Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  No, I whispered—then shrieked—one shriek atop another, a wailing cry—

  The gathering grays of night were not enough to obscure the face of the man on the ground, a lined visage grown cold and dead—the coldness seeped from him and into the fingertips of my right hand, moving insidiously upwards—branches scraped along my flesh as I tried to scrabble away from the punctured left eye, the gaping wound which had leaked dark blood down his neck and long since dried upon his collar.

  He is dead—Sam Rainey is dead—oh Jesus—he is dead and cannot harm you –

  Breathing harshly, I raked my fingers through fallen leaves in attempt to gain purchase and continue crawling frantically away. The air grew ever colder and it was then that I encountered a second body, that of the man I had known briefly as Dixon, the man who murdered Angus. How I realized it was Dixon, I could not have articulated, as his head was misplaced—my disbelieving eyes roved across the ground, coming to rest upon a distorted skull roughly arm’s length from my nose, utterly stove in on one side.

  The sight of Dixon and Sam Rainey here amongst the debris of a forest floor, far from the Missouri prairie where they had each met their end, made no sense, and I scrambled away from them as best I could, sticks and small rocks cutting into my palms. I seemed mired in molasses, moving weakly, slow as a slug.

  Two bodies.

  But where is—

  Shouldn’t there be—

  Some crucial detail was escaping me—it was just at the outer edge of my memory.

  You must understand, Lorie.

  Lorie…

  “Lorie, wake up,” and Sawyer’s voice, low and rife with distress, jolted me to consciousness.

  I lay sweating in the darkness of our tent, flat on my back; Sawyer’s outline was etched against the pale glow of canvas as he leaned over me, his warm hands bracketing my face. I reached at once and clasped his wrists, at first unable to draw a breath past the sensation of smothering. Nor could I speak, and Sawyer said again, urgently, “Lorie!”

  “It’s…” I rasped over the word, parched by lingering terror, and wet my lips with my tongue before able to finish speaking. I whispered, “I dreamed of…I dreamed of…”

  I could not recall exactly and bared my teeth in a frustrated rush of breath. My heart would not cease its agitated clanking. Sawyer gently thumbed aside the strands of hair that clung to my damp temples. I held fast to his wrists.

  “I’m here,” he whispered. “It was only a dream.”

  “No,” I whispered, insistent. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness enough to see his, mere inches away. “No…it was more than that…” I was certain of this, despite being unable to bring forth exact details.

  “What do you mean?” he asked seriously, easing me up and into a sitting position, resting his hands against the outer curve of my thighs, one on either side. His hair hung loose and he was bare-chested. I sensed his desire to listen to whatever it was I felt I must say, and was grateful for the countless time that such a man was my husband, that he would not discredit any words I spoke to him, even those based entirely upon speculation.

  “Something is wrong,” I said with quiet certainty.

  “Are you hurting?” he asked at once, his grip on my legs tightening, and I could sense his thoughts racing backwards to the days when I was ill, unresponsive with fever back in Missouri, and he had cared for me day and night.

  “No,” I assured immediately. “I am well.”

  His shoulders had tensed and now relaxed. I reached and touched my fingertips to his lips, tracing the sensual outline of his mouth.

  “I am well,” I whispered again, moving my hand to his cheek, overcome with tenderness.

  He explained, “You were crying out in your sleep. I was in the midst of a strange dream of my own, I won’t deny. I could swear that Ethan was here, with us, just before I woke.”

  No sooner did he speak the words when a flash of what Sawyer had dreamed blazed suddenly into my mind—I saw Ethan Davis as plainly as a thunderhead rolling in at a clip, crouched near Sawyer’s sleeping body, determinedly shaking his brother’s arm. I shivered at this description, a jitter that rapidly struck each individual bone of my spine.

  “He was worried for us,” Sawyer said, taking my elbows into his grasp, and I shivered, more violently this time. “I understand it was a dream, but it seems to me if I had woken only seconds earlier, Lorie, I would have truly seen him, here with us.”

  There was a quiet aching present in his tone, barely discernible, but I heard it nonetheless. Our bedding was jumbled, more so as I scooted forward and threaded my legs about his waist; I rested my face against him, taking soft pleasure in his scent, so familiar and beloved, the rasp of his unshaven jaw, the hard muscle of his thighs under my own.

