The Soured Earth

by Sophie Weeks

  At home it was quiet and dark, but Margaret found Jon in his office, moodily listening to Joni Mitchell and doing some work that Margaret judged was mostly for show. “Hey, Dad.”

  He looked up. “Hey, honey. Where's Mom?”

  “She decided to stay the night.”

  “Out there?”

  “Yup. Told me to come back and get her in the morning. But how are you?”

  Jon looked embarrassed. “Ah hell, Margaret, I don't need you making a fuss about this. Just lost perspective for a few minutes.”

  “You had a panic attack.” Hesitantly, she added, “It's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm glad it was what it was. If you had a heart attack, we couldn't manage.”

  “You'd manage.”

  “No.” Margaret shook her head and sat down. “We wouldn't. We'd all do our best, but it would be terrible.”

  “Mom runs this ranch better than anyone as it is. A hired man could do what I do, Margaret. You and Gene would—”

  “No.” Margaret lifted her hand. “Don't even say that, because it's never going to happen. Gene and I … it's just convenience.” It was more than convenience, far more, but now, at the end of the affair, was hardly the time to start getting sentimental about him.

  “Fine. But you're more than capable of running this place. You have your business degree, and you'd make a go of it somehow.”

  “I don't want to make a go of it. I want to make a go of designing clothes, Dad. You have to stop holding Sandy's Acres over my head, like I don't have choices.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do, Margaret?”

  “Leave it to Sam and Em,” Margaret pleaded. “Don't we owe Aunt Penny that much?”

  Jon rubbed his chin. “A working ranch can't stand division, Margaret. Someone has to own the ranch, someone has to run it. It's not fair—land isn't fair. To keep its value, it has to be passed down undivided.”

  “Who says they'll divide it? Have you ever even talked to them about this?”

  “They're just girls.”

  “Emilie is seventeen. That's old enough to know what she wants. Em isn't like me, Dad. She wants to be here. And I think Sam does too. This is their home. That's what Aunt Penny and Uncle Jeff trusted you to give them. A home.”

  “It's not simple like that, Margaret.”

  But Margaret stood up. “Then make it simple like that. But if you leave me the ranch, your funeral will be filled with land developers singing hallelujah.”

  ***

  The next morning, Margaret and Jon went out to the reserve to pick up Louise. At the Moyer household, they greeted Joseph, who was yawning and blurry eyed. “Morning, folks.”

  “Morning,” Jon said. “Is Mom ready to go?”

  “Not exactly.” Joseph poured them both a cup of coffee. “She's with the old women, weaving the beast of straw.”

  “The what?” Jon blinked and took a long drink of coffee.

  Margaret sat down. She had some idea where this was heading, though she didn't really understand it.

  Joseph sighed. “The ritual will be tonight. For years the dance held the spirits in check, and the land was sweet. Now the land is sour, and the spirits are strong. Thomas isn't strong enough to defeat them anymore. But maybe his power will go into one of our young men.”

  “What is the ritual?” Margaret asked.

  “We talked about it a long time,” Joseph said. “Some said we should drive forth an animal, but we didn't want to incur the anger of those spirits either. This place belongs to the animals, like it belongs to us. So tonight we will drive the spirits into the beast of straw and try to defeat them once again.”

  Margaret wondered how Christopher was liking this, since it sounded like they were basically going to whack at a straw dummy of some sort. Not that she had a better solution.

  Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do not understand one word of what you just said.”

  “We have to take back this land,” Joseph said. “For our families.” He pulled a war club off the wall and began to polish it with an old soft cloth. “Tonight, we must win.”

  ***

  The old women had worked hard throughout the day; the beast rose perhaps eight feet high, and it was hard and solid with densely worked straw. They had robed it like a warrior with a weird horned headdress. Firelight flickered over the tribe, revealing many headdresses of feather or wolf skin. The night was cold, and the flames danced and jumped in the brisk wind. In the flickering light, Margaret might almost have believed she was part of some strange congregation of enormous animals. Margaret, Jon, and Louise sat near the fire, watching. Christopher sat beside Margaret. “I can't believe I'm watching this.”

