hammers, the other with staffs and cudgels and then someone had shouted “It’s the devil’s play” and some had fallen to the ground, praying to God, while others scattered, villagers included. But William Leigh had stood firm and one of Rothwell’s men had stayed also, clutching a copy of the map. As Leigh had walked up to him, he had cried out, shaking the piece of paper, “This isn’t how it was!” Leigh had put his arm around the man’s shoulder then and had said, “Oh yes, it is. It’s how it always was. And always will be. As long as we have anything to do with it. You go and tell your Lord and Master that.”
Emma thought that no doubt William had embellished the telling of it some but also that there was no harm in that. He’d nodded respectfully at her when she’d returned with the other women and together they’d found a place to secure the iron-clasped map. “Will it always stay bound?” he’d asked her. She’d thought a little. “Iron rusts,” she’d replied, “Spells decay. But I reckon that as long as we’re bound to this land, it’ll hold.” Striding across the meadow, with the warmth of the sun on her face and the sound of the beck up ahead, she smiled to herself and thought, “And we are bound to the land, just as it is to us.”
Steven French is a retired academic who lives in Leeds, West Yorkshire, U.K. He has had a number of short stories and pieces of flash fiction published in venues such as 365Tomorrows, Bewildering Stories, Idle Ink, Liquid Imagination, Literally Stories and elsewhere.
The sun shone through the side window and caught her full in the face. Marilyn rubbed her eyes and sat up. The car’s stuffy interior stank of baby poop. She checked the back. Ethan dozed in his car seat, his perfect little chin resting on his chest. She covered his bare arms with the blanket, smoothed his hair, pushed the Chevy’s door open and pulled herself up, wobbling. Sometime during the night when the moon went down, she had edged the car off the two-lane highway into the darkness. Now, in the dawn’s glare she found herself on a gravel turnout, surrounded by an ocean of Nebraska corn.
Closing the door quietly, she moved into the field, squatted, and peed. With only blackbirds and crows watching, she dug the compact out of her purse and stared at her face, red from half-a-continent’s-worth of windburn. Somewhere west of Philly, the car’s AC had quit. The summer heat had turned her peach-fuzzed cheeks into leather. She pulled a comb through her bobbed blonde hair and turned slowly to study the countryside. Except for a few pump sheds, the rolling plains held no shelter. A smudge of brown smoke hung above the closest rise. She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. A pickup truck pulling a tractor on a flatbed drove past. It slowed for a moment, but kept moving and disappeared over the horizon.
…no cities…no yammering…just sun and the wide open…should’ve done this months ago…had Ethan in some farmhouse with only the old women watching…
Her son’s high-pitched squeal broke her reverie. At the car, she found him wide-eyed and flailing. She opened all the doors to air out the Chevy, changed his diaper and cleaned him with baby wipes before burying the smelly mess under dirt clods at the edge of the field. She unbuttoned her blouse to nurse. His body felt soft against hers, heart beating with a reassuring rhythm. Her muscles relaxed, the tenseness replaced with a warm glow. The silence returned, the tarmac empty of traffic. The heat came on strong. As her baby fed, Marilyn hummed a childhood song and fanned him with a folded newspaper that pictured a longhaired brunette version of herself.
With Ethan strapped in his seat, she collected her cigarettes and lighter and stepped outside. She never smoked in any space with Ethan; it might be too late for her but the child deserved a chance. She stared into the fields and thought about the past week: emptying their bank account, buying a used car, listening to TV news in that sleaze-bag motel room, and hardening her heart.
A flock of blackbirds exploded from the greenery. The cornstalks jerked along two rows. Something charged toward her, coming on fast. Marilyn flicked the cigarette to the gravel, hustled inside, and locked the car doors. She fumbled in her purse for the key, inserted it in the ignition and twisted, grinding the starter. But the tired engine wouldn’t fire. A girl clutching a fist-sized rock burst from the field and rushed the Chevy. She halted in front of the car and placed a hand on its hood, her chest heaving. She looked maybe sixteen, well developed, with shoulder-length hair the color of corn silk.
“Stop,” the girl ordered, “or I’ll break your fuckin’ windshield.” She raised the rock above her head.
Marilyn grasped the steering wheel with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut.
…it always finds me…I never get away clean…like a shadow I can’t ever shake…
She raised her head and studied the girl: ragged jeans, a faded pink T-shirt, a pretty dirt-smudged face punctuated with freckles. Marilyn reached inside her purse and grasped the pistol. It felt slippery in her clammy hand, like the last time she’d used it. She unlocked her door and climbed out, held the gun at her side, and moved toward the girl.
The teenager backed away and dropped the rock, stared at the pistol then at her filthy bare feet. She drew a forearm under her runny nose. “Look, I…I didn’t mean nothin’…wasn’t gonna hurt you.”
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Marilyn’s voice shook and sounded way too loud.
The girl shrugged.
“What do you want?”
“Water…and maybe a ride.”
“Are you from around here? What’s your name?”