  “Did he tell you anything else?” I whispered, bringing my nose to the juncture of his collarbones.

  “I do not remember more,” Sawyer whispered. “I dream of my brothers from time to time, but the feel of this was different, Lorie, I tell you. Crazy I may be, but Ethan was here, his spirit was with us, somehow.”

  I resisted the urge to cast my eyes about the interior of our tent, feeling a ripple of discomfort at the notion of a spirit, even a benevolent one related to my husband, occupying the same space. I whispered, “What do you think he meant?”

  “I wish I knew,” Sawyer said, cupping the back of my head.

  “I am fearful,” I whispered, clutching him more tightly, not wanting to pretend otherwise.

  “I felt a stir of fear, myself,” Sawyer admitted. He sat facing the direction of the entrance and though I could not see his eyes directly, I imagined the look in them, hawk-like, keeping continual and unflagging watch over us. I knew he would never fail to protect us—but even Sawyer must sleep, must occasionally let down his guard. He placed his hands over my shoulder blades, gently rubbing me, and we held one another in silence for a long spell.

  When, from Boyd and Malcolm’s tent, an especially loud, grunting snore caused me to twitch, I couldn’t help but laugh, quietly, at my own reaction. Sawyer made a sound of amusement and shifted position, curving both arms around my waist. My thighs spread further around his hips at this motion and I could feel the hardness of him through his trousers as our bodies pressed flush; we had not made love for several days, as a result of my monthly bleeding. He inhaled a slow breath, his lips at my temple. On the exhale, he whispered, “I apologize,” so politely that I smiled.

  “Such a gentleman,” I teased in a whisper, grasping his face as I softly kissed his upper lip, pleased to feel the resultant tremble that skimmed over him. His eyes, now directed upon me, blazed with heat, discernible even in the darkness.

  “My beautiful woman,” he whispered, gliding both hands around my backside, as though in preparation to take me to the bedding beneath him, as he had done so many times now.

  “Sawyer,” I said, low and unrelenting, caressing downward, opening his trousers even as he protested—however weakly—that I should not.

  “Darlin’, it’s your time…I will not take advantage of you that way…”

  “It’s nearly done,” I whispered.

  “We should not…” But he skimmed the shift from my body, making the deep sound of pleasure that I knew so very well.

  “We should,” I insisted, breathing ever faster. I demanded, “Help me with these…”

  Sawyer worked swiftly, freeing me from the binding about my lower body, hardly breaking the contact of our mouths as we kissed. I remained astride his lap and he lifted me without effort, settling my now-naked body atop his, groaning softly as I took him deep, both of us remaining still, reveling in the moment of joining.

  His hands spread wide upon my back as he whispered, “The feel of you…”

  I stroked his hair, suckling his lower lip with soft insistence, shaken by the force of my love for him, the desire to be this near to him, always and always, sharply contrasted by the fear that coiled inside of me, the essence of my
dream crawling forth. I rebelled against any such thoughts, determinedly rocking my hips, flesh overpowering mind. I said, “I want to give you pleasure…Sawyer…”

  He bent me gently backwards, bringing his mouth to my breasts as if worshiping at an altar, opening his lips over my flesh and tasting of me, as I sank my fingers into his hair. In time I moved swiftly over him, taking up a steady rhythm, his heart thundering against mine as we moved of one accord. The bedding churned to a pinwheel of material beneath us.

  “I have never known such pleasure,” he whispered. “The moment I leave your body, I only want to be within you again…and again…”

  “Yes,” I begged him. “Oh Sawyer, yes…”

  He took me to my back upon the rumpled blankets, there able to thrust as deeply as possible, and together we tumbled off the edge of the Earth and then further, clinging to each other. Much later, in the quiet, predawn darkness, we drifted slowly back to the unyielding ground, both of us slick with sweat. I hadn’t the strength to do more than smile sleepily at him, my eyes closed and my limbs limp with exhaustion.

  “Lorie,” he murmured, his deep voice tender. “Sleep, sweetheart, I’ll hold you. In my arms and in my heart.”

