Soul of a Crow Read online

  I nodded. As we conversed, I’d told her of our plans to eventually retake the northernmost branch of the Mississippi, and how we planned to follow the Iowa River for a spell, which Fannie said was just miles from their homestead. As for our final destination, I knew only the name of the lake near which Jacob Miller homesteaded; Flickertail, it was called.

  She insisted, “Of course you shall set up your tents in the yard for the night. I wish I had a spare bed to offer to at least you and your husband, but we haven’t a spare inch! We are so glad of the company, I would offer you the barn if I thought perhaps you would stay another few nights.”

  And I spared another moment, however unspoken, to be grateful for the many ways in which my life had changed since last spring.

  - 6 -

  After dinner, I helped Fannie as the boys played tag and the men remained around the table in the last of the day’s long light, Charley with a pipe and Boyd with a tobacco roll. The sky stretched vast and satin-smooth, tinted a rich rose. The Rawleys’ dooryard was cheerfully pleasant in the still air, replete with the sense of a close-knit family fortunate enough to remain intact. Chickens clucked as they roosted for the night; a band of crickets commenced their comforting nightly refrain. As I emptied the washbasin out to the side of the house, smiling at the lightning bugs’ sporadic sparking in the ditch across the way, Malcolm caught sight of me and hollered, “C’mon, Lorie-Lorie, it’s time for the firecrackers!”

  Though I politely waited for Fannie, every male in sight gathered hastily into a semi-circle around Charley, who crouched at the far edge of the yard with a small brush torch in hand, poised to start the show. He had made two rows of tin cups, upside-down, each covering the pay end of a short fuse.

  “Charles Rawley, you mind those boys!” Fannie hollered to her husband, removing her apron and waving it in frustration as her words were either unheard or unheeded; there was a great deal of excited chatter from that part of the yard. She muttered, “Boys and their ‘fun.’ You’ll learn soon enough, my dear,” and her smile grew teasingly impertinent as she said, “The way that handsome man of yours looks at you, you’ll have a wagonful of your own sons in no time, mark my words.”

  “Ready now!” Charley heralded, making a half-hearted attempt to shoo the boys away; I saw Boyd clamp ahold of the back of Malcolm’s shirt as Charley yelled, “And, fire!”

  Charley lit a fuse and jumped to the side, rather theatrically, as powder exploded beneath the first of the tin cups, sending it sailing with a bang that made the horses startle in the corral and the boys cheer wildly. I watched them, Malcolm especially, without approaching any closer. Did he realize how blessed he was? That, at his age, the boys I had known would soon be soldiers and engaged in warfare on an unimaginable scale? Could any boy be expected to comprehend how strange it must be for former soldiers to hear the sound of a detonation and know it for celebration rather than grave danger?

  “Happy Fourth!” some of them yelled, as Charley sent more tin cups bursting into the darkening air.

  I did not venture near, preferring to keep a bit of distance from the explosions, controlled though they were, and it was then that a rider approached at a leisurely trot up the road; he drew his mount to a walk and entered the Rawleys’ dooryard with an easy sense of informality. Clearly this was their widowed neighbor. Fannie affirmed my notion, calling brightly, “Thomas! We are glad you could find the time to join us this fine evening.”

  “Fannie,” he returned in polite greeting, tipping his hat brim, sending me a curious second glance as he tied his horse to the hitching rail. I watched him performing the mundane task; it was just as he shooed a fly from his face that a small mouse of discomfort skittered along my back. He called, “I heard that powder from a half-mile out. Are the boys behaving?”

  “As well as expected. Come and meet our guests,” Fannie invited.

  Obediently he walked in our direction, removing his hat on the way. I studied him with the faintest sense of unease clinging to my spine, though I could not have pinpointed what it was that triggered this perception. Thomas Yancy appeared agreeable enough, a man of perhaps five and thirty years, with intimidating shoulders. His mustached face was baked a dark red-brown from the sun, his hair receding from a high forehead with a white strip near the top where his hat kept him in shade; pale eyes with prominent squint lines unobtrusively scrutinized me.

  “We have been joined unexpectedly but most delightfully by a family traveling north to Minnesota,” Fannie explained. “This is Mrs. Lorissa Davis, whose good man and two brothers are accompanying her. Lorie, this is Thomas Yancy.”

