A Slow Flowing River
by
Wess Foreman
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2010 Wess Foreman
(wessforeman.com)
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PART ONE — A TRUE MURDERER
"Those whom the gods would love, they first drive mad"
— Euripides
Chapter 1: Canyon Cicadas
Jake Stern knows what happened. Knows the truth of things. He was there. So were Henry Wilder, Sam Cole, and that other one they call Gus but those three won't tell what happened. Not as it went. They might not lie outright but chances are they'll swear they didn't see much of anything — they'll leave everything to play out as it is apt to play out. Big bad Russel Brand swinging free at the knotted end of a taut rope if not shot dead first out here in the desert — mistook for a coyote in the tall grass.
* * *
Russel Brand took some comfort in the orchestral sounds of cicadas saturating the night air and reverberating against the walls of the coal black canyon where he was hiding. It meant no one was out beating the thickets looking for him. It meant he was alone here and safe.
Before the hiding there was a long painful ride. Before the ride there was a gunshot wound to the leg and a curse and a narrow escape on horseback. And before all the commotion there was another life. Another Russel Brand.
An entire string section of insect orchestra died out suddenly just south of his location — the direction he thought of as south anyway — the direction he had come from. He froze in the darkness, worried that someone had followed him there — however impossible that was to believe, being thrown clear from his saddle before entering the canyon and choosing a path obscured by scrub brush and rock, his horse bolting wild-eyed directionless into the void leading the others, he had hoped, further away from his position. Perhaps back to Mission Creek or on to the next town — Three Oaks or maybe Faygo.
He took deep breaths to slow the pounding in his chest and ease the thrumming in his ears. Listening to the darkness behind him. Listening with all his might for the crunch-crunch of footfalls. For the swish of scrub brush. For the sound of sliding rocks set loose by clumsy human stumblings in the dark. Sat there for what must have been thirty minutes or more — breathing and listening — right hand on the hilt of his knife and left hand propping his body up off the ground. Listening. Before long the chirru-chirru meditations of cicadas started up again and he closed his eyes and released the tension in his arms and body and fell instantly asleep.
* * *
Jake Stern knows what happened. Knows the truth of things. He was there. If only he has sense enough to keep his mouth shut about it until the right time. If only the others don't get to him first and lean on him and make him conveniently forget what happened, make him swear that he didn't see much of anything — or something worse than that. Something final and unforgivable.
Jake Stern's a good kid — but young still and scrawny and no match for dishonest ruffians set on a dangerous course of action. Just a kid — innocent and too young and out-numbered. Saw the whole thing happen with his own eyes. Saw Jerrod Price fall dead to the floor. Dead at my feet and by my hand — but a justified killing, I should add, done in honest defense of myself. Jerrod Price came at me with a cavalry blade — three feet long if it was an inch — blood lust in his eyes. Swinging wildly. Slicing the evening air before me. Smiling killer laughing at me. And myself unarmed. Afraid. Searching for escape. Wrong place wrong time and scrambling to keep my footing. Scrambling to keep my life.
And nothing against Jerrod Price before that time. No ill-will and no unkind words toward the man — no words at all between us in fact — just up and came at me. Of a sudden. Laughing and slicing the air and wanting his blade to dig in deep and find brown flesh beneath my clothing. Laughing. The half-crazed cackling of a madman coming at me. The other three, his boys, were shouting at him all the while to stop it. Trying to calm him while keeping a safe distance — at least three feet away and I didn't blame them — shouting at him and trying to distract him from whatever evil spirit had possession of him for whatever unholy purpose. All of them waving and shouting out: "Mister Price! Whoa there! Hey, Boss. Mister Price, calm down. Whoa there, Mister Price! Mister Price!"
And all of us half-wasted from the saloon's bitter-sweet liquor. And maybe that's what got into him, what made Jerrod Price go crazy, what had him swinging-mad at my face. I slipped and fell backward and saw stars upon hitting my head on a table edge — coming to and realizing that same table top stopped the blade from coming down upon me. Continuing my scramble under the table and beyond it — knowing that to flee was my only hope. Pushing chairs out of the way and pulling chairs down behind me — anything to stop him from coming at me. Anything to keep myself alive, though there wasn't a lucid thought in my head at that moment. Only survival. Only bone-bare survival.
And it was luck more than anything — though I'm willing to give credit to the Lord God Almighty if He wants it or to the will of human determination and survival if that be it — but something steadied my feet beneath me and turned me around at the right time and bade me launch myself, soberly between saber swings, full-shouldered into that madman. Full-shouldered and shouting wildly as I remember it and pushing all my weight against him. Shoving him heavily into the cleverly carved molding of the bar counter. And hearing all the breath push out of him at once. Hearing the deep crack of the oak counter behind him taking all our weight and all the backward force of our momentum. Hearing the crack of ribs and internal organs too and hearing that strange half-gurgle leak out from his lifeless lips. Dark red spittle forming up and dripping down from there. His eyes open but empty of all life — all motivation and evil-intent gone from them. His saber clattering thinly against the hardwood floor. The others stuck in place — stone silent with astonishment.
