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

by Olivia Hawker

  The girl is only mooning about, dreaming, the way she always does. Even as she thought it, Nettie Mae knew it wasn’t so. Beulah was lying much too still, unresponsive to the clamor of the crows.

  Nettie Mae followed Cora over the hard-packed sand. Both women dropped to their knees beside the girl’s motionless body. Cora called Beulah’s name, over and over, but the girl lay as if sleeping. Nettie Mae noted the shallow rise and fall of Beulah’s chest. That was one small mercy, at least: the girl was still breathing.

  “Come now,” Nettie Mae said firmly. “Wake up.” She patted Beulah’s cheeks—first one, then the other, each strike falling a little harder than the last. But the girl’s eyes never opened.

  “We must carry her back to the house,” Cora said.

  “My house is nearer. If she’s badly hurt, even a few minutes’ time could make all the difference.”

  Cora swallowed hard, staring down at her daughter. “How will we move her?”

  “We must try not to shift her neck or her back too much. If we do, it could make her injuries worse.”

  “But how? How can it be done?” Cora looked up to the wheeling birds, as if she might find a solution to this grim dilemma among frantic wings and wild cries. She began to weep. “I don’t know how to help her! God save us!”

  Nettie Mae gathered Cora in her arms. “Come now. Crying won’t pull us out of the brine. Let us put our heads together; we can think of a plan. Look, there are branches downed among the cottonwoods. We might weave some together and make a sled of sorts. Then we can drag her home.”

  “A sled?” Cora could barely speak through her racking sobs. “And how long will that take? The longer we wait—”

  Hoofbeats sounded near the river, and the crows redoubled their fury. Nettie Mae and Cora both straightened on their knees, looking around in desperate hope. Clyde burst through a stand of brush, mounted on the big bay horse. The bay threw up its head, crying a shrill protest; white foam sprayed from its lips.

  “Beulah!” Clyde’s shout was thick with agony. He threw himself from the saddle and ran toward the girl, but Nettie Mae held up a hand to stop him.

  “Don’t touch her! We must carry her back to our house, but carefully. We can’t afford to make her injuries any worse.”

  Clyde wrung his hands and paced restlessly along the trail—never so far that he lost sight of the girl. His horse danced nervously under the thunderhead of crows, and Clyde paused to watch the animal. Then he wheeled around and crouched beside Nettie Mae. “I know how we can do it! We’ll make a sling from Tiger’s saddle blanket.”

  Dazed, Cora shook her head. Nettie Mae felt none too certain herself.

  “Wait here. I’ll show you.” Clyde scrambled up and caught the horse. The bay pawed anxiously as Clyde stripped the saddle from his back. He dropped the saddle at the foot of the grave, then he pulled the sweat-soaked blanket from the horse’s body. Unfolded, the blanket was just large enough to cradle Beulah’s body.

  Nettie Mae leaped to her feet. “That will do the trick, by God!”

  She helped her son spread the blanket next to Beulah’s body. Cautiously, they shifted the girl onto the dirty cloth, an operation which caused Nettie Mae to hold her breath in fear. She could only pray they hadn’t worsened Beulah’s condition by moving her too vigorously. Clyde returned the saddle to the horse’s back, then lifted the blanket by the two corners on either side of the girl’s face.

  “Take a corner down there, by one of her feet,” Nettie Mae said to Cora. “I’ll hold the other side.”

  In that manner, they shuffled together along the trail, silenced by the urgency of their task. The bay horse followed, whickering now and then. As the clearing dwindled behind Nettie Mae’s hunched and straining back, the crows subsided to their roost, and the gentle singing of crickets replaced that terrible noise.

  The sun had set and twilight had already begun to encroach upon the prairie by the time they reached the sod-brick house. Nettie Mae’s back and shoulders ached; she stifled a groan, but together they carried Beulah up the steps and into the sitting room.

  “Don’t try to take her out of the blanket,” Nettie Mae said. “Let us simply lay her out on the sofa, blanket and all. It’s a filthy bit of cloth, and it stinks like the corral, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. Cora, fetch that lace cushion from my rocker. We must support her head, the poor dear.”