  “Mrs. Davis,” he said, taking my proffered fingers into his grasp and bowing slightly.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I responded, withdrawing my hand as quickly and discreetly as possible.

  “Heading north, you say?” he asked, in the manner of someone accustomed to making gracious small talk.

  I nodded, impolite but unwilling to further elaborate.

  “Then let me wish you a safe journey,” he said. He was correct and courteous to a fault. Why then did a hint of something not quite right hover about him, an aura I felt certain I could visualize, if only I had the ability?

  This man is not Sam, I thought, suddenly certain I was unjustly comparing the two men; Yancy’s voice had a faintly similar timbre. Stop this. Sam Rainey is dead. He can never hurt you again.

  “Lorie, if you would show Thomas to the table? I shall be out directly with a plate,” Fannie said.

  “No need, ma’am, I know the way,” Thomas Yancy assured me, resettling his hat. I lingered in the door, peering after him, observing as he neared the corral and then abruptly halted, ceasing movement as suddenly as one having come up against an unseen fence. I stepped forward, propelled by an urgency I could not explain, to see his eyes fixed on Whistler as she nosed the top beam of the split rail, the only horse in sight. Yancy stood still enough to resemble a wooden carving, a likeness of a human; hardly a breath seemed to escape him in the graying twilight. I found I could hardly swallow.

  Dear God, what is it…

  What is it…

  As though mired in mud, almost painfully slowly, I saw his gaze turn towards the menfolk.

  Behind me within the house, Fannie dropped a dish and exclaimed in aggravation; I startled and turned immediately to help her.

  You are being ridiculous, Lorie, I scolded. There is nothing wrong.

  “Lorie, I’ve gifts for you to take north,” Fannie said, as we collected broken crockery from the floor. “What have you for medicine stores, or herbs?”

  “We haven’t much in the way of medicines,” I admitted. I knew, as I had begun an informal inventory of our supplies. I was hesitant to root through Angus’s trunk, feeling as though it was a violation; Boyd had finally pointed out, with reasonable logic, that Gus would have considered it sentimental hogwash to treat his belongings as though enshrined.

  “We was his only kin,” Boyd said, a few nights past. “He would want us to make use of what we could,” and Sawyer had agreed.

  “I shall prepare for you a basket,” Fannie insisted, and would not be diverted from this plan, lighting a lantern and then rooting in a cupboard.

  The firecrackers had all been spent, the darkening air dominated now by the scent of black powder, the boys’ laughter, and the deep murmur of men’s voices. By the time I made my way back outside, I was relieved to observe that the earlier sense of strangeness had evaporated. I went to the wagon, parked around the far side of the barn, and dug about until I found my shawl; as I wrapped it over my shoulders I noticed Sawyer headed my way across the yard.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, gathering me near and tucking the shawl more closely about my body. Satisfied that I was sufficiently garbed for the rapidly-cooling evening, he murmured, “There.”

  I said, “I’ll help you lay out the tents.”

  “We’ll just set up ours,” he said. “Malcolm elected to sleep in the haymow with the
boys, and Boyd said he’ll curl in the wagon for tonight. I’ll grab the poles. We’ll pitch it out here.”

  We worked together as dusk fully descended, the western sky a lovely rich purple, stars beginning to spangle its breast like diamonds upon a wealthy woman’s gown. Or, in my own experience, paste brilliants edging a whore’s cheap velvet costume. I was concentrating on holding an edge for Sawyer to stake out when he paused and caught his breath. He said, “Lorie, look there.”

  I followed his gaze upwards and was rendered both speechless and immobile as I beheld the rising moon to the east, spectacularly full, brass-tinted as a trumpet and appearing twice its usual size.

  “I love seeing it with no buildings, no window frames to block my view,” I said at last. With no whorehouse looming behind me from where I sat on the side balcony during the nights of my monthly bleeding, feet tucked under the edge of my petticoat; how I despised such memories, which ambushed me if I wasn’t on guard. As though to reassure myself, however irrationally, that he was indeed still near me, I looked at Sawyer.

  “It is a gorgeous sight. Near to magical,” he agreed, and I studied his profile as he studied the sky.

