One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel

by Olivia Hawker

  Clyde seized hold of his wits with brutal force. He must stop Tiger from bolting, first and most importantly. If Tiger sent the other horses into a panic, they might crash through the fence or try to jump it. They could break their legs. Worse, they might run wild across the two farms, endangering Nettie Mae, Cora, and the children.

  Clyde spread his arms wide and stepped into the horse’s path. Tiger wheeled on his haunches, crying out in a harsh, growling voice. The big bay tried to circle the paddock in the other direction, but again Clyde moved calmly to interrupt his flight. He spoke all the while, gently and low, moving with deliberate ease, and finally diverted Tiger from another mad dash. Clyde stepped closer, pushing the horse back toward his companions. Joe Buck whickered, calmed by Clyde’s presence, and when Tiger heard the voice of his herdmate, he stopped at last, twitching and blowing.

  Clyde stepped up smartly and seized a rein, a heartbeat before Nettie Mae appeared at his shoulder.

  “Land sakes,” she cried, “what is the meaning of this? Who saddled this horse and set it loose?”

  There was no hiding the truth now. Clyde turned to face his mother and met her eye with a grim and silent confession.

  “You said her name.” Nettie Mae spoke quietly, tense with anger. “Back there in the house. You said that girl’s name.”

  “She’s hurt, Mother. Fallen off, or—”

  “You disobeyed me.”

  “This isn’t the time for arguing. Beulah’s out there somewhere, hurt or worse.” Clyde swung up into Tiger’s saddle. Nettie Mae looked very small, staring up at him, up to his great height. “I got to go and find her. You get back over to the Bemis place and tell Cora what’s happened.”

  “What should I tell her—that her daughter and my son went riding together like a couple of . . .” She trailed off, her face reddening, then added, “You deceived me. Both of you.”

  “You can be angry at me all you please, later.” He wheeled Tiger around, holding the horse in firm control with his knees. He could feel Tiger’s muscles bunching, the animal’s power taut as a great steel spring. Why hadn’t he put Beulah on Joe Buck? He should have ridden Tiger himself. “For now, get across the field and tell Cora what’s happened. She needs to know!”

  Clyde didn’t wait for another argument. He set Tiger’s head toward the river and let the bay run.

  Tiger was faster than Joe Buck. He could have been a racer up in Paintrock on festival days. Under other circumstances, Clyde would have exhilarated in the feel of that speed, the smooth control of the horse’s body, the tireless stride, the muscle and hot breath and thunder of heavy bones. But now all he could think about was Beulah. Where had she fallen? Perhaps she had broken a leg or an arm. God send that something worse hadn’t happened. He cursed himself again and again for having left her alone with such an animal. Whatever her strange power over nature might be, she was still a girl, not strong enough to control a creature of Tiger’s size and strength.

  I was afraid to face my mother with Beulah at my side. It was a coward’s plan—and all my fault.

  If Beulah had been seriously hurt, Clyde knew he would taste bitter regret for the remainder of his days.

  With every stride the horse took, he became more hopelessly convinced that Beulah was crippled or dead. He didn’t know which would be the greater shame to bear, for her liveliness, her free movement through the world, was the best part of her. The pasture that had always brought him such peace, the black line of the cottonwoods looming nearer with every stride, the cold parapets of the Bighorns above—the whole world seemed to close in around him, menacing and dark, as he raced back toward the foothills in search of the girl he loved, praying it wasn’t too late to save her.

  CORA

  It’s a long way down from Paintrock to this farm. I don’t suppose I’ll have many opportunities to return and visit—to see Nettie Mae.

  Cora packed the last of her linens in a sturdy basket and tied its woven lid shut with a bit of twine. Then she sat back on her heels, staring dully at the basket, unwilling to lift her eyes from its tight-woven sides to see the emptiness of her home.

  Tomorrow morning we’ll say good-bye—perhaps forever. And perhaps Nettie Mae will be glad of it.

  Benjamin called plaintively from the porch. “We’re hungry, Ma. When can we have our supper?”

  “You oughtn’t call me ‘Ma,’ Benjamin. You’ll be a town boy tomorrow, and proper boys in town say ‘Mother,’ not ‘Ma.’”

