He felt her coming before he saw her. “Hiya boy,” Molly said. “You look hungry.”
She was wearing a white dress which managed to be proper, but still managed not to look stiff or cloying like the popular lacy straight-jackets most of the women were wearing. Molly’s blond locks were tucked neatly under her hat, and a smile dimpled her cheeks. She sat down beside him and set the lunch basket on her knees. He had to fight off the urge to wrap her up in his arms, take her gently down to the boards and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.
Garret squinted up at the sky. A few clouds scuttled through the autumn blue. The air was pleasantly warm, but the sun was bright enough to be harsh. He squinted. “Wanna go inside?”
She stood. He took the basket and got the door.
* * *
“Where’s your brother?” Molly asked as she laid the picnic cloth over the tool table Garret had hastily cleared.
“He’ll be along.” Garret smirked, thinking Sarn was probably still smarting over Garret’s decisive win that morning.
“Garret,” she scolded. “You should be nicer to your little brother.”
Garret grinned. Girls never understood this sort of thing. “Somebody has to keep the kid in his place.”
“Garret.” She hooked him with her eyes and stopped his reach for the pail by laying a hand on his cheek. “You need to be nice to your brother.”
Garret rolled his eyes and leaned over to give her a kiss as he pulled the lid off the pail. He found his lips pressed against the handle of a small cross peen hammer she’d found lying on the work bench.
“Garret. Be nice to your brother.”
“Okay.”
Then she kissed him on the cheek.
The blacksmith shop was cozy and dim. Not dark like a cave, but lit in low enough light to let Garret and his Pa keep track of the color of their heated metal. The shop always felt comfortably close, and suddenly much closer when Molly started rubbing her foot on Garret’s leg as she laid out the food.
Garret’s mouth watered as she piled two huge sandwiches in front of him, thick with corned beef and cheese. But for a moment, her hands caught his attention more than the food. They were small, perfectly formed as china, like the rest of her, but they were strong, and always offering something to make someone else happy. He reached out and tucked a curling blond lock behind her ear. He’d forgotten about his filthy blacksmith hands.
Her pursed smile said she knew what he’d done before he did. His mouth fell open at the sight of the black coal and fire scale swathe across her cheek. She stared at him, looking like she was about to break her face trying to be mad. “Garret, tell me you didn’t touch my dress.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” He snatched a rag off the bench.
She was off the table in an instant. “Get away from me with that! Why are boys always so dirty?!”
He looked at the rag in his hand. It was filthy enough for Orem to have dropped it. Hmmm. He was off the bench after her, holding the rag at arm’s length. “Come here, I’ll clean it off!”
“Garret!” she shrieked, leaping behind his anvil. “Don’t you dare!” He tried for her again, but she was behind the coal bin before he could make the anvil. The girl could move like a gazelle.
“Molly!” He held out both hands as he chased her back and forth, round and round. “Just let me clean it up for you! I’m really sorry!”
“Garret, this isn’t funny! Get away from me.” But her expression was only partially mad.
“Molly, you’re hurting my feelings!”
Back around both anvils and around the tool cart.
“I’ll hurt a lot more than your feelings if you touch my dress!”
“But Molly, I love you!”
They rounded the brick forge, and she snatched one of the sets of fire tongs off the front of the forge and held it out to keep distance between them.
Garret held out his hands, disgusting rag included, and pretended to cry. “Molly, what are you saying? Don’t you love me anymore? Is this it for us?”
“Not one more step!”
Ooh, a challenge. Garret took three steps, taking a couple blows from the tongs for his effort.
Haha, cornered.
“Garret!” she squealed as he leaped at her and twisted, taking her down gently on top of him on a pile of burlap sacks.
She gave him a gentle slap on the cheek. “Shame on you. Look what you did you immature—”
He kissed her, like he’d wanted to the night before, deep and needful. After a moment, she softened to it.
She sighed and smiled at him. “You’re impossible.”
