Lawless Lands: Tales from the Weird Frontier

by Emily Lavin Leverett

  I mounted the wagon and gave the reins a shake. There was another village out there somewhere waiting for us.

  There was always another village waiting for us.

  15

  Belly Speaker

  Nicole Givens Kurtz

  There are moments when the growth of one’s person shifts from being centered around the outside forces to those internal. Honeysuckle Wynn knew this with all the thriving beat of her heart.

  The sharp New Mexican wind lodged grit in the corners of her mouth. She wiped her lips with the back of her sleeve and spat onto the dirt. Morning broke the horizon. She squinted against the shimmering light. All around, the desert landscape changed like so many towns before with tall poles and colorful canopies, exotic wildlife, and strange odors. Tucked into the crook of Honey’s arm, Momma Wynn watched with unblinking eyes as the rainbow of tents sprouted up against the flushed sky. Early morning laborers’ grunts and shouts broke the new day’s quiet. Fires snapped and crackled from makeshift pits. Smoke wafted across the field, snaking across the grounds, seeking freedom.

  “Honey! Git over ‘ere and lend a hand. Ya know Anna’s wit child!” Carnival owner, Bob Mathers, gestured his meaty and chapped hands toward Anna, swollen and pink, who rubbed the small of her back.

  “I’m practicing.” Honeysuckle adjusted Momma Wynn against her knee, and then gestured with her head to the doll.

  “Practicing what? How hard is it to make that stupid log of wood talk? Git over ‘ere,” Bob barked.

  Don’tcha go over to ‘em. Bloated pale pig. Momma Wynn’s hoarse voice held hints of anger.

  “You say somethin’?” Bob crossed his arms across his round belly and glared. “Eh?”

  “Nothing!” Honeysuckle squinted at Momma Wynn and met her glass glare. In a whisper, she added, “Shush you. He the boss. We the workers.”

  You the slave and he the massa.

  “We ain’t slave no more. Thank ya, Mr. Lincoln, God rest his soul. We found freedom doin’ this work. Now come on. No rockin’ the boat.” Honeysuckle sighed and sat Momma Wynn down beside her chair before heading over to the carnival owner.

  People crawled around—some she knew, some she didn’t. Honeysuckle found comfort in strangers. Her dark robe brushed the tops of her boots as she walked. They fell in a shush across the desert floor but shot little dusty clouds in her wake.

  Even once she reached Big Bob, she could hear Momma Wynn whispering in her mind. Don listen to ‘em. Don’t listen to ‘em. Devils! Demons!

  “You walk so slow, lazy ass.” Bob grunted and started toward the big tent. “Hercules could use some help with the cages.”

  Honeysuckle let it go, as her people had practiced doing for decades, letting the rancid bark of those supposedly superior flow from their scarred and marred backs. Holding her head high, she reached Hercules.

  “Big man.”

  “Witch.” He rumbled in greeting as he stood tall against the rising sun. Already drenched with sweat, he pushed a punishing hand through his shoulder-length hair. A mountain of a man, Hercules hadn’t been his real name. After the war, everyone became someone else, even the nobodies. Carnival work gave them labels, allowed them to become strong men, funny men, belly speakers.

  “I told you not to call me that.” Honeysuckle reached down for the sledgehammer. “My momma was killed by witchcraft.”

  “Ah.” Hercules had a sheen of anxious sweat dripping down his forehead. A hulking dark figure, he reached out for the sledgehammer. Callused rough hands waved her toward him. “Gimme, witch.”

  He smirked outright, fleshing out a dimple. If he hadn’t been so cruel, he might’ve been handsome.

  A cold chill filtered up from her belly, gushing like a geyser inside her.

  Thack!

  She swung the heavy sledgehammer with ease, as if she had an extra set of hands. Honeysuckle watched the scarlet wound blossom across Hercules’ upper chest, at the base of his throat, where the hammer’s chipped edge snared his tanned flesh. The red stain inked its way through his thick fingers, clawing at his throat, dark eyes bulging as he fought to breathe.

  Round, unblinking eyes took it all in.

  “You don’t hear too good. Do ya?” The sledgehammer smacked the dirt as it slid from Honeysuckle’s grasp.

