South
Page 24
Tye Callahan strode down through the pines toward the lake shore. The two horsemen stayed in their saddles and kept pace. He’d sent his bumbling men back to Glenvale, back to their home camps to keep whatever weak and watchful eye they possessed on what was happening there. Tye hadn’t gone with them.
He had business.
He set up camp out of the wind, instead, and waited, just him and the harrier, sending her up daily to watch for the scouts.
Renard’s reply had been short.
I do not underestimate the sacrifices you have made. I am happy to oblige your requests. Scouts are en route.
Tye had felt like whooping and laughing when he read it, the paper still cold from the altitude. But though he was alone, that emotion was something undignified. Instead he sat and grinned at his bird.
‘Now we wait.’
It was towards dusk of that first day when Tye saw the movement in the treeline. He set the worn boots he was mending slowly aside. He felt no spike of fear: he knew who it would be.
Tye stretched and began to walk barefooted up the slope. When he was close he called out, ‘I know it’s you, Kurt. I can see your hair.’
In the blue-green shade of the spruces the tuft of blond was sticking up through the grasses like the tail of a jackrabbit. It didn’t move.
‘You get back to Glenvale, you hear!’
The blond hair ducked down.
Tye didn’t go any closer. He’d leave the boy to go on his own, let him keep his pride. One loyal Callahan left in the clan! It wasn’t anywhere near enough, but it was something. Tye knew what the kid was thinking, and there was no real choice: go back to Glenvale and carry on with women’s work, or stay out in the wild country on the tail of Tye Callahan and hope to gather what scraps the great man might drop. It wasn’t a stretch.
Night came, blue and then purple and black, and Tye eventually heard him go – rustling through the brush like a drunken porcupine. How the fuck had the kid managed to trap a jackrabbit?
It felt good to be out in the wilderness by himself, finally. The quiet settled his thoughts, helped to clear away the old, mottled rage – or at least refine it and compress it into something cold and hard and pure. The idea of the bear trap he had set gave him great satisfaction. It was a message. They needed to know who they were up against. A man had his pride.
It took almost a week for the bird to spot the two horsemen. She had circled lower and lower, guiding them to Tye, who sat brooding and stoking the fire under a pot of coffee. Cowboy coffee: charred husks of wheat, powdered and added to water, swallowed so hot that he couldn’t taste the ash and the dirt. There was a lesson there somewhere, but he didn’t want to know what it was.
The scouts had been impatient to move south, for the old man to show them to The Mouth so that they could scope it out and return as quickly as they could. The southern lands were backward and dangerous – the pot on the fire was a marker of just how bad things had got when insects and ash were the new rabbits and moonshine. And the landscape had changed on them too. If that harrier hadn’t led them to her master, the two men would have wandered in circles, cursing one another. Even the wildlife was more unpredictable since they’d last ridden these spaces. A bear had attacked them in the night, driven desperate with the smell of their rations, and they’d shot it through the fabric of their tent.
They had offered Tye a place behind one of them on their precious horses, but he had spat in the dust at the animals’ hooves and told them that Tye Callahan rode behind no man. They had let it go but marked him as difficult. They were watching their mouths.
He led them southward, walking swiftly, his heart in time with the quick steps of the horses. This was what he was best at: the hunt. They would camp at the lake and get to The Mouth in the morning – no point in scouting it out in the darkness. Tye showed the men to a clearing and helped them set up camp. The horses stood in the shallows drinking, happy, unaware of the treasures they had become.
He’d forgotten how powerful horses were. He remembered, instead, the last months with Tumbleweed and how she’d grown too weak to take a saddle. There had been a transformation of some kind: she had become a big dog, following Tye wherever he went. When she became too arthritic, Tye had shot her. Hardest thing I ever had to do, he reminded himself. There was no one else to tell. He’d even considered burying her in a grave like a human, but that would have been a waste. He had said the prayers over her carcass and skinned her in stages, weeping all the while. He had cut her flesh into strips for drying, but it was like flaying his own kin.
