Stone Field

by Christy Lenzi

  The words tumble out of my mouth. “Stonefield, I’m your people. Your … your … person.” My heart’s rising up to my throat. “You can’t leave! You belong here with me. Our house in the woods. We belong togeth—”

  “I have to go find them.” Stonefield’s voice has changed—it’s more solid than it used to be. Like dark molasses that’s been cooked to a hardened brickle. I don’t recognize it anymore. “Don’t you see, Cat? I have to go find out what’s been stolen from me. I have to find out where I come from.”

  “No, I don’t see.” I struggle to my feet. “I don’t want to know where the Hell you came from. It doesn’t matter. I want the past to stay in the past.” I’m shaking. I’ve never told Stonefield about how I killed Mother. I never will. When I met him all I could see was the present, and that’s how I want it to stay. “Forget the past.” A lump swells in my throat. “Let’s leave it behind. We belong together. Here. Now.”

  Stonefield pulls me back to the ground. “Cat, if you love me, you understand that I need to go.”

  I wrench my hands from him. “If you love me, you understand that you need to stay.”

  I wait for him to say, You’re right, Cat, we belong together, here. But he just looks at me with eyes that are full of hurt and full of other things I don’t understand. I want his eyes to be empty again so they see only me.

  I fling his hands away. “Go!”

  My heart’s on fire, burning up inside my rib cage. I want to slap him or hurt him somehow the way he’s hurting me. “Just go, then, you … you savage!”

  Stonefield’s face goes dark like a storm of feelings all clouding together, but I tear the magic seeing stone from my neck and throw it at him before turning and bolting away.

  22

  My anger at Stonefield, instead of cooling, stews and bubbles all night, getting hotter and hotter until I can’t think of anything else. When I remember how I plucked his name into the mattress that’s pressed against my skin, I jump out of bed and rip the homespun to shreds. The torn strips of my bedding litter the floor, but his name is still there, in the pieces.

  I shove the table aside and wipe away his name from where I had written it in the dust. But now he is on my dusty hands. I remember he’s on the window, too. I run to it and breathe on the pane. His name reappears where I wrote it on the wet glass. I wipe it away, but his watery name is all over my fingers. No matter how hard I rub them, I still feel him on my skin. He’s in my skin. His name is written in scabs on my flesh from when I scratched it there. I claw at the letters, gouging him from my body until he’s gone, and my arm’s a mess of blood. And still, his name hangs in the air where I whispered it over and over and over again.

  I hate him for haunting me.

  In the morning, I’m still sitting naked on the floor, reading his invisible name written all over my room. I’m not cold, because my anger has turned me scalding hot.

  Reverend Preston calls on me to see if I’m in better spirits, but I pretend not to hear Dora when she calls from outside my door to tell me he’s here. Yesterday, I didn’t say one word to him on the ride home from Rolla and none of his words reached me, either. Maybe he thinks I lost my voice again. But it’s thousands worse—I’ve lost Stonefield.

  The dogs start barking like mad from the front of the house. At the sound of hoofbeats approaching and movement in the house, I wipe the blood from my hands with the pieces of torn bedding and make a bandage of them around my wound. I pull on my shirt and pants. Henry calls out something as the front door bangs open. I hear Papa leave his study and I peer out my door.

  “Wait, Mr. Dickinson,” Dora calls. “I think you should rest.”

  But Papa doesn’t listen and struggles to walk on his own. I follow him down the hall and out onto the front porch where Reverend Preston and Henry are already standing. Two soldiers ride into the clearing on a pair of Frank Louis’s best horses.

  “What’s this?” Papa asks Henry and the preacher.

  Reverend Preston pulls at his ribbon tie, nervous. “It looks as though they’ve been to Frank’s place and conscripted his horses. Yesterday he was giving the town quite an earful in front of the Union soldiers.”

  Henry shakes his head. “Probably jabbered like a fool. They must have gotten orders to enlist him into the Union Army.”

  If they have Frank’s horses, what happened to Frank and Stonefield? Frank wouldn’t have enlisted without a fight. As the dogs bark and growl, the men struggle to keep their new horses under control.