“Lyn.”
“Lyn what?”
“You don’t need ta know.”
Marilyn paused and stared into the girl’s blue-flecked-with-gold eyes. She slipped the pistol back into her purse. “Come on, I’ve got some water in the cooler.”
Lyn flashed a smile before resuming her sullen pout. Marilyn opened the rear door. Ethan let out a howl. She lifted him into her arms then handed the girl a water bottle, watched her chug its contents. She passed her a roll of paper towels. Lyn doused her face liberally and scrubbed at it until her cheeks turned pink, as if they’d been slapped. The water drenched her T-shirt. She didn’t wear a bra. The baby stared unblinking at the girl. She reached a hand toward him but Marilyn pulled him away.
“How long have you been out here?”
“Long enough,” the girl said
“You’re not gonna tell me much, are you?”
Lyn grinned.
Marilyn opened the passenger-side door and motioned for her to sit. She placed Ethan in his car seat, slid behind the wheel, and gazed westward through the bug-stained windshield. She knew that she was too much of an adult for some freaked-out teenager to open up to. Still, she tried.
“Does your family live around here?”
“Yeah, well…they did.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Nah, but I always wanted ’em. My parents stopped with me. I guess they quit while they were…behind.” The girl’s mouth tightened and she looked away. Marilyn paused in her questioning, then changed the subject.
“What happened to your shoes?”
“Lost ’em.”
“I’ve got some flip-flops in the back you can have.”
“Thanks. You got a cigarette?”
“Yes, but you can’t smoke in the car…it’s bad for the baby.”
“Right.”
The silence built between them. The girl seemed to study the littered front seat. She grabbed the newspaper wedged next to the center console, unfolded its front page, then stared at Marilyn. Ethan cut loose with a string of baby sounds.
Lyn muttered, “That’s about the only age guys are lovable.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lyn pointed to the newspaper with its black headlines – Woman Wanted for Killing Husband, Flees With Baby Boy. “That’s you. You know what I’m talkin’ about. That’s why you’re on this back road to nowhere.”
… shit, what do I do now? Damn teenagers can’t keep secrets…
Marilyn reached into her purse. It would be easy: order the girl out, march her into the field, put a bullet in the back of her head and let the harvesters chew up her rotting remains. They stared at each other. The girl looked ready to bolt, her goose-bumped arms trembling, arms with dark bruises around the wrists and above the elbows, hands with broken nails and bloodied knuckles.
Marilyn let out a deep breath. “So, am I going to find your story on a front page somewhere?”
“Yeah, maybe…but not for awhile. We’re in the middle of frickin’ nowhere, ya know.”
“Yes, I’m counting on that. So, are you gonna tell me?”
“No…well, maybe later. We need to get movin’.”
“Why would I take you with me? Why would you want to travel with a…”
“You’ll need help drivin’…and I look like I could be your daughter, or maybe a younger sister. The cops will be lookin’ for you with your kid – not a threesome. The same’s true for me.”
Marilyn smiled. “You have it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I didn’t…until now. We need to make it to the coast, to some big city, and get lost.”
“Really? Then what?”
“Hey, just get me there and I’ll find somebody to hook up with.”
“I’m sure you will,” Marilyn said and turned the key. The car started without hesitation. She checked on Ethan then pulled onto the shimmering blacktop. They drove into the empty morning with sunburnt arms resting on windowsills, the plains a blur of green and gold. A strong headwind buffeted the sedan and Marilyn concentrated on driving while Lyn slept.
…this actually might work…at least get us to the coast…there’s something about her I don’t like…but hey, killers can’t be choosers…
Near noon, Marilyn pulled the car next to a single gas pump outside some kind of country store with neon beer signs flickering in its windows. Lyn continued to snore. Ethan slept. She climbed out and stretched, staring all the while at her two passengers. Neither moved. A hand-lettered sign attached to a pole read, “Pay befor U Pump.” She pushed into the store, the AC chilling her bare arms and legs, waking her, setting her on edge. A fat man sat in a cushioned chair behind the counter, watching a TV soap. He stared at her. His gaze fixed on her breasts for a few long moments before he resumed his television ogling.
“Give me yer money first before ya pump gas,” he said without looking at her. “No offence, lady, but I get too many fools tryin’ ta rip me off.”
“I understand. I also need to get something to eat. Do you have a restroom?”
“Yeah, outside and around back. Sorry ’bout the mess.”
Marilyn nodded and wandered into the store’s dark interior. A bar stretched along its back wall. But by the look of the dust-covered counter and empty bottle shelves, it hadn’t seen patrons for a long time. Rows of supplies on folding tables occupied the space. A bank of rumbling wall coolers full of beer and soft drinks filled a sidewall. She grabbed two bags of chips, a six-pack of soda, two packaged fruit pies, and a few candy bars and laid them on the counter along with three crisp twenties.
“I’ll be back in for the change,” she said, “and I’ll need some ice for my cooler.”