  The icy burn began to recede, and as it did, she came back to herself. Her limbs tingled with pinpricks as if she’d been out in the cold too long. At once, Bob’s shouting and Hercules’ wheezing screams rent the dry air, and the thundering of running feet joined.

  “What the hell you doin?” Bob shoved Honeysuckle aside. “Here! Here! Anna, get the doc!”

  Honeysuckle’s belly balled into a knot of gnawing fear. What happened?

  She stumbled forward, tripping over the hammer’s handle but catching herself before she hit the ground.

  Bob snatched himself around to her, red-faced and spitting, fat bushy eyebrows crouched down in fury over angry, beady eyes. “You ain’t right in the head. Git outta my sight! Where the hell is Doc? Herc’s turnin’ blue!”

  Honeysuckle pushed through the thin crowd and marched back to her trailer, scooped up Momma Wynn, and retreated to its comforts. Inside, the oily smell of kerosene overpowered the scents of old tomes and the passage of time. The lantern’s soft glow cast shadows into heavy curtains and worn, leather-bound books. She plopped down on the edge of her bed and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the floor beside. As she fingered the capped mouth, the amber liquid sloshed about half empty.

  Just like Honeysuckle.

  “What happened?” Honeysuckle whirled around to Momma Wynn sitting on the loveseat.

  The miniature doll with its hand-painted clothing, shoes, and facial features shook and then began to grow. The wood rings pulsated in hypnotic fashion. Her soulless eyes widened, as did she—long wooden legs stretched out until the four-toed feet touched the throw rug. Lanky, thin, branch-like arms creaked as she reached out with four-fingered hands. The oblong head swelled till it reached the ceiling. Leafy branches sprouted around her head to create a verdant afro.

  Her lipless mouth opened, and Momma Wynn spoke. “Nothin’.”

  “Nothin’! He could die! If Hercules dies, Imma be headed for the noose, and you to the fire.”

  “Squashin’ a bug. Riddin’ the area of pests. Nothin’ more.” The gravelly voice clashed with Momma Wynn’s faux cheery face. Somehow it made her words more sinister.

  Honeysuckle swallowed to ease her dry throat before trying again.

  “There’s a big difference between bugs and people.”

  Momma Wynn’s shimmering laughter shook her leaves, making them rustle in the small space, forcing the shadows to flicker. It raised gooseflesh along Honeysuckle’s arms and tightened the knot in her belly.

  Ever since she could remember, she’d had Momma Wynn. The wooden doll had spoken to her when she’d been old enough to fetch water from the well back in Tennessee, but never had she been in such a predicament as this. With mounting fear, Honeysuckle gaped at Momma Wynn, reclining on the loveseat unabashed. The grinning mouth, stretched to accommodate the now larger face, mocked Honeysuckle’s fury. At the moment, all Honeysuckle could do was wait.

  “Momma, we can’t just attack a white man, even all the way out here! There’s gonna be hell to pay, even if Hercules don’t die.”

  “Ain’t nobody gonna call me outta my name. Not no more.”

  “He didn’t. He was talkin’ to me...”

  “Same as talkin’ to me.”

  “But, Momma...”

  “Hush now, chile.”

  A series of shouts and the sounds of laborers outside jolted Honeysuckle awake. Through bleary eyes and a pounding headache, she looked over to Momma Wynn. Though still seated on the loveseat, the doll’s feet were now suspended high above the throw rug. Honeysuckle closed her eyes and breathed through the thundering at her temples. How’d she read the stars so wrong? Joining up with Bob’s Traveling Circus had given her a place to s
tay, a way to see the country, and money, her own freedom. She peered over at Momma Wynn. Had she really achieved that freedom? Yeah, from bondage and servitude, sure. Although never alone, she was alone all the time. Momma Wynn didn’t like people, especially those being friendly with Honeysuckle. The doll had helped her ice over the grief of her momma’s death and helped her talents as a belly speaker grow. But, the doll had also crept up inside of her and tore a hole that she couldn’t fix.

  “My head just feels in pain. I hate this.”

  “No, you don’t. You just ain’t use to what you like.” Momma Wynn snickered.

  “I know this is wrong!” Honeysuckle climbed to her feet, using the bed as leverage. Held down by her side, her fist shook as she stepped closer to the smirking dummy. The big painted-on smile and those wide, unblinking eyes stared straight ahead. It infuriated Honeysuckle.

