Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  “I’m well,” I assured, though I had to force a calm tone. I nodded towards her and explained, “The woman there reminds me a bit of a girl I used to know, that is all.”

  “Let’s say good day!” Malcolm pleaded, not pressing for answers as he would have if older than twelve years. “Might we, Lorie?”

  A beat of indecision struck at me, but then I thought of our conversation last night at the riverbank, and nodded allowance.

  “But only for a moment’s time,” I said.

  The woman acknowledged us with curious eyes as we approached, further increasing her resemblance to Deirdre; I thought of the way I used to envy my old friend’s ability to express excitement and anticipation, even in the midst of life in a whorehouse, and how observing those feelings, even secondarily, gave me comfort. I thought of Deirdre brushing my hair and holding me close in the room of horrors which had been mine at Ginny’s, how her friendship had been the only thing to sustain me during those years. I faltered a little, at first letting Malcolm do the talking so that I could catch my breath past the bruising ache in my breastbone.

  “Howdy, ma’am, we spied these here kittens,” Malcolm explained. The two boys, perhaps ages five and seven, fell silent and watched him with keen-eyed interest; I elbowed Malcolm as discreetly as possible and he swept off his hat, tucking it beneath his left arm. His dark hair was flattened with sweat, and the woman smiled indulgently at him.

  “Perhaps you should like to hold one?” she invited. She was about the age Deirdre would be now, had she lived, twenty-five or thereabouts, slim and delicately built, with glinting dark hair pinned into two low rolls on her nape. She was fine-featured, her eyes a lovely, multi-colored hazel, decorated by predominantly brown tones, but rather than the pale, nearly translucent skin that Deirdre had possessed, rarely venturing out of doors, this woman’s hands and face were brown with the sun; a sunburned vee of skin was visible on her chest where her collar buttons were undone two past the top in concession to the heat of the day. Whereas my old friend had been ethereal, I sensed that this woman was possessed of an opposite mettle.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am!” Malcolm enthused, accepting a small gray ball of fur; the kitten mewled and Malcolm cuddled it close, murmuring endearments.

  “Rebecca Krage,” the woman said in introduction, shading her eyes with her left hand and offering her right. Our eyes met and held as we shook, and I felt a knowing pass between us, even without words. In other circumstances, my instinct suggested, we might have grown to be friends. She indicated the boys and added, “And my sons, Cort and Nathaniel.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Krage,” I said. “I am Lorissa Davis, and this is my brother, Malcolm Carter.”

  “Does the hanging bring you to town?” she asked; as though guilty for taking pleasure in gossiping, she explained immediately, “Excuse my appalling lack of manners. I must confess, I live in a household with no other womenfolk to keep me company.” Adopting a conspiratorial tone she said, “My uncle, Edward Tilson, doctors for the town and surrounding areas, so I know everyone hereabouts, and nearly all of their secrets, unpleasant or otherwise. Please, do call me Rebecca.”

  “We are not here for the hanging. We are bound for Minnesota,” I explained, charmed by her. “Sawyer, my husband, and my elder brother Boyd are at the dry-goods store at present. We knew nothing of the hanging but were quite well informed by a man named Parmley.”

  “Parmley,” she repeated, disdain in her tone. “The man is a sore nuisance, that’s what. Excuse my speaking so freely, but I have been acquainted with Horace most of my life, and he has not improved greatly with the years. He no doubt relished delivering all the unsavory details.”

  I found her forthright speech unexpected and admirable—as well as accurate.

  “What’s this little fella’s name?” Malcolm interrupted to ask of the kitten; he was clearly smitten.

  “Dear boy, I haven’t named a one. Uncle Edward’s cat very recently produced this litter and the kittens were promised to households long before they were birthed. There isn’t a better way to rid a barn of varmints.” Rebecca invited, “Why don’t you choose a name for that one? In fact, I would be happy to gift you with the animal, if you’ve a mind to allow it, Mrs. Davis. No better mouser in the county than its mother.”

  Malcolm’s face was wreathed in sudden hopeful joy, dark eyebrows lifting as his lips fell open. Staving off what was sure to become a begging campaign, I asked, “But aren’t all of them promised to other families?”