And my own self astonished and haggard and fully aware of the others in the room. The others who worked loyally for Jerrod Price for many long years. Everything crystal clear around me — adrenaline still pumping through my system, making me aware of everything in that room. I took a step back and the dead weight of Jerrod Price fell to the floor at my feet. Jake Stern was the first to make a sound and the sound was only a guttural gasp but I couldn't have put it better myself — for what else was there to say.
The second sound came from Henry Wilder. He stated the obvious: "He's dead." And the two words came out as one word. And the sound of that word was mournful and it echoed off the walls and came back with the sound of anger in it, the sound of bitterness, and all eyes were aimed at me. And those eyes already made up their minds. Had sized up the situation and decided their collective move. And all I could do was run. Run and not look back. Run and be chased — I could hear them coming behind me. One of them shouting out my name, "Russel Brand! Russel Brand!" then shouting out the lie the three of them silently formulated against me: "Russel Brand murdered Mister Price! Murderer! There goes the murderer!"
And then a shot rang out. Someone shooting a pistol in the air. People coming out of buildings to see what the commotion was about. Then another pistol shot — heard the bullet whiz right past my head. And there was a horse tied to a post — a white and brown painted mare with saddle all ready to go. My sweaty hands fumbling at the lead, trying to release her, trying to get on her and ride out of there. To get far away from there. To forget all this ever happened. To go back to my life. This wasn't my fault. Then another shot — a rifle shot by the sound of it. The bullet tearing through my upper leg through the meat of my calf muscle. Searing all the way through and turning me around in pain. Falling — holding the horse's lead but falling — the rope releasing from the post. Getting myself up again, up and onto the horse and riding out of town. Sweaty and afraid. The others shouting and firing their guns and riding after me — somewhere after me in the dark. "Justice!" they cried, "Justice for Jerrod Price!" Hell-bent on catching me, on hanging-high the coward murderer Russel Brand.
And riding on and eventually falling off and getting up and hobbling off into the mouth of this canyon and tying a handkerchief around the leg wound and slowing my breath and resting and falling asleep to the overpowering ethereal orchestra of cicadas in the deep-growing darkness of the canyon: "Chirru-chirru. Chirru-chirru. Chirru-chirru."
* * *
Russel Brand did not wake up again until the sun began filling the canyon with its golden light the next morning. And he found his position to be more precarious than he imagined the previous night. He thought the canyon was broader and deeper than it truly was. He imagined his midnight scrambling as long and meandering and himself tucked deep within the heart of God's safe refuge. Instead he was sprawled out and visible across the vast expanse of wilderness behind him and the canyon was only a shallow box canyon. And there was no climbing the steep incline of the canyon's beginnings — the great plateau above him was unreachable even with two good legs.
His body was stiff and his leg wound sent rivulets of pain through his leg and lower back every time he moved. But move he must — anyone traveling by this place would spot him. Bracing himself against the pain and trusting most of his weight to his good leg, he forced himself to stand and move in inefficient hops and hobbles to a scrub tree nearby. Here he found a suitable length of hardwood to fashion into something of a crutch, using his knife to dismember it from the body of the tree and to remove its smaller branches, leaving a convenient Y-shape at one end and wrapping that end in excess cloth for padding.
He made his way back up to high ground and surveyed the flatland surrounding him. Miles and miles of yellow-orange dirt and sand all the way to the horizon, spotted with gray-green scrub brush. Here and there. Distant mountain ranges loomed like some ancient wall built up all around the rim of the world — all of life held within its span — light-purple, worn and weathered around the edges, bleeding out and blending with dark clouds forming toward the southeast. Brand thought he saw a flash of lightning there — that or some curious trick of the eye. But he saw no trace of humanity anywhere. As far as the eye could see.
And that was some relief. But that left him completely alone out here and demonstrated the reality of his situation. He was an outcast now. Cut off from all civilized life. Completely and utterly. The pit of his stomach tightened and turned at the thought, leaving him empty inside. Empty and hopeless.
Brand quelled the feeling as quickly as it came, needing now to make important decisions regarding his next steps. It would not be easy. He was without horse. Without food and water. Wounded leg — at least the bullet had gone back out the other side and Brand was pretty sure it hadn't hit bone and hadn't nicked an artery. But stranded out here miles from anywhere and he couldn't go just anywhere — there were people looking for him. Whole towns looking for him by now. Looking to capture him and drag him in and hang him for murdering that sweet saintly martyr, Jerrod Price [who did nothing, history would tell, but have a drink with a fellow who went crazy and killed him for no good reason — hardly time enough to get out his saber in defense].
Again he pushed aside the emotions he felt, the overwhelming desire to scream out in anger at the world, at the way the world worked. His mouth was dry. He should start with finding some water around here. That would be his first goal. Water and then maybe find some slow moving game for nourishment. The sun was in a race to reach its glorious apex and the coolness of morning was diminishing with it. He negotiated the loose rock of the canyon slope and made his way to the lowest grade of the landscape where the canyon funneled all rainwater toward. And he began digging out a hole there with the pointed end of his crutch. He dug until he was sure there was no water to be found in that spot then moved on. He walked toward the southeast, which kept him close to the line of foothills where he could find cover if need be — he moved southeast if for no other reason than that was where the storm clouds were gathering. He also knew that the Zeke Portman house was in that direction. And maybe no one would look for him there. Maybe no one would think to look for him there, especially since it would be a drastic change in the direction he had ridden the previous night. And at least there would be water and food and some level of civilization, for good or for ill.
