Haints Stay

by Colin Winnette

  The rock did not move. Time passed and more time passed and still the rock did not move. Then, finally, the rock moved.

  When Brooke awoke, his head was still in the lap of the man beside him. That man was watching something out the window with a plain look on his face. He startled when Brooke shifted, then forced his lips back to flat and nodded at the prisoner. Brooke nodded back.

  “You are not comfortable with prisoners,” said Brooke.

  The man did not speak.

  No one spoke.

  The driver glanced behind him to check the faces of the other men. Through the window, all that could be seen was the dark purple of the dirt and yellow plants straining from between the rocks. The shadows on the horizon, he imagined, were the great red rocks that decorated the immense desert between this town and the next. The stars were out.

  Brooke checked both windows, but saw no sign of the second wagon. He listened, but heard nothing. It was at least half a day if they were headed to the nearest town. Anywhere else would be much longer.

  “Is there food ?” said Brooke. “Are we to eat ?”

  The men did not respond. They rode in silence and time bore on.

  “I find silence in the desert as pleasurable as the next man,” said Brooke, “but this is intolerable. I’d like at least to know why I’m here and what I’m answering to and where I’m going.”

  “You’re answering for those you’ve killed, Brooke,” said one of the men sitting across from him. This man was the top-hatted man from before. His look was less pleasant now, as he had begun to sweat, and his eyes were sunken from either weariness brought on by travel or a road-sickness he was making no bluster about.

  “Which of those ?” said Brooke.

  “It hardly matters to us,” said the man. “Murder is murder.” He coughed into a kerchief. “By our punishment, you answer for one and you’ve answered for them all.”

  “You plan to put us down then ?”

  “You’ll be put down in due time.”

  “And my brother ?”

  The man to the left of the top-hatted man began to sneer at Brooke and did not break eyes with him.

  “I don’t much like the way your man is looking at me,” said Brooke.

  “And we don’t much like you, Brooke. We’ll take a particular pleasure in delivering you, and we’ll take a particular pleasure in seeing you put down. Your brother as you call it, is carrying a child. As decency demands, we’ll bring it to term, deliver the child, then deal with the creature.”

  Brooke did not speak.

  Bird woke, and was covered in fur. The room was lit brightly and warmly and there was music playing, a soft piano and a lagging violin. He couldn’t place the sounds then, but would come to know them dearly.

  “You’re awake, sweet boy,” said a voice. A bearded man in glasses and a vest and a bowler appeared over Bird. “You’ll notice we took your arm.”

  Bird’s arm had been lopped off, just above where would have been an elbow. He was bandaged and the bandage was leaking only slightly from over-saturation.

  “It wasn’t our preference to do so, but it was more infection than appendage when we found you.”

  “What infection ?” said Bird. “I was gut-stabbed.”

  He realized then that he could bend, as he was sitting up and addressing the man.

  “I’m John,” said the man, sitting at the edge of the bed into which Bird had been bundled. “You’re lucky we found you when we did.”

  “What happened to my arm ?”

  “Buried,” said John, “in the yard.”

  “But why ?” said Bird.

  “I told you. The infection — ”

  “What infection ?”

  “Your arm was incredibly infected, boy. It tends to happen when the skin’s removed.”

  “The skin ?”

  “It’s too horrible to relive, perhaps,” said John. “I was a war man. I spent time fighting along men who died both proudly and cravenly, men who cried and men who prayed. I know about torment. About men at their end. But what you went through is singular. No man should know it, let alone a mere child.”

  “It was eating me,” said Bird. “Wasn’t it ?”

  “Some of you,” said John, removing his bowler. “It seemed primarily interested in the skin.”

  “I’d like to kill it,” said Bird.

  “I’m sure you would,” said John. “But I’m sorry to say it’s been killed and boxed and sold. You’ll eat with us, stay with us as long as you like, and grow fat on the food its corpse paid for. That will have to be your justice.”

  “I don’t want anything other than for it to be dead,” said Bird.

  “Long dead,” said John.

  “What was it ?”

  “Just a creature,” said John. “Just a man gone to beast. It hardly matters at this point.”

  “What sounds are those ?” said Bird.

  “My wife and daughter,” said John. “We thought we might try to play you awake. Are you hungry ?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, try to eat then and see what happens. Can you rise ?”

  Bird shifted his body to dangle his legs from the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, set his feet to the ground and pushed from his wrists to set his weight upon his legs. There was still a pain in his gut, but nothing like before.

  “Was I infected in the gut ?”

  “No. But stabbed through.”

  “I knew that part.”

  “I suppose you did.”

  “Am I safe ?”

  “As safe as any of us are.”

  “Is that safe ?”

  “You’re safe, yes. There were three of us, and now four.”

  Bird was able to take one step, and then several before buckling and falling to one knee.

  “Or three and a half,” said John.

  Just outside of the room Bird found himself in, there was a table set with silver and porcelain and several candles. Corroded copper hung from metal hooks. Stirred butter sat in a bowl. A woman sat at the piano in the living room, just beyond the half-wall hedging in the table. Next to her stood a short girl in a white bit of clothing.

