My Name Is a Knife

by Alix Hawley

  I know the bones of Martha’s shoulders. She reaches her mouth to me but I turn my face into her neck and the dark. When she is beneath me and we are moving silent with the pins round us, my head swims, but I keep my eyes open to look. Look anywhere but her eyes, see her mouth open and close with every thrust I make in her, see the curve of her ear inside her loose black hair, see her breasts shake above her stays, her nipples stiff in the air. I open her dress to see better, I raise myself up straight on my arms. Her thin body on the ground. I have known other bodies. Rebecca’s, soft and warm in the dark, Methoataske’s low flat voice in my ear—Sheltowee—

  I groan. Martha’s insides are hot round me. She burned like holly green.

  She grips, she is all want, she does not know what she wants, she is a pit of wanting. She is staring me in the face with her hands palms-up, she reaches up for my back now, all tears and no sound. I near say, It was your thinking to send us on a hunt, to send us to the Shawnee town to see—

  But I do not say it. I only go on with what I am doing, trying to make something right though it is all wrong. She arches and gasps again and again. It exhausts me to hear. But I finish, and when I finish I get up quick, I say nothing, I pull a shining pin out of her sleeve where the tip has just pierced.

  I am out the door, where everything is dark now but for Israel’s lantern at the gate. He holds it up to see what made the noise. I stand where I am outside Martha’s. I hear him talking low, then comes a light laugh. Polly is with him. All has run backward in my life and I am a boy again listening to my older brother Israel and his girl and their private talking in the cellar before they were both dead.

  I go and bang a wall with the edge of my fist, they are tall walls and strong ones, and the bark cuts me. This could have been a good place, it can still be good. I stride on towards my house but as I go Martha’s door cracks open and she says soft:

  —I will pray for you, Daniel. God help you.

  Well. Her voice has a strange smiling quality in it, her knowing of God, her sort of God. I hate her for it. Does God tell you what is what, Martha? Ask him then what is to be done with the great desire you were born with, when he seems to have only small poor things left for you.

  I walk on, I say nothing. Rebecca at this time it seems to me you are right, you are right clean through—there is no help.

  WE GO NOWHERE, I see to it. I will root this place a mile deep if we have to, we will make a fortress of it, we need no more plain poor goddamned forts! So many people are coming out with old and fresh claims that the Virginia governor makes a county here and me sheriff of it, and a colonel as well, knowing my name. I am sure the Boonesborough types do not care much for my name, or for my having the job, but it is mine at any rate. And I do not go to Boonesborough, I never speak that goddamned word.

  Israel goes on day hunts with Joseph Scholl and gets some skins and furs, which he insists on sharing with me. It makes me sore inside myself. I tell him he ought to be saving up for doing as he likes, and he says he is doing it. He goes to his claim to work on his house when he can, with Joseph’s help. I have seen it, it will be sound when it is done, with good foundations and a good thick chimney.

  He rubs his arms, ropy with muscle, and he says:

  —I am all right here yet.

  My boy is another chance for me. I like to have him about. At any rate, he is right to stay here with us. There are small fights at other settlements, we hear of them, though no Indians come to us and I never see any.

  Israel meets with a Cherokee group on a spring hunt upriver, they are friendly and have a smoke and a talk together. None of them is Jim. Israel knows his face from old times when he used to come to our Carolina place visiting, when my boys were young and sat eating candy with him. Before he killed Jamesie. Perhaps he killed Old Dick and Rollins and Neddy too. Perhaps he has turned to air and is all round me. I find myself thinking more and more of him. But I feel nothing.

  But Israel thinks of him also. Smoking with me outside the house one night, he says:

  —That Cherokee Jim was very tall, was he not? Not so difficult to spot. We will find him.

  He looks to me as though I have an answer. I say only:

  —It would be a good thing, to find him.