  “Mr. Estlin Dickinson?” one shouts. The horses spin in circles, and the men fumble with the reins.

  Papa calls Napoleon to his side and the dogs quiet down. “I’m Estlin Dickinson.”

  “We come on orders!”

  Papa nods. “Say on.”

  “We’re here to conscript a number of items and recruit qualifying men into the Union Army by orders of Major General John C. Frémont.”

  Henry speaks up. “My father is ill and over the age of enlistment. But I enlist on my own free will—no need for your conscription.”

  Dora clutches his arm like it’s a surprise. The soldier dismounts and pulls out a small tablet and pencil. “Name and age?”

  “Henry Wells Dickinson, nineteen.”

  “How many horses do you own?”

  “Three.”

  “We’ll be taking two.”

  The man looks up at Reverend Preston. “Name and age, sir?”

  “Samuel Preston, twenty-one.” His jaw’s set tight and he stares back steady at the soldier. “I’m minister for the people of Roubidoux and must decline your enlistment.”

  “Ministers don’t get to decline.” The soldier keeps writing in his notebook.

  Henry steps closer, and the man’s pencil stops as he looks up, frowning.

  “Reverend Preston is Roubidoux’s schoolteacher as well. I believe that exempts him from your conscription.”

  “Yes, sir, it does.”

  The tightness in Reverend Preston’s face relaxes.

  The soldier looks at Henry. “Is the reverend your kin?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Reverend Preston smiles and rests his hand on my arm. “I’m engaged to be married to Miss Catrina Dickinson, Estlin’s daughter.”

  I stiffen as he moves closer to me.

  A voice shouts from behind us, jolting me like lightning.

  “No!”

  Stonefield. I turn and look over my shoulder. He’s standing ten paces behind us at the corner of the house, glaring at Henry. Oh Hell.

  “Liar!” Stonefield yells at the preacher as he starts walking toward the front of the house.

  The soldier’s hand moves toward his pistol and rests on the grip. “State your name and age, sir.”

  Stonefield turns to me. “Tell the man it isn’t true.” His eyes are wild like an animal’s.

  But I am wild, too, and I know how to hurt him now, how to tear his heart out like he did mine. I move closer to Reverend Preston, and he puts a protective arm around me as Stonefield watches.

  Stonefield doesn’t look at the soldier. He walks steady toward us, glaring at Reverend Preston with a look on his face like a mountain cat ready to strike. It’s not true, is it, Catrina? Say you are not his.

  But I don’t speak back in our silent way. I say it loud. “It is true.”

  I never saw him look so fierce before; he looks like he could kill Reverend Preston and me several times over.

  Henry knows. His voice booms out. “His name is Stonefield. He was the farmhand.” His eyes glint like steel. “He’s Creek Indian.”

  The soldier steps forward. “Muscogee Creek? They’re the traitors causing trouble for us down in Indian Territory.” He raises his voice and talks real slow, as if Stonefield’s deaf or fool headed.

  “Boy, is Stonefield your Indian name?”

  Stonefield keeps glaring at Reverend Preston. His fingers tighten into fists. He wants to hit him. He steps closer. Lord, Lord, Lord.

  He
nry’s face is blood red. His voice throbs with tied-down rage. “Sir,” he calls to the soldier, “if the Union considers him a traitor, then arrest him—it’s your duty!”

  Lord.

  “Mr. Stonefield, I hereby arrest you as a traitor to the nation. You shall—”

  “I won’t go with you.” He’s not even looking at them, but at me.

  The soldier sets his notebook and pencil on his saddlebag and frowns hard at Stonefield. “Do you refuse to comply, boy?”

  “I won’t fight in your war.” He’s still staring at me.

  The soldier nods at his companion on the horse, who draws a pistol. “If you resist and do not obey these orders, you will forfeit any right to a trial and will be considered a confirmed traitor and may be legally shot.”

  Stonefield’s not looking at the men. His eyes are still hot on me. They’re burning a hole through my heart. Catrina.