  Rebecca lowered her voice and confessed, “Uncle Edward wanted to keep one for himself, which I shall instead give you. I’ll weather his temper, never you fear.” She saw my surprise at her words, and said, “I am only teasing. Uncle Edward is soft-hearted as a dove, for all his blustering. He shan’t be angered. He is more than able to keep a kitten from the next litter.”

  “Oh please, Lorie-Lorie?” Malcolm gushed. “Please?”

  I reached and stroked the small creature, unable to resist. It was soft as a bird’s wing, its eyes round and bright, tail sticking straight into the air. I said, “It’ll be Boyd who needs convincing, not me.” And to Rebecca, “Are you certain?”

  “More than certain,” she said. “How long shall you be in town? Might I invite you and your menfolk to dinner? Oh, I would be delighted to continue chatting.”

  “Thank you kindly,” I told her, touched at this invitation. “But we’ve planned to stay no longer than it takes to make purchases.”

  “Our pa is dead,” one of Rebecca’s boys, the younger, suddenly told Malcolm.

  All of us looked his way at this unexpected pronouncement, Malcolm and I with mild alarm, though Malcolm empathized at once, informing the boy, “My daddy, too. He died three years ago now.”

  “My pa never come home from the War,” the boy explained, and Rebecca’s lips twisted. She smoothed a strand of dark hair behind her ear in the manner of someone who does not wish to elaborate on a particular subject.

  “My Elijah was one of far too many,” she said softly. “I live now with Uncle Edward and my brother, Clint Clemens. Clint is a deputy sheriff, but he’d make a far better schoolteacher, as I’ve told him too many times to count.”

  “I am most sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “But now the marshal is courting Mama,” the other boy said, with enthusiasm. “He pays calls whenever he’s in town. Uncle Edward says –”

  “Heavens, Cort, bite your tongue,” Rebecca scolded. “What proclamations.”

  “Your mouth’s as big as mine,” Malcolm told Cort, companionably.

  “You shall think me impudent, but may I guess your state of origin, the two of you?” Rebecca asked; I sensed she wished to change the subject, forthwith, and did not wait for an answer before saying with certainty, “Tennessee.”

  “That’s correct,” I told her, thinking of Charley Rawley’s ear for accents. I wagered, “You are not from there yourself—someone you know, perhaps?”

  Rebecca said, “Yes, Uncle Edward was born and raised there. He served as a field doctor in the Confederacy for the duration. His wife passed while he was serving and he relocated north to live with my mama, his little sister, after he was mustered out. He didn’t realize Mama had also passed during the War.”

  So many lives claimed by it, whether directly or otherwise, no small amount a result of the starvation and abject poverty in the wake of years of fighting, subjugated soldiers straggling home to places that were often no more than dust and a handful of carefully-guarded sacred memories—well I knew these truths. There could never be an entirely accurate count of the overall death toll.

  The sun was well past its noon zenith; Sawyer and Boyd would be expecting us, and even though I had enjoyed conversing with Rebecca Krage, the unease that was determinedly stalking me seemed nearer than ever. I shooed a fly from buzzing near my nose, wishing I could as easily shove aside the sensation of threat; I was barely able to restrain the urge to look over my shou
lder. Though it was unreasonable, it seemed to me an inordinate amount of time had passed since I had seen Sawyer.

  “I hate to be discourteous, but my brother and I must continue on our way,” I said.

  Rebecca’s eyebrows drew together just slightly, as if a hint of my agitation transferred to her, though she said only, “Well, I must say that I am disappointed you are only in town the day. Take care, the both of you. It was lovely to make your acquaintances!” Winking at Malcolm, she said, “And mind that kitten!”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I will,” he said dutifully, cuddling the small bundle close.

  “Good-day,” I said, in haste to be away.

  Malcolm scampered beside me, too busy lavishing love on his new pet to notice that I walked at a much brisker pace than usual; Sawyer and Boyd had likely made their intended purchases and were loading the wagon just now. The dry-goods store was only a few blocks west—wasn’t it? I fell still, looking this way and that, the crowd swirling together as eggs stirred in a pan, slippery colors mixing and blending. A man with only one leg, his pants trimmed and tied off at mid-thigh to accommodate this misfortune, hobbled past us on crutches, casting a curious glance at the kitten. Sweat slid down my temples.

