by Neal Barrett
Howie thought his head would split open. The mare lay flat on soft grass. Her legs were spread and she grinned up - vacantly at the men. One of them said something to the other. The second laughed and touched himself and rolled his eyes. The third man had already lowered his trousers to his ankles; the big shaft stiffly erect between his legs. In a moment he was down on the mare, hands clutching at her breasts. The mare groaned and engulfed him, thrusting her belly up to meet him. Her eyes were closed and her head arched back until the veins in her throat stood out like blue cords. The man breathed hard, pumping himself into her. His companions watched, laughing and calling out advice.
Howie couldn’t hear what they said. He couldn’t hear anything. His head throbbed like there were a million bees caught inside.
Help me, he cried out to no one. Help me, help me!
The man moaned and thrust himself forward. The mare sucked in a deep breath and her face twisted.
Howie felt his loins swell with unbearable pain; he felt sure he was going to die in the next second or so. Then he gasped and felt warmth flow from his body. No, no, no! Blood coursed to his face in shame, tears filled his eyes, and he buried his head in the earth.
The man was still in the mare when the arrow caught him in the heart. The shaft flew with such terrible force the dark feathers buried themselves in blood.
The mare screamed and the two men turned ashen faces in Howie’s direction. Howie jerked around; short hairs climbed the back of his neck. Papa towered above him, boots buried in green fern. His face was hard as stone.
“Get up to the house,” he said, not looking at Howie. “Get up, and stay there.” There was another arrow nocked in his bow, but he released it gently. The two men were making tracks over the hills, into the yellow wheat.
“Get up, Howie…”
There was something in his father’s voice he’d never heard before. He scrambled to his feet and ran through the woods without looking back. He stumbled, fell. His eyes blurred with tears. Brambles tore at his skin and he relished the sharp pain. Pain was good, and real, and cut fiercely at his heart, scouring out the shame.
Not all of it, though. It could never do that. He was marked, stained, and that wouldn’t go away as long as he lived. And he could never, ever look at his father again.
He ran, and prayed hard, and begged God to let him die.
Late in the afternoon Papa came to his room and told him he was to get his boots on and come downstairs. He didn’t look at Howie. In the house, or across the field all the way to the place where it had happened.
The two men were hanging from a high branch where Howie had watched the bird. Their faces were nearly black and their tongues were thick and swollen. The third man was on a branch beside them, by himself. He was still near naked, the arrow through his chest, trousers hanging about his ankles.
Howie’s stomach boiled, and he turned away. “No, Papa said sternly. He grabbed Howie’s head hard in one big hand and held it toward the sight. “You don’t turn away from life, Howie. Even if it ain’t pretty to see. Not lookin’ don’t make it go away.”
He said nothing more, but walked away down the low hills to the woods, Howie behind him. He stopped beside the creek and settled himself on a big stone. He looked at Howie and Howie sat.
“We had to butcher the mare,” said Papa.
“Sir?”
Papa nodded to himself and scratched at the stone with his boot. “Howie,” he said carefully, “she might have had seed.”
Howie was startled at that. A man was a man, but his seed in an animal.
“You’re wrong,” said Papa, guessing his thoughts. “We never talked about it. Didn’t see no reason. Thing is, that’s something where people and animals is alike. Seed don’t know whether it’s goin’ into man or beast. A man knows where he’s puttin’ it, though.” He looked up, nodding toward the edge of the woods. “Them three, now. Likely they understand some better about that. Do you understand, Howie?”
Howie swallowed. His mouth was dry as cotton. “Yes, sir. I think so.”
“I didn’t say think, Howie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What you got to know is there’s no sin greater than the one you saw up there this morning. A man’s seed was given to him by God to plant in woman at the right time. A man’s got a soul, and when he puts that seed in an animal, it’s the same as giving part of his soul to beasts. Do you see that? And what’s the issue from such a thing?”
