Southern Cross the Dog

by Bill Cheng

That Roan. He Bossjohn’s brother.

  The men wiped the sweat from their eyes and, in so doing, painted crimson tracks along their cheeks. Flies frenzied in a mean cloud around them, trying to suck the nectar from their temples. Robert looked out into the darkening evening—at two brothers—and he thought then of his own. Billy would’ve been twenty-seven now. The bones of their father’s face set like struts on his manly cheeks. Their mother’s nose broadening on his face. He would gray early like Ellis had, a bright lightning bolt of white striking the dark nap of his hair. There were the eyes, where when they were boys, Robert could already see the devilry twinkling in the corners. Almondine and mischievous. Where are you now? Under so many tons of earth, where in the vault that amalgam of meat and fat loosens from your inner walls. And those beautiful eyes of yours, burst to jellies.

  He watched the brothers work. One fox, then another, then another. They moved mechanically, drawing the small blade along the milky throat. The nerves jumping in the legs. Frankie was humming behind him. She stirred the sludge in the cauldron. If he took her. If she screamed. They would paint the walls with his black guts. He could not stop thinking about his brother. Once, they fought—he forgot about what—and bloodied each other’s faces. His mama pulled them apart and lashed them three times each across their legs with a hickory stick. Look at him, she’d said to Billy, who refused to cry. That’s your brother, look at him. That’s your nose you broke. That’s your face you scratched up. You look at that.

  Now, with this memory dislodged, they rushed up one after another, unconnected, memories that he’d forgotten, or only half remembered, each one vivid and new with the sharpness of a photograph: digging for worms in the woods behind Crookhand Farm, the blue light of morning around them; bolting up in a dark room and hearing the fury of his brother’s hands moving under the covers. It was Billy who taught him how to climb. Not just trees but everything. The sides of barns. Telegraph poles. Never know when you need to get away someplace quick, his brother had said. They did push-ups together every day for six months. They stood up on two toes on the edge of their father’s mule cart till they were each individually shouted down. They put spoons between their teeth, and on each bowl, an egg, as they scaled up and down the bur oak behind the house. And he remembered the day his brother was brought home. His lips were blue. The tongue lolled in his mouth. A dark blue crescent stained his neck. They wrapped him in white cotton and laid him out on the cooling board. His mama had not understood. It was because they shared this skin that they brutalized each other. They cut and bruised and bloodied and humiliated each other, to know themselves. To see this range of themselves.

  There was a cry. He looked up. The two brothers had stopped their working. They looked up toward the sky. Roan had his arm out and he was pointing. The sun was setting and bright plumes of orange lit up behind the trees, spindling into the yolky sky. Frankie came behind him. She let out a gasp. Then Robert saw. Swirling over them, riding along the draft, it climbed soundlessly to the upper reaches of sky. Then it snowed down. Robert held his hand out. He caught an ashy flake in midair and smudged it in his palm.

  THAT EVENING ROBERT HAD TO explain to them as best he could about the burn. When the crews cleared land, they left heaps of dead brush behind them. All the timber they could salvage was sent to the mills. Everything else went into the burn. Tree husks, taproots, brittle goitered knots of deadwood. The crews dragged it all to a yard beside the river. It was the excrement of the dam, laid high in a tinder waste pile, and at the end of each month a team would climb the mound and douse it through with gasoline. The smoke slithered through the gnarls, collecting into itself till it was thick and solid. Ribbons of crimson and ruby smacked through the whorls. And as it climbed the blaze sucked the air, commanding it down into its heart. The fire would last through the night and into the morning, eviscerating the tinder into white smoldering chalk.

  You make them burns?, Frankie asked.

  Around the table all eyes were on him. He was not the only thing that they had rescued. By his feet he recognized the steel casing of a model six slurry pump. Wooden boards had been laid across the top to make a table. At the center was the stew, simmering in a large clay pot. It was cooked thick and greasy, and islands of fat drifted across the surface.