“Thanks.”
They lay there for a couple minutes. He felt the old sadness begin to rise up inside him. He knew it was coming, but as always, he couldn’t stop it. It welled up in him, and he crossed an arm over the small of her back, holding her close. Her smile faded with his, and she laid her head down on his collar bone.
“What’s wrong, Garret?”
“Nothing.” His throat tightened up. “Don’t leave me, okay? I need you.”
“I’m not going to leave you, Garr. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer. She let it sit for a moment, then said, “Garret, do you know why I didn’t get mad at you the other night?”
“Uh, I think you did get mad at me.”
“Not as mad as you deserved. You would have made love to me if I’d let you.”
Father Bendetti often preached about the deepest circle of hell, where the Devil waited to torture fornicators forever. Or worse yet, Molly’s mother might find out.
Garret knew he should feel bad about it, but he didn’t. Instead he got angry. That was happening more and more these days. He tried to keep it inside, but he felt like he was losing control of his anger, and it scared him. He tried to be soft, but his words came out harshly anyway.
“I shouldn’t be attracted to you? I shouldn’t love you?”
“Those aren’t the same thing, Garret,” she said levelly.
He had to drop his eyes. After a few moments, the anger abated just enough to leave him a bit hoarse when he said, “You’re mine Molly. I won’t let you go.”
She raised his chin until he had to meet her eyes. “I’m my own person, Garret. But I do love you very much.” She smiled. “I love you enough to put up with you when you’re like this.”
“Like what?”
She sighed. “It’s not you, my love, and you need to learn that so you can let it go.”
He frowned and swallowed a surge of annoyance. “What are you talking about? This is who I am.”
She didn’t reply. He was too stupid to let it go. He took her gently by the shoulders and sat her up so he could see her. “You’ve said that before. I know I…” He couldn’t say it, so he changed questions. “What do you mean?”
She laid a hand over his heart. “Garret, do you trust me?”
“More than myself,” he said immediately.
Her smile turned wry at that, but she said, “Then just walk with me, and learn to listen to this,” she spread her fingers over his heart and smiled, warm and sunny. “And everything will work out,” she finished.
It actually brought a lump to his throat.
“Molly, I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” Where the hell did that come from? he wondered. Why was everything such a blurred mess all the time? The old desperation rose up in him. He would never be what he needed to be. He could never do the things everyone expected of him. He knew it. He knew he would fail. He was babbling to her. “We’re going to have a great life together. I’m going to make it work. I’ll find a way to give you all the things you want.”
She put a finger on his lips and laid back down on him again. His words faded and he soaked up her touch. After a moment Garret nuzzled her forehead. “I have something for you.”
She smiled. “What is it?”
“It’s your pre-birthday present. It’s in your left pocket.
”
She narrowed her eyes, but reached down her side into the pocket.
He cleared his throat. “That’s your right pocket.”
“Garret, I know my left from my right.”
“Okay my left then.”
“How did you even know this dress had pockets?”
Garret waggled his eyebrows until she rolled her eyes. She fumbled in the pocket for a second before pulling out a miniature, grinning iron frog, made out of tiny tabs of iron, rolled and hammered together.
“How cute!” she squealed and sat up on Garret, setting the frog on her palm where she could hold it up in the light. Her smile warmed him from his head to his toes. God what a great girl. He wanted to hold her tight, for fear she might suddenly evaporate, or worse, suddenly realize the truth that he would never be good enough for her.
“You like it?” he asked, forcing a confident smile.
“I love it.”
Good. He’d done something right today.
“Thank you Garret,” she hugged his neck. “I’m going to put it…” her voice trailed off.
“Garret, is this…?”
He was suddenly uncomfortable.
“Is this the frog?”
He squirmed. “What frog?”
“The one from the dream I told you about.”
