The Sweetness of Water

by Nathan Harris

  He touched the soil again, knowing he would not be present when its bounty was revealed, knowing he would not see the look of subtle delight on his father’s face, apparent only in the intensity of his gaze upon the plants, an expression radiant with that distant love he dispensed with such parsimony. After a silence, he would pronounce the peanuts puny, unlikely to be purchased by anyone, before backtracking and declaring: They will do. It was his father’s quintessential move: embracing his failures to maintain a sense of ambition. But this life—quiet, respectable, replete with meager rewards—would not be Caleb’s. No. His own journey, he was determined, would take him elsewhere, to whatever paltry salvation he might find beyond this place.

  He started toward home. The darkness was still almost impenetrable, but he felt one with it, as though he were wading weightlessly through water, and it struck him that his time spent alone, all those long hours in his room with the blinds closed, had conditioned him for this very moment. He entered the cabin and placed his foot on a familiar floorboard, stepping on it like the sole key to a piano, relishing the noise one last time.

  Without another pause he went back down to the cellar. He could locate the trunk by scent alone, the wafts of cleaning grease that lingered in the air from decades past, before he was even born. The rifles lay waiting. He slung one over his shoulder, not even certain of if it still shot. His recklessness was of a piece with his frame of mind. What was most important was to keep moving—to follow the urge that had woken him and brought him this far.

  The stars were out, small bright chasms that scarred the darkness, yet he did not need them to find his way. Stage Road would do just fine, for he could see the path in his mind already: carrying him through Old Ox, past the quiet square, empty but for a few drunken vagrants; spitting him out at Mayor’s Row, right before Wade Webler’s mansion. It was not where he meant to end his journey, but it was where he would begin it.

  * * *

  He knew, without knowing, that the Weblers slept soundly. This was another long-held notion of his—born of nothing more than the narrative he’d hatched, years earlier, of what it would be like to sleep beside August for a night, under a white sheet, basking with him in the lambency of the moon; to wriggle an arm free from under his pillow and fasten it, as if guided by a dream, around August’s torso, pulling him close, both of them granted permission for their bodies to do as they pleased until morning.

  The frame of the dream had never extended beyond August’s bedroom. But Caleb had to assume that Wade and Margaret slept with the same peace of mind that possessed their son. He could envision Wade moored to his side of the bed, unstirred by the day that had passed, or the day that would come tomorrow, given over to his rest like a newborn in its crib. And perhaps that was the great ill of the world, that those prone to evil were left untouched by guilt to a degree so vast that they might sleep through a storm, while better men, conscience-stained men, lay awake as though that very storm persisted unyieldingly in the furthest reaches of their soul.

  He paused before the mansion, a few feet removed from the hedges, still in sight of August’s window. Habit was strong. Yet the urgency of the moment wicked it off him now like a sweat. He forced himself to move through the gate and walked around the side of the home, winding his way past the cistern and on to the stables.

  The aisle there was pitch-black. He hadn’t been inside the stables for years, and the misremembered place was nothing like his dreams, where candles projected onto the walls the lurid shadows of the horses and the other boys, specters bent on cheering his humiliation. Against that brutal romance, the heightened sense of wonder with which his fantasies were imbued, there was nothing special here. If anything, it was smaller than he recalled, and any majesty it held was obscured by the pungent smell of manure. How flawed his imagination had been in creating so much out of so little! He felt himself being freed from the delusion.

  The horses were asleep, save one. He saw it not by its form, which was shrouded by the night, but by the sparkle of its eyes, an incandescence beaming in the darkness. The horse crowded the door of its stall when Caleb drew near, as though expecting him to toss over some feed, or, even better, open the door. He offered his hand and the animal did not shy. Some dimension had been lost as he’d approached, and its eyes were now cloaked rather than alight. The horse was not spooked, to his great relief, though he would expect no less from a Webler horse. Wade’s footman was known to break them himself.

  Caleb went to the tack room and retrieved a bridle and saddle, then claimed a saddlebag for good measure. He crept into the stall and the horse did not try to bolt, but stood still, flicking its neck as if to say hello. When he placed a hand on its mane a tremor ran through the horse, a skittering wave upon its back, which reminded Caleb of Ridley, and he let his hand rest on the beast for a spell, to ease his way with it, before blowing into its nostrils.

  “I need a horse that’s gonna move for me,” he whispered. “Can you fly?”

  It was a buckskin mare, beautiful, although he was not sure it had the talent to lead a pack. There was no way to know until he sat upon her. She was well mannered, and he had her tacked up before he’d even paused to make sure he was still alone. He was nearly ready to lead the mare to the aisleway when footsteps sounded on the floor. He peered out, too frightened to reach for his pistol. But it was merely another horse, resettling itself in the humid air.

  “You ready, then?” he whispered.

  The escape would need to be clean. He’d have to pull himself up and take off at a clip. He had prepared for disaster—certain that, with his luck, a party of Webler’s men would descend upon him the second he approached the stables. Yet here he was: for once, somehow, executing a plan of his own design. The night was before him. He mounted, and the mare huffed loud enough to raise the attention of the other horses. A few rose from their sleep, and he could feel their eyes on his back as he gave the mare a start. They were quiet, though, and soon enough his horse was cantering down the road.