  “Behave.” Carla, on his other side, swatted him. “I am very interested. This is so spiritual.” She looked around her at the Cree people. Through her relief work, she had gotten to know several of the elders personally, though everyone was still stiff and strange with her.

  Christopher grumbled. “I haven't even had my dinner.”

  “Poor baby,” Margaret said sarcastically. But she was really only giving him a small part of her attention. Mostly she was watching the people, their tense faces. She didn't know if this would work or not, but they thought it could. They believed they could drive sickness from their land. Maybe it would be enough—Margaret hoped so.

  The drums began, first a single strong beat, then many drums speaking together. Margaret watched the men's muscles ripple as they pounded the drums in perfect rhythm. Then the song began, and a single voice rose in a haunting cry. The drums supported it, and the dancers began to move. Unlike the harvest dance, this wasn't a polished, practiced dance. It was clear that some of the young men in particular didn't quite understand what they were doing. The boy who was dancing the madness of devouring grasshoppers looked more like he was having a spastic fit than anything else.

  “It won't work,” Margaret whispered, and she glanced over at Christopher. His eyes were fixed on the fire, his face abstracted. Turning her attention back to the dancers, she watched as their movements changed. Now they danced the sorrows of the land no longer—now they prepared for battle. But their coordinated movements looked not quite real; the distance between the men and their ancestors was great in that moment.

  Perhaps the men drumming saw that too, for the music changed then. Instead of the smaller drums in unison, now one man beat the huge war drum, and the sound of it rang out across the plains. Margaret shivered and hunched over, never able to feel confident or safe when she heard that; she could only imagine what the enemies of the tribe must have felt on hearing the war drum sing in the old days. The shadows on the head of the great straw beast leaped and twisted in the firelight, almost as though it were moving, sneering at their efforts. Now the men knew their place in the dance, now they jumped and twirled, brandishing their war clubs. The energy arced amongst them, but still something was missing.

  Then Joseph stepped out of the whirl of hides and feathers. He held two war clubs now, and he stood in front of Christopher. “Christopher. It is time to take your place.”

  “What?”

  “It is not enough. We need the energy and strength of the young. Take your place.”

  “No way,” Christopher replied immediately, and there was a murmur of disapproval from the women around them. “Dad, do you remember what happened when you took me on the hunt? I am not good at this stuff.”

  “This stuff is your heritage,” Joseph answered, still proffering the war club.

  Christopher did not stir, and there was a long silence. Finally, he turned his head, looking at Carla in dumb torment. The blonde woman met his dark gaze, her own eyes steadfast and loving upon his face. He drank in the sight of her for a long moment. Then he laughed. “Dad, this isn't my battlefield.” He stood and moved to stand beside Jon. “Give him the club.”

  “It's not his place—” Joseph began.

  “It is his place. It's his place, and it's not mine. It never was. Give him the club.�
� Christopher's face was pained and earnest, and there was a long silence as father and son engaged in a battle of wills.

  Finally, slowly, Joseph held out the club to Jon. “We need a strong arm and heart. If we falter, we will have to leave this place forever—there will be no returning.”

  “I don't know,” Jon began dubiously, but he went silent as his hand closed around the club. It looked natural there, and he slowly stood up. Joseph nodded, then gave a sharp cry into the middle of the song—it was the order to attack. Out of the dance whirled one young man first, then another. They dashed their war clubs onto the head of the massive straw creation.

  But it still wasn't enough. Margaret could sense that, and the wind whipped up still more, making her shiver. It was too ceremonial; there wasn't blood in it. Joseph's war club landed on the creature's headdress, and it fell askew, one of the buffalo horns grazing the old man's temple and drawing blood. “Son of a bitch,” he swore. Then Joseph turned a vengeful eye on the effigy. “Son of a bitching place.” He brought down the war club again, trying to crush its head.