  Two of the young men near the gate make a screaming racket, their lanterns swing about and cast wild moving light. They have set two roosters to fight. The bigger bird leaps on the smaller and rakes it open with its spurs, the men roar all the louder over the roosters’ howls. Young Hart begins to sing all drunken:

  By chance a fine Kentucky girl

  I happened for to see

  And promised I would marry her

  If she would lie with me!

  Well. It is no God Save the King. Hart is fumbling with his breeches:

  —Which of the girls in this fort will lie with me now? Come on and get it!

  If Martha comes out she will look to me, I will have to speak with her and I cannot do it. At once I think of her with a silky purse between her legs and me tipping coins into it. Hart roars away, his breeches down round his ankles. I go over with my gun out and I say:

  —There is goddamned peace here, God damn the both of you, I will crack your heads together if you forget it.

  Israel stands holding in a grin. Some of the girls are behind him, trying to hide their grins too.

  Yes Sheriff. Yessir. Small voices say this falsely high.

  I am not such an old fool as not to know they are laughing at me.

  * * *

  Months. We hold steady where we are, and no attacks. Peace. Ned, you were a peaceable man, I do not forget it when I go to look at your burying place the summer after you are dead. Some walnut shells still lie dry and cracked near it, I leave them where they are.

  More months. More peace. A whole year, and it is summer again.

  I keep out of Martha’s way. I keep myself to myself, I listen to no talk. I work and work. But I do not sleep much, I never do. My eyes fly open before each day starts, before Rebecca stirs beside me. I am full of burning though I do not know what for.

  A hot August morning I am up with the sun on watch when someone rides out of the woods. No white flag, no flag at all. A man on a chestnut horse, it is a beauty. I watch its light steps through the high grass. The rider keeps his head down, riding very easy with a dog lolloping behind. He looks to be white, though I cannot see his face under his hat. To the rest I call:

  —Do not shoot.

  But no one else is up on the walls, and he is already coming past the fields. I have my gun up, I yell with all my power:

  —Who is it?

  Close to the gate now he looks up, fierce light eyes in a face all sunburnt. Springing red hair over his ears. His great dog yelps and I know the sound:

  —McGary is it? This is not Boonesborough, did you forget? What do you want here?

  —Why, I want to come in, Boone. No hospitality in this place of yours?

  His Irish voice. See him riding off from the fort before the siege to start everything himself. Hear him: Call this man an officer? Call this man a man? So he said when I was court-martialled, he spat out man as though it were grit in his teeth.

  I go down and open the gate. I say:

  —My hospitality is all yours, McGary, if you insist on coming in here. I cannot speak for your safety.

  He is off his horse now, his cracked lips tightening across his face. I suppose this is what he would call a smile. With a short nod he comes past, followed by his slavering dog. Israel has come out of the house, and says:

  —Who is that?

  —Only Hugh McGary come visiting from Harrodsburg. Perhaps he wishes to see how a tight ship is run. Will you ask your ma to fetch us some refreshment? Cakes for you, McGary? Sugar lumps for you or your horse or your dog?

  McGary has his hat off, he wipes the sweat from his brow, which is dead white above the line of his burn. He says:

  —Ah, the famous hospitality of the Boone women, by God.
<
br />   Smooth your expression. Israel is uneasy beside me, to him I say:

  —Go and tell your ma to send out something particularly nice for our guest. What else can we do for you, McGary?

  —I am not staying, no. Only came to tell you we saw your man.

  —What man?

  —Your Simon Kenton, big fellow. Goddamned red-boys had him. Could not catch them up. But it was him.

  —Where was this?

  So I say but Israel bursts in:

  —Was it the Cherokee? One of them a big man too, very tall?

  He holds his hand high to show just how tall. The dog gives a sudden yelp. McGary strikes it on the head and chews his dry freckly lip. He says:

  —I do not care to try and tell them apart. Ask your daddy there, he knows better.

  I say:

  —Never mind that. Where was Kenton?

  —Downriver some, to the west. You will not find him.

  —I will if I set to. He was alive?

