Outcast

by Gary D. Svee

  Arch shrugged. The boy was so tired that the gesture seemed to be in slow motion.

  “We need to cultivate the soil before you plant it.”

  “Thought we already did that.”

  “No. We have to break up the clods.”

  Arch’s eyes dropped to his feet. “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s got teeth that go into the soil.”

  Arch nodded. “It’s behind the shed.”

  “How about I come over tomorrow morning, and we’ll cultivate the garden. Shouldn’t take long. Maybe we can plant it, too.”

  The two walked back to the corral. Standish unbuckled the belly strap from the harness, and slipped the bridle off Hortenzia’s head. Then he pulled the harness off the horse’s back, and draped it over a corral rail.

  “You don’t mind, I’ll leave this here.”

  Arch nodded.

  “Maybe, I could just leave Hortenzia here tonight, too. Just give her a bucket of oats.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “We ate ’em.”

  Standish sucked in his breath. “I’ll take her back, then. She deserves some oats. She worked hard today.

  Standish stared off at the setting sun and then turned back to Arch. “You having oats tonight for supper?”

  “Told you. We ate ’em.”

  “So, you’re having ’Nerva and noodles?”

  “Ate that for dinner.”

  “So what are you having?”

  “Maybe some bread.”

  “With huckleberry jam?”

  Arch shook his head. “That’s gone.” He looked up. “You want the bread; Ma will likely give it to you.”

  Standish dropped his chin to his chest, and ran the palm of one hand across his forehead. “No Arch I don’t want the bread.” Silence stretched, and then Standish nodded, apparently agreeing with his thoughts. “I was hoping you might do a favor for me.”

  Arch raised his eyes, the effort stretching his endurance to the limit.

  Standish reached up and stroked Hortenzia’s neck. “I was hoping that you would ride Hortenzia back with me, and give her some oats. Then if you don’t mind, I’ll cut some of that ham off for you.”

  A scowl crawled over Arch’s face. “Don’t want it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Standish said. “I don’t want it either.”

  Arch scuffed his shoe against the soft dirt. “You don’t want it?”

  “Only want a little of it. I’m tired of ham. Tell you the truth, I think I bought too much cheese, too.”

  “You don’t want the cheese?”

  “Sure I want some of it, but I’d like to trim off some of it.”

  “So you ain’t just giving it to us?”

  “No, Arch, I’d consider it a favor if you’d take some of it. I throw it out it’ll likely as not attract a bear or two. Don’t want any bears around the horses.” Standish rubbed his eyes. “Hoping you would consider it pay for feeding Hortenzia.”

  “What about Sally?”

  “Well Sally will need some oats, too.”

  Arch chewed on his lips.

  “Guess I could do that.” He scuffed his boots in the dirt. “How you feeling about that salmon?”

  “Tell you the truth; I’m kind of tired of it.”

  “Well, I guess I could take a can or two of that.” A scowl crossed Arch’s face. “Just as a favor.”

  “I’d sure like some fresh bread, too.”

  “S’pose Ma would trade you some bread for some flour.”

  “Sounds good to me. S’pose you can ride Hortenzia bareback to my place?”

  “We’re good friends. She’ll take care of me.”

  Standish nodded. He took the coil of rope from his saddle, and fashioned a halter on Hortenzia. He whistled then, for Sally, but she was apparently too far away to hear the call. Arch reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a silver cylinder. He blew on one end, and Sally jerked up her head. She trotted toward the two.

  “What’s that Arch?”

  Arch shook his head. “It’s a bugle.”

  “Arch!”

  “It’s a whistle. Shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.”

  “I didn’t hear it.”

  One eyebrow crawled up Arch’s forehead. “Sally did. That’s what counts, ain’t it?”

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Klaus gave it to me.”

  “He have any others?”

  Arch shrugged, and Standish scratched his cheek. A whistle like that might save his life sometime. If Bodmer rode up, he could slip into the woods and call Sally without their knowing. He’d have to take a good look at Arch’s whistle.