  His words sparked something, and the song ceased. The men began to growl and swear, some in Cree, some in English. And Jon among them raised his club, approaching the straw beast and helping Joseph, adding his strength and his rage. All the anger and frustration that had been pent up all winter came out as Jon attacked the symbol of what had been taken from him by these months of misery.

  After that, it was a free-for-all. The men let loose the fury and fear within them, destroying and trampling the figure, vanquishing their enemy. They pulled burning brands from the fire and threw them onto the straw, watching it flare up. One man loosed his caribou trousers and pissed onto the ashes, and there were laughter and cheers.

  And through the smoke walked Marie Moyer. She stood in front of her grandson and held out her hand. She pressed something into his palm, spoke a few words of Cree, then turned and went into the house.

  Margaret and Carla looked at Christopher. “What did she say?” Margaret asked.

  But he didn't answer, still staring after his grandmother with an odd, distant look on his face. Then he looked down at his hand, at a simple bunch of clover there. It was green and fresh, and its roots still had earth clinging. Margaret repeated her question, and finally Christopher spoke, “She said something about roots. My Cree is terrible, but …” He rubbed his eyes. “I'm going back to the lab.”

  “What? It's so late,” Margaret protested.

  “Roots. If there was a mechanism…” But the rest of whatever Christopher had been going to say was only in his head, and after a while he just moved towards his car, completely ignoring both Margaret and Carla.

  Margaret looked at Carla questioningly, but the other woman was smiling. “Now he will find his answer. I know that look,” Carla said.

  Margaret just nodded, then stepped forward to her father, touching his arm uncertainly as he stared into the ashes. “Dad?”

  Jon looked up at her finally, and his face was soiled with soot and tear tracks. “This place takes everything,” he whispered. “It takes everything.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “IT'S A FILTERING MECHANISM, a beneficial parasite,” Christopher explained for the fifth time at the Campbells' kitchen table. “It evolved in response to the prion. Like humans in Africa developed blood cells that protect them from malaria.”

  “So it was in the wild plants?” Margaret asked.

  “And the horses too, once I knew where to look. The parasite lives in the roots of plants and in the digestive systems of animals who ingest the plants. It's very ingenious and adaptable. It captures the prion and neutralizes it. Once we introduce cultures to all the soil here, the prion will be completely harmless. It will break down quickly without the ability to reproduce.” Christopher accepted another cup of coffee with thanks.

  “And the land will bear again?” Louise leaned forward, her eyes fixed on his face.

  “It will—everything is essentially starting over. All the nonnative trees, everything will have to be cleared out so the soil can be prepared. I'd say give it six months. But after that, with fresh seed and regular soil treatments, there won't be any problems.” Christopher sipped from his cup and quirked a smile. “Also, I'm getting married. I asked her last night, and she said yes. Well, she yelled at me in Italian for waking her up, then said yes.”

  Margaret quietly absorbed that for a moment, remembering that long look between the two at the ceremony, wondering what had passed between their hearts during that period. But only they would ever know, and so she merely smiled and reached out to grip Christopher's hand. “Congratulations,” she said warmly. “Where will you be married?”

  “In Venice. I believe Carla is burning money trying to reserve a church for us even now. But it's Italy. They're like convenience stores—one on every corner.”

  After Christopher had answered a lot of other questions, Margaret insisted on walking him out. She knew he probably had a hundred meetings that day, but both delayed a little. “Why did you ask her finally?” she asked.

  Christopher glanced at her sideways. “She didn't despise me that night. Now she's seen what I am and what I'm not. And she's still right here. Though we are getting out of here as soon as possible, now that this is settled.”

  “You and me both,” Margaret hoped, and she went back into the house. She hated the idea of Christopher and Carla being gone from this place, and her mind flew again to London, to school and her friends. That was where she belonged, not here.