  “Lorie, can’t we just peek at them hanging ropes, just take a peek?” Malcolm cajoled, craning his neck for a better view; his voice reached me from a distance, as though he stood on the opposite side of a holler.

  “No,” I said, as firmly as I could manage. I forced myself to draw a deep breath, to gather my bearings, deciding, however unfairly, that I vehemently despised this busy town. The telegraph office, a small wooden structure, loomed to our right, adjacent to a whitewashed hotel with fancy gold lettering adorning the front window. A dipper rested against the rim of a water bucket being used to prop open a side door of the hotel, perhaps one leading into its kitchen; just down the alleyway beyond the door, tucked behind the building, I could see the very edge of an outhouse.

  “Please, I just want me a peek,” Malcolm begged, draping the kitten over a shoulder. His earnest eyes pleaded with me. “I reckon it’s just yonder, where all them folks is headed. I only aim to see what it looks like, that’s all. I ain’t ever seen a real hanging rope, or them trapdoors they fall from, in all my livin’ life! Please, Lorie?”

  “No,” I said decisively, tugging his elbow for emphasis; the hanging would no doubt shortly commence and the idea of him running that way and inadvertently observing two men fall to their deaths made my stomach turn. I told him, “You wait here while I use the necessary, and then we are going to find Sawyer and Boyd and leave this detestable place.”

  Detestable, I thought, conjuring the familiar image of the thesaurus open over my mother’s lap. Synonyms include: vile, revolting, loathsome, hateful, abominable.

  Malcolm’s face registered clear disappointment, though he nodded without another word of protest. But his eyes followed the crowd.

  “I’ll return directly,” I said, and hurried along the alley to the outhouse, determined to stop allowing my imagination to clench me in a chokehold. There was a hand pump around the back corner of the hotel, under which a clump of rangy daisies grew, long-stemmed and thriving beneath the dripping handle, and I bent to splash my face, letting the cool liquid trickle into the collar of my blouse. It felt good and helped somewhat to ease the sense of unreality that hovered too near. My sleeves were rolled back, my skirt limp with the humidity, my booted toes dusty. I drank from my cupped palm and then made haste using the outhouse.

  No more than five minutes had passed, perhaps even less, but Malcolm was not in sight when I returned, and dread swooped in with wings spread.

  “Malcolm!” I called sharply, earning a few glances, but no one paused to speak to me, or to inquire if I needed assistance. A pulsing jolt of concern nearly took me to my knees, and I shouted, “Malcolm Carter!”

  He was not within hearing distance, as no response met my ears. Heart gouging a hole into my ribs, I peered frantically at the strangers passing by, hoping beyond reason that Malcolm’s familiar freckled face would pop into view and he would apologize for worrying me—and then I would summarily bend him over my knee and apply the nearest convenient switch to his behind.

  Surely he had gone to spy the gallows, without permission.

  I knew that Sawyer and Boyd would grow increasingly concerned at our continued absence, Sawyer especially, but there was no way in hell that I could return to them without Malcolm in tow. The thought made my stomach clench around a ball of solid ice. I lifted my hem and ran east across the dusty streets, following the crowd, unceremoniously displacing people. More than one voice protested or cursed me, but I cared not a fig.

  Bodies were packed elbows to ribs as I neared the town’s center square, the site of the hanging—absurdly, the journalist Parmley caught my eye amongst hundreds of others, conversing with another man only a few yards away in the shade afforded by the overhanging rafters of an adjacent business—my gaze flashed upwards, to the hand-lettered sign attached to a rafter, which read G. SCRUGGS, UNDERTAKER.

  Jesus, oh Jesus, let me find Malcolm.

  Parmley held an open timepiece and used his free hand to tip his hat my direction. I felt my upper lip curl in distaste, immediately turning the other way, standing on tiptoe to peer beyond shoulders and around hats. It was maddening; I could have spat my frustration upon the ground like a bite from an overripe apple, as I vacillated between anger and agonized concern.

  “Malcolm!” I shouted again, but my voice was lost in the buzzing of dozens of others in immediate proximity. I implored those I passed, “Have you seen a boy with a kitten?”

  Some people eyed me with tepid interest, but most ignored my words, preoccupied with the proceedings atop the gallows. I spared a glance that direction to see two men in dark suits, with dark hats, ascending the narrow wooden staircase, their knees lifting in a similar rhythm as they climbed. The badges on their vests refracted the sunlight; these were not the prisoners, then, but instead the law. A third man, a few steps behind them, followed carrying two black hoods, currently limp in his grasp; shortly they would encase the heads of the condemned, blocking out their earthly last sight—that of a teeming crowd, comprised of men, women, and dozens of youngsters, assembled on the street to witness their necks break.

  A rank horror enveloped my senses.

  What sort of people are we? I thought, sickened. I spun away, blindly, and would not have noticed the marshal if he hadn’t stepped directly into my path; I skidded to a halt to avoid crashing into the man, the five-pointed star attached to his black vest just inches from my nose. The sun glinted from its polished surface and I blinked, and then blinked again, slowly, my eyes lifting to his face.

  “Mr. Yancy,” I said in confusion, startled by his appearance here, when we’d left him far behind at the Rawleys’ farm.

  “Mrs. Davis,” he returned in what should have been polite acknowledgment of our acquaintance; something in his tone was just slightly off, which I could sense if not articulate. He added, “This is a rare piece of luck, if I do say so.”

  Before I could guess what he meant by those words, a second man appeared beside him.

  - 13 -

  No,” I breathed, and faltered, my vision blurring as completely as if I’d just submerged my open eyes beneath muddy creek water. Yancy reached and appropriated my elbow as I tried desperately to reconcile what I knew to be true with what was happening.

  Union Jack stood before me.

  The man Sawyer had shot at close range with his Winchester and left for dead upon the northern Missouri prairie.

  “Lila,” Jack greeted almost gaily, his eyes gleaming with triumph, the satisfaction of witnessing my staggering disbelief. “You look like you seen a ghost, girlie.”

  He was a small, gnarled, bearded man, surely not as old as his appearance suggested. His skin was the brown of well-used leather and just as textured; when last in his company, I had been a prisoner, and had lost a child l
iterally before the eyes of he and his companions, Sam Rainey and the man known as Dixon. Back in St. Louis, Jack had long frequented Ginny’s place and was someone I knew from my time at the whorehouse, though he had never been a customer of mine.

  He was supposed to be dead, I could not conceive of any other truth, and I read the play of thoughts across his mind as clearly as though he’d written them with chalk pencil upon a slate; he was delighted to observe my speechless, swelling distress at the sight of him, and what it could potentially mean to me—and to Sawyer—

  You have to find Sawyer before they do, Lorie, oh Jesus…

  Yancy’s grip remained clenched around my elbow, for all the world as though he was politely assisting me; from all outward appearances, I was simply a woman overcome by the event of a double hanging and he was acting the gentleman. I jerked free of his fist, my gut full of ice shards, my face stiff and bloodless, and moved around them with determination. When Yancy clamped hold again, he drew me immediately closer, without drama, bringing his mouth to my ear, the better to impress upon me the seriousness of his question. In the hubbub of the excited crowd, no one paid us particular attention.

  “Has Billings approached you?” he demanded, low, his voice conveying distinct menace, as I clearly discerned. I could smell the strong scents of him, sweat and hair tonic, which were at once too close to my face, foreign to my nostrils and simultaneously nauseating; his fingers were hard, his mustache brushing the top of my left ear as he quietly insisted, “Tell me.”

  Though I did not recognize the name he had spoken, I whispered quite truthfully, “No.”

  Yancy asked next, “Where is your husband? Where is Davis?”

  My vision narrowed but I refused to lose focus now. Sweat erupted all along my skin. I kept my voice steady with effort and said, “He is not here.”

  “That is a bald lie,” Yancy said, and my spine ached at his tone. “I do not suffer lying women.”