Nebo and one of the McGavock slaves (the same man who’d borne Jack Bishop to the clearing) carried Bushrod to the grave on a Saterlee Patent litter. They moved through the yard in the twilight; behind them, walking close together, were Colonel John McGavock and Caroline, Hattie and Winder, and Anna Hereford. There was no one to watch them pass, only the dead, who kept their own counsel. Into the grove they went, their feet scuffing in the leaves. Overhead, the bare limbs rattled icily in the wind; a little chickadee moved before them, darting from tree to tree like a scout. They followed him to the grave.
Nebo himself lay Bushrod in the ground, and covered him with the blanket, and tucked the edges in. The others watched in silence while Nebo finished his work, watched him rise from the grave, his eyes fixed on something far away. Then they watched him go. He passed among them without a word, without a glance, and walked away in the direction of the river. He never looked back, they could hear him for a little while, then the woods closed over his passing and they could hear him no more.
After a moment, John McGavock cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “if ’twere done, ’twere best done quickly.”
He put out his hand to Anna. She hesitated, looked to Caroline, who smiled at her.
“If there are any words,” said Caroline, “they ought to be yours.”
John McGavock guided Anna with his hand until she stood at the edge of the grave. “It is all right, then?” she said.
He nodded, and bowed his head.
Anna released her cousin’s hand. She looked across the grave, thought of Jeanne again and who she might see among the trees yonder: three of them anyway, watching her with faces that would never grow old, waiting for her to speak, and it had to be now because already they were dissolving in the twilight—
Anna lifted her face to the gray sky. “Heavenly Father,” she said, and then she began to pray.
EPILOG
One morning in April, Winder McGavock discovered a shaggy pony, his mane and tail full of cockleburs, grazing in the pasture where Mister Bomar had rallied his men.
“Hey there,” said Winder.
The pony raised its head and eyed the boy with suspicion. Winder held out his hand. “Come on,” he said. “I know where we can get some corn.”
The pony seemed to consider this amazing offer. “Come on,” said Winder, and turned toward the house. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the pony was following.
They moved across the warm, sunlit fields, while the blue jays laughed in the woods.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Howard Bahr is the author of four novels: The Black Flower (1997), The Year of Jubilo (2000), The Judas Field (2006), and Pelican Road (2008). A native of Meridian, Mississippi, he served in the US Navy during the Vietnam War and worked for several years as a railroad yard clerk and brakeman. From 1982 to 1993, Bahr was curator of Rowan Oak, the William Faulkner homestead and museum in Oxford, Mississippi. His last post was as writer-in-residence at Belhaven University.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1997 by Howard Bahr
Cover design by Greg Mortimer
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5052-4
This edition published in 2018 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
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HOWARD BAHR
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
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