  “It’s better to feel pain than nothin’ at all.”

  Honeysuckle pulled back her hand from where she’d reached for Momma Wynn. The doll laughed. Despite the mirth, it held warning.

  “How would you know? You don’t feel anything! Just a stupid dummy.” Honeysuckle crossed her arms in a huff. Momma Wynn had a way of reducing her from her twenty-five years to twelve.

  “Your bones gonna be dust, forgotten and absorbed into the black earth, soon enough, so take pleasure in sufferin’! That’s all there is anyway.”

  “Just cause my skin is dark don’ mean Imma just lay down and die. Yeah, we suffer, Momma, but we live too. We fight hard, but we rise up and live. Imma keep on livin’.”

  Honeysuckle sighed as the cool springs rose from her belly, filtering through her body, like rushing waters. She’d pushed too far.

  “Momma...” She hated how it sounded so much like a whine. “Somehow, you make me feel like I can’t live without you, and I’m big enough now to get on.”

  “Out here folks live by the loaded gun. Only one gonna defend ya and keep ya safe, baby girl. Me.”

  A shudder rocketed through Honeysuckle. Momma Wynn’s words rattled around inside her, down into her empty belly where all manner of darkness swirled, or so she imagined. Thanks to Momma Wynn, she could never trust her own eyes, for the magic altered how she saw things. Honeysuckle did know there was something beyond this.

  I can get away from her, but...

  Banging interrupted her thoughts.

  “Honey! Open this blasted door ‘fore I tear it off!” Bob’s knocking shook the trailer.

  “Comin’! I’m comin’.” She dropped the empty whiskey bottle, and it clattered to the floor.

  With her head full of regret, Honeysuckle went to the door and peered through the thin curtain. Sure enough, Bob’s balding and sunburned head turned to face her.

  “Open the door!”

  With a sigh, she unlocked the door and retreated farther inside. If the mob wanted her, they’d have to come in and get her. She wasn’t gonna make it easy for them. The trailer sagged under Bob’s weight. He squeezed into the tiny room, filling it with the odor of sweat and filth. He got almost to the loveseat before he quit trying to get closer.

  Honeysuckle climbed to the rear of her bed where a small window rested at her back. Crouched on her heels, she held Momma Wynn in one hand. The roaring in her ears grew louder, and Momma Wynn’s whispered chuckle served as an unsettling undercurrent. The air hung heavy with tension.

  “What you want?” Honeysuckle clutched the doll tighter, and her skin grew colder.

  “Now, Honey, ain’t nothin’ to be frightened ‘bout.” He shot her a greasy smile. “Old Herc’s gonna live. May not talk again, but he’ll live.”

  Honeysuckle held her breath and waited for the rest. Experience had taught her that white men always repaid back in kind what they perceived as defiance. The pull of the icy blackness welled up from her belly and pressed against her lips. She kept her mouth closed, but the pressure continued to build.

  Bob’s beady eyes shifted down to the doll and then back to Honeysuckle. “You, uh, use magic for that thing, huh? To make it talk?”

  Honeysuckle shook from the freezing cold that exploded inside of her. The corners of her trailer went white. Frost crawled up the windows behind her, and her breath escaped in puffs. The kerosene lanterns flickered in warning. Then suddenly laughter spilled out of her. Chills skated along her flesh in concert with the stream of maniacal mirth. Across from her, Bob scowled in confusion, at first, and then took a pained step backward, clearly unnerved.

  “Where you goin’?”

  The voice’s coarseness shocked Bob, and he glanced down to Momma Wynn.

  “You heard me. Why the rush to run?”

  His head snapped up to Honeysuckle. “Shut that dummy up ‘fore it git you hurt.”

  Honeysuckle swallowed but held her lips shut. Truth was, she couldn’t open them if she tried.

  “Just, uh, keep yourself to yourself. Ya hear me?” With that, Bob squeezed out of the wagon so fast he snared his sleeve on the door’s latch. He cursed and banged around the door’s frame before disappearing into the blushing morn.

  But the tone of his voice had held warning.

  “That’s it?” Honeysuckle blinked in disbelief.

  He didn’t answer.

  She already had her answer. That wasn’t the end. No way they would just leave her unscathed after she attacked Hercules. Her reckoning had only been postponed. The West stayed wild despite all the attempts to tame it, claim it, and abuse it. A fierce rejection of conformity. This wide expanse of nothing held a kinship with Momma Wynn—barren and unyielding. Perhaps that’s why Momma Wynn was so strong out here.

  “Imma go out. Get food. I’m starvin’.” Honeysuckle picked up her rifle and took a breath.

  She glanced over to the doll and awaited the rebuke.

  Silence.

  Honeysuckle headed out into the yucca-scented air of a new day.

  In the arid, high desert, few animals stirred this early. Honeysuckle pointed her rifle at the dawn and marched across the open space in search of food. Soon she happened upon a group of rodent-like animals, peeking out of a mound. It seemed some stood as sentries watching out for bigger predators, like her. She crouched down slowly and remained still. Bob called them prairie dogs and told her to keep it to herself. Although the idea of eating dog turned her stomach, Bob had assured her that they tasted gamy and weren’t real dog. Now, she just had to get one because her hunger was so real even the yucca looked tasty. It’d make a solid morning meal. From this distance, the camp’s din punctured the quiet. The aroma of roast meat wafting from their campgrounds made her belly growl and her mouth water.

  The wind whipped about something fierce, driving some of the prairie dogs back into their mound. They weren’t the only ones on the prowl. Once the wind died, the heavy shuffle of feet snared her attention. Honeysuckle rose from the sparse brush, rifle in hand.

  “Who’s there?”

  The wind roared again, stealing some of her words, but not her rising alarm. The hunter turned prey. A way of life for women in the West and in these lawless times.

  A few feet away, Bob and a cluster of dusty men stopped. The two on horseback wore cowboy hats and apathetic glares. Bob and Hercules stood, horseless. The animals whinnied in greeting. They must’ve followed her, tracked her like an animal through the brush. Hercules carried a thick rope in one hand, and an angry scowl marred his face. The deep purple bruise across his neck spoke louder than any words he could say. That shut him up. The others wore gun belts slung low on their waists.

  A lynch mob.

  She warned Momma Wynn this would happen. Reckoning would come, and as always with men, so would violence.

  “Go easy, Honey.” Bob gestured with his fat left hand for her to lower her weapon.

  “Mornin’ again, Bob. Gentlemen.” Honeysuckle sweetened her words but kept her rifle raised. The familiar feeling in her belly stirred.

  “You know why I’m here.” Bob nodded at Hercules. “We gotta make this ri
ght.”

  The others grunted in agreement.

  “You sayin’ my apology ain’t enough?” Honeysuckle shuddered as the iciness flowed throughout her person. The wind picked up, again, but she held her weapon firm. Her fingers ached.

  “Now, Honey, you attacked, hell, damn near killed ‘em.” Bob jerked a thumb at Hercules. “Aint’ no savage gonna get at my crew. We can’t have that kind of doin’ ‘round ‘ere. We civilized folk.”

  “Ask the Indian ‘bout that,” Honeysuckle whispered.

  “What? Speak up!” Bob moved closer, but still out of striking distance. “Quit ya mumbling.”

  Honeysuckle trained the gun on him. “No closer or she bangs.”

  The men on horseback drew their guns. At this, she finally took them in. Two shiny stars had been pinned to their shirts—a sheriff and a deputy.

  Four men.

  Three guns.

  Two horses.

  One Honeysuckle.

  As the rising panic pressed against her throat, she squeezed her fingers tighter around the rifle, but she couldn’t make them stop trembling.

  Ain’t no man gonna hurt my baby.

  “Momma...”

  The ache eased from her fingers, and a cool calm settled over her. She sighed as the internal whispers offered assurance and comfort. Nothing to fear. Momma promised she’d protect her. A low drone, a hum of laughter, rippled up from her belly.

  “Now, dontcha go beggin’ for ya ma. You hurt Herc. The sheriff here says that’s a hangin’ offense.” Bob adjusted his pants and gun belt.

  Behind him, on the gray horse, the thin sheriff tipped his hat and spat at wad of tobacco. Thin rivulets of tobacco streamed down his chin into his beard. His pistol remained in his hand, ready to render judgment.

  “You ain’t got no arrest papers, no jury or trial. This is still America.” Honeysuckle swallowed. “And I have rights now. Not as many as you, but I got ‘em.”