  CHAPTER 6

  Miles Standish pulled a lever, lifting the walk-behind harrow up on its wheels. He drove the apparatus out of the garden and stopped to admire his handy work. The soil was a soft, rich loam waiting to grow a winter’s worth of potatoes and corn and carrots and peas.

  The morning had disappeared into the garden, Standish lost in carving the soil into a soft bed for seeds. Arch didn’t have much to do. He had retreated to a rocking chair on the porch. The boy’s feet didn’t reach the ground so he swung them back and forth, propelling the chair in an easy rhythm. The picture painted Arch childlike. The thought wrinkled Standish’s forehead. The child had fled Arch. The shotgun propped on the porch by the boy confirmed that.

  Arch’s wariness stepped into Standish’s mind. Harrowing the garden was not without noise, a soft jingle of the harness and a slight squeak marking each revolution of a grease-short wheel. But whenever Standish stopped the horse, Arch jerked to attention as any prey animal would, as Standish did. How does an eight-year-old boy become prey?

  Why had Arch met him with a shotgun that first morning? What would he have done if a stranger had appeared? What would he have done with that shotgun then?

  Standish sighed and stretched. The sky was a soft blue with trespassing puffy, white clouds. The sun managed to be warm without being hot, bright enough to bring out the colors on the land, but not so strong to wash them out. A day like this would set a poet’s soul on fire.

  Standish pulled his watch from his pocket, the cover glinting gold as he opened it. Nearly noon. He had spent seven hours in the garden, and his stomach was beginning to protest. Maybe hunger fed Arch’s fear. Maybe if one were hungry enough.… Standish shook the thought from his mind. He knew what it was to have nothing in his belly but an ache, to feel it grow until only that pain was real. But hunger hadn’t stood Standish’s nerves on edge. Bodmer and his lynch mob had done that.

  The cabin door scratched open. Arch’s mother stood in the shadows, talking to her son. Arch shook his head but then nodded. He had lost the argument. He stood and walked toward Standish, stopping to thrust his hands in his pockets.

  “S’pose you want dinner.”

  “That a question or an invitation?”

  “Ma says I should ask you to come to dinner”

  “What do you think about that?”

  “Seems like a waste of food to me”

  “I s’pose.”

  “Better come anyhow”

  “Why?”

  “Ma says”

  Standish nodded. “We’d better put the harrow away and get Hortenzia taken care of”

  “Ma says it’s time to eat”

  “You want to leave Hortenzia standing in the sun?”

  Arch sighed as he looked up at Standish. “Nope.”

  “How about I put the harrow away. You pump a bucket of water for her”

  “Don’t see why I should?”

  Standish bristled. “Don’t see why you should give her water, or you don’t know why you should have to pump it?”

  “Yup” Arch said.

  “Yup to which?” Standish asked. “You don’t give a damn about the horse, or you’re too lazy to pump water?”

  “Neither”

  “Has to be one or the other, Arch”

  “Don
’t see why. Don’t see why we should pump water when she can drink out of that spring same as Sally and the cows do”

  Standish shut his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Didn’t ask me”

  Standish slapped his hat against one pant leg, a puff of dust marking the impact. “How about I take the harrow back where it was and unharness Hortenzia and wash up at the pump and join you an your mother for dinner?”

  “Suits me” Arch twisted his neck to look up at Standish. “You ain’t going to eat it all, are you?”

  “No, Arch, I won’t eat it all”

  Arch nodded. Fair enough.

  Standish stood back from the pump, drying his hands on his pants and wiping his face as well as he could with his shirt sleeves. Dinner had been strained yesterday. Arch stood guard, the shotgun leaning on the wall behind him, and his mother appearing only occasionally as a serving wraith. Yesterday, Arch had let slip how precious food was to the Belshaws. Standish couldn’t tolerate that, so he had sent food to them, but to eat with them would be depriving them of that food. Still, refusing dinner would be a slap in the face for Mrs. Belshaw. Standish couldn’t tolerate hurting the woman more than she had already been hurt.