  Once or twice, he told her, though he knew it was over a dozen times. It was grueling work, and he was the only of Burke’s men willing to do it. The fact was, he was drawn to it. The light and heat woke something inside him. He’d see figures in the blaze, open twisting mouths, faces without eyes whipping around each other. He’d hear voices. The wheeze of gas escaping. The suck and pop of air and wood. And in him a second flame burned steadily. A flurry of moths would cross the river and flutter at the edge of the heat, drawn toward that bright heart. He thought of making a pyre of his body. He watched the embers crash. He pressed the devil to his throat. He looked for direction.

  The winds must have changed, he said, to scatter the ash out this way.

  Bossjohn folded his arms and stroked his chin. His eyes had dimmed.

  But why? How the reason?

  Frankie balanced her head on her palm, pulling back the thick band of hair behind her ears.

  Robert shrugged. For room to get the machines through. So they can start building.

  Bossjohn nodded.

  They did not know. They couldn’t feel the future bearing down on them. There would be no Panther. No trapping grounds. No foxes. No furs. A pain like glass shot through his gut. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, how long it had been since he’d had anything to eat. The thick pungent soup on the table suddenly seemed so inviting. He would plunge his face into it, inhale every stinking drop.

  Frankie rose to pour the stew into bowls. She stirred the foam with a flat stick and broke the top inch where the stew was clearer. She stirred up the bits of meat and filled Robert’s bowl. When the meal was doled out between everyone at the table, Bossjohn announced it was time to pray.

  They hung their heads down to their chests and clasped their hands together, resting them on the edge of the tabletop. Robert did as they did and Bossjohn began.

  O Lord, fo’ these grease ’n beans, and for hands and wits to kill them, and make of yor’n bounty, we frow up our thanks. Bless us with strong chains and strong arms to haul them, this day till judgment, amen.

  Bossjohn had taken Frankie’s hand and was massaging her palm. Robert looked away, pretending not to see. The younger man, Roan, he realized had been staring at him, his eyes still and alert. When Bossjohn had finished with their prayers, they all began to eat. He looked around him. There were no spoons. No forks. Bossjohn fished out a strip of pink glistening meat with his fingers. He dragged it along the thick yellow sauce and ate, craning his neck out to catch the drippings. Robert watched him. He brought the bowl to his lips, taking large steaming swallows.

  Robert could glimpse the knob of a leg bone. He sucked it clean and used it to spoon up the thick paste. It was hot and heavily spiced in marjoram and pepper to hide the awful tang of rubber. The meat sang on his tongue. He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t want to know. It went down into his gut, sending a hot rush of acid into his throat. Despite the taste, it was good to eat. To have something behind his ribs again. He took the bowl up with two hands and tilted it toward his mouth. He inhaled the mash, flooding his tongue with its bitter taste, the breath exploding from his nostrils. He forced it through the stiff muscles in his throat, drawing it down into the pit of his stomach. He’d never eaten before, really eaten. His jaws ached. His stomach cramped. He told himself to slow down, but his arms wouldn’t listen.

  When he’d finished, he set the bowl down.

  They were watching him.

  He was aware of the yellow splattered around his cheeks and the wad of hot mash in his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his arm.

  Frankie grinned. You like?

  H
e nodded, looking down at the edge of the table. It’s very good, ma’am. Thank you.

  Y’ought to slow on there supping. Gon’ take ill et’ing so quick, she warned.

  Roan muttered something low underneath his breath. Whatever it was, it’d caught Frankie’s and Bossjohn’s attention. They turned to him, their eyes wide and mouths agape as if they’d been struck. Roan stood up. He smoothed back the front strands of his hair with the heel of his hand, took his hat from off the wall, and disappeared outside.

  THEY FINISHED SUPPER WITHOUT ROAN. When they ate their fill, Frankie and Bossjohn rose soundlessly from their seats. Robert stood, his back to the wall, watching them work. Frankie stacked the bowls and left them to soak in a pail outside while Bossjohn began striking apart the table. The planks were carried out and the engine casing was put away in the corner. Frankie went into the other room and returned carrying two bearskin rolls in her arms. She untied them and spread them into a pallet across the floor.

  When he’d finished with the table, Bossjohn appeared in the passage.