  The girl lowered her violin and turned to greet Bird with bright excitement. Her mother played a few resolving notes on the piano, then closed the cover over the keys and scolded her daughter.

  “Mary, it’s important each time to play the measure through.”

  “He’s awake,” said Mary, pointing to Bird, who was using the dinner table to keep himself from swaying, leaning his right hip into it in a way he figured to be subtle.

  “Did you sleep well ?” asked Mary’s mother. She was stiff, turned at the waist with her knees still pointing forward, her foot still on the piano’s pedal, sustaining the note.

  “I had nightmares,” offered Bird. The urge to lean and the weakness in his legs was finally too much, and he sank into the chair at the head of the table.

  “O you kind gods, cure this great breach in his abused nature ! The untuned and jarring senses,” said John.

  “He’s hungry,” said Mary, placing her violin in its case on the floor and coming to join Bird at the table. “Can we eat ?”

  “Play something, Martha, to ease us into meal time,” said John, and his wife happily obliged.

  Bird knew nothing before like the sound of that piano resonating within the wooden walls of this new home.

  “What did you dream about ?” said Mary.

  John wrapped a towel around the handle of the iron pot boiling on the stove. He lifted it and settled it onto a piece of carved wood between his daughter and the young boy.

  “We could start with his name,” said her father, “maybe where he comes from, before we settle into exploring the hells of a tortured mind.”

  “What’s your name ?” said Mary.

  “Bird,” he said.

  John stirred the pot and set a biscuit on Bird’s plate.

  “You have to wait until it cools
,” said John. “You’re eyeing it like a hound.”

  “Sorry,” said Bird. He tried to reach for the biscuit with an arm that wasn’t there, then blushed and tears came and he went at the biscuit with his other.

  “There’s no shame in hunger,” said John.

  “Where do you come from ?” said Mary, pulling her legs up into her chair to pad her seat.

  She wasn’t a pretty girl. Her eyes bulged like a victim’s. Her hair was in a tight braid, narrowing down the back of her dress. She had a high forehead and an unclean complexion. But she was genuine in her interest and kind in her phrasing.

  “A farm just beyond the mountains,” said Bird. He pushed the biscuit against his plate to break it into fourths, but it was buttery and slick. It slid from his hand and would not steady.

  “Which one is that ?” said John. “You’re not Tully’s boy ?”

  “No,” said Bird, “but I… I think we knew a Tully.”

  “Tully’s fine to do business with,” said John, “but not much for company. That’s good playing, Martha.”

  Martha nodded with her chin and body toward the piano, leaning into something slow and practical. It blended neutrally with the atmosphere of the room and caused neither a foot to tap nor an ear to lose its conversational footing.

  “I didn’t know him well,” said Bird.

  “Well, you’re young,” said John. He came up behind Bird and reached to his plate with a spoon in order to break the biscuit in half. He then sat in the seat beside his daughter and lifted her braid with one hand. “You think we’re any closer to cutting this ?”

  She shook it free from her father’s casual grip.

  “Thank you,” said Bird.

  “Did you see any fighting ?” she asked.

  “Some,” said Bird.

  “Did you see any men die ?”

  “If he did,” said John, “is it something he would want to talk about immediately after waking up as he did ? Let him breathe a little. Let him eat. His stories will come out with time.”

  “I… I don’t have any stories,” said Bird. “I grew up on a very normal farm and my parents were very casual people who did not bother much with towns or neighbors.”

  “Well there’s no company like kin,” said John, “although I’m sure your folks did a lot more than you knew at the time. It’s the way of parents and children. You’ll understand it when you’re older.”

  Bird nodded.

  “It’s about as unpleasant a segue as I could have mustered, but I do wonder some about how you wound up in the cave and what might have happened to your parents. Can we take you to them ? Can you guide us from the main road ?”

  “They’re dead,” said Bird, finally accepting a bit of the warm biscuit into his mouth.

  “Oh, no,” said Mary.

  “Oh,” said John, “how ? Martha, can you stop for a second ?”

  Martha nodded without turning, shut up the piano, and rose to join them at the table.

  “Bird’s got some heavy news and I couldn’t make light of it with your lovely playing,” said John. “You were excellent, my dear.”

  “What’s the heavy news ?” said Martha. She loaded her plate with slop from the pot, then she loaded Mary’s. John served himself, then offered a full ladle out to Bird.

  “You were saying, Bud ?”

  “Bird,” said Bird.

  “You were saying, Bird ?”

  “They died, my parents. They were killed. Two men killed them. For money. They were killers, the men. They stabbed me and left me for dead and I wandered until I wound up here.”

  Martha shook her head. She closed her eyes.

  “The evils in this world abound,” she said.

  She tilted her chin toward her lap. When she opened her eyes, there was a softness to them that hadn’t been there before. She reached across the table and took Bird’s hand. He flinched at first, then accepted the gesture. “Child, you’ll live with us until they find and punish the men who did this.”