Papa didn’t wait for him to answer. “Your mother’s seen to it you read the Scriptures. You know this world wasn’t always like it is. Before the War, when God cleansed sinners from the Earth, there were hundreds of different kinds of beasts roaming the land. The Scriptures tell us that ‘man ate of their flesh, though it was unclean.’ Then, there weren’t any beasts such as we eat now, ‘which are in the shadow of man’s form, and have flesh that is clean.’ God put ’em here for us, and took all other beasts from the Earth, leaving only the creatures that fly and those that swim. And that’s the way He wants things to be, Howie.”
Papa was silent for a long moment. Howie listened to the creek and hoped maybe that was all. Maybe Papa wouldn’t get into the other part.
“You want to say what happened back there, Howie?” Howie’s heart stopped. “Not…much, Papa. I will, if you want me to.”
“I think it’d be a good thing, Howie.”
“Yes, sir. I…” He leaned down and wet his mouth in the creek. “I’m not right sure what to say.”
“Just whatever comes to you, boy. Whatever’s true and right.”
“Might be I don’t know what’s—true and right, Papa.” He looked up, meeting his father’s eyes. “That’s possible, ain’t it? That I wouldn’t know?”
“I think it is, Howie.”
“Well, sir .. .”
“You afraid of me, son?”
Howie thought about that. “Sometimes. Yes, sir.” He looked down at his boots. “Right now I am.”
“Well that’s a natural thing, I was scared of my Pa. S’posed to be. But—when I needed to say something, he was willin’ to listen. Same as I am, Howie.”
“Yes, sir.” Howie felt all tight inside. Papa was right, but—how could he talk about that? What was he thinking? It was terrible, a sin God wouldn’t ever forgive him for!
“Papa…”
“All right.” Papa nodded and tasted his lip. “You’ve seen lots of animals breeding, Howie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you seen this. Between man and beast.”
Howie’s stomach turned over again.
“And what did you think, Howie? Just say it like it came to your head, right when it was happening.”
“Well, I…” Howie’s voice choked in his throat. “I… The mare didn’t look like a mare. Not then. She looked like a— girl! I wanted to do that to her too, Papa!”
He buried his head in his hands and felt hot tears burning his eyes.
“Howie…” Papa’s big hand covered his shoulder. “Howie, men are weak. They don’t always walk the right path. You’re a man, now, and no different than other men. What you thought, what—happened to you, ain’t too different than what’s happened to a lot of men. You know, now, though. You see it, don’t you, Howie? It’s wrong, and something you got to put out of your head. Now and forever.” He lifted Howie’s chin and looked at him. “When you was little, we talked about how things could look the same, that wasn’t. And that’s the way this is. She’s not the same, boy. Remember that. She was a beast and a beast’s got no soul. You thought different—for just a minute, anyway. Not now, though. That’s past, ain’t it, Howie?”
“Yes, sir,” said Howie. “I understand, Papa.” And to himself, he prayed that God would take this day, pull it out of his head, and not make him have to remember it forever.
Chapter Six
Crossing was just that—where the two wagon roads met and crossed one another, then twisted on to nowhere. Once a year, though,
the fields on three sides were cleared of autumn bramble, and tents and cook shelters sprang up for the people who would come for Choosing.
Before the big trouble with Lathan, government people from Jefferson would arrive the night before in their big horse-drawn wagons. They’d pull up on the north corner in a wide circle, out would come the hightop tent colored bright red and blue, and the flags of the states and territories. Another, smaller tent was reserved for the pictures from Silver Island.
This year, though, horses were scarcer than ever—even the tired work animals that would have pulled the wagons had been pressed into service as mounts for soldiers fighting in the west. The wagons were lighter than usual, then, and pulled by reserve troopers who clearly didn’t like this kind of duty. They cursed and grumbled that they hadn’t signed up to pull wagons over bad roads, and said it surely wasn’t the proper thing for soldiers to do.