  Cora rose from the floor and went to the kitchen, but its emptiness was no easier to bear. Nettie Mae had helped her pack up almost every dish and spoon and pot, leaving only a few implements with which to feed her children. Cora had been nervous, at first, when Nettie Mae had appeared to assist with the packing. She had assumed Nettie Mae had only offered to help so she would see Cora’s back all the sooner, but in fact her neighbor had seemed rather melancholy over the affair. Melancholy—but firm of mind, as ever. Once she came to a decision, Nettie Mae always saw it through, no matter the cost.

  How bittersweet, Cora mused as she assembled a simple meal, that I was granted a few hours of fellowship with Nettie Mae. Now at last they had truly worked side by side, cooperating as friends. If only the winter could have passed so pleasantly.

  She filled the tin plates, the only dishes that remained unpacked, and set them on the table, then called the children inside. They came eagerly, but Benjamin paused as he pulled out his chair.

  “Will Nettie Mae eat with us tonight?”

  “Heavens, no,” Cora said.

  “Why is she coming here, then?”

  “She’s coming fast, too,” Charles added. “Just about running. I guess she must be real hungry.”

  “What’s all this, now?” Cora reached into her apron pocket and found the kerchief she had embroidered, her parting gift to Nettie Mae. It was tucked behind the letter she had never sent to Ernest. There was no need for that letter now; tomorrow she would go to Ernest herself, first thing upon arriving in Paintrock, and tell him of her plans. She would look him in the eye through the bars of his cell, and learn whether he had truly forgiven her—if he ever could. But she would give Nettie Mae the kerchief next morning at dawn, when Clyde drove them north to town.

  The front door banged open. Cora jumped, biting back a shriek of surprise. Miranda began to cry at the table, her mouth full of bread and jam.

  “Hush,” Cora said, more sharply than she’d intended. “It’s only Nettie Mae.”

  Nettie Mae spoke up at once. “There’s been some sort of accident.” Baffled, she shook her head. “Beulah has fallen from a horse.”

  Cora gasped. The floor seemed to sway beneath her; she couldn’t trust her footing. “A horse? Why was she riding?” Then the true horror of what Nettie Mae had said struck Cora with its full weight. She clutched the back of Benjamin’s chair as her legs went weak beneath her. Nettie Mae wouldn’t have come all this way—flushed and panting, no less—unless the situation were dire. “Where is Beulah? Is she badly hurt?”

  Nettie Mae glanced at the children. Then she took Cora’s hand and pressed it hard between her own. Her skin was cool, despite her haste and fluster. “Be brave, Cora. We don’t know where she is. The horse ran back to the corral, lathered and with an empty saddle. Clyde has gone out to find her.”

  “Oh, God!”

  A shudder racked Cora’s body; she crouched, easing herself toward the floor, for now she knew she couldn’t remain standing. Her head swam; a strange, high keening rang in her ears. Nausea rose in her gut and she remembered, with a dark rush of certainty, the conversation she’d had with Nettie Mae the night of the fire. Nettie Mae had told Cora how she had lost one child after another. And Cora—stupidly, uselessly—had said, That’s a wound that can never heal.

  The hard planks of the floor bit into her knees, though Nettie Mae was still clutching her hand. She prayed aloud, begging God for mercy, begging for Him to spare her child, but God felt more distant than He ever had before
. The only nearness was the prairie and the wild things that dwelt upon it. The prairie, and Nettie Mae—whose fingers had gone colder, even as her grip on Cora’s hand tightened.

  “God save her,” Cora wailed. “Have mercy! I have no strength to help my child. I am weak, God—weak—and no fit mother.”

  “Get up, Cora,” Nettie Mae snapped. “I said get up, this instant.”

  “I can’t. I cannot stand.”

  “You can, and you will. On your feet. Move! There’s no reason for either of us to remain here; we can do no good as we are. We’ll go and look for Beulah, too—you and I.”

  “I . . . I can’t.” Cora struggled up onto quivering legs, though she never knew how she managed. “The children. Someone must watch over them.”

  The children were weeping now—Cora knew they were frightened, but she had no more strength to comfort them than she had to save Beulah from her fate. Benjamin had gathered Charles and Miranda to him; the boy stood with his arms wrapped tightly around his brother and sister, but his eyes pleaded with Cora for guidance.