  “I think of you watching the moon when you were soldiering,” I whispered. The night of the last full, which we had witnessed together, Sawyer told me of the way he found moments to appreciate the moon’s presence even during the midst of the War, allowing himself to see it as a sign of a world beyond the ferocious fighting. A world in which an end to the conflict was perhaps possible.

  “By the next full moon we will be properly wed,” he said, and in the celestial light his eyes were steady upon my own, and very beautiful, rich with promise. “I swear to you, Lorie. From now forth, we’ll watch it rise in each other’s arms.”

  I nodded, quite unable to speak past the emotion lodged behind my breastbone. With the fingers of the opposite hand, I caressed the gold ring Sawyer had placed upon me.

  “Ain’t that a sight?” Boyd said suddenly, from behind us, coming to root in the back of the wagon for his fiddle case. He said, “I aim to play for a spell.”

  “You met Thomas Yancy?” I asked Sawyer; having finished erecting the tent, we followed Boyd, who skipped the bow expertly over the strings as he walked, listening for discordant notes. Though I kept a carefully neutral tone asking the question, I was more than curious to learn Sawyer’s opinion of the man. I hoped he would put to rest my concerns, however inadvertently; I had not yet mentioned my strange qualms about Yancy, determined to believe that any sense of the negative was a result of my overactive mind.

  “I did,” Sawyer said, gently swinging our joined hands as we walked. He did not instantly elaborate, and I felt momentary relief, but then he continued, “He isn’t the friendliest of fellows.”

  “We’s just grown used to Charley in the course of the day,” Boyd said. “Now there’s an amiable man, if I ever met one.”

  Charley lit a fire in a stone-ringed pit near the edge of the yard and I could see Fannie busy spreading quilts around its leaping warmth. Malcolm was indistinguishable in the pack of boys. Yancy had already taken a seat, staring into the growing flames as he sipped from a tin cup. He did not acknowledge us as we neared, scarcely glanced upwards, but I did not believe I should disregard my apprehension as false.

  I do not understand. Yancy has never met us before this very evening.

  But we are of the South. Yancy was a Federal. And for many, that is more than enough reason to form an instant dislike. This I know.

  And though I desperately wished I would never be forced to think of him again, I could not help but acknowledge, It was reason enough for Sam Rainey.

  When I blinked, Sam’s face appeared against the darkness of my eyelids, his sole remaining eye fixed on me with all of his burning hatred. I gritted my teeth, willing away the vision.

  Sawyer instantly sensed my agitation and slowed our pace. He asked quietly, “What is it, Lorie? You went so still.”

  I drew forth all of my resolve and whispered, “It is only my imagination.”

  “We needn’t join them,” he said quietly, and I heard his hesitation to let me avoid explaining what truly troubled me.

  “No—I would like to sit at the fire, at least for a spell,” I said, sincerely enough. I did wish to listen to the music, and to be near Fannie. I enjoyed her company, and it would be discourteous to retire early when we were here for a celebration. I added, willing my words into his mind, I will explain later, I promise, and Sawyer nodded his understanding.

  The space upon the blankets around the fire was limited, the overall mood raucous, and I was happy to claim a spot upon Sawyer’s lap to create additional room. He sat with his legs folded so that I fit neatly against him, his chin at my left temple; he rested both hands briefly against the outsides of my thighs, squeezing lightly, a gesture both tender and intimate; it struck me afresh how dearly I treasured these touches, and that Sawyer wholeheartedly understood my need for them. He patted my legs with two gentle motions, and then enfolded my left hand in his, linking our fingers.

  “Lorie-Lorie,” Malcolm said in his best wheedling tone, finagling his way to our side like a pup. He complained with a sigh, “It’s been ever so long since you combed my hair,” and so saying, he neatly displaced Sawyer’s right arm and leaned one elbow comfortably over my lap, his slim legs sticking out behind us. I curled a hand into the boy’s shaggy mane, petting him as though he was indeed a beloved animal come to seek affection.

  “Kid, you are something else,” Sawyer observed, roughing up Malcolm’s hair before I shooed away his teasing hand. “You count your every blessing to have Lorie touching you like that.”

