Kingdomtide

by Rye Curtis

  If you’re anybody but goddamn Cloris Waldrip, you step back and go on.

  The body in the trees quickened its pace and Lewis lined up the front sight with a dark place between two pines. A tiny globe glinted there like a lone eye. She began to sob in a manner she had not since she was a child.

  Goddamn it, get it over with and have me, you goddamn goofball.

  From the trees the dark figure came bounding. Lewis bellowed the Lord’s name in vain and fired all five rounds in the cylinder.

  The forest was darkest after the muzzle flash. Her ears buzzed.

  She sat down deaf and blind and caught her breath in the powder smoke. She lowered the revolver. She sat a minute and pushed herself from the ground and steadied herself by the bough of a pine. The clouds had blown off and the moon stuck in the fog and the powder smoke.

  Lewis wiped her eyes with a sleeve and said hello to the dark place.

  No answer.

  When she flipped open the cylinder it burned her thumb. She jammed the ejector with her palm and let the casings fall over her boots. She reached around and punched free from her belt five cartridges and loaded them and closed the wheel against her trouser leg. She crept forward and let her eyes adjust to the moonlight. She watched the ground.

  She stopped.

  The dog was sprawled on its side, a pink tongue unraveled from its mouth. Black blood slicked the pine needles and pooled low places in the mud.

  Goddamn it, she said. She knelt down and nudged the dog with the barrel of the pistol. She squinted and saw its skull was opened. Goddamn it. She took hold of the collar and turned it around the neck and angled the bloodwet heart-shaped tag to the moonlight. The light glanced across the name Charlie.

  Lewis shook her head and slumped back to the ground. She wiped on a trouser leg the blood and hair from her hand.

  Every fall the ladies at First Methodist would get together once a week in the basement of the church house and sew quilts for the indigent and discuss scripture and the weekly gossip. During that time I learned to quilt very well. I will also tell you that I know how to fix a strong plait.

  I used to plait the dark hair of a nervous little girl I had in my class prior to taking the position of librarian. Plaiting her hair was the only way to get her to hold still long enough for me to read aloud from Little Women or The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. She was a gorgeous fidgety thing. Gracious, how envious I was of her dodo-bird mother when the awful woman would collect her at the end of the day, smoking a nasty cigarette and scowling at her children like they were incalculable evil. I took the position of librarian in part because students like this little girl had become an unfortunate reminder that I could not have children of my own and, as I have mentioned here before, I was mighty disappointed about that at the time. We once took it in our minds to adopt, but it was not a common practice then in Clarendon and the process was overly difficult and required much more money than we had at the time.

  All of which is to say that when I woke up out there in the Bitterroot on what I count to be the 9th of November I was up with an idea. I salvaged all that I could that had not burned up in the fire and I set about building a raft. I plaited reeds and cattails and used them to cinch together odd lengths of pine into a lattice about the size of a large mattress. Then I used the reeds and the spey blade and quilted together charred pieces of blankets and covered the topside of my strange vessel. It was most troublesome and awkward work but I stayed after it and by sunset I had finished. The raft did not look nice, but I hoped it would float. I imagine that many of you will not find it likely that a little old woman could hope to get a fully grown man onto a crude raft and paddle him down a mountain creek to safety. But that is what I meant to do.

  I will tell you about one summer when a heifer broke her hind legs in a cattle guard. Our ranch manager, Joe Flud, found her in the pasture. Joe was a diminutive man, but he was also clever and managed to fashion a makeshift hoist out of a fence post and a tarpaulin he had kept in the bed of his truck. He got the heifer back to the pens at headquarters by himself and made splints for the poor creature from a ladle and a spatula he had taken from his wife’s kitchen. Cassidy was away visiting her folks at the time and Joe said she threw a fit when she came home to find her cutlery plastered to the hind legs of that heifer. But Joe saved that heifer and she eventually calved and brought a fair price at the feedlot. My thought was that if little Joe could rescue a heifer by himself with some ingenuity and steadfastness, I ought to be able to rescue this injured man who had done the same for me on so many occasions.

  The man did not say much that day save to ask for water. He had gone from green to a terrible shade of orange and his breathing was like that of Judith Ellery, a lifelong smoker who had sat in the pew behind me at First Methodist for many years rattling like gravel caught in the wheel well of a truck. Then her breathing worsened and worsened until one Sunday she did not come to service. She was discovered by her deaf boy facedown in her parsley garden.

  Before it was too dark I tugged the raft down a slope of slick mud and into the creek to see if it would float. It did, thank goodness! However I was not certain it would float the both of us. I pulled it back up onto the mud and collected all that I had salvaged. This included a lighter and one fire-starter stick and the ornate spey blade. I bundled it all up in a sheet and tied it down to the raft. I also tied down the long pine branch I had found to use for a kind of punting pole. I decided that we would leave the following morning.

  That night I lay close to my friend with my back against him, watching the fire. I did not sleep much. Dawn came fast and cold and I zipped up Terry’s coat and wrapped my hands with strips from a half-burned blanket so that I could better grip the pole in the chill. The sky was gray with skinny clouds and the birds did not want to sing.