A year later he had lost about half of her to mold and coyotes. Every last scrap of her was long gone, including the territories she had helped him navigate, the nooks and crannies of the southern lands that she had let him reach. Now he had to trust others to oversee things – and look where that had landed him! Cashing in a favor with Renard just so he could get even with a couple of upstarts. It was pathetic. But it was also what would reignite the fear people used to give the Callahans as their due.
The scouts didn’t talk much, and that was the way he liked it. They set about their task of clearing the space and pitching their tents. Tye offered to brush their horses down and pick out their feet – stone bruises would see the end of the mission. He’d wanted to touch them from the moment they’d thundered up beside him, but hadn’t wanted to seem sentimental. Tye unbuckled their saddles and began brushing them, the sweat lines dark from the day’s work. He spoke gently into their ears and they blew through their nostrils back at him. He dimly overheard one of the scouts saying to the other that he was a crazy old coot, but a man who liked horses couldn’t be all bad. His harrier had taken off, sulking.
When Tye was done, he tied the horses to adjoining trees and went to rejoin the men. They had set up the camp and made a fire. He sat with them while they prepared their dinner – a fancy stew out of a couple of tins labeled Grass-fed Beef Stroganoff in blue and gold writing. What else would you feed a cow besides grass? Tye was amazed again at how foreign everything from the North had become: it was another country up there. Renard must be doing well. New cutlery, new clothes, new canteens and new hats. The gear made Tye look like a drifter – homeless.
But that’s exactly what I am, he thought. And so is everyone south of the border. It’s better that way. Less to lose when the end-times come upon you.
They offered him some stew, but he didn’t want to be beholden to them, with their soft bellies and their fancy boots.
‘I’m going to head off and find some proper shelter before it’s dark,’ he offered. ‘You never know with the wind down this side.’
‘Good thinking,’ one of the men replied.
‘If we’re up early we can be at The Mouth by sun-up. Best light for scouting, I reckon.’
The two men nodded and continued eating their stew. Tye walked up from the shore and into the dusty pockets of fescue, one of the scouts belching as he went. When he was some ways off, he heard them break into conversation, chatting idly – free to do so without Tye sitting patiently, waiting to be offered a plate of chow – scraps, even – like a dog.
He found a crevice in a hillside, as he had known he would, a crack in the earth made larger with the endless movement of water and wind, and he curled up into it, cold and tired and hungry from the day’s walk, and pleased to be lying down. One of these days he wouldn’t get up again. But he had work to do before then.
Sometime during the night the unfaithful harrier came back with blood on her beak. He shared a penitent stick of dried fish with her – his last – and fell back into a sleep as deep as the grave.
The next morning, when Tye awoke, he decided that if the scouts gave him food and real coffee, he would take the offering with both hands. He gathered his things and retraced his route back to the waterline and the camp.
He noticed first that the horses were missing. For a moment he figured the scouts had gone on to The Mouth without him, and the rage rose in his chest.
But
then he came into the camp proper and he saw the two bodies, the throats slit, the life bled out and staining the ground near the empty tins of stew.
41
Vida clenched her fists. How could he not know what Ester was doing? She watched them again as the girl looked sideways at Dyce under her lashes, the weird eyes shiny as oil slicks. What is this? Fucking high school? Every chance Ester got, she’d slide too close past Dyce, touch his hand or graze him with her stony breasts. The thin material of the floral dress did not cover her nipples properly. Every time Vida turned her head, she caught the shadows on Ester’s chest, raisins against the cloth, the rest of the breast shiny and red with infection. Milk fever, she thought. She had seen it enough times with her mama’s ladies. It could make you crazy. The vial was hidden somewhere else. Vida tried to ignore it, seeing it for what it was – a ploy to unsettle them – but it was so blatant, so undisguised. As if she wants me to lash out at her, she thought. That’s it. I can’t give her an excuse. Ester’s sisters, blood kin or not, were waiting for her back at the chapel until they heard word one way or the other. It was just a matter of time before Vida and Dyce met with an accident, or an infection: something nasty and unplanned. Vida made up her mind to watch the girl all the more carefully.