  - 12 -

  Iowa City was a sprawling town situated near the Iowa River, a gleaming expanse over which the sun glinted. Sawyer deemed Juniper fit for travel, and by the noon hour we traversed a wide bridge, one of two leading north into town, to cross the Iowa—Malcolm could hardly resist the temptation to draw Aces to the railing and lean over the bridgeworks, peering into the dark-blue depths far below. The wagon and foot traffic into town was fairly heavy, but we joined Malcolm and spent a few minutes leaning over the railing and marveling, comparing this river to the Mississippi, and Lake Royal back home in Tennessee, speculating how quickly one would be swept downstream in the event of leaping from the bridge. Malcolm exclaimed in dismay as he inadvertently dropped the single penny Boyd had allowed him, which winked in a copper flash as it fell, earning a smack on the back of the skull from his brother.

  The town itself, a webbed network of roads, bustled with activity, far beyond what a mid-week day warranted; it did not take more than a minute outside the post office, on a busy downtown avenue, to realize the activity was because of a double hanging that was set to take place in the center of town, come one o’clock this afternoon. Apparently a gallows had been newly constructed for this rare occasion of capital offense.

  “Plenty of folks are eager to see these two at the end of a rope, for robbing the stage and shooting a local fella,” said the man whom Boyd inquired about the crowds, a self-proclaimed journalist that introduced himself as Horace Parmley. “Idea Wright’s the one who shot Ned McGiver. Though I doubt Wright actually aimed for McGiver’s head. Folks figure poor Ned just moved the wrong direction and caught a fatal bullet in the cheek. Always was an unlucky bastard, God rest him.” Parmley interrupted this detailed explanation to tip his hat at me, from where he stood near Sawyer’s side of the wagon in the bright sun. His age was perhaps mid-twenties; he wore thick side whiskers and a mustache that entirely obscured his upper lip. Using forefinger and thumb, he fastidiously smoothed it, inviting, “Spectacle’s outside the courthouse, an hour past noon, if you folks have a mind to see the show.”

  “We’ll pass an’ be on our way, thank you kindly,” Boyd replied, a note of dark humor woven into his ironic tone; it was not lost on him that Malcolm’s shoulders drooped just a hair, in disappointment, though the boy wisely held his tongue. I supposed that were I a lad of twelve years, a double hanging might stimulate my imagination with a similarly macabre and irresistible fascination.

  Not to be so easily dismissed, Parmley said, “Idea Wright wore the gray back in the War and folks around these parts are predisposed to disliking him, on account.” He continued, conversationally, “Rebs, even former Rebs, get what they got coming to ’em, is my opinion. Wouldn’t you say, fellas?”

  There was a beat of strained silence—the journalist, who could not have known with any sort of certainty that he stood in the presence of two former soldiers—did not seem discomfited by the pause. He bore the subtle mien of a man who enjoys any negative stir occasioned by his words. Sawyer shifted position on the seat beside me. He and Boyd, still mounted on Fortune, exchanged a brief glance, conveying depths of information, in the way of longtime friends.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Sawyer said, jumping nimbly from the wagon and consequently almost into Parmley’s space. Sawyer did not appear overtly threatening, and in fact even offered what appeared a pleasant smile, but Parmley, a goodly amount shorter, tipped his hat and was in a sudden flurry to depart.

  “Five blocks east, if you change your minds!” he could not seem to resist informing us.

  Boyd adjusted his hat and cast a dark glance after the retreating figure. I surmised that if Boyd had been chewing tobacco, rather than inhaling it, he would have spit a plug in the same direction. He muttered, “Goddamn pencil-necked son of a bitch.”

  Sawyer made a fist and tapped it once, lightly, against Boyd’s bent left knee, closest to him as Boyd sat the saddle. He said, “We must expect some of that.”

  “Don’t mean I gotta like it,” Boyd grumbled, dismounting in one smooth motion, patting Fortune’s neck. He ordered, “Boy, you mind the wagon while–”

  “Aw, Boyd, I wanna ride the town, like I done back south,” Malcolm interrupted with a wheedling tone, thumbing over his shoulder in the general direction of Keokuk.