  John nodded.

  “Do you know anything about them ? Their names ? Why they hurt your family ? What they looked like ? Where they were from or where they were headed ?”

  “No.”

  “It’s okay,” said Mary.

  “One of them had a handkerchief, I guess. He was slightly round about the waist. Soft features. A hanging chin. He was the younger of the two.”

  “The other ?” said John.

  “He was much bigger. Muscular. He had… a rough look to him.”

  “Oh,” said Mary.

  “He had stubble, like you,” Bird pointed to John.

  “It’s been a long weekend,” said John.

  “And they carried knives in their boots.”

  “You said they did it for money ?” said John.

  Bird nodded.

  “How did you know ?”

  “They… brought parts back. They were planning to make some sort of trade, I guess. I heard them. They… they put my mom’s head in a gunny sack and my dad’s hung from the side of the saddle.”

  “Whoa,” said Mary.

  “Now Bird,” said Martha, “I know you’ve been through some kind of hell, but you’ve got to do your best to keep this thing civil. I won’t have Mary waking up with nightmares for weeks to come.”

  “Sorry,” said Bird.

  “Sorry ?” said Martha. “Sorry what ?”

  “Don’t mess with him, Martha. He’s telling a story.”

  “Sorry for… saying what I said,” said Bird.

  “She wants you to say ma’am,” said Mary.

  “I’d like a bit of respect at the dinner table, is all,” said Martha.

  “Don’t mess with the boy,” said John.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Bird.

  “Thank you, Bud,” said Martha.

  “Bird,” said Bird.

  “Thank you, young one.”

  The top-hatted man was named Jim. The other riders had made it clear enough, in spite of their efforts to hide it. Brooke was keeping quiet now, learning what he could from their scattered conversation, and mulling over the news they’d delivered what felt like half a day before. They were deep in the country, deep in the desert. It was cold. Brooke could see his breath. The stars were out and the moon was bright enough to reflect the edges of the enormous rocks articulating the wide expanse in either direction. They were following a thin stream, headed for the arc where two large rocks met. If he was lucky, they would camp and maybe he would see Sugar. If he was unlucky, they were going to bury him in the hollows.

  “Jim,” said Brooke.

  The man turned to him, but did not answer.

  “How did you know about Sugar ?”

  “It’s plain as day, rat.”

  “I’d like you to be kinder,” said Brooke. “I’ve never condescended to you. I’m only asking for basic human treatment. I’m not asking for pardon.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you’re asking for,” said Jim, “or what you’re not asking for. It’s us who’s running things, bloodhound. We’ll handle you how we see fit.”

  The carriage lurched to a halt then and the driver leapt from his perch.

  “Get your guns,” he whispered.

  “What’s happened ?” cried one of the men.

  “Shut it or I’ll shut it for you,” said the driver.

  “Put him in the bench,” said Jim, signaling to the men on either side of Brooke.

  They lifted him, opened the seat beneath them, and before he could protest with more than a jerk of his bound wrists, he was bent over the mouth of the opened bench and stuffed into a curled-up position. Then he was sealed off. It was all darkness. He pushed against the wood above him. It bowed outward but did not open or burst.

  He heard voices then. He heard hooves and the crack of a rifle. He heard yelling, more gunfire. Every sound was amplified by the rocks rising up around them. It echoed out like the first battle of creation. Like life was forming right there in the openin
g of that hollow.

  Then there were bodies on the wagon. It rocked and Brooke slid an inch one way and then an inch back the other. There was the clinking of metal clasps, sacks dragged and dropped. It was a robbery, or they were abandoning him. Everything was flying off the wagon and the men were crawling around on it like spiders, looking for anything and everything to take with them.

  “No passenger,” said a voice.

  “As he thought then,” said another.

  After only a few moments, the wagon went still and he heard the thuds of boots on sand and then the hoof-falls of horses fading into the distance. He pushed against the wood above him. It bowed again, loosed a little light this time, revealing the unfinished edges of the box around him. A bit of sand slipped in and stung his eyes. He turned his body, pushed with his knees, and was able to get the lid up about an inch or so. He kept at it. With knees and bound hands, then his forehead, he pushed against the lid and bowed it outward until it began to crack. The latch holding it shut would not budge. It was new, though the rest of the bench was splintered and worn. The lock was purchased, maybe, for this particular event. A small honor. The age of the wood was apparent enough. It croaked and creaked as he bowed it. It bent and shuddered and finally broke in a jagged line at the edge of the shining new latch.

  He was up then and surveying the damage. The wagon was empty. He could see nothing through the window. He looked around for something sharp, a blade or a bit of broken metal, to remove his bindings. There was nothing. He opened the door of the wagon with his toe, slowly at first. When nothing happened and no sounds came, he pushed it open with his body and he stepped out and onto the foot ladder, lowering himself then down to the sand. The horses had been cut loose, and were gone. The still bodies of his captors decorated the landscape. They were shot, each and every one of them.