But there was no logic in offing either Dyce or Vida before they found the horses, right? Three heads were better than one. There was comfort in that, at least. One wrong move, witch, and I’ll break you in half with my bare hands.
The sun was low when they came to the shores of Belmear Lake. The water was greenish-brown, the surface disturbed now and then by listless puffs of wind that snaked down through the trees. They were beginning their trek around the sandy bank when Vida caught the clinking of metal somewhere on the other side.
She stopped, then hushed the others and made sure they were settled well deep into the foliage before she investigated. Ester pressed the hot stones of her chest against Dyce’s back. He edged forward. It wasn’t sexy; it was creepy. She was sick. He pictured the two of them rolling together in the pigweed, and then her dry lips opening wide to kiss him, the tongue jabbing at him, the teeth layered row upon row like a lamprey.
Vida pointed across the water to a clearing on the far side. Two men in store-bought clothes sat beside a fire, talking. She could hear the mumble of their distant words, noted their good boots and their spongy stomachs. It was their first sighting of true-blue Northerners, and even from across the lake they looked like the kind of men who scrubbed under their fingernails.
And behind them – oh, praise Jesus! – were the tethered horses. Vida elbowed Dyce where he knelt.
‘Bingo,’ he whispered.
Behind Vida, Ester reached forward and squeezed his dick through his pants. Dyce fell sideways, caught himself, and threw her hand back at her.
Vida turned around. ‘I got an idea,’ she said. ‘How about we attack from the water? They won’t be expecting that. Crawl up the bank and, and—’
‘And slit their throats.’ Ester grinned. Vida didn’t doubt that she would do it, and look like she was enjoying herself too.
Dyce looked desperately at Vida. It would be unwise to confess his fear of water. Vida spared him.
‘I been bait once before. Dyce, it’s your turn. You go round and get their attention. Ester, you and me, we’ll swim across real quiet. You got a knife?’
The girl nodded. Of course she did. Probably had a whole fucking armory under that dress. Ester was a cockroach.
‘I just have one question.’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Can you swim?’
Vida tightened her lips. Another strike against Ester. I swear, if she ever gives me the chance, I am going to wring that skinny white neck of hers, and count it as a job well done.
Dyce grabbed Vida’s hand and pressed it before she said anything she would regret, but there were no fond goodbyes – not with that girl watching them, hungry. Then he set off scrambling, making as much noise as he could: a greenhorn who’d lost the trail. He stopped once and looked back at the two women beside the lake. Ester was staring out across the water, but Vida only had eyes for the girl. Mama-bear eyes, Dyce thought, and that calmed his nerves some. Vida was tough, and it helped that she was covering his back.
He went on. When he came to a stream he hopped it and scared a frog into the muddied water. ‘This is your lucky day, Kermit,’ Dyce told him. ‘You owe me.’
The scouts were terrible at their job, oblivious to Dyce’s approach despite his crashing and stamping. He’d have to resort to a fit of coughing if they didn’t turn soon and spot him.
The two women waited a couple of minutes, then Vida tucked her knife into her bra strap and gestured to go in. They waded into the cool, murky water, keeping to the reeds, and they moved slowly, testing the mud under their boots. The weeds along the bottom were dangerous, and Vida made sure she wasn’t trapped. The lake deepened pretty quick, with sudden dips that took your feet out from under you when you least expected.
She looked back. Ester was bold, but she wasn’t careful. Her dress slowed her, too. Vida found herself waiting for her to catch up. She strained to hear what Dyce was saying through his boy-howdy act and a fake coughing attack.
‘God, just swallowed me a swarm of midges back there. Protein though, right? How you boys doin’?’
The scouts would be reaching for their rifles, and raising them at Dyce.