  He was halfway to Selby before he realized he would never see the Webler home again. Even with all that had been irreparably damaged in the last several days, he couldn’t help imagining—almost hoping—that August might have been at the window, curtains pulled, watching his escape. Likely his disbelief would be too great to lend the sight any credence. He’d tousle his hair, return to bed, and in the morning shake his head at the dream that had felt so real.

  * * *

  The mare gained speed until they were gliding, then outright flying. The road was empty at this forsaken hour, and it wasn’t long before he arrived in Selby. The town was smaller and quieter than Old Ox. He was familiar with the design, having traveled through before, and easily spotted the jail, buttressed on one side by the tavern and on the other by a little boxed-off dirt cemetery absent any markings. With the candle inside the jail dimmed and contorted by the windowpane, the place was a fit of shadows—none of them moving, all of them still. He had no idea how many men were inside. A lone horse was tied up out front. As Caleb stepped onto the stoop, a voice called out.

  “Sheriff? That you?”

  In a spontaneous show of theatrics, Caleb kicked the door open, pulled his pistol from his waistband, and took aim at the first body that appeared at the other end of the sight. It was Tim, the deputy, so shocked and wobbly that he nearly fell over.

  “Where’s Prentiss?” Caleb asked.

  Tim fell back against his desk, squinting in bewilderment.

  “You’re George’s boy?”

  “I’ll give you one more chance,” Caleb said, and, as if in a trance, cocked the hammer on the pistol.

  “I ain’t but a few feet from you,” said a voice.

  Turning toward the sound, Caleb caught sight of Prentiss sitting in the dimness of the nearest cell with his legs crossed, as if untroubled by the commotion.

  “Keys,” Caleb said to Tim. “Now.”

  Tim reached for his waist and Caleb knew immediately that he
was gone if the deputy retrieved a gun, for though he had cocked the hammer, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot or even to return fire. His finger went soft on the trigger, and he was surprised to discover that he felt inclined to welcome such a resolution. To meet death head-on, in a fit of adventure, of great daring—well, that was something worthwhile. He would still die with his accomplishments tallying nothing more than being a horse thief, but at least others might hear the rumors of his courage, and in the most selfish of ways, this was enough to deliver a solemn peace to an otherwise fraught moment that had nearly caused him to wet himself for the second time as a man.

  But it appeared Tim had other ideas than to open fire. After slapping frantically about his waist, he skipped right past his pistol and went for his pockets, though he failed to furnish anything but air.

  “I swear they’re around here,” he said, a little breathless.

  Caleb began to realize that, hard as it was to believe, he might’ve found a man more nervous than he was.

  The deputy’s eyes were bulging and a sheet of sweat had formed on his forehead.

  “I’m begging you,” he said, and raised a trembling finger telling Caleb to pause.

  Caleb looked toward Prentiss for some guidance, but confusion dominated his face as well.

  “I think the sheriff took them,” Tim said, stepping forward. “Please!”

  He was writhing, waving Caleb off in a show of defeat, bent over so far in supplication that he was nearly crouching.

  “Do as you wish, but no guns,” he pleaded. “I can’t do guns no more. Please. No more. No more.”

  Prentiss nodded at Caleb as though it were a directive and Caleb put his gun back in his waistband. He was far more rattled now by the deputy’s collapse than by the chance of meeting gunfire and could only pity the man.

  “I think you might be in the wrong line of work,” Caleb said.

  The deputy collected himself enough to stand.

  “I loved it back when. I did. But I can’t do those guns. The doc said it would go back to normal. But it ain’t. It just ain’t.”

  The two men were looking at each other. Tim was still shivering as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. They were about the same age, although Caleb guessed that whatever complications in life he had withstood paled in comparison to Tim’s. With the guns removed, the feeling in the room was difficult to decipher. A certain intensity remained. An almost inspired nakedness of emotion. Was he supposed to embrace the deputy now?

  “The table,” Prentiss said, pointing. “The keys are on the table.”

  Tim turned, grabbed the keys, and held them out to Caleb, who declined them, gesturing toward the cell.

  “You get him,” he commanded.

  Tim slunk over to the cell and guided the key into the lock. The door yawned under its own iron weight and slowly swung open, and out walked Prentiss.

  “The sheriff is bringing Webler back this way at first light. They ain’t gonna be pleased when they see this cell empty.”

  “You tell them I just about put a bullet through your skull,” Caleb said, retrieving his pistol from his waistband, “and I’m sure they’ll understand why you let him go.”

  Tim shook his head solemnly, like he’d just heard the saddest of stories.

  “Sheriff’s got a pony that can ride eight hours and still outpace a thoroughbred in the ninth. It ain’t me I’m worried about. It’s you.”

  Prentiss was already at the front door, eager.

  Caleb motioned toward the desk with his pistol.

  “Go sit down now, Tim. You peek out that door, I promise it’s the last thing you’ll see in this life.”

