“Beau is not much of a fighter. That kid from Stinett was a bully and would have destroyed him. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“But Beau has a reputation as a bully too, so I don’t understand why you felt the need to get involved.”
Micah grinned, “Beau tries to bully kids his own age, and he’s not very good at it. Bear is a lot older than he is, so it would not have been a fair fight.”
“But Bear’s four years older than you. Why was it a fair fight for you?”
Micah smiled thinking back to the same question he had asked Mr. Dorsey. He looked at Rathbone for several moments before he replied, “I’m not Beau, and I had a better chance to win.”
“And you like to fight?”
“Yeah,” Micah grinned. “Sort of weird, huh? To feel your muscles tense, your eyes focused on the opponent, your mind studying the logistics and building a strategy for the contest, and then throwing the first punch; there is no better feel than connecting fist to face.”
“But you control yourself. I mean; you don’t go looking for a fight?” Rathbone questioned.
“No, but I won’t run away either.”
“But as far as school is concerned, a fight is a fight regardless of who starts it. You could still get a suspension,” he reminded Micah.
“I can live with that. A suspension is not something that I would be considering in the middle of a fight.” He paused for a moment. “And it should make a difference. Why should I get a suspension if I’m defending myself? Where is the fairness in that?”
Mr. Rathbone smiled, “What about ‘turning the other cheek?’”
Micah had heard this before, a reference from the New Testament. “That is something you’d tell a slave to keep him inline and obedient—not a man.” Micah thought about what he was going to say next. “That is not the way I live my life. I don’t think anyone lives their life like that. ‘Turning the other cheek,’ that’s craziness, a fantasy.” Micah immediately was sorry he spoke up. That is what he believed, but sometimes truth was best left unspoken.
“That puts you at odds with the American ethos.”
“America’s character is to ‘turn the other cheek?’ I don’t think so. If that were true, there would never have been an America; there would not be a Vietnam War. Hitler would have conquered the world, and we’d be speaking German. People who think that are delusional.”
“What is your opinion of people in general?”
“Cattle,” Micah replied, “in general.”
Mr. Rathbone did not like that response, but it wasn’t unexpected. “You think highly of yourself?”
“No I don’t, but you should know that. You did my personality profile. You’re the one that said I would never find happiness, that I was unforgiving of my failures. Knowing that, how could you even ask the question? Sometimes it takes everything I have not to hate myself, all my imperfections.”
“What is your paradigm?”
“Spartan, I would be a great Spartan. That is the perfect model.”
Mr. Rathbone shook his head. “That seems at odds with your personality traits. You hate authority.”
“I don’t hate authority as long as those who have power are more qualified than I am.
“And what if they are less qualified?”
Micah pondered for a moment. “Then they need to get out of the way.”
“You’re an enigma.”
“A turnip cannot become a rabbit.” Micah repeated his mother’s proverb.
The bell rang and JJ was at the door. The two boys walked side-by-side out the north entrance and then to the Athletics Building. His gym clothes were still damp from PE at Tierra Verde as he pulled them on. Once dressed, the Coach called him into his office.
“Are we better?” he looked at Micah, who shook his head yes. “I forget about your age, but I’m not going to apologize. Ninth Grade is tougher than 4th Grade. There is no sugarcoating it and I will not run interference for you. You’ll either manage or you won’t; and if you don’t, then we both made a mistake about running junior high track.”
“Let me tell you something. Age does not make a man. I’ve known kids younger than you that were more of an adult than some 30 year olds. You’re smart. You’re aggressive. You are talented and have what it takes to be successful at whatever you put your mind to. I am here to help you—not just to win a couple of games, but to teach you how to achieve whatever goals you set in life. So if I piss you off sometimes, live with it or get out; I don’t have time for a temperamental adolescent. Anything else?”
Coach Britt sat in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. He spoke with force but without anger. Micah studied him and saw a caring man, and that he had offended the coach in the car when he exploded.
Micah remained standing as he spoke. “I will make you proud, Coach. I promise.”
“I know you will, Micah. That’s why you’re here. Grab that box of jump ropes and let’s get to warm up,” and the two walked out to the track.
The track team accepted Micah and made him part of their group, and though Coach Britt did not “run interference” for him, Jimmy John did. At 4:00, he looked toward the sidelines and saw Cory and the others. He stopped and waved, then continued his final three laps around the field before showering and leaving for boxing.
He was worn out. Between calisthenics and running, he had been at full-bore most of the afternoon. And he was starving. He sat on the bleachers with his friends a little after 4:30. Tandy tossed him a candy bar, which he almost swallowed whole.
There was not much talking. The brothers sat together in thought. Each knew what the other was thinking, that Micah running for Camino del Rio was a change in their world, and that saddened them a little. They had done most everything together, and now they don’t.
“You guys are making me depressed,” Micah finally spoke. There was no response. He looked up, and saw Tom Dorsey waving from the parking lot and trying to get their attention. “There’s Tom,” and the group got up and ran to the car.
After boxing practice, after a quick hamburger at Manley’s, Micah was alone in the barn brushing Styx. It had been a rough day, a lot of learning and more than a few mistakes. And way too much talking, but it felt good to be honest, especially with himself. “Why should I hide who I am, what I believe, what I need.”
Micah heard the faintest movement behind him. “Likely the old man sneaking up on him,” he thought. Raggéd was barking from Nellie’s stable. “Hey,” Micah shouted and turned around, but it wasn’t Tom.
Harry jumped and then stumbled backwards and would have fallen down had he not caught himself on a post. The ex-foreman’s sweet aftershave permeated the barn. His appearance brought back all of Micah’s nightmares.
“What the fuck do you want?” Micah’s fear came through as rage, and his demeanor hid his alarm. His fists were clinched and ready to strike should the man make the slightest move toward him.
“Hold it buckaroo. I’m only here to see the boss.” Harry had a smirk on his face. He wanted to jump the boy; to slowly suck the life out of him; to relish the feel of his youthful body going limp as he crushed the delicate bones in his neck. Micah saw all of this in the foreman’s cold, yellow tinted eyes.
“Where is Dorsey?” It was less a question than an order.
Raggéd was going crazy, and he charged at the man, teeth barred and attacking. He got a bite into Harry’s arm before the youth called the canine off. By this time, Tom Dorsey was standing between Micah and the intruder.
“I’m going to sue the hell out of you for what that dog did,” he leered at Tom.
“Get off my property you son-of-a-bitch.” Tom then spoke to Micah.
“Go call the Sherriff, now,” Tom ordered. Micah immediately went into his bedroom and dialed the operator. Tom was standing at the outer door next to a work bench and writing on some paper when he returned. Micah heard a car motor roar and then the grinding of gravel as a vehicle raced away.
Tom
turned around and grabbed the boy, giving him the biggest hug ever. “You’re sleeping in the house for a while.” Micah did not argue.
Within minutes, two Sherriff deputies were standing in the stables, and Tom was explaining what had happened and gave them the paper. “This is the license plate number on the dark Dodge he was driving. I will be filing a restraining order against him tomorrow. I’m afraid that he will try to hurt my boy or my foreman. I believe he has a criminal record.
The deputies stayed around for a while. After they left, Micah grabbed some of his stuff and locked up the barn. He stowed his belongings in the spare bedroom and then sat on the sofa in the den staring at a fire that was rapidly turning into cinders. Mr. Dorsey was in his chair watching Micah. It was past midnight, and neither of them could sleep. Harry’s appearance frightened them both to the core.
Tom moved to the couch and sat next to his ward, putting an arm around him. “I’m not sure how to protect you. Maybe it would be safer for you to go back to Willow Wood for a time.”
“That’s not a safer place. The boys were not just telling stories last Friday. There is something crazy in the ‘hole,’ and I can’t defend myself against something I don’t understand.”
“I can’t grasp that,” the old man said, sounding a little lost.
“Don’t try. I’ve lived with it since we moved to Willow Wood. I will manage. You need to worry about Henry. He’s not safe.” Micah looked directly into Tom’s face. “And you aren’t safe. You are the target. He will get to you through the people you love. That’s his intention.”
But Micah was also in Harry’s sights, and that was something he could not talk about. For an instant, while he stood facing the foreman in the stables, he had absorbed the man’s hunger, and it was lively and depraved.
He needed the old man not for his money or even for a safe place to live. Tom was interested in him and cared about him. That was love, and Micah would protect him even if it meant his own demise.
The old man was pale, despondent. “Let’s go home,” Micah whispered and held his hand. “Close your eyes and listen to what I say,” and Tom experienced the boy’s words. When Micah mentioned “the gentle breeze,” the wind crisscrossed his skin. He beheld the green meadows and distant mountains at the moment the boy described the scenes. After a few minutes, the rancher was in a deep sleep.
Only embers glowed in the fireplace as Micah grabbed a crocheted afghan and covered the old man and then went into the office, opening the desk drawer to retrieve the switchblade confiscated weeks earlier. He slipped it into his boot before returning to the den and snatching a couch pillow that he used as he lay on the floor. It was not a pleasant sleep. Strange nightmares enveloped Micah, weird dreams, perverse dreams.
The door facing the creek was open, and Micah sat on his bed looking out as a fine drizzle floated to earth. The prairie was painted with muted colors. He heard a distant roar and stepped out to the porch. The gray sky hovered near the ground, and in the distance, a vast herd of buffalo stampeded toward the gulch formed by the arroyo. Soon the sound was replaced with silence. There was a commotion, and he gazed back into his bedroom and chuckled because Coyote sat upon Styx. He held the reins in his paws, shouting “Yeehaw” then galloping past him and toward the playa.
“Not fast enough,” he heard Coyote yell, “Never fast enough.”
Micah commenced running after the two animals. He was cold and looked down and saw his nakedness. The clouds parted allowing the sun to break through the gloom. It was bright and hurt his eyes. The trees were heavy with dewy leaves, and the creek flowed nearly over its banks. Bloated carcasses of dead bison floated down the rushing stream. But the boy did not care, because he needed to cover his nudity, and there was nowhere for him to hide.
He looked ahead and could just barely see Coyote and Styx in the distance. “Come back, let me ride with you,” but the pair continued their canter. Micah started his breathing practice but forgot how. Then he could not recall who or where he was.
“What’s your name, buddy,” the wind whispered into his ear; it smelled liked whiskey but more sour and rotten. The boy tried to run faster, but his body was heavy, cumbersome and frail. “Buddy,” the voice was louder, closer. Micah struggled to get away, but his legs were crippled and barely moving. He looked back over his shoulder, and a monstrous diamondback was slithering toward him; its russet color glimmered. The serpent’s yellow eyes reflected Micah’s frantic flight; its gapping mouth was filled with thin and pointed fangs and spewed poison toward the boy in a blinding spray. A bobcat sat next to the trail watching unafraid. And as the snake passed, it swallowed the feline whole never slowing its pace. It struck and missed Micah by millimeters.
Micah turned to face the creature, and the gigantic serpent morphed into an Indian marauder, his face decorated with red and black war stripes. He looked like a mandrill-human hybrid; its canines glistened in full threat display. The attacker lifted a spear, its point finely crafted out of multicolored flint. He slung it. Micah jumped left to escape the projectile and then looked into his hand, where he grasped the pearl handled switchblade open and ready for blood.
He flung himself at the brave and the blade tore through the killer’s abdomen, his face surprised as the verve rapidly left his body. Micah’s hand continued to hold the knife, slicing downward, cutting the flesh of the intruder and spilling his guts onto the prairie grass, which absorbed and possessed the gore immediately.
“Ohiwaye” Micah screamed, but as soon as the words left his mouth, a sharp piece of obsidian ripped open his throat. He crumpled to the ground slinging his fists at an enemy he could not see….
“Micah, time to get up,” and the boy flew upright striking at the ether almost hitting the old man who jumped away just in time. “Whoa son, it was just a dream.”
He lay back down next to the couch wet from perspiration and fatigued from the dream trip. The grandfather clock gently struck 5:00, and the boy did not move from the floor. He smelled the rich aroma of uncured bacon cooking. The switchblade rubbed against his leg as his foot twitched inside the boot. Micah turned his head, and standing near the fireplace, Mr. Dorsey studied him.
“Did you dream about death again?”
“Not really,” he thought for a moment, “Maybe.”
Mr. Dorsey let the subject drop. He wanted to mention something but there was nothing that he could say that would bring any value to the situation. “Breakfast is ready,” and the two went into the kitchen.
“I will be gone most of today, but I will pick you up after practice.” The boy was quiet and had said very little that morning. Tom continued, “I will have deadbolts installed on the outside doors. I need to talk with Henry…”
Micah watched the man, whose fear was building again; his words flew past, but the boy did not hear them as he walked out of the door and into barn to do his work. He unlocked the undisturbed building and let Raggéd loose then led the horses into the small pasture. There was no time, no feeling. The barn was clean; it looked good. He changed out the water, loaded feed into troughs, and cleaned out the stalls.
He started his walk to school. There was a whistle, and Cory came running across the old cottonwood, his face grimacing and determined. He tossed his notebook into the dirt and grabbed Micah, throwing him to the ground then sitting on his chest, pinning him down.
“I need to kick your ass just for fun.”
“Wishful thinking,” Micah said.
“Yeah, well you’re the one in the dirt waiting to get his face smashed,” and Cory backhanded him hard.
“What the hell you fucking douche.” Micah pushed Cory, threw his legs up and grabbed his friend’s head between his knees, pulling him backward. He maneuvered Cory into a headlock. “I’m gonna break your neck,” Micah screamed, barely in control of himself.
Cory laughed, which aroused Micah into releasing his friend. “When I saw you from the creek, you were hidden in blackness. I’ve never seen you like that and
it was awful. Smacking you was the only way I knew that could bring you out of it. And besides, it was very enjoyable.”
“I could have hurt you, Krigsman.” Micah wanted to destroy his friend for a moment. He had never felt that out of control before, and it was more frightening than his dream.
“But you didn’t,” Cory looked into his friends eyes and saw that Micah was nauseated with dread “It’s Harry?”
Micah told him what had happened the previous night.
“That’s it. You’re sleeping at my house for a while. Don’t even try to argue. I will beat the crap out of you if need be.”
Micah shook his head no. “We gotta get to school. Beat you to the fence,” and he took off.
Chapter 13: Song of the Celestials
Booker was pert near in the Oklahoma Panhandle, well over a two hour drive. The meet was scheduled for 3:30. At noon, the boys were loaded into the school bus with the Tierra Vista boys mixed in with the Junior High kids. One thing about a rural school district, everyone knows everyone else. So all of the boys on the bus were like an extended family. Coach was driving, while the cheerleaders followed in two cars. It was a loud and raucous ride; spit wads were a flying. Cory was in his element; he had deadly aim, and it became him against everyone else. It got bad enough that Coach pulled over, scolded the boys, and delivered two swats to Cory who took them smiling.
It got quiet after that. Tandy and Micah were sitting together and both boys were almost asleep when “KABOOM.” Micah almost hit his head on the bus-top. The vehicle pulled over; a tire exploded directly under Micah’s seat. The coach stepped off, said a few well-chosen words, and then returned. “Sherwood, you and JJ get out here.” The two followed him outside. “See that building? That’s a service station. Go and tell them we need a flat fixed. Then call the Booker school and let them know we might be a little late, here’s their number and a quarter. Run!”
The two boys took off smiling as they jogged the mile to the Shamrock Gas Station.
Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage Page 18