  You said we would be together always. I say the words to him inside my head. And now you plan to desert me. You are a traitor.

  I’m the traitor? His face hardens in a way I’ve never seen before. May a curse fall upon us both.

  My body shudders at his silent voice. And I feel it—a curse falling on us, between us, like a heavy darkness, separating us from each other.

  “Boy!” The soldier’s hands are on Stonefield, turning him around.

  Stonefield wrenches away from him and before the man can steady himself, Stonefield’s fist is in his face. The soldier drops to the ground like a sack of flour. Reverend Preston grabs me out of the way.

  The man on the horse lifts his gun.

  Stonefield ducks, picks up a stone, and throws it at him. As it knocks the gun from the man’s hand, Stonefield picks up another and hurls it at his head. The man falls from his horse, his leg still caught in the stirrup.

  Dora screams. The first soldier scrambles on the ground for his dropped pistol, but Stonefield picks it up. Henry trips as he bolts toward the house for his rifle.

  Stonefield looks at Reverend Preston clutching me, guarding me from him, and his face twists up in pain and anger. He turns away and mounts the soldier’s horse.

  By the time Henry’s loaded the rifle, Stonefield, like a broken-off piece of my own heart, is gone.

  23

  I pace the parlor. My heart throbs from the pain of holding so much anger inside.

  “Catrina, rest. There’s nothing we can do at the moment.” Effie’s doctoring the soldier’s head where Stonefield hit him right between the eyes with a rock, just like David walloped Goliath. Goliath had the bad fortune to die and then have his head cut off, but I think the soldier’s wound is mostly to his pride. With his eyes closed, the round wound makes him look like an ugly Cyclops.

  “Damned savage,” he mutters as he plays with the threads unraveling from the sleeve of his blue uniform. He’s impatient for his partner to return with the posse. “When I get my hands on him, he’ll be begging for mercy. Just you wait and—”

  Effie stuffs a pill into the man’s mouth and hands him a cup of water. “Swallow. For the pain.”

  The soldiers gave Henry his orders—he’s to join Union Infantry 85 tomorrow and ride with them to Springfield to help clear Major General Sterling Price’s Confederates from Missouri. Meanwhile, Stonefield’s to be hunted down like a rabid coon. I wonder if he left Roubidoux.

  “Effie, what happened to Frank? Did he join the army?”

  The soldier lifts his head. “Frank Louis?” He scowls. “We gave him a good and proper warning, but he refused to comply. That damned resister had the nerve to shoot my hat off before he rode away. We started to chase him, but our orders were that if a resister escaped, we should burn down his house and barn and then report back, so we followed orders instead.”

  Effie shakes her head. “His house and barn have been destroyed? He’ll be ruined.”

  “He’ll be more than ruined. The posse will find him and the Indian both. Probably together, if you ask me. All the resisters in these parts have a way of finding each other—they like to join up, become bushwhackers. They think they’re stronger together, but that just makes it easier for us to find them. And we will. Don’t you worry about that, little lady!”

  “Mr. Snodgrass, lie back.” Effie presses on the soldier’s chest, pushing him onto his pillow before he can protest.

  Henry appears in the doorway. “Cat, I’d like to speak to you.”

  I follow him out to the hallway.

  Henry’s face is serious, but his eyes are lit up. “Look, Cat, I know my leaving is a little sooner than expected, but I’ve got everything in order as best I can. I shouldn’t be gone long—this war will all be a distant memory in several months.” His voice turns gentle, like he’s soothing a child. “We’ll quiet the rebels, and President Lincoln will help the country mend. Soon everything will be back to normal.” He steps closer. “Now, I know you were unsure at first about marrying Reverend Preston, but I can see for myself the changes that have come about in you. You made it clear today that you want nothing to do with your old ways or … past acquaintances. I’m proud of you, Cat.”

  Acquaintances. Lord. We were never acquaintances. Our souls were knit together into one. And now Stonefield has ripped us apart by wanting to leave me. My hands become fists.

