by Tim Westover
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John crossed the field, the railroad tracks and went into the piney woods. One minute, he didn’t see nothing but pine trees, and in the next, the black sheep stood between those trees, close enough that it wouldn’t be no problem for John to pick him off. That’s not what he come here to do.
John sat his gun on the ground. He’d never been big on words, so it took a bit to figure out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know what kind of powers you got, but I do know I done shot you twice and you ain’t dead. If you can help my family, I’d be mighty grateful.”
They wasn’t the prettiest words, but they was the best he had. The sheep stood there, fixated on him, then disappeared. This time, John knew he wasn’t addle-brained. That sheep had naturally disappeared. Since John had done what T-Momma tole him, he thought food would appear just like that sheep had disappeared. He waited and waited, but nothing happened.
John left the piney woods and headed home, praying he’d get there fore his chillun drew their last breath. He just come up on the railroad tracks when he saw it. Scattered on either side of the tracks, where the trains couldn’t get to it, were crates of food. Canned soup and vegetables. Sacks of flour and sugar. Some folks might say that they fell off the train, but John knew that somehow Railroad Bill had throwed them off.
“Thank you, Mr. Railroad Bill,” he said and then hurried home to feed his family.
Passage
Daniel Powell
The man and his son lived deep in the hill country of the Chattahoochee National Forest. The boy was tall and thin and corded through with muscle; newly sixteen, he stood on the cusp of manhood.
“I just don’t understand, Dad,” Nathaniel said. “Why do I have to go tonight?”
“It’s the way it’s always been, Nate,” the man grunted, averting his eyes from his son’s direct gaze. The man’s name was Caleb. He had thick forearms and broad shoulders, bushy black hair going to grey, and clear brown eyes. “Always happens on the first full moon in the summer of the sixteenth year. Someday, when you have a son of your own, maybe you’ll understand.”
“Would you at least tell me a little more about him?”
The man sighed. “His name’s Aldous—Aldous McGrane. He’s a mountain man—one of the original hilltoppers in this part of the country. He’s . . . well, he’s been on the mountain a long damned time.”
“How long?”
The man shrugged. “Can’t say for sure. He used to have a brother, but there was a falling out. Something about a woman.”
“And why do I have to meet him?”
Caleb put his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and stared at his son. His expression softened. “Because I want what’s best for you, boy. Let me ask you a question: Is this a good life for you? I mean, is it what you want—scratching by and making do up here in the hills?”
The boy pondered the question. His eyes darted around the cabin. It was a simple, comfortable home. One large room up front, two smaller rooms in the back. On the other side of the screened windows, insects fluttered in the gathering twilight.
“I love it, Dad. I don’t think I’d ever want to live down in Dalton.”
The man nodded. “Well then, consider this your initiation, son. Aldous McGrane just wants a few words with you. I’ve heard he’s near death, but I don’t believe it. I reckon he’s crisp as a December morning. He knows you work the pine stands with your old man—he’ll be interested in chatting with you.”
“And it has to be tonight?”
The man nodded. “Tonight.”
“An initiation?”
“An initiation, son. Kind of like a test.”
“How do I find his place?”
The man smiled; it was an odd expression. The boy caught, in that fraction of a moment, a glimpse of his father that was foreign to him. There was cunning there, and it frightened him.
“Take the Pinhoti Trail clear around the long wall. Head north until you pass through that big ol’ marshy slough. You know the one I mean?”
The boy nodded. He’d spent many afternoons catching frogs and snakes there.
“Good. Keep your eyes open, son. It’s a slim little trail—cut just so into the brush. You’ll find it just ahead of that big blueberry patch. Follow that trail about a mile, and you’ll find his place.” The man gazed out the kitchen window. The sun still shone—a great ball of shimmering orange on the western horizon—but it was sinking quickly into a pink abyss. “You ought to get a move on.”
“What’ll I need? I mean, beyond a lantern—”
“No lantern,” the man interrupted. “The moon’ll be plenty bright.” He stood and went to the mantle. With a small silver key he kept on a string around his neck, he unlocked a worn chest and rummaged inside until he found it. “Here—you’ll need this.”
He went to his son and unclenched his fist. There, in the palm of his calloused hand, was a shiny silver ring.
“McGrane might ask for something—a sort of . . . a gift, I suppose. Don’t offer anything until he does. If he asks,” the man paused, staring into his son’s eyes, “then you can give him this.” As the words left his lips, he looked away. For the second time that night, the boy saw something in his father that startled him. This time, he saw shame.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll give it to him.”
The words seemed to sting the man; he darted forward and pulled his son into a close embrace. “You’re very bright, Nate. You have your mother’s wits, God rest her soul. I know you’ll do just fine tonight. I expect to see you back here before morning.”
The boy nodded. “I better . . . I guess I better go.” He extricated himself from his father’s embrace, slipped the ring into his pocket, and stood from the table. “Be back in a little while, Dad.”
The man watched his son, his eyes hooded, and merely nodded in reply.