  By this pale light of dawn I woke him. We have to move you now, I said. We needed to get him onto the raft, I told him, and that I would support his weight and we could take it one step at a time to the creek.

  He opened his eyes some but did not utter a word in response. I had left the raft only some yards from us on the side of the creek. He looked at it without moving his head and then used the spruce he was under to pull himself upright onto his good leg. He hollered out an awfully vile word and bunched up his face in pain. I was mighty sorry for him, but I never see a call for nasty language. He leaned on me and my walking stick and I counted out loud each step and bit by bit we hopped him over. He collapsed to the raft and cursed again. Pitiful tears ran off his cheeks. Once he had settled on his back and shut his eyes he was quiet again.

  I got a good deep breath and with all my might I pushed that raft down the slope of mud. It took off with less effort than I had expected. I had not accounted for the man’s weight. My gracious, did it take off! I chased after it best as an old woman could but it reached the water without me. He was pulled out to the current and I was not on the raft! I worried I had just sent this injured man on a lonesome boat ride for which he had not bargained. I took a couple of steps back and holding my walking stick I ran and made a jump for it. I flew and landed right on his leg and he gave a big yell! I slung my walking stick over and climbed aboard.

  The weight was uneven and cold water sloshed over us. He fussed a bit and held his eyes shut. Out of breath, I told him that I was very sorry I had landed on his bad leg but that he should not worry and we would get him to a doctor in one piece. I situated myself between his legs and forward on the little raft until it balanced and was more or less level above the water.

  At first the current was not strong and the raft went slow and was often stuck in the shallows. Often I had to nudge it free with the pole. After a spell the creek turned into a river and the gulch opened up into a great colorful valley of limestone and outcrops of pink granite. We had been blessed with an unusually warm day and the sun was out. We sailed along quicker then and the man slept and after a while we passed a place I recognized, the grave marker I had carved
into the stump.

  By and by the river wound down into the conifer woods. After going along peacefully through the pines for some time the current turned white and quick and roared over a bevy of jagged rocks. The little raft spun around! We were faced backwards and a pine log broke free from the starboard side. The man partly sank into the cold water and he grimaced and fussed but did not open his eyes. I feared we would capsize and drown. The water splashed in my face and got in my eyes. I wiped them and turned around and endeavored to see ahead. I was shivering something terrible. A little fall appeared ahead in the river. I was sure it would destroy our raft to go over it. I used my pole like a rudder to steer away to the riverbank.

  I mean to tell you I maneuvered that little raft with all the strength I could muster. Suddenly I was not exhausted. My arthritis was gone. I have heard stories of women who perform incredible feats of strength beyond their abilities to protect their children. Not to suggest that I took the man for a son, but I had grown mighty fond of him. The physician here at River Bend Assisted Living, a kind and fastidious Oriental Indian man by the name of Dr. Laghari, has told me that I was using my adrenal glands in overtime. So, bless you, I was able to get us angled just right, and gritting my teeth, I sent us careening into the riverbank.

  The pitiful little raft ran aground and I dug my heels in and with a last gift of strength I heaved the man up onto the bank of mud and rock and collapsed beside him. We lay there for a time shivering and soaked through, letting the warm sun dry us. We did not speak.

  Dark was soon to be upon us, and I urged myself to get up. I set about building a fire. My hands shook so much it looked like I was endeavoring to play some difficult music on a make-believe piano. I got the fire going with the last fire-starter stick we had and the flip lighter. The night settled in cold and I cuddled up close by the man. His fever put out heat like a stove.

  Morning came and I found my friend upright with his back to a pine and his legs stretched out. Poor dear, he had messed himself in the night and his blue jeans were black. I pretended not to notice. He was awake and his eyes were on the mountains.

  I bade him good morning and sat up. How are you feeling? I asked him.

  Better, he said.

  Oh my, that is wonderful, I said. And I got up and started for the riverbank. I told him I would boil some cattails for our breakfast and have our trusty vessel fixed in no time. We should be sailing out of this place by the afternoon, I said. I will have you to a doctor quicker than chain lightning with a tailwind.

  I’m not going, he said.

  Stop being silly. We must get you to a doctor.

  I don’t want one, he said.

  I told him that was foolishness.

  I can’t go to a hospital.

  Why not? I said.

  I’ll be all right, he said.

  Now, look, you are badly hurt, I told him. You require a doctor.

  He looked ahead to the river. I can’t go to a hospital, he said. I’m wanted by the FBI.

  I did not say a word for what seemed like a good long while. Finally, being that no conversation I had ever had before had prepared me for this one, I asked him a silly question. I asked him if he was a fugitive.

  He said: I’d just like you to know I didn’t do what they say I did.

  What are you accused of having done?

  They say I kidnapped a ten-year-old girl.

  What makes them say a silly thing like that?

  A misunderstanding, he said.

  What misunderstanding?

  He looked to sink some into the dirt under that pine. I fell in love with a younger girl, he said. The police got involved. I wasn’t charged with anything, but they know about it. After that I was staying in a house down the street from where this other girl was supposed to have disappeared. I can’t understand why they’d think I did it other than that. I woke up one morning and a drawing of my face was on the news, but they didn’t know my name or who I was. I still don’t know how my face got there.