  Only when she had seen Beulah settled on the sofa and covered with a clean quilt from her own bed did Nettie Mae allow herself to stretch the cramps from her back and shoulders. Clyde sank to his knees and took Beulah’s hand, staring desperately into the girl’s slack face.

  “What ought we to do now?” Cora’s small, dull voice was brutally loud in the stillness.

  “She needs the doctor. Clyde, you must ride to town and fetch him. Luckily, the night is clear, and the moon is just past full; you should be able to find your way.”

  Clyde nodded. He watched Beulah for a moment longer, his face gaunt with despair. Then climbed to his feet. “You’re right, Mother. Of course, you’re right. I’ll saddle Joe Buck right away. Tiger’s a faster horse, but he’ll be tuckered out by now, and I won’t risk him going lame on the way to Paintrock. God willing, I’ll be back with the doc before sunrise.” He cast a final, lingering look at the girl before he left the house.

  When Clyde had gone, Nettie Mae turned to Cora, summoning her old, brisk air. “You must stay here with your daughter. Take my stool—that one there, by my spinning wheel. Anything you need from my kitchen, anything you need in all the house, is yours.”

  Cora clasped her hands at her throat. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to your house, of course. I’ll check on the children and put them to bed.” Nettie Mae hesitated then, tapping her chin with one finger. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Cora’s eye. “On second thought, perhaps I ought to fetch the children over here. Maybe it’s for the best if we keep them close tonight, in case . . .”

  She didn’t finish the thought, but went to the kitchen for a lantern. Moon or no moon, the children might be frightened of the long walk in the dark. Nettie Mae tossed a shawl hastily around her shoulders and was about to leave the house when Cora appeared at her shoulder. She halted Nettie Mae with one trembling hand upon her shoulder.

  “I . . . I can’t pay a doctor’s bill. I haven’t any money. I don’t know how I’m to afford this, unless the doctor will take the president’s china in payment.”

  “Don’t you fret about money,” Nettie Mae said. “I’ll pay the bill.”

  She left her kitchen before Cora could argue.

  13

  WHEN WE WOKE FROM DREAMS

  I passed that night in a kind of sleep, and I dreamed all the while, but the dreams were like none I had known before. I’ve had dreams that linger—the kind you can’t help but dwell on, even after you’ve wakened, the kind of dreams whose strength you feel long after their visions have faded. There are dreams that go on tumbling through your head for hours after waking, and sometimes they remain just beyond reach, beyond your power to recall, and all that’s left—even in the moment after waking—is an impression faint as bird tracks at the edge of a river.

  The visions that came to me that night, as I lay once more under Nettie Mae’s roof, were creatures of a different breed. I remember every bright moment of those dreams—I still do, to this day—every shadow and nuance, every clear, chiming note of certainty that came to me that night, while I walked the edge of the spiral.

  I saw a flock of blackbirds rising from a field of corn. The flock grew and grew as more birds took to the wing—so many birds, I couldn’t conceive of the number. They turned the twilight sky to gray, then black, and my head filled with the beating of their wings—wings so numerous they sounded like a hailstorm or the rain that brings the flood. The blackbirds called to one another as they flew. Their voices were harsh, a great clamor of sound that drowned out all the other songs of the prairie. But though th
eir noise and their numbers were great, they soon moved on—the whole great flock twisting and flowing in the air, the cloud of their vast society dwindling as it moved away across the plain. I turned and looked back at the cornfield once the birds had vanished. I expected to find it picked clean, stripped of all life by the hungry flock. But the corn was growing straight and tall, and between the husks of the ears I could see the corn seed shining. Golden and multiplying, seed after seed formed along countless ears. Then the seeds fell to the earth and new life sprang up at once, green shoots that reached toward the sun. It was then I realized that one bird had remained. She perched atop the highest corn plant, swaying with the long silks in the wind. I asked her, Ain’t you lonely, now that your flock has gone? But she looked down at the new life rising, her eyes bright and glad. Then she opened her beak and sang—sang up to a purple sky, a song so sweet and grateful, I wept with joy to hear it.