  —He was. I cannot say if he still is. But you ought to worry about yourself, Boone. Begging your pardon. Sheriff, I ought to say.

  His voice wavers again in its strangely youthful fashion. He gives a hunched bow just like mad little Andy Johnson. The two of them talking me over at Harrodsburg, telling tales out of their hairy faces, Boone this and Boone that. Boone the traitor, Boone the liar, Boone the coward, Boone the weak.

  My knucklebones pain me, I force my fingers open. Do not think. I say:

  —What is it you want to say, McGary?

  He squints up his red eyes so they hardly show:

  —They are coming, do you know it? The Indians are. We ought to get to them first, as I told you the last time.

  —What do you mean?

  —Are you losing your wits in your age? I mean just what I tell you. We have seen them about, they never go this long without an attack.

  —Is this Irish knowledge, McGary? Fairy talk?

  He laughs, it is a harsh laugh, his way of talking makes me think of Findley. The Irishman who showed me Kentucky first, who brought me here and showed me possibilities, too many of them for my poor heart to manage, it wanted all of them. He is another one vanished into this country.

  McGary steps away and grips his horse’s reins tighter. He says:

  —I have warned you now, you are off my conscience.

  —Do you have one?

  So Israel barks, crossing his arms. I hear my own voice coming from his mouth. McGary hears it too, and smirks again:

  —I do of course. It would like to save your women and children from God knows what sort of horror. But perhaps your daddy would rather take them to live with the Indians.

  —We are not going raiding, McGary. I advise you to keep your head as well. They have come to accept that we are here, they are leaving us be. No stirring up hornets.

  I believe it, I believe my words. McGary swings up onto his horse. He is wearing Sunday shoes, their buckles are dull, it is not Sunday. The great dog lopes in a circle. I say:

  —Given up on moccasins at Harrodsburg? Gone back to all the Irish ways?

  He peels a strip of dried skin from his forehead, it drifts like a feather to the ground and the dog stops to sniff at it. He says:

  —Tell your wife I thank her for the offer of refreshment, but I will take none of it. You will need all you have to try to bargain with your red brothers. See how it goes for you this time. We hardly killed any of them at your last fort, my man.

  He pulls off another piece of skin, he digs in his shoe heels and the horse swerves off through the gate with the dog bolting ahead. Israel mutters:

  —Bastard.

  I put my arm about him:

  —You are not wrong, my boy.

  When we go to the house the door is open a hair, Rebecca is stirring a pot at the fire, her whole back tells me she heard the talk. She does not turn round, she goes on stirring, stirring, stirring.

  * * *

  We go on. It is almost the end of summer before we catch the smell. A whiff of smoke, a dark lick of it on the air. Not enough to notice all day, not enough to taste.

  The wind shifts now and then, and it comes again, but never for long. We carry on as usual in the fields. And then in the night come the riders tearing out of the dark with children on their backs and before them in their saddles, women and older girls and boys running breathless straight into the corn, the torches snapping to life inside our station, the tide of voices. Everyone awake and coming out of doors to see.

  I am very still in the blockhouse. I keep where I am. When the gate opens and the lights are on the faces I see them, they are Bryans, they all pour in and one woman begs, Shut the gate, shut the gate. I go out onto the wall and Martha looks straight up, she is blind in the bright torchlight but still her eyes find me. What will you do now?

  BRYANS’ STATION in ruins.

  Their corn burnt, all the crops burnt. Stock knifed and shot, some burnt. Some of the horses burnt alive, some taken. The dreadful counting of children here, women counting them out again and again. Their coughing all night from the smoke caught in their chests. They do not cry, they are quiet apart from the coughing. The smell of burning hangs on them all like a set of clothes.

  I shut my eyes as I walk the walls, what could I wish to see here? My feet know the boards well enough, too well. I wish they did not. I near tip off the edge once, I wish I were falling and feeling my head shatter. I ought to go down to Rebecca but I cannot look her in the face.