  I told him that I did not understand, then I asked him how old was the girl he had fallen in love with.

  Twelve years old, he said, and gripped his thigh. I’d never hurt anybody, he said.

  Again I did not have word one to say for some time. I recall folding my muddy hands in my lap and watching the water run in the river. What did you do to her?

  Who?

  The twelve-year-old girl.

  I didn’t do anything to her, he said. I met her at the mall. I worked at the movie theater in there. She’d come in, see a movie, and talk to me. We’d go to the food court and get Chinese food.

  Did you touch her?

  What do you mean?

  Did you touch her inappropriately?

  One day we were in a movie and we kissed. We started doing that. We held each other and kissed and that’s all we ever did. I only ever saw her at the movie theater. I loved her, I’d never have hurt her.

  I was quiet again for a spell. I thought back now to what I had seen of this man. The elastic undergarment bands he had worn around his wrists and the women’s undergarment I had found in his coat pocket. The old key that looked like it had gone to an old padlock. The glittery stockings and pink shirt I was wearing, which he had given me. Where had they come from? My heart was jumping like a loosed bird dog. I realized I had backed away from him.

  Finally I said: Why would you want to do that with a twelve-year-old girl?

  He exhaled and slumped a little in pain. I don’t see myself when I look at people my age, he said. They look older. I think, that person can’t be my age.

  I told him again that I did not understand.

  I’m not attracted to them, he said. It’s hard when you’re different inside than what you are on the outside. People don’t accept someone when they’re not what they’re supposed to be.

  We will go to the doctor and then we will go to the police station and sort all this out. You do not have to be out here if you are innocent.

  Yes I do, the man said. Innocent or not.

  I said to him, Now, listen, Garland—

  My name’s not Garland.

  Tell me the truth, please. I would like to know, and be honest, for whatever God may or may not be anymore, and I do not know, whatever He is He is telling you to be honest right this minute. Did you take that little girl?

  No, the man said. I did not.

  I watched him for a spell.

  He said: You want to know why I’m here in this place, like this? I’m out here because I can’t help the way I am or what I like. I don’t think I’m very different from anybody else that way.

  He sat there shrunken against that pine glistening white as stone. The flesh on his leg had grown porous and was welted with colorful polyps. He trembled something terrible and would not look me in the eyes. I was not sure what to think. But I mean to tell you I have hardly ever experienced more compassion for someone in all my now ninety-two years on this earth. I do not doubt but that many of you will hold that I am an amoral old witch to have compassion for a man like that. However most of you have not lived past the end of your life to claw your way back to a world where its inhabitants and all the things which they have created seem small and ridiculous and beyond concern or consequence. Without you having lived through something like that, I do not believe you will ever understand. I do not believe that I can describe it. What I will put down here is that I have found that morality is not the anchor of goodness, and that a person is too many things to be the one thing that we all want them to be for our convenience. Whatever else this man was, he was right about that.

  I took his filthy hand in mine and held it. He turned and I imagine that he saw something in my face which comforted him for he squeezed my hand and let out a good long sigh.

  I told him that I would go and pull up some cattails and get water to boil before we set out again, because whatever he had done or had not done I was not going to leave him there. He shut his eyes and put his head back to the pine.


  I had gone upriver to fill the tin in some calm water. I was hoping to catch some minnows and tadpoles with it too. A cool breeze was blowing. It almost sounded like it did back in Texas. Gracious, did it sound good! I shut my eyes and I saw the rippling plains of yellow grass and all the country roads smoking up with dust and I saw our little house and the water tower above turning shade around it like an enormous gnomon, measuring out the days until that first Sunday morning of that strange and terrible season of Kingdomtide when I would board a little airplane in Missoula and fall out of the clear blue sky into the Bitterroot Mountains.

  I opened up my eyes and took the tin from the river. I studied it for a minnow or a crawfish or some other unfortunate critter I might have caught. But the only thing in that tin was an odd little feather floating on top of the water. When I looked up, great pulpy tufts of them were blowing around me, maelstromed in the breeze, twisting and curling and alighting on the river like white and gray mayflies. It was a mighty strange but beautiful sight to behold.

  I looked around to see if I could know where they were coming from and I peeked on down through the trees to where I had left the man. He was some ten yards or so downriver and I could just see his boots between the boles. Those little feathers clouded the whole place, frothy white like the burp of the sea.

  I made my way back to him with the tin of water under my arm, righting myself with my walking stick. More and more of these little feathers came with each gentle gust of wind. They festooned the trees and the granite and stuck in the grass and sure enough it got to where it looked as if a weird and otherworldly snow had fallen.

  I hollered to the man: Do you see this?

  I rounded a tree and found him on his side in a place of sun. His down coat was partly snagged on a branch, making for a posture that held his arms up an inch above the ground in the manner of an orchestra conductor. His coat was tore open and the down of it spilled out and the wind was carrying it off in great big dollops. I dropped my walking stick and went to his side quick as I could. I knelt there by him and unhitched him from the branch. Then I rolled him on his back and brushed the feathers from his face.