  Nettie Mae eyed the children for a moment. Then she left Cora swaying on her feet and knelt before the little ones. “Listen to me now, all of you. Beulah will be well, but she needs our help. Your mother and I must go and help her, for we are big enough to carry her if need be. Do you understand?”

  The children sniffled, nodding in despondent silence.

  “We will come back. I promise you that. We won’t leave you alone for good. We would never do that to you—not your mother nor I.”

  The children nodded again.

  Nettie Mae placed a hand gently on Benjamin’s round cheek. Through her tears, Cora could see how the woman’s thumb traced down the side of his face, as loving as only a mother can be. “Benjamin, you’re old enough now to be the man of the house . . . for a little while, at least. I need you to do something for me. It’s an important job—very important. Are you fit for the task?”

  Benjamin scrubbed away his tears with his sleeve. Then he nodded solemnly.

  “Good. You must keep Charles and Miranda here in the house. No matter what may come, keep them inside. And you mustn’t light any candles or oil lamps, and you mustn’t try to light a fire in the hearth, even if your mother and I are out late helping Beulah. If you get cold, what should you do?”

  “Get under our blankets,” Benjamin said.

  “That’s my boy—my smart, good boy.” Nettie Mae kissed Benjamin on the forehead. Then she stood, beaming down at the children as if she hadn’t a care in the world. But when she turned back to face Cora, the smile fled at once, replaced by a darkly sober expression. “Come along, Cora.”

  Numb with fear, Cora allowed Nettie Mae to take her by the arm. Together they stepped out into the low light of sunset, but despite the evening’s pleasant warmth, Cora shivered.

  NETTIE MAE

  It seemed an absurdly long way down the porch steps and across the Bemis garden, but Nettie Mae placed one foot doggedly in front of another, dragging Cora along at her side. She marched the woman out into the pasture that lay between their two farms, but once there, Nettie Mae’s resolve faltered. She had no idea where to go, what she ought to do next. She and Cora huddled close together, gazing around at a world that seemed suddenly too large, too unfeeling—and far too clever for Nettie Mae to contend with. Never in her life had she felt so small and helpless. The two farms and the prairie beyond, the mountain range high above them—everything had taken on a sinister quality, calculating, indifferent to human fears. Never, in all the long years of her habitation, had the land Nettie Mae thought of as her home, however impersonal and functional that home might be, seemed so predatory and wild.

  Pressed close, shoulder to shoulder, the two women turned in a slow circle, staring helplessly into the vast, breathing body of nature. A thousand pairs of eyes seemed to stare back from between every grass stem, from the heights of the mountains—but no eye blinked, and none warmed with sympathy.

  Nettie Mae took a few faltering steps toward her own house, but paused, then retreated again to Cora’s side. In their desperation, the two women had moved in one another’s orbits. Now Nettie Mae found her back pressed against Cora’s. She could feel Cora trembling, or perhaps it was her own fear she felt reflected in her neighbor’s flesh. For now—since touching Benjamin’s face, since kissing the boy’s warm head—Nettie Mae knew with a wrenching certainty that she could not lose Beulah. Whoever, whatever, that strange girl might be, she had become the critical force in Nettie Mae’s life, the wind that filled the sail of her fate. It was Beulah, after all, who had remade Clyde with her strange, unholy power. Beulah had delivered Clyde from the shadow of his father. With stabbing clarity, she understood that if Beulah died, so, too, would the girl’s prediction—the promise she had given that Nettie Mae would have a new family, children to love again, a life begun anew. If death claimed the girl before her time, all of Nettie Mae’s fragile hopes would wither on the vine.

  Nettie Mae said, “Where might she have ridden to?”

  “I don’t know,” Cora answered faintly.

  “Think. You must think clearly now. Where does Beulah like to spend her idle time?”

  “I truly don’t know—I never knew. Beulah has always kept to herself, gone her own way. And I’ve always been too frightened to follow her or join her out here in the wilds.”

  “This land is too big for us to search without some plan. And the grass is tall; she might have fallen anywhere. If she’s lying somewhere, we won’t find her unless—”

  A ragged sob burst from Cora’s chest. Nettie Mae turned and found the woman covering her face with both hands. She was on the verge of rebuking Cora, insisting that she focus her will and make herself useful. But before Nettie Mae could speak, Cora stilled herself. She trembled—then the trembling ceased. Cora seemed to brace herself, willing herself to perfect calm. With eyes still covered by her hands, she lifted her face.