Two weeks ago, she’d had a nightmare about getting chased by a blue demon frog with big teeth. She’d told him, and though the dream sounded silly, it had left her quite frightened, which upset him, so he’d made her an innocent little frog which would always be smiling at her. But now it seemed dumb. After a moment he nodded. She looked from its round, buggy little eyes to its big smile, then to Garret’s face. She gave him another hug and sighed as she rested on his chest. “I love you Garret.”
After a while she said, “How did you get it in my pocket anyway?”
“Ha! I’ll never tell,” he said.
“Should I come back?” said another voice.
Garret and Molly turned towards the doorway. In it stood Sarn. His stocky build was in its usual slouch, with mild amusement on his otherwise expressionless face.
Molly exhaled and smiled. “Hi Sarn.”
He nodded to her, then said to Garret, “Wow. Imagine if I’d been Pa. Or,” he paused for effect and looked at his nails. “…or Mrs. Malvern.”
Garret’s world chilled.
“Yep,” Sarn said, as enthusiastically as if he was counting backwards from one million. “If I was her, you’d probably be on the first slave ship to Siberia right now.”
Molly giggled and got up off of Garret. “How about a sandwich, Sarn? Think you could keep a secret then?”
He almost smiled. “Probably.”
“Don’t let him near the cobbler,” Garret said, closing his eyes and laying back. “He’s selfish. Won’t leave any for anybody else.”
Sarn didn’t comment, but Molly gave Garret a glare. Smirking, Garret jumped to his feet, or tried, but only made it halfway. Clank! His left arm was jerked out straight by his jump. It was handcuffed to the ring on the coal bin with the sheriff’s broken cuffs, which Garret had recently mended.
“How in the world?”
The cuffs had been on the workbench with the rest of the finished projects—near where Molly had been sitting. Garret gawked at her as she sat down daintily to eat with Sarn.
“How did you—”
“Ha,” she said primly. “I’ll never tell. More mustard, Sarn?”
Germany, 1589
Youngblood slipped to the edge of the trees. The darkness under the boughs covered him, kept him hidden even from the stars. Shadow was his home and his shelter. From it, he looked across the dirt, past the tree stump with the man’s Tree Biter sticking out of it, and across the pile of neatly stacked tree pieces that men had chopped with the Tree Biter. Youngblood shivered because he had seen what they could do with their pieces of chopped wood. He’d felt the heat of the Crackling Terror they could conjure from it. Only men and lightning could create the Crackling Terror: bright, burning-hot, and eating everything in its path.
Tonight, though, Youngblood was not interested in man’s wood or in his Crackling Terror. He was interested in man’s pup. The she-pup who dwelled with her father in the box made of stacked trees.
Since the night Youngblood had felt the connection between himself and the deadwalker, he had rarely allowed himself out of earshot of his pack, but some nights, such as tonight, a stronger instinct than safety made him sneak away from his pack. They would think he was hunting, and he would let them think so, but a desire even stronger than the hunt drew him here. He did not know or understand the desire. No yip or howl could speak to its depth, but it compelled him as surely as the high winds blew the sun across the sky each day. Youngblood was drawn to the she-pup.
Her father made a sound when he wanted her. All of men’s sounds were confusing to the ears and the mind, but Youngblood liked the sound he made when he called his she-pup. “Gerda,” he would say, and she would come.
Her scent stirred Youngblood and made him look with envy at the tame wolf-cousins which stayed with her. Sometimes, in the middle of the day, Youngblood would peek from the trees at the she-pup as she walked to town with the wolf-cousins milling around her. Or in the evening, he would watch as she fed the wolf-cousins, or at night when she sat on the roof of the tree-box and looked at the moon just as Youngblood did. Watching its pale face watch her in return.
Youngblood had stumbled upon the she-pup and her father when he was less than a year old. He’d strayed from a hunt to follow a familiar yet strange scent, which had turned out to be that of a tame wolf-cousin. Never having seen a man, or a man’s she-pup before, curiosity held his natural fear at bay, and he huddled behind a log to watch the she-pup and her wolf-cousins.