* * *
Jake Stern knows what happened. If he is half the man his father was — God Bless his soul — I will have his account in my defense at least. He stood right there, pale as a ghost and as shocked as I was at the suddenness of the attack. The horror of it all. But watching every moment of it. Sure as rain he saw the thing in its entirety.
I had bought Jake a beer when he first entered the saloon — he's still a kid but old enough to drink now — and he nursed that beer for a long while listening to Sam Cole's wild stories of fist fights and brothel excursions and other tall tales of youthful overindulgence, tales best left untold in mixed company. And I was half-listening to it all myself though I don't normally go in for that sort of thing — it was amusing though and the day had been tiring and the words filled up the empty air at least and made the place seem alive.
Everyone in the place was in good spirits — bright and jovial and winding down for the day — all except for the old man, Jerrod Price. He was at the bar — quiet and ponderous and heavy and altogether not himself that day. He was letting his boys have their fun without him. Henry Wilder and Sam Cole and Travis "Gus" Warner — all three had taken over a round table near the front window. Jake Stern was at the far end of the room at a table by himself and I was at yet another table nursing a beer and minding my own business.
And then I was scrambling. Dodging saber slashes. Scrambling. Sliding backward. Slipping on my own spilled beer. I was terrified and confused and I was sure I was nearing the end of my time here on earth. Thinking no one would weep for me when I was gone. Thinking no one but Jake Stern perhaps but he's just a boy. A good boy, but only a lad — might have even wept at the sight of old Jerrod Price gurgling up blood and falling dead to the floor. Never can tell with that kid. Even after Price's mad slashing with the saber and me saving my own life. Jake might have wept then to see the man dead but I wasn't long lingering after that. Not after those looks — especially that first look from Henry Wilder. That look that told me to run and run hard. Told me, "You killed him. You may claim it was self-defense but we say different — and we here are three against one. Run. And. Run. Hard."
And I know it was he, Henry Wilder, who sent out the first warning shot into the air and he who sent the next one sizzling past my head. He of the quick-draw practice sessions carrying that revolver everywhere he went and hoping to run into a rattlesnake or other such varmint so as to put that shiny pistol to some use. The rifle shot that came next — the shot that found its mark in the meat of my leg — must have come from one of the others though I don't recall any of them toting a rifle. Might have been pulled from a horse tack outside.
Leaving me with a limp and marking me a criminal, excommunicated from society and yearning for human contact and wanting nothing more than to wake up from this nightmarish reality, this tale of horror I've stumbled into. And hoping for some sort of resolution — for level-headed listeners to hear the truth of what happened. Listen to Jake Stern! Listen to him above all others — he'll tell it straight. He was there.
And all these repetitive thoughts, circling around in my head. Reliving every moment. Rehashing what happened. What went wrong. Wrong place wrong time. And playing it through again from every new angle I can think of. Anything to find a way out of it but knowing there isn't one. This thing happened and now I pay the price. I live this new life. This desperate new life. Fugitive. Outlaw. Fleeing from justice. From the circumstantial lies that will surely win out against me. And no one will weep for me when I'm gone. No one will weep for me when I'm dead and gone.
Chapter 2: Portman House
My father says, "This is my boy Russ. Say hello to Mister Portman, Russ." And Zeke Portman looks old but gentle. Smiling broadly. All the Portmans have that broad homely smile. I smile back and say hello but my voice doesn't boom out like my father's voice does and I don't think Mister Portman hears me, so I say, "Howdy," a little louder. The girls laugh at the awkwardness of it and I can't help but look down at my feet. Mister Portman smiles again and says, "Pleased to meet you Russ." Holds out a large hand. I shake it or rather it shakes me.
* * *
The cloud of dust grew slowly. Began as a curious mirage on the dancing horizon. A mere interruption in the flickering silver heat of afternoon sun. Grew into something larger, something recognizably man made — a distant dust cloud created by a small group of riders on horseback making good time heading southeast across the wasteland. Making for the Portman house in much haste. Following Russel Brand's meandering footprints in the sand. They were obviously tracking him, knew now exactly where he was going and where they would find him.
Brand was even now watching them advance — first sighted the riders after collapsing in the shade of the tool shed at the north end of the Portman property — the first bit of shade all day — collapsing and then resting there in the dirt. Exhausted, catching his breath, smearing sweat away from his eyes and catching his breath. Reopening his eyes and thinking he needed water more than anything in the world right now and rolling over to get up and go find some. And seeing then the dust cloud advancing behind him. And watching in horror as it grew — larger and larger — riders coming fast upon him, would be on him within the hour at the rate they were traveling. He couldn't tell how many of them there were, only that they were following his trail and that he had to keep moving, to keep ahead of them.