  “Cora, what in the Lord’s name are you—”

  Cora hushed her, quickly, with the confidence of one who expects to be obeyed, exactly as she might have done with little Miranda. For a few shuddering heartbeats, Cora held herself motionless—that delicate face tipped up toward the sky, wreathed all about by an air of concentration. Nettie Mae realized Cora was listening, and most intently.

  After a long moment, Cora’s hands left her face. Those brilliant blue eyes opened. No more tears shone along the lashes. Nettie Mae could still read Cora’s fear, for the woman was pale, and her eyes wide and staring. But she had gathered her wits—composed herself.

  Cora pointed toward the cottonwoods. “There.”

  “She’s out there?” Nettie Mae said eagerly. “By the river—are you sure?”

  “I don’t know; I can’t possibly be certain.” Cora’s voice was tinged by panic, yet she maintained her grip on sense. “But there are birds scolding up in the trees—crows calling. Can’t you hear them? Crows don’t normally call that way, do they? Not at this hour.”

  Nettie Mae stared toward the trees. She could hear the birds, all right, a raucous chorus with a distinct note of . . . what? Effrontery. Offense at having been disturbed. “I can’t swear that crows never call that way. They might do it every evening, for all I can tell.”

  “No,” Cora said, “this is different. I’m sure of it. I’ve never heard them like this before—angry and . . . and excited. Something has upset them, or drawn their interest. It could be Beulah. Come; we must find out.”

  Nettie Mae nodded, but she didn’t set out toward the cottonwoods. Not just yet. For Cora was right: there was a difference to the calls, something novel, out of the ordinary. She had no great desire to disturb the roost of those black carrion eaters. Fear surged in her breast. The crows; harsh screams leaped at her across the field, the birds numberless and angry, their wildness all too near. How absurd, she told herself, to be frightened of a crow. But she was frightened of the birds, of the openness of the field, of her own small, f
rail body—how breakable it was, like Beulah’s.

  “I haven’t gone to the river often,” Nettie Mae said. “I don’t know how to get there.”

  Cora looked at her steadily for a moment. Then she said, “I know the way.”

  They crossed the pasture together. As they drew nearer to the cottonwoods, a great flock of birds rose from the trees, circling madly, hectic as a cyclone. The crows shouted their displeasure, and a few dark feathers plummeted into the undergrowth. Nettie Mae shrank from the tumult, but Cora took her hand and led her on, faster along a narrow trail, then faster still. The trail’s margins were rank, overgrown with plants, with brambles that clawed at Nettie Mae’s skirt and scored the backs of her hands.

  The river came into view, flat and silver between the trunks of trees. The smell of the place overwhelmed her senses. Water and minerals—water and earth—and the warmth of the day dissipating, fading. The sky wore a low band of orange; a white, waning moon hung just above the trees. The sun would shortly set. If they didn’t find the girl quickly, they would have to contend with darkness and predators, too.

  Cora hesitated only a moment, staring up at the roiling cloud of birds. Then she pressed on, breaking through a stand of brush into a small clearing strewn with river stones. The birds wheeled overhead; the sound of them drove back everything else—wits and thought and even, finally, fear—so that only bare senses remained. Nettie Mae noticed a low mound, scarcely risen above the earth. It was covered in creeping plants, a mat of weeds. Red earth showed among thin vines. A white stone, little bigger than her fist, stood at the mound’s far end. No, not a stone. It was the skull of some animal. That stark reminder of death sent a jolt of awareness through Nettie Mae’s body, and all at once, she realized what she must be looking at: her husband’s grave. The place where Clyde had buried Substance. Nettie Mae gasped and stepped back, but in the same moment, Cora leaped forward with a wordless cry and ran across the clearing.

  Nettie Mae blinked hard, struggling to sort her thoughts through the cacophony overhead. Then she saw what had drawn Cora’s attention: a slender wrist and pale hand extending beyond the low hillock of the grave. They had found Beulah—lying on her back among the green things, one arm thrown up over her head—all but hidden by the weeds.