  Rowbear, he said. He beckoned him outside with his large hand.

  They walked out behind the earthen house to the back stoop where cords of firewood lay stacked together. Bossjohn sat down on the chopping block. Sit, he said pointing to a small bench beside the wood. Bossjohn smoothed his palms against his knees. He took a small pipe from inside his vest and fit it into his mouth. It stuck out from his beard like a stem as he tamped a wad of tobacco down with his thumb.

  He pointed to a spot beneath the bench and to a box of matches.

  Robert struck one and carried it carefully into the bowl. Bossjohn puckered, sending up spurts of soft blue smoke. He drew in deeply and sighed.

  Robert shook the match dead and dropped it in the grass.

  How long you plan on keeping me here?

  He looked at Robert through the slits of his eyes. After a long moment, he reached into his vest pocket and held out a small yellow ribbon.

  I find this in swampdeep, near a muskrat run. They was all over, hanging from there spruces. What they for?

  Robert looked at the ribbon but refused to take it. He pulled on the joints of his hands.

  They’re markers, he said.

  Bossjohn did not seem to understand.

  They tell us where to clear next.

  The man tapped the bit against his teeth.

  How long till’n they clear here way?

  Soon. A month or two I’d guess.

  He moved the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. A hum rumbled softly in his throat.

  You work’m for there bugheway men, he said. You know how’n they think.

  He touched the side of Robert’s head with the crook of his pipe.

  I told you everything I know, Robert said.

  You be very Nice Jack and help us, Rowbear. You stay nice-so, then we loose you outta here. L’Etangs been trapping in Panther for seven and thirty years now. We not aimin’ to pack tow and go.

  Robert felt something on his ankle. A spider. It tickled at the short hairs of his leg. He scooped it up in his hand and let it run up the inside of his arm. He looked at Bossjohn and he saw him clearly for the first time. The man didn’t understand. None of them did. It wasn’t up to them. An undertow of sorrow eroded away at something inside him, and he struggled to keep it from showing.

  L’Etang? That French?, he asked.

  The spider trilled along his skin, upward, ever upward, toward his neck. What was in its brain, he wondered, that made it seek this height? When it reached his shoulder, he grabbed it, almost too roughly, and held it in his palm. He could kill it. And surely this spider, if it could pray, would be praying now. And who would deliver it?

  Non. No French since mon Pierre L’Etang come down from Snakebite Creek to trap Yazoo. Pierre he go up’n down every hook ’n crook a this river. Thirteen year he work the beaver run. Wash the French clear out ’a him.

  Bossjohn was grinning. Robert could almost admire this man, his insistence. The spider fought inside the walls of his fingers. He felt two sharp stings and he let it go on the grass. He squeezed his hand till four red dots pooled on the skin of his finger. He looked up. Bossjohn was staring at him now, his eyebrows forced together. The little devil had come free from under his shirt.

  What’s that?

  Robert hooked his thumb under the twine and shoved it back under his shirt. He didn’t answer him.

  The Yazoo don’t wash nothing, Robert said, waving him away. It’s a dirty river like all the rivers in this place. It puts a slick on you that you ain’t ever get clean of. All that waste and want and hurt just gums on.

  The man looked at him, his eyebrows slanted together, the corners of his mouth tugged back in confusion.

  A man can’t wash out his own blood, Robert said.

  Bossjohn shook his head. He looked up past the tree line, to where the sky was getting darker, coloring like a bruise. He took the pipe from his lips and sighed softly. The moon was white and faint over the rise.

  Come, he said, standing. His voice was soft, almost rotten in his mouth. Tomorrow you gon’ get to work.

  THAT NIGHT ROBERT LAY ON his roll, not sleeping. Over and over, his mind bent toward the strange woman who was among his captors. When she had aimed her rifle at him earlier that day, it wasn’t death that made him pause and cross back into the house. He knew his devil would not let him get run through with shot any more than it had let him drown in the Yazoo or burn in Bruce. He could not count the times he’d come so close to death only to be thrown violently again into life.