  He walked out, back first, facing the deputy, his gun trained on him once more, and when he closed the door he couldn’t help smirking with satisfaction at having delivered such an effortless performance.

  “You put the fear of God in that boy,” Prentiss said.

  “Hopefully it’s enough to keep him at that desk.”

  Caleb stopped at the mare. He looked Prentiss over and took the rifle off his shoulder and put it in his hands. The man had not held one before, that much was clear. He handled it like an ancient scroll, as if a careless touch might crumble it to dust.

  “Put that strap on your shoulder,” Caleb told him. “I know damn well the last thing either of us wants to do is shoot these things. But if you must, you pull that trigger.”

  “I know how they work,” Prentiss muttered.

  Caleb mounted the mare and extended a hand down to pull Prentiss aboard.

  “You been on a horse?” he said.

  “No,” Prentiss said, situating himself on the pillion behind Caleb. “And it’d be just my luck to get out of jail and go and break my neck falling off the thing.”

  “You can trust me,” Caleb said, taking the reins. He meant it as much as he could, enough to turn back and repeat it. “You can, Prentiss. Just hold on to me and don’t let go.”

  Prentiss looked skeptical, but he placed his hands around Caleb’s waist and squeezed. They set off fast enough that their voices were silenced by the wind and they were quiet for a spell. In time they adjusted to it, and Prentiss’s grip on Caleb loosened as he gave himself over to the cadence of the horse’s gait, the rhythm of the gallop.

  “Where we headed?” he called out from behind.

  “North,” Caleb said. “Pass by the farm first. Don’t worry, we’ll take the back trails.”

  “Where to then?”

  “Wherever we want.”

  The shadows of the trees and the bushes appeared and disappeared like apparitions in their wake. The sun finally began to rise, and the road was floodlit with its first seeping glow, the essence of something otherworldly, as if the earth itself was dissolving into glittering fragments of light. They didn’t see a single soul the entire journey. Not until they reached the cabin, where a candle was lit, illuminating his mother and father at the dining-room table in the twilit dawn, still in their nightwear. Waiting, he liked to think, for his return.

  * * *

  His mother engulfed Prentiss in a hug, letting go only to inspect her son, perhaps unsure if either of them was real, and absolutely bewildered as to how they’d ended up back home.

  “I went and got him,” Caleb said. Apparent, but somehow necessary to affirm in words.

  “I hope you have a better explanation than that,” his father said. “Is that your grandfather’s rifle Prentiss has?”

  Caleb eased his way past his father and made toward the kitchen. There was no time to explain, he said. What was important was that the plan had been successful, at least so far. They just needed some provisions and would be on their way once again.

  His mother was following him.

  “If you two don’t explain yourselves I will lock that door and I assure you no one will be going anywhere.”

  “Go and do that and you’ll only be leading me to the gallows right alongside Prentiss.”

  Caleb searched the shelf of canned fruit, taking the jars he pleased and placing them on the counter. His mother looked to Prentiss for an answer instead.

  “Ma’am, all I know is he came in and told off that deputy and got me out. Says we’re going north.”

  “This is madness,” his father said. “Storming off in the night on a suicide mission. I thought you’d lost your mind before, but you have outdone yourself. I applaud your stupidity.”

  Caleb had found a sack and began stuffing the cans into it.

  “I didn’t think you’d wake up, to be honest. I thought I might leave a note.”

  His father rolled his eyes.

  “As if there’s ever been a single night you snuck out that we didn’t keep an eye on you. Now I wish I’d come out and put a stop to it.”

  Taking in the worried parties before him, Caleb realized just how deranged he was coming off. He put the sack down and pointed at Prentiss.

  “Set to die for a crime he did not commit.” Then he pointed at himself. “At blame. A
t blame. If he is to hang, then let me hang too. If he is to make it to freedom, then by God I will make that journey with him. Don’t tell me neither of you ever wished to start again. I know what regret looks like. This is the better option. The only option.”

  His parents stared at each other, seized by the other’s glance, apparently unwilling to put into words whatever was in their minds.

  “I will make my own path,” Caleb said. “And you owe it to Prentiss not to stand in the way of his.”

  His mother came forward, too choked up at first to offer any words. There was pride in her eyes along with the tears. She picked up the sack from the floor, her hands shaking.

  “The brandied peaches were always your favorite,” she said. “I canned them only a few days ago. But you should take the pears, too, and the apples. In the cellar there’s some salted pork, and I have some sweetbread…”

  His father, wearing a blank expression, hadn’t stirred from his place in the dining room. What would he say? What might possibly come next?

  His mother went to the cellar. She returned with a handful of goods and stuffed the sack to the breaking point. By now she was sniffling with every other word.

  Caleb handed the sack to Prentiss and asked if he’d put it in the saddlebag.

  Prentiss nodded. “Might as well pack up my things from the barn. Give y’all a moment.” And he was gone.

  His mother surveyed him, just as she’d done before he went out the door dressed for war. And just as she had then, she put a hand on his chin, felt the bristles—searching, he imagined, for the same softness she’d felt when holding him as a newborn, a softness that was alive only in her memories. She brought his head to her ear.