Papa chuckled when he saw them. “Serves ’em right’s what I say. Let them fellows in Jefferson see how the other half lives.” A few men standing about nodded and laughed with him, but Howie’s mother laid a hand on his arm and said someone might hear. Papa just grinned and told her that didn’t matter to him one way or the other.
Horses were always good for a joke. As long as anyone could remember, the government had been saying it wouldn’t be too long before there’d be enough of the big animals so every farm and ranch could have at least one— that breeding was going well, and more and more horses were coming up from Mexico every month.
Nobody believed that, though, and a day didn’t pass during planting season when one neighbor didn’t tell another that he shouldn’t be pulling his own plow—that there’d be horses to do that anytime now.
As soon as he finished helping Papa put up their own shelter, Howie ran across the road to see the pictures. Bluevale was a long time back and he hadn’t forgotten it was the one thing they’d missed at the fair. Besides, it was a good time to stay away from everyone. His mother had been crying again. It made him feel awful to see that—though he was old enough now to understand why. Choosing was a good thing and helped everybody, but like Papa said, mothers had different kinds of feelings than other people. So did fathers, Howie decided. They didn’t show it as much, but he’d caught a certain look in Papa’s eyes.
There were already some people in the tent, but not so many you couldn’t see what you wanted to—and Howie wanted to see everything. There were drawings and colored posters and even photographs—pictures where everything looked as real as if you were there.
Silver Island, he decided, must be an awful lot like Heaven, Nobody knew what Heaven looked like, of course, unless they’d died—but he couldn’t see how God could come up with anything much better. There were big white houses under broad trees. Every window had glass and curtains and the houses came right down to bright blue water. A smooth, sandy beach circled the island and waves rolled in from the sea and left sparkling foam on the shore. Sails colored green, yellow, and cherry red dotted the bay.
It was all truly a wonder. And the biggest wonder of all was that it never got cold on Silver Island. It was always kind of like spring or summer, only better. No snow or ice, and no wood to chop. You didn’t freeze your hands and toes until you couldn’t even tell if they were there. Now that was something.
The people, of course, were what everyone really came to see. There were pictures of people from all over the country—people from close by and as far away as California. And it was hard to imagine they’d ever lived anywhere but Silver Island. They didn’t look like people you knew. Everyone was smiling. No one was tired or worried or anything. Well, why should they be? Howie asked himself. That’s what Silver Island was for. If you went there, you didn’t have to worry. You had a good life and plenty to eat and you never got cold. He reckoned he’d smile a lot, too.
One picture held Howie’s attention a long time. It showed a group of boys and girls on a beach. They were tossing a ball back and forth and laughing. Behind them was a sailboat on a blue-green sea.
As far as Howie was concerned, though, there was no one else in the picture but the girl. She lazed on the beach, away from the others, her eyes closed against the sun. She didn’t have hardly any clothes on at all and her skin was tanned the color of raw honey. You could see almost all of her breasts and her legs were long and shiny. He didn’t know anyone looked like that—not anywhere!
Howie felt his heart beating against his shirt. Something else was happening, too, and he decided he’d better get out of the tent and back across the road. He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, but nobody was.
“Will the clown be scary, Mama?” Carolee wanted to know.
Howie’s mother started to answer, but Papa grinned and squeezed her shoulder. “Honey, ’course he won’t be scary. Clowns are supposed to be funny, now aren’t they? Isn’t that right, Ev?”
“Yes, of course they are. Papa’s right, darling.” She gave Carolee a quick smile, then turned her around again and ran the long brush through her hair.
“Ow!” Carolee pulled away. Her mother reached out and settled her back.
“You got to look nice, honey.”
“Am I gonna have to go, Mama?”
“You might not, Carolee. We don’t know that at all. They don’t choose everyone. Just some.”
“If I go, will you and Papa come see me?”