He worked his way toward the stables. The stables were on the southeast corner of the property; he could see the old barn from where he was, its high-arching roof line visible over top of the three or four live oaks that grew near the main house. He knew the layout of the place — had visited before with his father ages ago, back when his father was still alive, back when he was still a kid — had met Zeke Portman and his wife and two daughters and one son. Greeted them shyly with a nod. Shaking Zeke's oversize leathery hand and looking directly into his one good eye and purposefully ignoring that sewed up socket that remained of Zeke's other eye. That was some fifteen years ago. One-eyed Zeke Portman was of an elderly age now. His wife died several years ago. His son, Zachary, ran the place now. One daughter was married off and the other was living with wealthy relatives up north somewhere. Brand did not know how many hands were on the property — one or two, he suspected. He kept a steady eye out for anyone working on the property. Moving quietly. Limping from fence line to tree to tree and pausing to scan the main house and what he could see of the stables then slipping on to another spot. Keeping himself to shadows and carefully making his way closer.
He saw movement to his left. Froze. Lowered himself closer to the ground to decipher the movement and understand its origin. The tight brisk movement continued in the same spot. He soon realized he was staring at the swish-swish of a cow's tail beyond a hedge — a muffled maawl confirmed the creature's identity. He rescanned the house and the surrounding yard — everything was quiet save a handful of yard hens cuck-cucking and digging at the dust and sparse grass of the yard.
He moved further along. The oversize barn was now in view, as was the side door of the main house. He could see it was propped open and the screen door closed — an empty cool black mystery beyond the metal mesh of the screen. And all this time keeping to shadows and behind cover and now needing to cross an open area in full view of the house. Wished he had a weapon. Wished he had two good legs to run with. Wished he had an aptitude for invisibility. He had none of these.
Brand steeled himself before moving and reminded himself to keep quiet above all and nonetheless to move quickly. And then as quickly and as quietly as he and his crutch would allow, he moved. Across the dusty yard, shifting his attention between the barn door and the house door all the while. One of the hens let out a sudden squawk, causing Brand's heart to jump up into his throat but he kept moving. As he neared the barn door — able to see beyond the corner of the house now and able to see out into most of the front yard — he came into full view of a seated figure, a woman bent over a washtub scrubbing at a pair of overalls [too busy at her work, fortunately, to notice the be-crutched fugitive slip by]. And he, merely lucky at that, having moved too quickly to stop himself.
The barn was empty. No people. No horses. But for all the emptiness, he was overjoyed to find a bucket half-filled with old water — perhaps an evening drink for a horse or two returning from pasture. It was all he could do to keep from wasting it all in his excitement. He forced himself to drink slowly, pausing to swallow and to listen to his surroundings before continuing again, perhaps drinking a bit too much but not regretting it. And the water was warm and too mineralic but that didn't bother him — didn't stop him from gulping it down thankfully. And setting it aside he breathed easier and was better able to concentrate.
Brand searched the stable quickly for a weapon, for anything of use to him. Folded over one side of a horse stall he found an old saddle and searched it quickly and found an old blanket underneath — wished he had had that last night. He took the blanket with him letting it fold over one shoulder. In another stall he discovered two brown yard eggs. He cracked one carefully, testing for any hint of sour smell, then devoured its slimy insides. Did the same for the other egg. Finding nothing else of use he made his way to the back door of the barn which opened upon a great cow pasture. Several cows looked up at him as he looked out. Comical in retrospect but at the time frustrating to find no horses and no plan of escape. He thought about hiding there in the barn but the barn was obvious. First place they'd look. And anywhere he hid around here they would eventually search and find him.
Time was not in his favor. He needed to distance himself from his pursuers and quickly. And then another thought came to him. A distant memory of the place and a possible solution to his problem. He slipped out back of the barn and made his way along the fence line headed east [scrub brush and saplings grew thick all along the fence, obscuring his movement from the house and the woman hard scrubbing at laundry]. He moved quickly and nearly tripped and fell once when his crutch caught carelessly on a tuft of grass but he steadied himself and refocused and continued, climbing over the fence and angling northeast as he went. The fallow field beyond was one of tall dry grass and he realized nothing could be done to obfuscate his tracks, the grass giving up beneath his weight and laying down without a struggle and not getting up again. Laying there, pointing out which direction he took. Brand's only hope was that the men would busy themselves too long at the Portman farm. That he would have ample time to escape. That time would give him a break just this once.
He struggled on. The water he had filled himself with sloshed back and forth in his stomach as he waded through the field and the dryness in his throat returned. His leg was aching. And so was the other one. His armpit was bruised and sore too from relying on the crutch all day. He struggled on knowing that beneath the tree line ahead he would find his salvation. And he could use a little salvation right now — that and a little time, precious time.
* * *
My father goes into the house to talk business with Zeke Portman, leaving us kids outside to play. Zachary and I shoot marbles in the dirt. They have many more chickens than we have at home and one big black tom rooster keeps eyeing me and bowing up proud, twisting his head and circling around back of me as if trying to read a note pinned to the back of my shirt. I keep an eye on him too. It's the same one Zachary says is crazy and I'm starting to believe it.
"Come on," says Zachary, bored of marbles, getting up and running away from the house, out past the barn and through the cornfield beyond. I follow close behind him, unable to see too far amidst the green green stalks of corn. We reach the other end of the cornfield where the tree line begins and deep beneath that cool shade of trees I can hear the gentle rolling river sound. Inviting. Pleasing.
