Fallen Land: A Novel
Page 24
“Y’all eating up at the big house tonight?”
“Nuh-uh,” said Callum. “Ava said one of those traps she made got a rabbit. Said she’s making a stew.”
The man eyed the faint rope scar at Callum’s neck, like he usually did.
“Well,” he said, “you know y’all are welcome to. Any night. You don’t got to stay out in that nigger cabin ever night.”
“I know,” said Callum, “thank you.”
The younger one’s face was open as he looked at Callum, like he was looking at a ghost. He was twelve. The brothers nodded a last time and rode on toward the stables, dismounting to lead their horses into the stalls. Callum walked on down the road, too light of foot to break the bleached shells. They simply murmured beneath him, gossiping perhaps about this new stable groom. A ways down he took the footpath that ran along the creek. He stopped, as he always did, at the little bluff where the stone monuments loomed under the shadow of the oaks. Closest to the creek was the wooden cross Ava had fashioned herself of creosoted rail ties. Where one day, thought Callum, there would be a stone. He promised the tiny one in the ground, like he always did, that he would take good care of its mother. He told it there would be better times, surely, to come into the world. He made the sign of the cross, quickly, like a secret beneath the trees. It was the only time he would.
He moved on, following the path along the creek. The newspaper said Sherman had rent a wound across this state that would never heal. It said the people of Georgia were living on roots and game like the tribes of old. They were eating black-eyed peas, the stock feed Sherman’s men had neglected to burn. Lee had surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia, and just five days later Lincoln had been shot by an actor from Maryland and killed. They said the world was coming apart.
The creek broke from the trees into the little clearing of slave cabins. Most of them were empty now, their residents fled north. The old negress with the streak of white in her hair sat on her porch, in from the field. She nodded to him. Hanging behind her, from a nail on the wall, was her son’s hatchet, the one Callum had returned to her. He walked on, toward the cabin at the end of the row. The world was twilit, the windows floating yellow in the tabby. He could see shadows moving beyond the panes, wheeling against the fire-bright walls.
Ava.
The doctor had come to check on her six weeks ago. He said her womb was hurt from the horseman’s bullet. He wasn’t sure she would be able to conceive again. But, he said, there was no harm in them trying. They might, with work, overcome. That night, entwined under the covers, Ava had told him she wanted them to work at it. To work and to work and to work. Every day, as long as it took, and then some.
Callum stepped up onto the little porch, his heart drumming strong, and opened the door.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my parents, first and foremost. You’ve always stood behind me, no matter how hard the path I took. You trusted I could walk it. They don’t make words for how grateful I am.
I’d like to thank my agent, Christopher Rhodes, for loving this book so much. You have my eternal gratitude, buddy.
I’d like to thank Jesse Steele, whose thoughts, insights, and support were invaluable in the shaping of this book.
I’d like to thank Jason Frye for his editing prowess—look him up, you writers—and Wiley Cash for his generosity, and I’d like to thank everyone who’s made Wilmington feel like home.
I’d like to thank my friend Blaine Capone, who taught me about horses. Here’s to many more rides to come.
I’d like to thank Kevin Watson and Christine Norris of Press 53 for believing in my work early on, and Kevin for so much guidance and advice with my first book and beyond.
I’d like to thank Kristen. We had our own hard times in those mountains, but you always believed. I said I wouldn’t forget that, and I haven’t. And to a big brown bird dog named Waylon, who watched me write so much of this, who brought so much joy—thank you, buddy.
Last, I’d like to thank my editor at St. Martin’s, George Witte, for making this book a reality, and Sara Thwaite for guiding me through the process. I hope to do you proud.
About the Author
Taylor Brown grew up on the Georgia coast. He has lived in Buenos Aires, San Francisco, and the mountains of western North Carolina. His fiction has appeared in more than twenty publications, including The Baltimore Review, North Carolina Literary Review, storySouth, and Southwest Review. He is the recipient of the Montana Prize in Fiction and was a finalist in both the Machigonne Fiction Contest and the Doris Betts Fiction Prize. An Eagle Scout, he lives in Wilmington, North Carolina. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FALLEN LAND. Copyright © 2015 by Taylor Brown. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover photographs: leather © billnoll / Getty Images; couple © LOOK-foto / Superstock; horse © zaricm / Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07797-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-9307-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466893078
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: January 2016