“It’s around the side,” he gestured. “Look, ma wife is making lunch in back. She can fix ya some sandwiches if ya want. Cost three dollars apiece.”
“No, but thanks for the offer.”
Marilyn moved to the entrance then froze. The Chevy’s front and rear doors on the passenger side stood open. The girl and Ethan were gone. She rushed outside, gazed up and down the highway and at the nearby crossroad with its rusting stop signs. The road stood empty of cars and people. She hurried around the corner of the building and almost collided with Lyn. The girl cradled Ethan in her arms, the baby pressed against her breasts.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marilyn yelled.
“Hey, shut up, will ya. I just got the little guy quieted down. I think the heat was gettin’ to ’im so I brought ’im into the shade.”
Marilyn’s heart slammed against her chest. She forced herself to slow her breathing and waited for the fear to subside. “Sorry. Thanks…thanks for watching after him.”
The girl grinned and rocked Ethan gently. “He wants ta nurse. No luck here.”
“Yes, if you would pump the gas and get some ice, I’ll feed him. I’ve already given the guy inside three twenties for fuel and food.”
“No problem.”
Lyn sauntered over to the ice machine, yanked a ten-pound sack from its smoking interior, and disappeared around the corner. Marilyn retreated deeper into the shade and nursed her hungry baby. The calm returned. She felt relieved, and grateful for Lyn’s help.
…at least she doesn’t treat him like a doll…maybe I can trust her…but not yet…let’s see how she does with the change…
Marilyn imagined the proprietor’s reaction when the braless teenager pushed through his dirt-smudged door. For a fleeting moment she felt concern and patted her purse, reassured by the feel of the gun. In a short while, Lyn returned.
“Everything go okay?” Marilyn asked.
“Oh yeah. That frickin’ letch behind the counter was gonna make a move. But lucky for him, his wife came out from the back. Here’s your change. The car’s gassed and I checked the water and oil. She’s down half a quart, but you can wait ’til the next fill-up.”
“Thanks. You did good, and sorry I didn’t tell you about that creep.”
Lyn gazed at Marilyn nursing. “Does…does that make ya feel good?”
Marilyn smiled. “Yes, it’s almost like I’m high. Calms me right down, just like Ethan.”
“Have you ever given the kid, ya know, formula from a bottle?”
“Sometimes. But it’s not as good for him.”
“Yeah, that’s what my health class teacher told us. Sorry I can’t help ya.”
“Don’t worry. With your looks, you’ll be pregnant soon enough.”
Lyn brayed loudly. “My mama always said the same damn thing.”
Ethan had finished nursing and dozed in her arms. After burping him, she slid him into the car seat and slipped behind the wheel. Lyn had washed the windshield and thrown away the crap littering the front seat. The girl opened cans of soda and a bag of chips.
“You want me to take her for awhile?” Lyn asked. “Ya know, I’ve been drivin’ since I was fourteen.”
“Not yet. Maybe after our next stop.”
With the car’s sun visors lowered, she drove into the shimmering heat and wind. Golden grain fields had replaced the corn and the land flattened even more below a cobalt-blue sky with mashed potato clouds pushing up on the western horizon. Sometime in the late afternoon, she pulled the car off the highway near a deep gully and an under-road culvert. She unfastened her seatbelt and opened the door.
Lyn stirred. “Why…why’d ya stop?”
“I have to pee. Watch Ethan till I get back, then you can go.”
“There’s nobody out here. Relax.” Lyn leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Punch drunk from hours of driving, Marilyn grabbed the car keys and her purse and climbed out. She took a dozen steps and turned to stare at the girl and Ethan, motionless in their seats. She walked to the ravine and slid down its bank. Out of sight of the highway, she pushed her panties down and squatted. The wind blowing through the culvert howled like a banshee. A shadow fell across the gully. She jerked to her feet and turned just in time to see Lyn charge down the bank and snag her purse.
“What the hell…” Marilyn croaked.
Lyn reached into the purse and withdrew the pistol and Marilyn’s wallet. She thumbed the half-inch-thick sheaf of bills.
“So now you’re gonna rob me?” Marilyn asked, her face burning.
“Not exactly.” Lyn grasped the pistol at arm’s length and pointed it at Marilyn. “My plans have changed. A teenage mom with a kid is an even better cover…and your money will help me disappear.”
“But the cops could think you’re me.”
“Give me a fucking break,” Lyn snapped. “We don’t look that much alike.”
“I was only trying to help you.”
“Yeah, then why the gun?” Lyn laughed. “Turns out, you had a good reason for carryin’ it. Ironic, huh?” She sighted down the barrel.
“Please…please don’t. Please…my child…” Marilyn backed toward the culvert, stumbling over the uneven ground.
“Quit whinin’. You sound just like my Pop…my mama had more guts.”
A solitary semi roared past on the highway above them. Not even the crows heard the pistol’s crack. And the coyotes that crept from the fields near sundown seemed to enjoy their unexpected feast.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His short stories have been accepted more than 500 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review, The Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated three times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.