And Zachary already has his shoes off and is releasing the straps of his overalls. "Come on," he says, "It isn't deep right over here near the bank — just don't go too far out unless you can swim good."
I can swim just fine and I tell him so. Disrobing. Jumping in. Splashing. The both of us. Swimming about. I can swim just fine and we swim around like natural born fish until I hear my father's booming voice call out, "Russel! Time to go! Let's go, boy!" And it's a voice I've only known for about a year now — lived with my aunt before that, lived beside what must be the largest river of all rivers. The mighty Mississippi, uncrossable except by riverboat and altogether impossible to swim. My father is a private man. A humorless man trying to forget his past, some terrible things that happened up north. But he's been good by me and learning how to be a father is tough and me learning how to be a son. All in all he's doing a fine job. A fine job.
* * *
Russel Brand made it to the tree line and could hear the sweet river sound beyond, could smell that distinct river smell — compost and algae and rock and fish and ever flowing water, constantly refreshing itself at the mere cost of gravity — the smell of momentum, of movement, of energy and life.
The river was not nearly as grand here has he remembered it in his youth but Russel knew this river. Knew where it led. It made its way south from here. Meandered past villages, beneath railway bridges, past fields and woods and on and on. It was deeper and broader than this in places. It was shallower and narrower than this in places. But it was a determined waterway ever surging toward greener pastures. Reaching. Reaching.
He had hoped to find, if not a boat, at least a large plank of driftwood to cling to in the water. Finding nothing of the sort he cinched the borrowed blanket around his waist, unsure if it would drag him under or not, and waded out into the dark current. Out past the shallows near the bank. Out into deeper water where the current was strong. Feeling himself being carried by it now — slow tumbling — steadying himself with his arms to keep from rolling over, letting the cool cool water refresh his parched body, carrying him downstream. He let his sun scorched face dip down beneath the water and this was heavenly. He closed his eyes, listening to the melodic sounds of the river. He could hear also a myriad of songbirds singing in the tree boughs above him and young squirrels chattering along the banks and jumping from tree branch to tree branch and up and down tree trunks playing in the cool early evening in the shade.
It was enough for Brand to forget his current predicament. Knowing that in this moment nothing was wrong. Everything was right with the world. And he was transported back to days long forgotten. Days of youthful enthusiasm and unrivaled potentiality.
Before long the deep green live oaks of the Portman property were out of sight and the river narrowed and picked up speed. The washed out sky changed in hue and intensity as the sun followed its age old trajectory, creating purple shadows along the river bank. He caught sight of a white tail doe in passing — lifting her head to look his direction, curious at the strange sunburned fish being carried by the current. He hadn't the energy to lift an eyebrow much less to smile at the creature. He just let the river take him along — could have fallen asleep there, he was so bone tired.
He saw those same dark clouds that morning in the southeastern sky, now fanning out toward him and spreading across the sky as if to surround him. He heard the humble rumblings of approaching thunder and knew that rain was soon to follow — could smell it in the air by now if not for the high river banks and the other water smells around him. He saw the wind in the tree tops and in the tall grass along the river bank. He had been traveling now for several hours surely — though keeping track of time was tricky with the oncoming thunderstorm, the sky getting dark much faster. The crickets and tree frogs were already starting and Brand had prune fingers and he was tired and was having trouble seeing now to navigate the river.
He could not see much of the landscape and had to get out of the water to decide if this was a good place to make camp for the night. It took much longer than he expected, his muscles complaining bitterly at his insistence on standing, on climbing the river bank, on fighting gravity for a dry purchase of land. But he managed to climb out, ending up flat on his back and exhausted in the tall grass.
Lightening licked across the sky — not too far away judging by the quickness of the thunderclap that followed. He got himself turned over and moving, limping through a small meadow into some woods. He had seen no evidence of man ever since leaving the Portman house and figured this place was good as any to spend the night in. Before the rain began he managed to build himself a small lean-to out of fallen hardwood and thatched it hastily with whatever grasses he could rip easily out of the ground along with a few low hanging pine needled branches. It would not keep all the water out but it would have to do. And in building the shelter he came across a small huckleberry bush and he spent some time plucking dark purple berries — breaking the berries in his mouth, one after another, spitting out the hard seeds but swallowing some of the seeds in his eagerness along with the sweet-sour juice and pulp and skin of the berries. He ate all the ripe berries he could find then retreated out of the rain.
He took off his water soaked garments. Stripped all the way down to his briefs, hanging his clothes on one side of the lean-to ringing whatever water he could from them beforehand then twisted excess water out of the blanket, much as was possible, laying it down on the ground with care and laying himself down upon it. He was tired. He had his knife but no striking stone to make a fire. And no energy to do so besides. He checked his leg wound — it was already beginning to heal up, the edges of each puncture where the bullet had entered and where it had exited were cleaned and turned white by the long soak in the river. He left it uncovered thinking it would be a good idea to let it dry out in the evening air.
The rain came on at long last, isolating him from everything else in the world — the sound of it all-powerful and oppressive and hypnotic. Brand could not resist the pull of sleep upon his body. Fell fast into it.
Chapter 3: Foggy Mornings
Across this river is where dreams are met, where lives are lived, where love is discovered. I plan to go someday when I'm older. Around here there isn't much to do and nothing to see. Out there is where the big wide world is, where all of life is played out on a grand scale. That's where I'll be someday.