  I dreamed of the low places, the dense green coolness down among the roots of the garden. A chorus of insects sang all around me, filling me, so it seemed that the music came from within my body. I crept among the great, fat stalks of plants, for I was the size of a moth now, delicate and light, and my skin glittered in the moonlight, dusted with powdery scales. As I pushed through the dense forest of the garden, I recognized the plants I had sown from seed. I greeted each one by name, for now I knew them all, just as they knew me, and they were glad of my presence.

  But as I slipped among their hairy stalks and climbed over the stout ledges of their roots, I heard a sawing, rasping sound high above. I looked up and found a cutworm busy at the leaf of a beanstalk. It bit into the yielding green flesh, and the bean plant wept its fragrant sap. I could feel the beanstalk crying out with pain, in helpless offense. Then the leaf fell. I had to step quickly to avoid it. I called up to the worm, Don’t hurt it, please. Don’t hurt the plant. But where the leaf fell, the soil rose up to meet it, stretching tiny hands—white, threadlike hands that caught the leaf and held it down and drank its sap so the leaf went down into the soil, just as rain soaks into the cracks of the earth, with a whisper and a sigh. Then I could hear the soil breathing out as if in relief, a deep satisfaction, and every plant around me grew a little taller. Even the beanstalk the worm had bitten grew. It reached up for a distant sun, yearning for the light’s embrace. The worm moved its terrible jaws and spoke. God is said to be great, the worm told me, so great you cannot see Him. But God is small, with hands like threads, and they reach for you everywhere you go. The hands touch everything—even you, even me. What falls never falls; what grows has grown a thousand times, and will live a thousand times more. Wherever hand touches hand, the Oneness comes to stay. Once God has made a thing whole, it cannot be broken again.

  And last, just before I woke, I dreamed of the sheep in Clyde’s arms—our miracle, the two made one. Clyde was standing on the hillside, circled by sage, lit by a round white moon. The pear tree was in full flower, and a wind came down from the Bighorns to scatter the blossoms. Petals filled the air, light as cottonwood seed, and when the lamb saw the petals flying, it opened its two mouths together and bleated with joy. And I looked into Clyde’s face and found him smiling.

  I woke with the sound of the lamb’s call still ringing in my ears. Only it wasn’t the lamb at all. There was a crow out in the orchard, croaking and clacking its beak, calling to the morning sun. Pale-yellow light glowed along the edges of the curtains—white curtains, cutwork. That was the first I knew that I had returned to the Webber house.

  Don’t try to sit up, a man said.

  For a minute, I thought maybe it was my pa. I squinted and moved my head feebly on my pillow, trying to make out who had spoken. I didn’t recognize the voice.

  The man said, She’s wakened, Mrs. Bemis.

  A moment later, I heard a wordless exclamation from my ma, then her eager step coming from the kitchen. I was in Nettie Mae’s sitting room, I realized, and my head ached something awful.

  My eyes were blurred and kept insisting that they should see double. Nevertheless, I made out my ma’s familiar shape. I could even read the worry on her face—the pretty frown, those blue eyes luminous with fear. When she saw that my eyes were open, relief stepped in to replace a little of her worry. She knelt beside the sofa and took my hand.

  The man said, Your daughter has suffered a nasty blow to the head. She will have some pain and a sizable goose egg for days yet to come. There may be temporary effects, too. Memory loss over the short term—nothing serious or lasting. Confusion in her speech, perhaps, or some slowness of action.

  With a fond little laugh, Nettie Mae said, Slowness of action—that’s nothing unusual for our Beulah.

  She must have plenty of rest, the man said. No strenuous work for two weeks at least, and all the hearty, nourishing foods she will eat. But she’ll recover, with time. Now, young lady, you must tell us all what happened, if you can remember.

  I blinked at the man. He was indistinct, his edges furred, but I could make him out a little better as the minutes passed. He resolved before my eyes, and I saw that he had dark hair shot with gray at the temples, a thick mustache that bent down around the corners of his mouth, and a monocle pinched against one eye, which made him look very serious and grave. He smelled of sharp, stinging smells—alcohol and bitter herbs.

  Clyde said, This is Dr. Cooper, Beulah. I brought him down from Paintrock.

  I turned my head sharply at the sound of Clyde’s voice and regretted it at once, for pain flooded my skull, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes would have sought Clyde out and followed him no matter where he went. I could as soon have looked away from Clyde as the lamb could have looked away from its twin.