“Carolee.” Her mother’s lips pressed together in a narrow white line. Howie saw her eyes begin to glisten and his stomach knotted up inside.
“Carolee,” she said gently, “no one even knows if you’re goin’ anywhere. Now do they?” She forced a little laugh. “Just hush- up and let me do your hair, hon.”
“Will Howie go with me?” Carolee let out a deep sigh. “I never get to go anywhere without Howie. I’m closer to thirteen than I am twelve and that’s old enough to do stuff by yourself. Mayellen got to go into Callister with the Martins and they aren’t even kin!”
“Be still, Carolee.”
“But Mama . .”
Howie saw something move in his father’s face. Papa’s big frame seemed to get suddenly smaller and, in a minute, he turned and tramped quickly out of the tent. Howie watched, curiously, and started to follow. His mother caught his eye and she shook her head ever so slightly. Howie sat down and busied himself with his studies, though he couldn’t keep his mind on any of the words.
The clown was funny.
He came hobbling drunkenly into the big tent, taking quick little steps, arms tight against his sides. Then, suddenly, he tripped over his feet and went sprawling. All the children laughed and most of the grownups.
Parents stood in a big circle, their children cross-legged before them. They’d already heard the speech from the chubby little government man out of Jefferson. He was clearly a man who’d never done anything but town work and they’d all heard the speech before. It was the same every year. How all the parents should be proud to have such fine children—he was certain there wasn’t a better looking group of youngsters anywhere. That was no surprise, he said, because there wasn’t a heartier looking bunch of men—or prettier women—anywhere in the country.
He told them again what they all knew: That children chosen to go to Silver Island were the luckiest children in the world and that their parents should be more than proud. Silver Island was the beginning of a new America and someday the whole country would be just like that. Because that’s what Silver Island was for—to provide citizens to make that new America, to give them advantages they couldn’t hope to get anywhere else.
It was, he realized, always sad to see a child leave home. He explained, however, that children chosen here and all over the country wouldn’t really be gone at all. They’d be the representatives of their parents in a new world of tomorrow. It was a shame that the whole country—children and grownups alike—couldn’t enjoy all the advantages of Silver Island right now. But the government believed it had the duty and obligation to do what it
could—if not for the many, then for the few. And before long, those few would swell to many again.
He told a little about how we’d been a long time paying for the sins of generations past, who’d near sent the world up in flames. That it was a long road back and we were getting there. He reminded them that there were a lot of countries that were worse off than we were—or weren’t even around anymore, for that matter.
There was more. And finally he stopped and the clown in the baggy patchwork suit and lopsided hat came stumbling into the tent. One of the troopers brought out his fiddle so the clown could dance and soon he was twirling about the circle smiling and making faces.
There were children of all sizes in the tent, but each was between nine and fifteen—the limits for being eligible to go to Silver Island. It was the first year Howie hadn’t had to sit in the circle and he had mixed feelings about that. It gave him a sense of pride to stand with the grownups. On the other hand, he’d never have a chance, now, to see what Silver Island was like. He thought of the warm sun, the blue water, and the girl on the beach with next to nothing on. There were probably a lot of girls around just as pretty though he hadn’t seen any. And they sure weren’t dressed like that….
The fiddler played, the clown danced about and laughed, and the grownups and children alike followed him with their eyes. Sometimes he’d pause for a moment before one child or another, then he’d waddle off somewhere else.
The fiddler began to play faster and faster, stomping his foot on the hard ground. The clown whirled and leaped about like he’d never stop. You could see the sweat roll off his painted face in different colors. His hat flew off his head and his big mouth opened to gulp air. Finally, he gave an extra high leap, rolled himself in a tight little ball, and flipped over neatly in midair. When his feet hit the ground, a handful of long, silver ribbons was clutched in his hand.
There were a few gasps from the crowd, for they knew what was coming now. Howie saw his mother’s hand squeeze Papa’s arm until there was nothing but white in her fingers.