At first, Youngblood could not understand why they seemed so attached to her, as if they needed her presence more than they needed water to drink with their slobbery tongues. Their happy attraction was strange to him, but like most wolves, he was very curious. He returned many times to watch the odd going’s-on with the she-pup and the wolf-cousins, and the more he watched, the more he began to desire to be like them.
Youngblood shifted his hindquarters off of a stick that was about to break under his weight. Assured again of quiet, he watched the wolf-cousins with her now, wagging their tails and barking and leaping up to kiss her with their noses.
Youngblood would never jump and bark. He did not know how to bark. But he wanted to be with her. He wanted to follow her to the men-village and make certain no one would harm her. He wanted to sit in her yard with the wolf-cousins and keep watch over her tree-box long into the night, after the lazy wolf-cousins lay in a snoring pile.
Even though he no longer feared her, he still feared men, and he knew they feared him. Youngblood was a creature of the earth scents, and the moon’s glow. She was a creature of men’s tree-boxes. Yet she was more. She knew what it was to yearn for the moon’s love. She would understand his watching over her in silence. Youngblood desired that, but instead, he rose from his hiding place and turned to go because he knew he would never be welcome.
A month ago, he had plucked up the courage to sneak to her open window at the darkest hour of night. She had been sleeping on a goose-smelling thing. As Youngblood slipped away from the window, becoming again a part of the shadows that hung and the streams that trickled, he wondered what it would be like to lay at the foot of her goose-smelling thing and keep watch over her all night long.
The woods beckoned him, and he answered the call. Silent. Swift. Gone. As he went, he heard the father make the sound, “Gerda.” Somehow, the sound belonged to her. Youngblood had no sound of his own, only the cold silence of the stars to urge him home.
* * *
The Appalachian Mountains, 1912
Ella stuck out her lip at Garret and put the mended skillet in her basket.
“Well,” Garret said innocently, “You’ve blown three of Mrs. Malvern’
s skillets in half, but I think she likes your cooking too well to fire you.”
Ella shushed him and headed for the door. Garret rummaged for his favorite flat-nosed tongs. Ella was one of only a half-dozen black people in town. Half the town was cruel to her. The other half was indifferent. She was sweet no matter what happened. She put the basket over her arm, which contained the iron skillet Garret had just mended, and reached to pull the shop door closed behind herself.
Garret fished the blade blank out of the coals, but nearly dropped it when Mrs. Malvern’s shrilling rattled the rafters.
“Wretch! Disgusting little wench! How could you?” She wrangled the words as if she was chewing them on the way out. Garret laid the glowing piece of metal on his anvil and crept to the window. Ella still had her hand on the shop door knob, a look of horror on her face.
Mrs. Malvern was climbing down out of her carriage, helped by two wide-eyed servants. “How could you do this to me?!” She tried to wave her fist at the frightened Ella, and almost fell on one of the men helping her down. If she had, she would have killed him for sure.
Garret stared. Mrs. Malvern was wearing an old dressing gown. In town. Every time he’d previously seen her, she was dressed to the nines. As far as Garret knew, she put on lace and ten pounds of gold jewelry if she was going out to look at her garden. He assumed she slept with a hat on. Now her hair was in disarray, her dressing gown was old and comfortably worn, and she had a linen napkin—yes a napkin—tucked into her collar as if she’d just jumped up from the table.
Ella shied back against the door as Mrs. Malvern screamed and struggled to mount the boardwalk. With some help and another near-death experience for a servant, she managed it, and barreled into Ella’s face, swinging as she came. “My Daphne! My precious Daphne!”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Ella said, but Mrs. Malvern was all over her, senseless.
Only when she was close enough to start slapping Ella about the head and shoulders was she also close enough for Garret to see the tears streaming through Mrs. Malvern’s crow’s feet. “How could you? How could you do such a despicable thing?”
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