  Standish sighed and walked toward the house. He would play this by ear, the way he always did. He knocked, and Arch let him in. The table was set, three plates shining from its surface. That was a good sign. At least Mrs. Belshaw wouldn’t be hiding in the kitchen. Might be they would talk. Might be he could probe the mystery surrounding these two.

  “Sit” Arch said.

  “Where do you want me to sit, Arch, on the floor?”

  “If that’s what you want”

  “So you want me to sit wherever I want to?”

  “Nope”

  “So where do you want me to sit?”

  Arch sighed. Standish had to be led around by the hand. “Maybe you could sit in the same place you sat yesterday”

  “Maybe I could”

  Standish sat down, just as Mrs. Belshaw stepped from the kitchen. He rose, startling Mrs. Belshaw. She staggered back a few steps, almost losing the platter she was carrying. Arch had the shotgun in his hands, his thumb on a hammer.

  Tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to hinder breathing. Standish’s words tiptoed into the room as softly as a mother checking on her sleeping child. “Sorry, I startled you ma’am, but where I come from, a man stands when a lady enters the room”

  Standish had meant to ease the situation, but he only made it worse. Tears spewed from Mrs. Belshaw’s eyes as water from a broken dam. Sobs shuddered through her body. She seemed on the verge of spilling the food but the need for nourishment was greater than the pain she felt. She set the plates on the table and fled into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

  Arch’s face twisted into a knot. He dropped the shotgun on the table with a force that would have unleashed its blast if the hammer had been pulled back to full cock. He ran into the kitchen after his mother.

  Standish sighed. Some of the ham and potatoes had slipped from the dishes to the table. The scent and sight of them would usually trigger an acute hunger in Standish, but now he couldn’t eat. He didn’t know what he could do. These two were more fragile than the eggs they harvested. A simple courtesy had cracked their shells.

  Standish knew the pain of isolation, of knowing that any person he met might be the agent of his death, but that was nothing compared to these two. He stepped back from the table and left the room, careful where he placed each foot. Perhaps the room was as fragile as its occupants. Any noise, and it might fall apart.

  Maybe they knew! Maybe somebody had told them.… No, they were too isolated. Still, if they knew, Standish was in great danger, and.… He drove the thought from his mind.

  The day was bright with the spring sun, welcoming him with open arms, but Standish stepped into it hesitantly, as though it might fracture, sending shards of green and yellow and blue and browns into the depths of the Earth.

  Standish’s eyes skipped across the yard. He had to do something. He couldn’t tolerate being alone with his thoughts. The garden. The soft, tilled soil pulled his attention toward it. He had seen the bucket of corn in the Belshaw’s barn that morning. He could plant corn. He could do that.

  Standish walked to the barn, head down, thoughts swirling. The bucket was where he had seen it, standing against the barn door. Sweet corn, it would be and enough of it for corn-on-the-cob feasts and jars of canned corn for the winter. He picked up the bucket and walked to the corral, going through the saddlebags he had left hanging on the top rail. He had a ball of string in the bags. He knew he had a ball of string. Yes, there it was.

  Standish walked to the north side of the garden. Plant corn there so it wouldn’t shade the other plants. He didn’t know what other seeds the Belshaw’s had, but he could plant the corn. He could do that.

  The garden lay north and south with a slight incline to the west. Standish had done a good job. The soil looked soft enough to sleep on, rich enough to produce a fine garden. Still it evoked nothing in him strong enough to overcome the sense of hopelessness he felt. Somehow, he had hurt Arch’s mother. He looked at the garden and saw nothing but the pain in her face.

  Standish sighed. He had best get to work, work being a remedy for most ills. He shook the bucket of corn. It is difficult to gauge the number of corn kernels in a bucket, harder still to determine how much space they would occupy in the garden. Well, the best place to start is at the beginning. He had corn and string. What else did he need…stakes.