  Henry rests his hand on my arm. “I only wish I could be here to see your wedding.”

  “You can.”

  Henry tilts his head. “But, Cat, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “I want to get married today.”

  * * *

  “Broom me out!” Dora’s beaming as she rushes into my room without knocking. “I’m so excited you’re getting hitched to Samuel. Who would have thought it, him being a preacher and you being demon possessed only weeks ago!” She’s been collecting things from her room to help get me “prettied up” for the hasty parlor wedding and take her mind off Henry leaving tomorrow.

  “Dora, where’s Effie?”

  Her lips purse. “Effie insisted on going with Henry when he rode over to fetch Mr. Lenox. She claimed she had to get something for you from the house. I don’t know why it couldn’t wait. It’s not like you’ll be moving out of Roubidoux. The parsonage is barely a mile from her house!” Dora’s face is shiny and her hands are full of combs, tonics, soaps, and powders. I want to push her out of the room and slam the door. “Now, hurry up—I’ve heated the water Henry brought in. Get in the tub before it cools off!”

  She follows me to the tub like a clucking hen. “You may have an ugly scar on your forehead, but at least we can make you smell pretty! You’ll want the cream soap, I’m sure, and the lemon-perfumed powder—”

  “Hell no.” The last thing I want is to smell like a lemon pie. “I’ll use my own soap.” Mother taught me how to make it simple with grease, lye, and salt. I slip out of my pants and shirt and step into the hot water, hiding the inside of my arm so Dora doesn’t see where I dug Stonefield’s name from my skin.

  She pouts for a moment, then brightens up. “Well, I distinctly heard Henry say you’re to wear your very best outfit—‘No ruffian clothes!’ he said.” She claps her hands. “Finally, you’ll be seen in a proper dress. I’ll find your best for you and lay it out on your bed. And I’ll help you with your corset to make sure it’s nice and tight for a pretty shape.” She sucks in her breath, thrusts out her chest, and pats her own waistline.

  “No.” I slide deeper into the water.

  “But I only want to help you.”

  Her words are the same ones Reverend Preston shouted in the rain, before he carried me to the house and tied me to the bed. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at her mopey expression.

  “Henry says, and I agree, that you should—”

  I slip down below the water till it covers my ears, my head. I want to stay here in this place where I am weightless. So warm, so fluid, so deep. It forgives the heaviness I carry. It takes it away and forgets—like a kind of mercy. I want to be a part of its nothingness, b
ut I can’t. My anger pulls me back to the surface. The cool air slaps me back into the world.

  When I open my eyes, Dora’s given up, and I’m left alone in the room. I finish my bath and rub my hair dry with the linen cloths. It’s so long, I use up all the linen on the shelves. Henry expects me to pull it back and pin it up tight like a grown-up woman, now that I’m getting married and I’ve become a proper Christian. But I won’t. I let it be the way it wants—thick and full like the wild lions in Effie’s book about the Congo. It falls over my shoulders and down my back to my hips. The Bible says that Samson’s long hair was magic, giving him strength. My hair may not be magic, but it will give me the power to stand up to Henry.

  I open my trunk. Henry doesn’t know that my corset is in the barn above the milking stool, where I’ve been using it to plug a drafty hole, and my dresses are in the rag box to be cut up for quilt patches. I’m not planning on taking them out, either. But I will wear the nicest clothes in my possession, just for him.

  24

  Effie raps on my door. I can tell it’s her because she’s knocked that way since we were little—like a drummer playing a marching beat in front of an army.

  “Come in.”

  “Oh!” she says when she sees me lying naked on the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

  When I stare at the rafters long enough, I get mixed up. I start feeling like I’m actually stuck to the ceiling and staring down at the floor instead. I discovered it when I was little. One day Mother hung the chairs upside down from the rafters so their saggy woven seats would dry nice and tight after she’d soaked them—made the ceiling look just like a floor. I love the feeling of floating high above everything.

  I sit up, and the world flips back to normal. But it’s not, really—everything’s topsy-turvy. I frown at the rafters.