"Russel!" A voice snipes at me but I am reluctant to leave. "Russel!" I am happy here watching steamboats push their ponderous loads up the mighty river. "Russel Evan Brand! You hear me calling?!" My aunt: round, loud, and persistent. She frowns from atop the levee, one hand planted on her hip and the other one clutching the handle of a rake. It is Saturday — lazy old-bone Saturday — and I must rake the backyard again. Pine needles fall thick back of the house as well as in front and it's my job to keep them raked. I stand defiant with a scowl aimed back at her though the distance is too great for her to notice. I climb. I kick crawfish mounds in revolt — they topple one by one, easily falling back down toward the river.
The horse is black as tar and muscular and the metal spurs on the rider's black boots shimmer like hot gold in the afternoon sunlight. The rider and horse are foreign to me as they approach the house; they carry on them the dust of many a mile on the trail. Though I have finished raking the front yard, I still linger, scratching around in the dirt with the rake, curious at this strange visitation. My aunt has gone back inside but I see her peeking around the edges of a front window, spying on the large man dismounting from a well-worn saddle. He is tall and dark, dressed sharply in denim slacks and navy blazer over a faded cotton shirt. He wears gold rings to match his spurs and a low-slung hat nearly covers his dark eyes. He walks with a slight limp holding the horse's lead loosely at his side walking the tired beast up toward the house. I don't trust him. He glares at me from beneath the brim of that hat entering my head with his mind and reading my thoughts as I'm reading his. I return the glare, my hold on the rake tightening, my knuckles the shade of empty oyster shells. Only the strong prevail around here — I stress this point with my eyes. He remains closed off and silent — afraid perhaps to emerge for the fight.
Day to day struggle for survival — the strong make it to the top; the weak fall forgotten to the wayside. But here the struggle is different — a deeper thing embedded in the stories of everyday people. The strong survive to live normal lives — lives lived in moderation, with intact hearts and humble aspects. The weak topple, one by one, all too easily like so many muddy crawfish mounds — with lowered standards and softened character and cheapened grace. But everyone goes quietly. "Goodness shines the utmost reward for goodness," paraphrasing my aunt, "Bad things happen to everyone."
I stand my ground as he takes another step forward.
"You must be Russel?"
The man knows my name but does not know me.
"Russ."
He seems weaker now — as if I have the upper hand by knowing and he the lower by not.
"Russel . . . Evan . . . Brand," he booms, not meaning to boom — his voice is a naturally booming voice, "I . . . I'm your father, boy." His smile catches to one side unnaturally and forced. "Your father," he repeats, as if that means something to me. He stands alone favoring his good leg. My aunt at the window is a leaking faucet, kerchief in hand to catch the tears.
The wind moves from the west, dropping leaves to the ground and carrying hints of mud and fish and tugboat exhaust. The smell of the river: I have grown to hate it and love it. But I have never seen this man before and have no such opinion of him. Around here old is a way of life, a state of mind — old trees, old riverboats, old stories, old friends. Success comes with wisdom not money — wisdom with age not status. "Respect your elders," is the motto — not, "respect the dollar almighty." Respect your elders.
He says he is my father and it must be true though I don't understand it. Not really. "So," I want to say but don't, "it's not my problem, mister." The river whispers my name and I want to leave now but can't. I have been here my whole life — most of it anyway, as far back as I can remember — where he has been, who can say? Don't know . . . not here, though I don't care really. Just want to be left alone. I continue to grip the rake handle — a mighty stronghold am I . . . solid and unwavering.
"I'm . . . I'm sorry, son — I don't quite know what to say right now," he says. A line of sweat forms at his brow.
I ask: "You married?" I'm curious about this man but not desperate. A tug boat lets a mellow tone, calling me again.
"No," he says, "never married."
"Why all those rings?"
He smiles, thinks a moment, looks for some escape. "Yard looks nice — you rake it?" Just friendly chit-chat 'round here. I nod. He returns the nod. "It, uh . . . it looks real nice," he says, "real nice."
Before the silence destroys us both my aunt lets the screen door slam behind her and carries out a tray of lemonade. "Franklin! How nice to see you again!" As if it's all unplanned coincidence, as if she hasn't been in touch with him, hasn't written him up north wherever he was pleading for him to come visit his own flesh and blood — something about getting a second chance at things and mending the relationship, no doubt. As if she had lemonade made up for no particular reason.
"Hey, Judith! How are you!" His voice is gravel, deep and commanding, but it remains subdued and comfortable.
"Here — brought you boys some lemonade. Come on up and sit on the porch. I'm sure you have lots to discuss," she says, beaming a hopeful smile in my direction, a dampness still in her eyes. I keep a steady frown causing her to break character for a moment. We sip lemonade up on the porch without much in the way of conversation, watching a gentle breeze push about the tops of the trees. I finish my glass quickly and grab my rake and say, "I need to finish raking up the back yard now," and I walk around the corner of the house before my aunt has time to stop me.