  After that, Jon and Margaret spent a long, serious morning in the office with the accounts. The most vital thing was seed, then stock and hands to tend them. Jon shook his head, frowning. “It won't work. This is what's in the bank,” he said, and pointed to a number. “This is the mortgage payments for the next six months, or it's stock and seed. It can't be both.”

  “But when the government compensates us,” Margaret interjected, “then it will all come right, won't it?”

  “I don't know when that will be, Margaret. You ever hear of government paying anybody quick? I can't gamble mortgage money on the hopes that they pay up in a timely fashion.”

  “There has to be a way,” she groaned. “We can't wait a whole year to get back up and running.”

  “I can lay in some new winter wheat in the fall, if there's money then. That will have to be good enough.”

  “But I have the money from Gramps still,” Margaret objected.

  “And I'm not taking it from you, Margaret. That's final. We'll just have to manage this way. I'll call the bank tomorrow and see if I can get another loan, but … well, we'll see.”

  Margaret carried his words around with her all afternoon, worrying as she did the dishes. What could she do? She'd have to go into town and buy the seed herself, probably. He wouldn't take the money from her, but he couldn't very well make her take back sacks of seed. Then the temptation to take the money and just leave would be gone. She could never do that, but she did wish she could.

  She was distracted from her unhappiness midafternoon when Sam came in with Jess. Kate had grudgingly admitted that jeans were proper riding attire for everyone, so Jess had been coming over every day to help exercise the horses. But today the normally bright little girl was downcast, and Margaret felt compelled to sit down with the two girls. “Something wrong?” she asked, popping a marshmallow in her mouth and pushing the bag towards Sam first, then Jess.

  “My mom's taking me shopping tomorrow,” Jess mumbled.

  “Oh.” Margaret herself had always liked shopping, especially with Louise, who had an impeccable eye, but she didn't think shopping with Kate would be nearly so much fun. “What for?”

  “An Easter dress. She got a new job, and now I have to have a dress for church.”

  “That sucks,” Margaret opined. She could just picture the kind of dress Kate would pick out for her daughter. Poor Jess. If only it weren't Easter, when flowery pastel dresses were practically a unifor
m for little girls. Margaret looked at Jess and sighed, picturing how awful she would look in a ruffly little frock. Kate would of course want Jess to look nice at Easter—that was a parent kind of thing, and she remembered Penny fussing over her girls' dresses like a mother hen. And Kate, with her reputation always hanging on, would particularly want to show that she was a good parent. But Jess wouldn't look nice in a dress—that was the problem.

  Margaret narrowed her eyes and thought. “Ask your mom if you can spend the night, Jess. We can drop you off in the morning,” she suggested.

  Sam joined in the invitation eagerly, and finally Jess assented, going off to call Kate. When that was done, Margaret drew the two girls up to her room. “Jess, tell you what the problem is.”

  “Yes, ma'am?” Jess looked rather apprehensive.

  “They don't make suits for little girls mostly. Not in this country. But in other countries, girls and boys both wear trousers.” Margaret pulled a silver and blue salwar kameez, an Indian pantsuit, out of her closet. “Why don't you try this on for size?” she said gently.

  “It'll be too big,” Jess protested, but put out a finger to touch the silky fabric.

  Margaret just smiled. “That's no problem at all.”

  ***

  When Margaret drove Jess home the next morning, she was nervous. Her gesture was kindly meant, but what if Kate saw it as interference, or worse, some kind of charity? Jess looked, in Margaret's opinion, radiantly beautiful in the pantsuit Margaret had made down for her. The blue in the design caught the blue in Jess's eyes, and with her short-cropped hair and pretty suit, she looked neither girl nor boy, really, but was merely a beautiful child.

  “I'll come in with you,” she said, parking beside the trailer.

  “You don't have to, ma'am,” Jess said, and her face was apprehensive.

  But Margaret knocked on the door, and when Kate opened it, she smiled. “Hello, Kate. I brought Jess back.” She stepped aside so that Kate could see Jess in her new outfit.

  “Jess?” Kate said in a soft wondering voice.