  He saw her muscular arms train the barrel to his chest. Her eyes were tensed and full of white, the blood flushed into her ivory skin. She would’ve shot him dead. He thought this, alone in the dark room, atop the pallet she had prepared for him. She would’ve shot me dead. And so he stepped, not away but toward her, into the hot white cone of her blast. Her shoulders were squared. Her finger was taut on the trigger. She had no anger. No fear. And suddenly he felt the very real dimensions of his own body, the sheaths of muscle tugging along his bones. There were his arms, his heart beating in its cage, his tongue in his mouth. There were his feet, and the hard earth against his soles. He was here, made solid before her eyes, bright and full of blood. She could obliterate him.

  This was why he stayed. The fluid redirected in his head. I am staying.

  And had his brother said this too? I am staying. Did the same regions of his brain engorge with blood, did the nerves flame and blister in the same pattern? He could almost hear his life snap into place. For a moment, he wanted to be outside, looking up into that yawning maw above him, the blighted moons and bad stars, to face again that invisible judgment.

  Through the night, he listened for her breathing, for their voices catching against each other. But for their part Bossjohn and Frankie were quiet in the other room. Their bodies shifted, their limbs reassembled around each other. Robert would drift in and out of sleep, waking with a start, his heart in his throat. But there was nothing. There was no one. His skull ached with dreaming. A terrible thought hummed behind his eyes. He touched the pouch, almost instinctively. He did not know how he knew, but he knew. The Dog was coming.

  BOSSJOHN TOOK HIM TO THE tanning shed behind the dugout. The shed was small and drafty, with pins of light coming through the boards. Coon and muskrat pelts were stretched flat and nailed onto the wall. At the center was a chair and a beam to stretch the skins. He sat Robert down and stretched a bolt of possum hide along the shaft. Then he handed him a dull blade. For hours Robert grained fat and meat and vein from the underskin.

  For weeks, he worked in the tanning shed—sometimes with Bossjohn, sometimes alone. There were jars of piss and dung, and he soaked the hides in them to make them soft, to give them give. The skulls he smashed against a rock to scoop up the spongy mounds. They were boiled i
nto a soup and massaged into the pliant hides. The smell was unbearable, suffocating in the noontime sun. Out in the heat, flies would catch the scent and mob around his eyes and hands and the lobes of his ears. Sweat gathered in fat drops along his brow, his own skin blistering and welted.

  He thought often about escaping, but where could he escape to? He was in a low sparse country at the outer ring of the swamp, what they called the Flats. They were hemmed on all sides by tupelos, and swamp oak and black willow, and at its edges lay broad miles of rough uneven earth. For those who weren’t used to mucking, it made for hard travel. But a L’Etang could step through a thicket and disappear down a deer trail and follow the streams and arteries that fed in and out the Yazoo. Robert looked out into the dense rim of trees at the edge of the Flats. Beyond it were sinkholes. Bear traps. Deadfalls. During the summer floods, forests of bald cypress would become infested with mosquitoes, and whole sweeps of land would become uncrossable. He could see no escape.

  And soon a month had passed into the peak of the hot season and Robert realized that no one had come looking for him, not even to drag his poor damned body from the river. He came outside the tanning shed after a long morning in the stifling heat. His hands were raw from tanning. He did not know what day it was, nor what month exactly. The thought occurred to him that he might’ve had his twenty-third birthday recently. That outside the swamp, he was a year older, but here, within, time had no meaning. Not the past, nor the future. He looked up at the clear cloudless sky and squinted at the bright burning center. He waited for a sign.

  HE WAS SHAKEN AWAKE, AND he opened his eyes and saw the man, Roan, above him. It was early still, the light dim inside the dugout save for the two silver dollars of Roan’s eyes bearing down upon him. Across his arms lay his rifle, the stock nuzzled into the crook of his elbow. How long had he been watching him? Rise up, he said. With the toe of his boot, the man pushed roughly against his ribs. Robert rolled over and the man hoisted him to his feet. He walked him out front, keeping the rifle trained on his back. It was morning, in the yolky red hour just after the dawn. The air was cool and sticky with dew, and he heard the noise of birds clamoring in the wild.