I have places to go when I need to think — quiet places, spiritual places. I sit on an uprooted oak tree at the river bank where I sometimes come to ponder life's mysteries — to sit and watch lantern lights on evening barges slipping slowly by. I toss a stone out into the river. Across this river is where dreams are met, where lives are lived, where love is discovered. I plan to go someday when I'm older. Around here there isn't much to do — nothing to see. Out there is where life is. That's where I'll be someday.
* * *
He woke up not knowing where he was. A cave of soggy grass and needles and sticks and rotting wood. Bits of clothing hanging from above and beyond that a fog drenched morning stand of young pine trees and dogwood and oak. All quiet and still and slowly dripping. He was wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket, damp and heavy. He tried moving and found that his body was stiff and unresponsive. And then it came back to him — memory of his new life came back to him — his wide-awake nightmare. And just as fast he realized that what had awoken him from sleep was the report of a gunshot — close and echoing out through the fog. Someone out hunting in these woods no doubt. Someone covering lots of ground, chasing game, sure to come across his lean-to.
He forced himself to move, massaging the back of his neck with a hand, working at a painful knot in the muscle there, though there didn't seem to be a muscle on his body that wasn't sore. He got to his feet and stretched as much as he could then got his damp clothes back on, pulling down the lean-to, ineffectively trying to scatter the evidence of the structure. He then limped back toward the river with the aid of his crutch, heavy blanket in tow. He did not know from which direction the gunshot had sounded — did not know the surrounding area either but he knew where the river was. And he knew it was best to stick to his original plan — in the water or out he would follow the river's course southward. Ever southward.
He exited the woods. Stepping back out into the meadow beside the river he stopped abruptly — finding himself face to face with a stranger — a young man traveling northward, following the river upstream. Brand's eyes flashed first at the rifle tucked in the crook of one arm then up to the young man's face — a young face. And a look of surprise was on that baby face but not yet the look of recognition or realization — that test would follow directly. Whether or not the young man had heard about the incident two days ago in Mission Creek and if so, whether he would connect that thing with the haggardly man standing before him — all of that would soon become apparent.
Brand was the first to speak, thinking that speaking would make him human first, would somehow distance himself from whatever criminal monster was capable of killing a man two days ago in Mission Creek. He spoke with as much dignity and civility as he could muster, saying, "Good morning! Out hunting rabbit or quail?" All the while thinking ahead, developing his own story, his own reason for being out here — wherever here was — for everyone had a reason, a history, a backstory to tell and lacking one was suspect and brought to mind the obvious questions: what is this person hiding; what is this person running from; whom did this person kill in cold blood or otherwise two days ago in Mission Creek.
The young man seemed to relax a bit in his shoulders then shrugged them, saying, "I dunno, whatever I find, really — I near got a rabbit a little ways back. Lost him in the thickets." The lad paused, adding, "My daddy lets me hunt out along here all the time, you know."
"Oh, sure," said Brand, sensing the boy's defensiveness on the matter — and he was more of a boy than a young man, he realized upon hearing the lad speak and noting the round-faced qualities of the lad. "You'll get no trouble out of me — I used to hunt rabbit and quail and squirrel and — well, you name it really. Say, how old are you anyway, son?" Russel Brand had the wherewithal to speak boldly and quickly and kindly and to end his part with a question — perchance to avoid answering any such questions himself.
The boy hesitated a beat and said, "Almost ten."
"Ten — really!" said Brand, "You're pretty big for a ten year old. My father wouldn't let me hunt alone until I was — I dunno — well-older than that. Say, I wonder if you couldn't point out which way to the nearest town. Waverly, isn't it? Or is it Cranton?"
"Naw. Cranton is way the other side of Waverly," the boy said, showing off his mastery of local geography. "Waverly's just a few miles that way," he said, nodding back down river. "Train tracks cross the river a-ways back and you just follow the tracks another mile or two. You ain't from around here are you?" Smiling smugly, rocking on his toes.
"Just passing through — thanks a bunch. I gotta get along now so I'll say good morning to you, young sir. Good luck on the game trail."
"Good luck, yourself, mister." All smiles to have had such a grown-up conversation with a fellow adventurer.
And before the boy could drum up any real questions of his own Russel Brand limped on by. The boy watched after him a moment or two then continued on his own way, none the wiser.
* * *
I wonder if you couldn't point out which way is the nearest town. Waverly, isn't it? Or is it Cranton? As if I don't know. That's the thing, letting the kid feel important and knowledgeable. Good kid. Big for his age. Naw. Cranton is way the other side of Waverly, he says. Cranton is a much larger town than Waverly. In Waverly everyone notices a strange face. Word has certainly spread to Waverly by now — Cranton too probably but Cranton is a much larger town. Much easier to slip in without being noticed. If I'm lucky. And with my leg the way it is. And I'm surely a sight to see. Wouldn't be so easy as to not have to be careful. Don't know that anyone would care in Cranton though — that's the thing, that's the difference — folk over in Cranton have problems of their own, don't they? Large town problems. Felons of their own to deal with. Last I was there was, when? Three or four years ago? And then only for a one day trip — not long enough to see the whole town, at that. Waverly though, I should avoid Waverly. Maybe cross the river before reaching the railroad tracks. Maybe well after the tracks.