  Near morning, Israel rides hard out the gates. He goes for the river and does not come back. I stand watching until he is out of my sight. And Jemima comes up the ladder farther along the wall facing the water:

  —What are you doing here, duck? What is Israel doing?

  I am not sure she will answer me, but she says:

  —He said he had to get somewhere quick, I do not know.

  —Well. Where is your little Sallie?

  —She slept through everything. Flanders is inside with her, he still has fever.

  —Be sure you do not catch it.

  —He is all right. He will be up by tomorrow.

  She is in her nightdress and without shoes. I see her mind spinning as she shifts from foot to foot. Without turning to me, she says:

  —Daddy, are we going to leave?

  She has not called me Daddy in months. It is strange in my ears. I say:

  —I do not know. Will you go with me if I do?

  —I like it here.

  It was always her gift to forget bad things and start up fresh. I feel her looking at me, wanting to forget what she knows of me with Martha, me with another family also. She leans over the wall and looks at the east where the sky is whitening. She pushes a strand of hair back from her face and says:

  —We ought not to be here.

  She says it in a musing fashion, as if she were puzzling out figures. I say:

  —Well we are here.

  —Will they come here too?

  Only the tiniest wavering in her voice. I see her running for me out of the trees when we found her after they took her, skirts all torn up, That is Daddy, her certainty hanging on me like a chain. I feel it hanging again now. I say:

  —They might.

  —Then what—

  —Do not ask me what I am going to do, Jemima.

  My chest starts its stupid banging again. The sun is up now, the air already soupy with warmth. She stands considering me. I must look poor in her eyes. She is at once pitying, her pity surges up in her like strength. Taking my arm, she says:

  —I know how to fight after the last time. I will not let any Indians near you.

  * * *

  The Bryans are ready to go after the Indians, though they do not all have guns now and some have only nightshirts to wear. They have gathered everyone to talk at the centre of the station. I stay up on the walls looking to the fields instead. But I cannot help hearing, though I ought to stop up my ears. Or cut them off.

  —We can get rid
of them all. Surprise them. They will not be expecting us to come so quick.

  This from one of Rebecca’s brothers with his thick legs bare. Black hair cut short, black beard, a sheen on him all over in spite of the soot, the sort of shine that comes from money. A Bryan through and through. The others nod like a set of ninepins. Do not tumble over, you Bryans.

  Rebecca is at the edge of the group, away from the other women, and Martha stands not far off. They cannot pull themselves away from this talk, though their faces are stricken. Squire raises his arm, he is thinner still since his sickness and quieter than ever, but now he speaks loud:

  —Is this the right time? How do you know just who to attack, for one?

  Hearing Squire’s voice, I am easier. I call down:

  —We ought to wait. Send to Logan’s for more men.

  —How do you know what we ought to do, Boone? Did not your old place almost go Indian?

  This from the shining black-haired brother. I lean down and I say:

  —Did you not want to come out here with me?

  —You promised us we would be safe.

  —So you will be, if you listen.

  Squire says:

  —I sent Dan’s son Israel to Harrodsburg to see if they are all right.

  —My boy rides fast. He will have more men here within a day.

  So I say though I feel thick and stupid. I did not know it was where Israel was going, I do not know when he will come back and whether it will be with anyone else. Squire does not look up. The Bryan Station people talk soft. Their anger is not at a full boil, not yet. But there will be no stopping it, any of what has come back for me again.

  * * *

  Nothing but talk and restlessness all day. When night comes, I do not think I will sleep, but I do for a time. I dream I am a giant as I once dreamt Cherokee Jim was. I am stepping over great trees, I cannot stop walking, I go so far there is nothing but air to step on.

  Next day at noon a great party comes riding, McGary leading on his bright horse. I look for Israel among the rest, I do not see him. At last he comes over the grass, trailing by a quarter-mile. I go down to meet him, I do not speak to McGary or anyone else: