Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  “Poor fella,” Malcolm said, kissing the animal’s nose; Juniper grunted and swished his tail, clearly communicating his displeasure. Malcolm murmured, “You’s hurting, huh, fella?”

  “I am outright ashamed of myself for not noticing this sooner,” Sawyer said, gently letting the hoof back to earth, rising to his full height and patting Juniper’s neck. Addressing the animal, he said, “Sorry, boy. We’ll take care of it, don’t you worry.”

  “Iowa City ain’t more’n a few miles, at best,” Boyd mused, pursing his lips and gazing speculatively northward. We had not planned to spend any length of time there, as we had resupplied well in Keokuk, and would come across St. Paul within the month; our intent was to pass through Iowa City this evening and cover another mile or so north before making camp for the night.

  Sawyer considered this; at last he said decisively, “We’ll have to stop for tonight, and make camp near that stand of willows, yonder.” He nodded in the direction of the river, and then said, “We’ll drain and poultice the hoof, and Juniper should be well enough to push on in the morning.”

  “You want me to fetch the nippers?” Malcolm asked.

  Sawyer nodded, reaching to draw me momentarily to his side. He said, “Well, you did wish to learn proper shoeing technique.”

  Within minutes we reassembled closer to the river; Boyd and Malcolm worked together to set up camp while Sawyer gathered the necessary implements and led Juniper to the leeward side of the wagon, where shade fell in a long, slanted rectangle.

  “Retie him, will you, love?” Sawyer asked, passing me the lead line, while he knelt and carefully unrolled a strip of thick flannel, in which his shoeing tools were wrapped for their passage in a trunk. He laid out the iron nippers, the crease-nail puller, a hoof pick, a nail rasp, and a hoof knife.

  Juniper grunted and shifted, lifting his front leg; the hoof dangled pitifully, indicating the level of pain, and I kissed his long nose, assuring him, “Sawyer will take care of you,” and the man in question looked up at me and grinned at the confidence in my tone, nudging an itch on his jaw with one shoulder.

  He said, “I haven’t treated an abscess since the War, but I will do my best. Come here by me to watch, but stand well clear of those back hooves.”

  I was touched at his concern, though I well knew to stand clear, and poked the side of his leg with my foot. I said, “I learned that lesson long ago, thank you kindly.”

  Sawyer’s grin broadened as he stood, the rasping tool in his grip, and firmly patted Juniper’s flank, letting the animal know he was approaching. He said, “Steady, boy, you’ll be feeling a mite better, directly.”

  I watched as Sawyer bent and skillfully lifted Juniper’s foreleg, bringing the hoof between his knees so that he could work unencumbered. He examined the shoe, brushing his thumb over the dirt, a frown creating a small crease of concentration between his brows. He said, “It does not appear too deep, thankfully. I’ll have a better view once the shoe is off,” and with those words, applied the rasp neatly to each clinch in turn, using the fine side of the tool to smooth the nail covers until they were even with the hoof wall, explaining each action for my benefit, beginning with the proper stance.

  “Stand with your toes inward, like this, for stability, and never let your shoulders tilt below your hips. I would use the hammer in most other circumstances, but it would be too painful for his hoof, just now,” Sawyer said, his right arm shifting rhythmically with the rasping motion. He acknowledged, “This method takes a fair amount longer, but won’t hurt him. One thing to remember is that you must never let your thumb or finger beneath a partially-pulled shoe. If the animal jerks away, it could get caught.” He looked my way and said, “I’ve had many a jammed finger.”

  “Did your grandfather teach you these things?” I asked, picturing this scene; Sawyer had described the elder Sawyer Davis so often, and so well, that I fancied I could very nearly discern the man’s spirit, leaning over his forearms on Juniper’s opposite side, observing the process he had passed on to his namesake many a long year ago.

  “He did,” Sawyer said, finished with the rasping; thin rivulets of sweat trickled down his temples and over his jaws. In the relative quiet, he remembered, “I wasn’t but six or seven the first time he showed me the process. Granddaddy put his hands around mine to guide the motions. He was patient as a church mouse. I aim to possess one-tenth his patience.” He smiled as he said, “Hand me those nail pullers, please, darlin’.”

  I did, and he proceeded to explain, “I’ll pull out each individually, rather than use the nippers to rock free the shoe. You clamp the nail’s head, right here in the crease like this, and free it by pushing the handle away from your body.” He demonstrated. “See here? Just like this. Next time I’ll let you practice, Lorie-love. Once all the nails are free, the shoe should come off with little resistance.”

  “It appears an easy process,” I said, covertly admiring the ease with which he completed each step, so strong and nimble. His fingers were long, sure in their movements and so very capable, his forearms bared by rolled-back shirtsleeves, and taut with muscle. I did not wish to distract his industrious work, but an incessant, desirous heat throbbed in my belly, just watching him.

  The shoe slipped free, and Sawyer tossed it to the ground, where it landed with a muted thud. He inspected Juniper’s hoof; the horse whooshed a loud breath and shied away.

  “Steady,” I soothed, moving to pat Juniper’s neck on either side of his warm, dark-brown hide. “There’s a good boy.”

  “How’s Juney?” Malcolm called, running up the river bank, grasping his dripping canteen. He slowed his pace as he neared, as so not to startle Juniper, and passed the canteen to me; I stole a long sip.

  “Well, I can see the trouble,” Sawyer said, applying the hoof pick now, freeing remaining debris from Juniper’s hoof. “See the swelling, just here, in the hoof as well as his foreleg? There’s a small crack leading to it, but it does not appear too deep, as I thought. We’ll drain the pus, see if we can’t clean out that infection. Honey, hand me the hoof knife.”

  “You meanin’ me, or Lorie?” Malcolm giggled.

  Sawyer asked the boy, “Since when do I call you ‘honey?’”

  “Do you suppose a rock or a stick was wedged in there?” I asked, collecting the knife from the row of tools on the flannel.

  Sawyer let the hoof back to ground, stood and then swiped at the moisture on his face, lifting his hat and resettling it before saying, “Most likely. We have crossed so many creeks, which is not ideal for the integrity of a hoof, and Juniper is the eldest of our horses. Poor fellow probably never figured he’d be asked to walk thousands of miles to Minnesota in his middle age.”

  “Juney-per,” Malcolm singsonged, patting the horse’s face. “Sawyer’ll make you feel lots better.”

  “I’d like you two to hold his head steady, well away from his hooves –” Sawyer caught my eye and cut himself short, allowing, “I know you realize. I apologize. I must open a small wound to allow for drainage, and he won’t be any too happy with me.”

  Sawyer collected the knife, assuming the same stance, and with a deft, precise motion, sliced a slit on the frog of the hoof, where the swelling was centered. Juniper shied and snorted, stamping his back hooves one after the other, but between us, Malcolm and I held him steady.

  “There’s good seepage, already,” Sawyer said, sounding victorious as he held the hoof and pressed firmly with both thumbs, calmly aiding the flow of brownish, blood-tinged foam from the wound. “He’ll be ready for travel by midmorning, I do believe. We’ll poultice him with some Epsom salt, tonight.”

  “I could use me a soak in the stuff, as well,” Boyd said, joining us. He was sweating and disheveled; the evening air was hotly immobile, and I allowed that we could all use a bath.

  “We’ll fashion a poultice, and then perhaps a swim for a spell?” I suggested.

  * * *

  The Iowa was calm under the setting sun. I floate
d on my back near the center of the river, no more than a stone’s throw across at its widest, submerging my ears in the ongoing rush of water. The river was pleasantly cool on my sweating skin, though I wore a shift for the sake of modesty; Sawyer and Boyd were clad in the lower halves of their union suits, while Malcolm was bare as a newborn, giggling when his pale little buttocks broke the water’s surface as he played in the shallows.

  “Lorie-girl, I gotta make a request of you,” Boyd said, his dark hair slicked back from his sunburned forehead; he hunkered to his chin in flowing water, a dozen or so feet away. He grinned and explained, “When I dare to run to shore, you ain’t to watch.”

  I laughed, and Sawyer kicked a splash in Boyd’s direction.

  “I will turn my eyes,” I promised Boyd.

  “Boy, if a trout nips at you, you know where, it is duly noted just now that I offered a warning,” Boyd called over to his brother, inspiring more laughter, before Boyd ducked under, blowing energetic bubbles to the surface.

  The sky was spectacular and I breathed a sigh of speechless pleasure at the sight of the entire western heaven ablaze with sunset. Slender purple clouds rippled in opaque waves, catching the day’s last light and throwing it back in scattered beams of fiery gold. The horses, grazing yards away, were starkly silhouetted against the yellow sky in ink-black, the tall prairie grass appearing as a solid mass of mauve in the tranquil evening air.

  “That sky is a beautiful sight,” Sawyer said, floating upon his back near me, our fingers lightly intertwined. “In the holler, the sun set so early. It’s such a different experience out here, where you can see everything for miles.”

  I nodded agreement; the press of water in my ears muffled my voice as I said, “Even the air seems distinctive in this place, wilder somehow.”

  “Thank you for helping with Juniper,” Sawyer said. “You did well, and have a steady hand, mo mhuirnín milis.”

  “I told you I mean to learn,” I said. “You are quite welcome.” And then I could not resist requesting, “Say something,” and he grinned, knowing exactly what I meant. I loved hearing him speak in his mother’s native language, that of Ireland, which he had learned at her knee.

  Sawyer clutched my fingers more tightly, in response, and said softly, “Is é an spéir anocht álainn, ach rud ar bith ar domhan, nó neamh thuas d’fhéadfadh, a bheith álainn sin, nó daor dom, mar atá tú.”

  Though he had been teaching me basic words and phrases, this sentence was spoken too fluidly for my untutored ears to distinguish any sense, and I demanded, “What did you say?”

  He murmured, “I will show you, I promise.”

  “Tell me, Sawyer James,” I insisted. I dearly loved speaking both his given names; it seemed an intimacy particular to a wife addressing her husband. “Tell me at once.”

  He moved with his swift, lithe grace, catching me into his arms beneath the water; my legs slipped wetly about his waist as he crouched on the rocky bottom, our faces no more than a few inches apart, a sweet satisfaction upon Sawyer’s as he grinned at me. His skin was warm against the chill of mine, his arms enfolding my waist as the river flowed gently around us, creating small eddies in its wake. He had not been shaving as readily in the mornings, simply because I refused to let him leave my embrace to do so; I would rather he remain stubbled with beard, allowing us extra time so we could make love when we woke.

  He repeated, in a whisper, “I promise,” and I clutched his jaws and kissed him heatedly, briefly forgetting that we were not exactly alone.

  “Jesus Christ, you two! Morning, noon, an’ night ain’t enough for you?” Boyd groused, surfacing nearer to us and sending arcs of water splashing our direction. “I swear, if we gotta share a cabin all winter…”

  “Aw, Boyd, they’s just kissin’,” Malcolm called.

  I ducked to evade the splashing while Sawyer went after Boyd, who whooped in challenge; they wrestled, appearing to be attempting to cause one another grievous bodily harm, but their roughhousing did not this time attract Malcolm. Instead, he called, “Come see, Lorie-Lorie!”

  The boy hunkered chin to knees on the muddy bank, having gathered a row of river snails, each scarcely larger than his thumbnail, their shells forming perfect curls. I squeezed out my hair, drawing it over one shoulder as I squatted, dripping, to examine them.

  “Ain’t they pretty?” he asked, poking gently. “Think I could keep ’em in a jar?”

  “No, sweetheart, just as you cannot keep butterflies in a jar. It is a cruelty, as they would only die.”

  “I’d like me a pet of my own,” he said.

  “You have Aces,” I reminded him, biting my lower lip to restrain a smile; his bare bottom hovered an inch above the ground and it was only a matter of time before he would grow far too modest to appear naked in front of me. But this evening he was still my sweet boy, unconcerned, his concentration directed at his snail-collecting efforts. The sun had drawn most of the light, and its subsequent warmth, to the far edge of the prairie, leaving behind a dusky twilight.

  Malcolm’s eyes brightened, and he agreed, “I do. But I mean a small critter, one I could haul about with me.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I promised. “Now come, let’s get you dried off before you catch a chill.”

  Malcolm nodded, scooping the snails into his palm and tracing a fingertip over them before releasing them back to the river.