  “Oh, I do,” Malcolm muttered, his voice drowsy, with perhaps just a hint of smugness. “I do, indeed.”

  I was abruptly reminded of our proximity to Thomas Yancy, around the fire to our right, as I unwittingly caught his eye; perhaps the sound of my laughter at Malcolm’s words had tugged Yancy’s attention my direction, over the other noise. I resumed stroking Malcolm’s hair; I had frozen for the space of a breath. Sawyer rested his jaw gently against my temple and I let my spine relax; in the spirit of fairness, there was nothing overtly untoward about Yancy. Surely nothing I could use to provide evidence for my wariness of him, other than a feeling. I knew Sawyer would not disregard such, but I would tell him later, as I had promised, in the privacy of our tent.

  Boyd skipped out a few notes to whet the whistle; Fannie clapped along, and the boys, with the exception of now-languid Malcolm, cheered and hooted, still vying and elbowing one another for better seats at the fire. Charley saluted with his tin cup and Boyd proceeded to make the fiddle sing. I studied the leaping, ever-changing flames as Boyd bowed familiar tunes, mesmerized by the beauty both corporeal and abstract, until I was coaxed into a warm and dreamlike state. I was safe in Sawyer’s arms, Malcolm’s hair was soft as down beneath my fingers, and my eyelids seemed leaded, growing heavier. Each blink lasted longer than the next and so I did not at first realize that Thomas Yancy’s gaze was fixed upon me.

  My hand in Malcolm’s hair jerked in surprise as I came fully awake, and Yancy’s eyes darted away. I reeled a little, my mind attempting to reconcile past life with present, to interpret the speculative look upon his face, one that men had worn every night at Ginny’s. Though I was far from any whorehouse at present, I longed instantly to cringe away from such an expression—one with which I was all too detestably familiar.

  You’re safe here, in this place. You are no longer forced to do what Ginny Hossiter demands.

  I recognized these truths, but they were not exactly what troubled me. It was the essence of Lila that still existed within me, the persona of the whore I had been, a woman whose services could be purchased for a dollar a minute, monetary amounts kept precisely with the aid of an egg timer. I knew there was no way that Yancy could possibly know what I had been, but I imagined he could. However unwittingly, I pictured myself upon the main floor at Hossiter’s
, circulating the crowd, leading man after man up the ornate staircase and along the carpeted hallway to that narrow brass bed in my old room.

  Let me forget being called Lila, please, let me forget what I have been. Oh Jesus, please let me forget those things.

  But I knew it was an empty request, at best, and my soul writhed in agony; there were so many dark parts of me that Sawyer willingly accepted.

  He shifted just slightly, cupping my knee.

  Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart.

  Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m well, I responded, and though I knew he did not fully believe this, he only nodded incrementally.

  Charley passed around a small, earthenware jug of whiskey when Boyd took a break from fiddling; Fannie declined, as well as Sawyer and I, though Malcolm shifted to sit up and asked pleadingly, “Boyd, might I have me a taste? Daddy always let me have a taste, just.”

  “A nip,” Boyd agreed. “I may have myself a snort as well. Ain’t had a good hooch in ages.”

  Malcolm tipped the jug for a swig and backhanded the resultant drips from his chin. The whiskey made the rounds and Boyd resumed playing, with gusto. When Malcolm tried to sneak another drink, Sawyer leaned and caught it away from him.

  “No more, kid,” he said, low, but firmly enough for Malcolm to discern his seriousness.

  “Aw,” Malcolm complained, but then he caught sight of Sawyer’s stern gaze and sighed, relinquishing the jug.

  “I’ll take it,” Thomas Yancy said. He, who had not yet directed a word our way, plucked the drink from Malcolm and consumed a long pull before studying me again, perhaps emboldened by the alcohol. Behind me, Sawyer’s posture became discreetly threatening; I couldn’t see Sawyer’s eyes, but he clearly communicated something, because Yancy leaned slightly away from us. There was something undeniably dark in Yancy’s gaze, I knew to my bones I was not imagining it; furtive and quickly veiled, but enough that my eyes, long observant to such nuances, caught the flicker. A ball of ice formed anew at the juncture of my ribcage. As though to make an excuse for himself, Yancy said casually, “No mistake, Mr. Davis, your wife is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”