  “This is a far bigger an’ busier place, an’ I ain’t got time to accompany you,” Boyd said, in a voice that brooked absolutely no disagreement. Boyd had woken with a headache and sounded unusually cantankerous as a result; he narrowed his dark eyes at his little brother when Malcolm’s mouth opened in what was surely intended to be a protest.

  “Here, love,” Sawyer murmured, reaching to help me down and simultaneously giving Boyd a moment to regroup; Boyd, however, seemed determined to provoke an argument of some kind. On the opposite side of the wagon, Malcolm’s bottom lip protruded in a stubborn half-pout. He was still astride Aces and appeared in no hurry to relent to his older brother’s orders.

  Though he never sassed Boyd, there was a faint edge in his tone as Malcolm insisted, “I can ride me the town alone.”

  The very air seemed clogged with tension, visible as a cloud of smoke. Though Sawyer did not seem unduly concerned at the gathering storm between the Carters, I felt this rare animosity only contributed to the vague uneasiness that had plagued me for some time now, and even more strongly since last night, when Ethan Davis’s spirit inexplicably visited our tent.

  Boyd impatiently cracked his knuckles and said tersely, “You’ll do as I say, an’ there ain’t no two shakes about it, boy. Now, git down from that horse afore I yank you down.”

  Malcolm posture squared and his jaw bulged, but before he could speak I burst into their exchange, offering, “Why don’t you and I walk the avenue, dear one?”

  My words had the immediate effect of pacifying Malcolm—some of the angry sparkle fled his eyes, replaced by earnestness. He turned his gaze back to Boyd, clearly asking wordless permission, and though he still radiated ill-temper, Boyd grudgingly nodded. Malcolm dismounted and tied Aces’ halter to the hitching post.

  “You’ll be back shortly,” Sawyer said quietly, not so much an order as a need for assurance. He spread his fingers over my ribs, rubbing lightly; my heart hitched on a beat and I stood on tiptoe to get my arms around his neck.

  “Of course,” I whispered.

  “Boyd and I won’t be but a few minutes, just yonder,” he said. “I need a handful of horseshoe nails, and I mean to find you a journal.”

  I smiled at this, tugging him down so that I could kiss his chin.

  Malcolm came to collect my arm, looping it around his. Having regained his customary cheerful temperament, Malcolm said, “Don’t you worry none, Sawyer. Me an’ Lorie’s gonna be back straightaway.”

 
If only he had been right.

  * * *

  Everywhere we walked, people spoke of the hanging—men, womenfolk, children running loose as stray dogs. I had grown accustomed to the peace and relative solitude of traveling the prairie and so the cacophony of voices, the clink of wagon chains and passage of hooves over the hard-packed ground, common noises which usually receded into the background, seemed too sharp, absurdly loud within my unsettled mind. If I closed my eyes too long I was unwittingly returned to St. Louis, and Ginny’s, where this exact slurry of sound played continually. Display windows caught Malcolm’s attention time and again—he was a great one for marveling, and had there not been a cold spot clinging to the back of my neck, I would have been able to better enjoy the sights.

  We reached a cross-section of street, pausing to consider in which direction to continue, and my skin crawled as though suddenly inhabited by biting fleas; our position put us catty-corner to a grouping of saloons. A pair of women, heavily rouged, watched the lively action of their town from a storey up, leaning their hips against a decorative finial on the porch railing above an establishment called the Forked Hoof. I was uncomfortable to the point of sickness at the sight of them and the memories they unintentionally provoked, and was about to insist that we return to the wagon when Malcolm tugged my arm and exclaimed, “Kittens!”

  I looked where he was pointing, perhaps twenty paces down a side street, and felt a sharp blow land solidly upon my heart; Deirdre sat on an overturned washtub, her dark hair shining with scarlet glints in the sun, smiling as she listened to two little boys. She held three tiny kittens in the hammock of her skirt, stroking their fur. The sun shone in my eyes and I squinted in stunned confusion, belatedly realizing that of course the woman upon whom I gazed was not Deirdre but instead a stranger who resembled her greatly. The sight of the girls who worked in the saloon, coupled with memories of my old friend, sent distress prickling along my scalp.

  “What’s wrong, Lorie-Lorie?” Malcolm questioned. As usual, despite his brimming energy he was finely tuned to my feelings; he regarded me with somber eyes, gently patting my elbow.