I'd give anything to know where that search party went after the Portman house. Maybe they're still there — stayed the night in the barn and slept too late this morning maybe — but certainly they will find where I cut through that fallow cornfield if they haven't already. Might be getting close. They might even run into that boy — he'd give me away in a heartbeat, bless his heart. Doesn't know me from Adam. That crazy old fellow with a bad leg and the look of a filthy vagabond and cold blooded killer? Went that way. On his way to Waverly. Or maybe Cranton. Pointed him in that direction, my own self.
And they've had long enough to find themselves a good tracker by now haven't they? Even without a tracker it wouldn't surprise me if they are getting close. I should be careful not to leave a trail when I cut off for Cranton. Shouldn't make it easy for anyone following me.
And this is what I am become — some depraved and dirty and wet-to-the-bone fugitive, clawing for some fictitious freedom, some utopia where everyone would forget all knowledge of the past. Of past mistakes. Of discordant remarks. Where humanity wipes the slate clean and releases me from all wrongs and pardons me from all sins. For I have wronged. I have sinned. I have made my share of mistakes. But I am no murderer, no cold blooded killer. Ask him. Ask Jake Stern what happened there. He'll tell it straight just as it was. A tragedy to be sure but not murder. It was never that at all.
I could not do what some men do. I am not my father. I am nothing like my father was. I am not and could never be such a man.
* * *
The fog of the morning lingered into late morning as if refusing to be burned away. He stayed out of the river for a good mile or two, limping along uneasily, then succumbed to his fear of the search party catching up with him, easing his old body back into that fast moving current. And this morning was different, wasn't it? Something about mornings, about foggy mornings especially, that make a person want for nothing. It made him feel at ease, as though he could go all day without speaking to anyone, because words weren't needed — beside the fact that he was in no position to speak to anyone at present. It made him think hopeful thoughts again. Thoughts of early childhood. Thoughts of when his father returned even though that took time getting to know each other. Pleasant thoughts, hopeful thoughts — thoughts of the future, maybe a life somewhere that doesn't know Big Bad Russel Brand, by name or by deed. A quiet life in some distant land. He could change his name the way his father did — take his father's last name, perhaps. Russel Turner didn't sound so bad. This river ran south and he could go south. And south some more. He could travel on down south into Mexico and disappear the way people did. Couldn't stay in and around the river the whole way — he would try to make his way into Cranton first. Get some dry clothes, some food, a canteen, a horse, maybe a gun. All that was risky though — he would have to steal it all and people in Cranton were not as trusting as in Mission Creek or Waverly.
Along the way he found a length of driftwood he could cling to, making river travel a bit easier on him. He had time to think about the fact that he was dying out here. Not directly, not quickly, but dying nonetheless. Dying slowly. Dying of starvation and exposure and exhaustion. The bullet wound in his leg was well on its way to recovery but that was inconsequential compared to the slow sordid strangle hold of Mother Nature. Next to that, he thought, all of humanity was ultimately doomed. All of humanity lost.
Eventually the fog did burn away leaving nothing between Russel and the scorching sun — nothing but time and distance. And by the time the sun reached its apex in the pale sky he had reached that great black-iron landmark of the railroad bridge. Both river banks were steep there and shaded by the bridge and Brand managed to work himself out of the water, resting motionless for a good five minutes sitting upon a large rock. He breathed deeply from the climb out of the water. The lack of calories — a day's and a half worth of nothing to eat — gave Brand a nagging headache, making him light-headed and weak. But he dared not sleep — not yet.
He could hear a great colony of birds chattering among themselves in around the grasses and brambles and boulders strewn along the river beyond his position. Small colorful birds that Russel could not identify. The cheerful noises they made sounded to his ears like the sound of happiness and ultimately like the sound of freedom. And that moment was peaceful and pure and he felt the warmth of his own blood pumping throughout his body — starting at his chest and radiating outward — the sense of autonomy and the power of individual will. He felt more than anything far removed from the past — far removed from his old life. And as if this were some ceremony of letting go he summoned up an image of his father. He could hold a clear picture of his father's pistol in his mind. How many men that gun killed was anyone's guess but the notches carved into that walnut handle hinted at a graveyard full at least — too many to count.
He pulled out his pocket knife in that moment and also got hold of his walking stick and began digging into the thick end of it, carving there a groove, a deep notch in the wood. One single notch to match the one life Brand himself had extinguished — it was only one but it was significant. The wood was bright yellow and new where he carved. He took his time with it and he did not shed a tear. He was laying claim to the life he stole, accepting it — though the act itself was in self-defense [even if the masses didn't believe him]. That done he gathered his wits about him and summoned what little energy his body could muster and stood up on the large rock to inspect the sheer river bank above him.
He could see where large patches of the bank had eroded away through the years revealing a bright red clay underneath and growing from that clay was a series of white and yellow root tendrils hanging inquisitively down toward the river. He readied himself for the climb up, securing the blanket and the knife and the crutch — his only three possessions — in such a way as to keep his hands free for climbing. He slowly, carefully, began finding footholds in the dirt and clay of the cliff side, grabbing the largest roots in double handfuls and lifting himself higher then repeating the process. Slowly, slowly, climbing. Up and up and up. And as he learned how best to navigate the clay he began climbing faster with more confidence in the strength of the roots. Faster and faster still. Until.