‘You folks mind if I take a look at them? Horses! Man, real horses! I haven’t seen one in these parts in years.’
‘Move along.’
‘I will. Just, I promised my father that next time I saw a horse, I’d give it a good old stroke down the nose. My daddy’s dead, you see. Had a real thing for horses.’
‘I’m going to count to three . . .’
Behind Vida, Ester yelped and went under.
In a few strokes, Vida made back the couple of feet between them – the girl was mean, but she couldn’t let her drown – and felt for her struggling arms under the water. But she was too wriggly to get a grip on. Typical, thought Vida.
Ester’s head broke the surface, and she gurgled and splashed. Vida reached out for her again and got a handful of dress. She hissed, ‘Shut up, Ester! Do you want to get us all killed?’
Ester shut up. They bobbed together and Vida wiped the water out of her eyes with her free hand. She checked back on Dyce. Still good. He was holding his hands up on either side, like a pastor pacifying a mob at the city gates.
Vida tugged at her. ‘Come on. Could you help me here? At least make a fucking effort!’
But Ester wasn’t moving.
‘What’s going on? Is your foot stuck?’
The girl reached out both her hands and dunked Vida’s head under the surface, like a basket ball. Vida drew in a mouthful of water as she went down, flailing at the thin arms that were holding her. My God, the girl was strong!
She could see nothing through the muddy water, and felt only the weeds tugging at her boots, dragging her to the bottom as if they had come to Ester’s aid like the scaly coils of Mami Wata. Vida’s lungs burnt; she pictured them flattened and useless inside her chest. She reached out again and grabbed at Ester’s billowing dress. Somewhere inside it she would be reaching for her knife now, Vida knew, and there was only one chance.
Vida struggled to reach for her own blade. What a dumbass place to put it! She hadn’t thought she would need it until she was on the other side. Her arm felt as if it was being wrenched out of its socket, but the handle was in her reach. She fought the darkness that kept dropping down over her eyes, and angled the knife forward, trying to judge the flesh behind the material of that fucking dress. She drove the blade into where she thought her chest was and knew the impact when it happened because the girl’s body rocked forward, clenching over the knife like she was trying to keep hold of it and oh my God it felt good!
It’s a mercy killing, Vida kept thinking. It’s a mercy. I’m letting the poison out.
Maybe she should look for the colostrum.
Ah, fuck it. That was wasting time. Let the fish have it. The fish and the mermaids.
Vida put her knife into the loop of her waistband and set her boots against the slippery rocks at the bottom. She pushed Ester’s body under the water. Tit for tat. The air left the girl’s lungs faster than she had thought it would, but the body floated, persistent.
She reached down for a rock and lifted it. She rolled it into the dress. How many would she need? Four or five big ones? She had to move fast, so that the scouts didn’t see that tent of a dress, its flowers bleached into the white sail of surrender.
Vida broke the surface quietly and floated for half a minute to catch her breath, the thought of the rocks rolling loose and sending the corpse up beneath her making her move on sooner than she was ready. She stared into the water for the ghost shape, but Ester was far enough down. They only needed a couple of minutes. Please stay down. Oblige me just once in your sorry fucking life!
Dyce had about reached the end of his parley; the scouts had lost their patience with this babbling stranger. He didn’t seem quite right in the head, but what was one more Southerner? No loss to Renard, that was for sure. Dyce looked up beyond the men and saw Vida emerge, slithering, from the lake, and for a moment she was half woman, half snake: Her jeans were wet through, gleaming like scales as they shed water. He kept talking, the quick nonsensical patter about his dad and the horses and the one time they went to the county fair, and Vida moved up the bank, shadowy, quiet – her knife in her hand.
‘One . . .’
‘It’s just my dad only died yesterday, can you believe it? Just come from burying him, and seeing a pair of horses right away – well, that’s a sign, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you say?’
Dyce took a step toward the horses, his hand raised to pet them. The rifles followed.