  Clyde was sitting in Nettie Mae’s rocker—slumped there, bent with weariness. He was holding a bowl of something hot in his hands, steam rose from the bowl in slow curls, but his shoulders sagged, and he looked tired enough to drop.

  I rode all night to fetch Doc, Clyde said—proud and not afraid to show it, now that he knew I would recover.

  The doctor said, You’ve got a right brave son, Mrs. Webber.

  Then he patted my hand briskly. Tell us, Beulah. Can you remember what happened?

  I blinked. Then I blinked again, and would have rubbed my knuckles hard against my eyes if I’d had enough pep to lift my hands. It seemed all I could do just to speak—to think.

  I . . . I fell from my horse, I said.

  Memory returned to me piecemeal, a patchwork with sloppy stitches. Recollection of the fall seemed less real to me than my dreams had been, but I struggled to retrieve it, and did my best to sew the moments back together.

  I said, I went riding down from the foothills. I should have gone straight back to the corral, but I wanted to stop and visit Substance’s grave—see if I couldn’t coax him to talk, and urge him once more to give up the futility of his own confined and angry ghost. But when I got there, the crows took flight, all calling at once, and Tiger spooked. That’s all I know. Guess I don’t remember actually falling. I only remember Tiger rearing up—and that’s the last of it. Guess I must have lost my hold and hit the ground head first.

  That’s good enough for me, the doctor said. No more riding horses, young lady—not until you’ve thoroughly healed. When your memories are no longer impeded, nor any other functions, you may ride again, if your mother permits.

  Your mother does not permit, said Ma.

  By and by, the doctor left, and the Webber house settled back into its daily routines. Clyde took himself upstairs to catch a little sleep. I closed my eyes, but sleep evaded me. Rather, I listened—to the crow out in the orchard, the first cicadas of the season thrumming out in the grass. I listened to Nettie Mae singing softly under her breath as she went about her chores in the kitchen, and I heard the rhythmic creak of my ma in the rocker by the window. I could hear her embroidering, too: the faint tap of her needle breaking the tension of the cloth, the slide of thread into linen. It was a contented sound—settled, in no hurry to up
and leave.

  Tuckered by the long night’s journey, Clyde had surrendered at once to slumber. But I could feel his dreams as vividly as I had felt my own.

  What did he dream? A ring of white flowers like a halo, and bats among the lilacs. He dreamed of the calls of his flock, and the feel of his horse’s neck, warm beneath his cheek. He dreamed a coyote trotting through the brush, swift and alive. He dreamed a pale circle, and from that circle his future flowed like the river, certain and strong.

  When he woke from his dreams, he knew exactly what to do.

  CLYDE

  When he woke from his dreams, Clyde stared up at the slope of his ceiling, trying to recall the visions that had come to him in sleep. But though he still felt the great weight of import bearing down on his chest, he remembered nothing but a few stray scraps of imagery, fleeting glimpses of knowledge or fate, more hidden than revealed. He had seen an animal slinking through the sage, and he had been glad of its presence. What sort of creature it was, Clyde couldn’t say. He had seen something pale and round—luminous, hanging against a dark sky. But whether it was the moon or the pear blossoms framing Beulah’s face or something else entirely, he couldn’t decide. The lack of certainty disturbed him, sickening him with a sensation of something left undone, something grave and crucial but still incomplete.

  Sleep had been necessary, but it had also left him groggy and slow. He sat up on the edge of his bed, groaning at the slowness of his thoughts, the dense stubborn fog that occluded all sense. He stared out the window. It was still bright outside—still day. How many hours had he slept? The sun was tending toward the west, the light mellow and full. He shuffled across his small bedroom, staring through the glass at his farm. Animals were grazing contentedly on their pasture. Even the hens were going about their business without the urgency of hunger. His mother and Cora must have seen to the most pressing chores for him. It was kind to allow him his rest, for the night had been a long one, the ride to Paintrock daunting. Fear had chased him all the long journey, but Beulah was safe now—safe and well. The time for fretting had passed. There was work yet to be done, and this task would wait no longer.