  Standish’s eyes drifted around the yard. The slim remains of winter wood lay scattered on the south side of the house near the splitting stump. Standish left the corn and string on the north side of the garden and walked to the stump. The axe was rusted, the edge long gone. Arch shouldn’t have left the axe outside. Standish shook his head. He had to stop thinking of Arch as an 80-year-old man. He was just a boy, not versed yet in the tools for survival. Still, he kept that shotgun gleaming under a coat of oil. Workers took care of the tools they needed most.

  Not much to choose from in the wood pile, but there were still a few pieces of straight-grained wood. Standish picked up one piece of Lodge Pole Pine and clubbed it into suitable garden stakes. Arch and his mother could use the wood for kindling after the planting was done.

  Stakes, string and seed. He could leapfrog the stakes across the garden, starting at the north side moving south, each line being a guide for the next. He would put the first row, he thought, on the edge of the tilled soil. He knelt in the grass, poking holes into the earth with his fingers and dropping two seeds in. How far apart? What was it that his father had told him. A smile crept on Standish’s face. “A span and a width of your hand” his father had said. “When you grow up, a span of your hand will do” Standish spread his fingers, and put two more seeds in. He moved down the row like that, enjoying the coolness of the soil on his fingers, the warmth of the sun on his back. He halted, picking up a rock to mark the end of the first row. He walked back to the beginning, brushing the dust from his hands as he went. The rows should be the length of my feet apart, his father had said.

  Standish scratched his cheek. He couldn’t remember his father’s feet…except the shoes. He always wore black lace-up shoes, whether to church on Sundays or kneeling over the garden. Weddings or baptisms or Easter or Christmas would pull a blue serge suit with a white shirt and a dark tie from the closet. But the foundation for any ensemble was black lace-up shoes. That’s what he was wearing when he fell to the earth that day in the garden, and that was what he was wearing when they buried him.

  Standish tapped one of the stakes into the ground, and tied one end of the string around it. He took a stake and walked to the other end of the garden, string trailing behind him as the walked. He pounded the stake in with a handy rock and tied the string to it. He broke the string then and returned. He could kneel on the grass at the edge of the garden, plant this second
row without stepping on the soil, leaving it tilled and smooth.

  Standish’s thoughts fluttered back to his father, a great aficionado of poetry. He had stood that day in the garden and recited a verse from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Sometimes Standish thought that was what set his own compass west, away from the comfort of his childhood family and home. Sometimes he thought he was searching for the wilderness that was “paradise enow” He had found wilderness, he thought. Paradise was another matter.

  Standish knelt, putting two kernels of corn into the soil under the string. He measured another hand span and planted two more seeds. He fell into a routine: a hand span and two seeds his thoughts lost in the rhythm, the silence and the spring sun. Occasionally a scent would tease his nose, and he would wonder what flower had blessed the air. He stopped only occasionally, once when a butterfly fluttered by, winking yellow and black at him, and another time when he heard the call of a bird he hadn’t heard before. The garden had become his own Eden, shedding him of his constant vigilance.

  The rustle of grass, pulled him from his reverie. Arch and his mother were only a few steps away. One was carrying a hoe and the other a shovel. Standish jerked back. They meant to kill him! They must know. They must know who he was. Standish scrabbled backward, spilling the bucket of corn.

  Mrs. Belshaw laid the shovel on the ground, leaning over to pull the bucket upright and began refilling it with spilled kernels. Arch leaned back on one hip. One eyebrow crawled up his forehead, and he shook his head. “Long as you’re down there, maybe you can seed. Ma can make the trench, and I’ll cover the seeds.”

  Standish blushed. He could feel the heat spreading across his face. He wanted to say something not suitable for the company of a lady, but he gritted his teeth and nodded. They started down the row, Mrs. Belshaw cutting a furrow with the hoe, Standish seeding and Arch following, covering the seeds with the fine loamy soil. They worked silently, finding a rhythm in their labor. The corn rows marched out across the garden.

  Next came the pumpkins, another fall crop with their promise of spicy pies. The planting was marked by the briefest of comments.

  “Keep them along the edges so the vines trail off the garden.”