  * * *

  Red dirt was warm beneath my bare feet.

  What should have buoyed my heart with simple gladness—the sight of a Tennessee road, the one which led in an unhurried, winding fashion to my childhood home—instead caused the breath to solidify, painfully, in my lungs. The air was quiet and motionless, laden with scents long familiar to me, honeysuckle and sweetgrass, the loamy earth from which grew abundant wildflowers, the powder-fine dust that swirled familiarly over my toes. Sunlight cut translucent paths between the oak limbs reaching outward from towering trees in the ditch, and sifted over my loose hair.

  The scene all about me was one of peaceful summertime beauty and so at first it was not entirely apparent what invited the shadow of threat to hover near…

  Laughter, from somewhere nearby, filtered to my ears amid the ancient trees that guarded the right side of the road. My feet instinctively followed the sound, the grass growing tall off the beaten path and subsequently catching at my skirt, so that I lifted my hem in order to navigate the way. I found as I walked that something lurked tauntingly at the edges of my vision—a dark silhouette, hunched and silent, but when I looked in its direction, there was nothing but emptiness. I squinted, straining to spy whatever it was that observed so sinisterly, when a peal of happy sound floated to my ears, that of boys at play, and spurred my feet on their original course. People were nearby and I stepped forward, stooping to peer between two tree trunks, the bark rough and immediate under my touch.

  Oh, I whispered painfully, sun flashing suddenly in my eyes, blinking against this radiance with eyelids that felt weighted. Likewise, my ankles seemed turned to iron, anchoring me to the ground when I ached to run forward.

  Mama…

  My mother stood no more than yards away, the delicate contours of her form so recognizable to me—but her head was angled so that I could see only the curve of her elegant jaw, not her clear green eyes or her welcoming smile. She held a little boy, perched close on her hip; one of his plump hands tugged at a strand of her honey-brown hair. My brothers, Dalton and Jesse, were playing in the chicory field that grew behind Daddy’s stable—I could see the stable, just there across the way—chasing one another and laughing, and the boy wriggled on Mama’s arm, wanting to clamber down and join them.

  The sun, hovering at the edge of evening, struck all of them from behind, creating perfect haloes about their bodies, and simultaneously gilded my vision. Half-blinded as I was, I burned with the need to move towards them—and yet I could not will myself even a step that direction.

  I begged, Look at me, Mama, look this way…


  Let me see my son…

  Please, let me see him…

  But my pleading words did not reach her ears. Instead, a new voice echoed within mine.

  Lorie, Angus said, speaking my name with affection, just as he had in life. I tore my eyes from Mama and the boy in attempt to find him in the thickening dusk, scraping at sudden pine boughs closing in near my face, the small, sharp needles prickling my skin. I thrashed with both arms, feeling as though the forest grew smaller, encroaching upon my very body. I could not see Angus anywhere near, but still I called, Gus! Where are you? I am so sorry…I pray that you know this…

  There is danger, my dear. Danger both ahead and behind. Tell Sawyer. Do you hear me? Though I could not see him, Angus’s voice had grown urgent. Somewhere beyond my field of view Jesse called out to Dalton. Mama spoke then, heralding them to return to her, and the sky grew suddenly hazy with approaching darkness. My heart clamped into a tight fist of fear. Angus spoke close to my ear, insistent as he ordered, Tell him, Lorie. We could not have known, not that night. Boyd was right…he was right…

  I don’t understand, I implored. I shoved aside branches, looking desperately for Mama and the boy, and my dear brothers, but they had all disappeared. The chicory field was empty in the silent silver air of twilight, no hint of their presence or passage out of it, oddly menacing in the gloaming. I heard a low, frightened moan and understood that it was mine.

  Gus! I cried, but all sense of him had vanished.

  There was a distinct skittering in the branches directly above me and I felt certain something was poised to swoop. I turned, blindly, and stumbled amongst thick undergrowth and grasping branches, making pitiful progress—and then I tripped over a toppled tree and fell hard to both knees. Momentarily dazed, I hung my head until the dizzy ache passed. My eyes had adjusted to the dark and as I lifted my face I caught sight of…

  My mind faltered, attempting to process the sight.

  What I had thought was the trunk of a tree was instead…

  Was instead…