Kansas, She Says, Is the Name of the Star
Rodrigo Garcia Y Robertson
Kansas, She Says, Is the Name of the Star
by R. Garcia y Robertson
Scarecrow
Amy stared out her bedroom window as the summer sun settled into the flat cornfields, spreading gold fire over the green sea of leaves. Her red hair caught the slanting light, giving her a fiery orange halo. Alert brown eyes searched for the first evening star. Amy ached to make a wish. Tonight she was twelve for the last time. Tomorrow was her birthday, and tomorrow evening would be her wedding night. Leaning farther out the second floor window, straining to see a star, Amy rehearsed her wish. She wanted to be eleven again, or even ten, with her wedding day years away. Amy was not in the least ready for marriage. Especially to some stranger three times her age—if she was lucky. What a ghastly thought. She would much rather shovel manure with a spoon.
But no one gave her that choice. Fat chance. Everyone acted like marrying some strange man was totally natural. No one saw it her way, not Mom, not Lilith, not Delilah, or Dot. Tuck and Nathan were boys, and naturally no help. And Dad had two teenage brides himself—one of them from Amy’s grade. So she appealed to the evening star, since no one else would listen.
There it was, a glowing speck, low in the north, just over the shoulder of the scarecrow at the edge of the cornfield. A real star for sure, too far from the sun to be Venus. From the house, the fence line ran due north, and the star was right where Polaris would be, but lower, and brighter. She made her wish at once, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, save me from wedded blight. I wish I may, I wish I might, be nine again tonight.”
As if in answer, the star shone brighter, becoming plainly visible, instead of just a speck. Astounding, since there was no star that bright to the north. That had to mean her wish was granted, that somehow she would be set free.
Then the star fell from the sky. Trailing fire, but still blazing brightly, her star went straight down, disappearing below the northern horizon.
What in heaven (or out of it) was that? Nothing that she ever saw before, that’s for sure. Maybe she was fated to wed.
Not having the heart to search out a second star, Amy lay back down on the bed, though it was not yet dark. Tonight was her last night alone, in her own bed, in her own home, so she might as well make the best of it.
Breakfast came all too soon, and Amy was last to the table, where she was greeted by a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday,” followed by a party, complete with cake and presents. Clothes from her mom and step-moms. Dot gave her a flower, and the boys had whittled her a whistle. Dad gave her his best leather traveling bag.
Amy did her best to be sociable, sitting down and thanking everyone for the presents, though she had small appetite for cake. Mother suggested that she try to enjoy herself, saying, “We won’t be together again for a long while.”
No lie. Amy replied, “I do not want to be thirteen.”
That was a mere statement of fact, but Mom took it as childish rebellion. “We cannot help growing up. I am much older than I would like to be.”
Only blonde Lilith tried to comfort her, smiling hopefully and pressing her bare foot against Amy’s under the table. Being youngest wife, Lilith could do little else. They were friends, and in the same grade because Lilith had been held back, twice. Nothing says family like doing your step-mom’s homework.
“You are at the age of consent,” Mother reminded her, as if Amy could have possibly forgotten. Dad added practically, “If we do not take you to Concordia to register, then the Bushwhackers will.” At least with Bushwhackers she had half a chance. Being older than all three of his wives combined, Dad took the long view, letting his women handle family issues. Yet he was always attentive and affectionate, being very fond of young girls, treating Amy a lot like a favorite grandchild. And he never laid a hand on her, preferring to correct with a belt.
“What is the use of consenting, if I do not want to?” Amy asked stubbornly.
“Consent just means it is up to you,” her father intoned. Mother added, “No one is making you marry.”
Delilah smiled wickedly across the table. “There is always the maiden’s academy.”
“Right.” From all that Amy had heard, the Concordia Academy for Reluctant Virgins made marriage seem a blessing. Delilah had married Dad at thirteen, and thought this was fussing over nothing. With a young daughter, and Lilith as a live-in babysitter, Delilah enjoyed herself immensely. Last night had been her night, and Delilah once told her step-daughter, “He looks old, but your Dad’s real active with the light out.”
Just what every daughter wants to hear. Amy sat in glum silence, wishing a tornado would tear the whole house away.
“Maybe no one will want you,” Tuck suggested. “I wouldn’t.” Nathan agreed, “Me neither.”
Small chance of that. Some girls were sent home, but not many. Lilith failed both fifth and sixth grade, but had no trouble getting married. Amy knew just by looking in the water pail that someone would want her, young as she was, and without her having to show a lick of sense, or even say a thing. When her party was over, Amy stalked upstairs to pack.
Delilah’s daughter Dot toddled after her, asking, “Are yew goin’, Aunti Em?” Dot could not say Amy, always calling her Aunti Em. It was too hard to explain to a toddler that she was not her aunt, but her half-sister. All she said was, “Yeah, Aunti Em is going.”
“Me miss yew.” Dot plainly meant it.
“Me too.” She would miss not just Dot and the family, but her whole life, which would very soon cease to be her own.
Glancing out the window, she saw the road stretching north past the cornfield, past the scarecrow, disappearing into the morning haze. She heard the boys bringing out the horses to hitch to the wagon. Concordia was a long ride off, and they would need to start before noon. Dot clung to her, saying, “No want you go!”
Squatting down, Amy got on a level with her half-sister, saying, “I will miss you very much.” For one wild moment, she thought she should take Dot with her, though she had no idea where she was going. But wherever it was it had to be better than here. And Dot was her true sister, the only other female born into the family. But Dot was also Delilah’s daughter, for better or for worse.
“Yew will come back?” Dot demanded.
“Yeah,” she gave her little sister a hug. “I will come back for you.” Dot had a good ten years before she turned thirteen; maybe then Amy could come for her. “Now go find your Mom.”
“Bye-bye, Aunti Em.” Dot scooted off, thinking it was a game. Amy wished it was. Stuffing everything she could take into a knapsack, she left her Dad’s leather bag sitting open on the carpet. Then she swung out the window and shinned down the drainpipe, something she had done hundreds of times in the dark, just never in daylight, and carrying a pack. Except for chickens scratching about, the yard below was empty.
She ducked into the smokehouse and came out with some hard sausage. As she filled her waterbag from the well, Amy took a last look at the house, which was tall and square, with big windows that made it look like a giant dollhouse. Two trees gave the only bit of shade for more than a mile around. When her bag was full, she cut across the chicken yard and went over the back fence, disappearing into the corn. Moving easily through the tangled green maze, she followed the big hand-plowed furrows to the corner where the road heading east to Aurora crossed the one that ran by their farm. This was where the scarecrow stood, wearing Nathan’s shirt and jacket, cast-off overalls, and a ragged straw hat. Pulling the shirt and overalls over her underwear, she tucked the jacket into
her pack strap and put her hair up under the hat. From a decent distance she might pass for a boy, if it was a man looking for her. There was no room for her dress, so she buried her face in the fabric, smelling her mother’s scent, from when they hugged around the cake. Then she stuffed it deep between the cornrows and headed on her way.
Tin Man
Brought up in a very deserted part of Cloud County, with Aurora far to the east and nothing to the west but the county line, Amy had no notion where she should head. Or what the wider world was like. Geography was not one of the three Rs—Reading, Rhythm, and Regulations. But she was determined to follow her star, heading due north, even if it took her into Republic County. Her biggest fear was Bushwhackers, and it was far too soon for them to be searching for her. When her family did not show in Concordia, people would want to know why—but it would be a day at least before she was posted as a runaway bride. Aiming to make the most of her reprieve, Amy walked briskly along in her scarecrow clothes, not looking back.
Wagons went by. Then cheerful families on buggies, but Amy turned down every offer of a ride. In theory she had done no wrong, and had until dusk to register as a bride, but she did not want helpful strangers whisking her into Concordia.
After ten or so miles, she had to make her first detour, swinging west through the fields to avoid Jamestown, and the road to Concordia.
Now she was clearly on the run, with nothing ahead of her but the county line. Grasshoppers bounded about in the heat, soaring away down the road, waiting for her to catch up, then flying off again. Dust appeared ahead, a small thin cloud that might have been a whirlwind, since it was certainly tornado weather. She watched the dust devil come closer, not feeling especially wary, until the cloud topped a rise. There was a Wheeler beneath it, headed straight at her.
Damn! Only the second Wheeler she had ever seen. What a time for him to show up. Wheelers lived far to the west, beyond Norton and Oberlin. They were scary fast, and would turn her in as easy as Bushwhackers. Both were always looking out for girls on the run. Leaving the road would just attract attention. Amy pulled her hat down over face and kept on walking, sure he could not be looking for her. Rapidly, the Wheeler got closer, becoming a man in a scarlet suit and black boots, seated atop a silver frame, with two spoked wheels that seemed to turn on their own, whirling along without a horse or peddles, trailing a tall cloud of dust. Grabbing her straw hat to help cover her face, Amy waved vigorously as the Wheeler sped past. That was what a boy would do. He was wearing goggles and a red cap, and guiding the front wheel with silver handlebars, so long and curved that he could lean back in his seat, steering in complete comfort.
Fast as he had come, the Wheeler was gone, not even giving her a glance. Dust settled, and Amy quickened her pace, determined not to be surprised so easily next time. Now she kept looking over her shoulder, and half a mile farther along she spotted another cloud of dust—this time to the south. Another Wheeler. Two in one day. Or the same one coming back to have a closer look.
Amy ducked into the corn, threading through the green rows until she could not be seen from the road. Sure enough, this time the Wheeler seemed to slow, and maybe even stop, as though searching for her. But there was nothing to see, and the dust cloud went whirling off to the north. She no longer felt safe on the road, a feeling soon reinforced by yet another passing Wheeler, this one headed south. Or maybe it was the same one, still looking for her. Heading north through the corn rows, she slid between the stalks, letting the furrows guide her feet. Dodging the Wheelers was no fun, but it gave her more purpose, just like her star gave her direction. Which was good, since she knew what she was running from, but not where she was going. Without warning, Amy came upon a dish-like depression twenty yards across. There the corn was crushed down, with the flattened stalks radiating outward from the center, where a smaller deeper ring was gouged into the ground. For the first time since leaving the road, Amy saw open sky. It scared her. Something with a big saucer-shaped bottom had fallen out of that sky, crushed the corn, then gone on its way. A distant dust plume signaled another Wheeler on the road.
Skirting the depression, Amy sought safety in the narrow green tunnels, sliding between the tall stalks. Crows cawed at the walking scarecrow, but no one else noticed.
She soon came on another saucer-like depression, which she also avoided. But beyond that her way was suddenly blocked by a long break in the corn, stretching straight across her path. What to do now? All the flattened corn was facing one way, as though something had whipped through the rows, inches above the ground. Nothing like this ever happened back on the farm.
Amy tried to go around the break. She ran right into a great silver wing, slanting into the ground. This stiff silver wing had cut through the corn like a scythe, slicing out a wide clearing. Attached to it was the crushed and burnt fuselage of a sailplane.
Forgetting her fear, Amy crept closer. She had seen sailplanes gliding overhead, but never this close up, near enough to touch, if she dared.
Wedged inside the crumpled cockpit was the biggest monkey Amy had ever seen. Bigger than her, and dead, with his dried blood spattered over the the smashed controls. Sheesh! Awfully gory, even to Amy, who gutted pigs and beheaded chickens at home—pigs she considered her friends, and hens she had raised from chicks. Amy backed away slowly, until she was standing smack up against the corn. She hoped that up past Concordia things might be different—but not this different. First Wheelers, then this mashed flying monkey. What next?
As if in answer, she heard someone crashing toward her. Horses were coming, many horses, thrashing through the corn. The only folks who casually rode over a farmer’s standing corn, with no care or warning, were Bushwhackers.
Amy spun about and vanished into the corn, having little faith in her scarecrow disguise. If Bushwhackers did not like how she looked, they would sling her over a saddle and take her into Concordia just to be sure. Hooting and hollering the whole way.
Who needed that? Not her. She followed the furrows away from the wreck, working her way downwind, in case they had dogs. When she found a safe spot beneath the corn, she squatted and listened for pursuit, unsure what to do next. Following her star had gotten her in more trouble than Amy could have ever imagined. Bushwhackers should not even be looking for her, but here they were, so close she could smell the dust and horse sweat.
Without warning, a soft voice behind her hissed, “Hey, kid.” Amy almost leaped out of her scarecrow pants, spinning swiftly about. Behind her, crouched in the corn, was a dark-haired, smiling girl in a blue-checked gingham dress, wearing pigtails and bright ruby-red slippers. She waved to Amy, saying, “Come here.”
Surprised at being called kid by someone smaller than she was, Amy crawled back through the corn to where the girl in the gingham dress was hiding. Looking Amy over keenly, the little girl asked, “Who are you?”
“Tip.” The first male name that came to mind; it belonged to one of their dogs.
“If you say so.” The little girl produced a small clear capsule from her dress pocket, holding it up to Amy’s mouth. “Here, spit in this.”
Amy looked at her like she was crazy.
“Go on, spit,” the girl insisted. “It won’t hurt.” She spit, then asked, “What is that for?”
“DNA sample.” The girl carefully closed the capsule, held it up to the light, then tucked it into her checked dress, adding, “We had better get going.”
“Going where?”
“Away from here.” The girl nodded toward the crash site. “That sailplane was a two-seater, and there is only one body. Even Bushwhackers can count that far.”
Amy had not thought of that. She asked, “What was that in the wreck?”
“SuperChimp named Ham. He was my pilot.”
“Your pilot?”
“Damned good one too, named for the first ape in space.” Getting up, the girl smoothed out her dress, saying, “Come on, before Bushwhackers come looking.” They set out, sliding in silence for m
ost of an hour through green tunnels of corn. With no more obstructions or weird depressions, the cornfields went on until they came on a creek, lined with cottonwoods. Here they stopped to drink and rest their hot feet in cool rippling water. Amy asked, “What’s your name?”
“Dorothy,” the girl in gingham replied.
“Means Beloved of God,” Amy observed piously.
Dorothy nodded. “One of the reasons I picked it.”
“You don’t come from around here, do you?” Amy guessed. Girls she knew did not pick their names.
“Heavens, no.” Dorothy smiled at the notion. “I fell out of the sky. Last night, actually. Haven’t been here a day.”
Amy believed it. Dorothy did not act or talk like a little girl, but Amy did not press the subject, since she was pretending to be a boy. “Fell from where?”
“Kansas system.”
Amy had never heard of it. “What county is that?”
Dorothy smiled at her naivet. “Kansas is a G-type star, not far from here. We are actually distant binaries.”
Star travel sounded like something from fairy tales. “What are you doing here?”
“Right now, trying to get home,” Dorothy explained airily. “Got anything to eat?” Amy opened her pack and produced a piece of cake. Dorothy’s sly smile broke into a grin. “Birthday cake?”
“There’s also some hard sausage.”
“Cake’s fine.” Dorothy broke off a bit of frosted corner and stuffed it in her mouth. “So, how old are you today?”
“Thirteen,” Amy admitted.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Me too.” Amy forgot she was supposed to be a boy.
“So did you run off?”
Amy nodded guiltily. “Do you blame me?”
“Heavens no!” Dorothy hurried to console her. “Barefoot and pregnant is no way to start junior high.” Dorothy broke off more cake. “Is ‘Tip’ a product of whimsical parents, or part of your disguise?”
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