Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  “We got more’n one reason to celebrate this night, ain’t we?” Boyd said, before successfully harnessing Malcolm about the neck. To his little brother, he invited, “You’s free to quit obeying me when you can escape a solid hold.”

  “Lemme go!” Malcolm yelped, landing rabbit punches against Boyd’s ribs, to no effect. Cort giggled and dodged them, then shrieked with laughter as Boyd shifted fluidly, releasing Malcolm and slinging Cort over his back, carrying him towards the house, upside-down.

  “The sound of boys playing in the yard does my old heart good,” Tilson rumbled, coming outside as well. Silhouetted against the lantern light in the door, he appeared statuesque, tall and imposing—he could almost have been Sawyer, or a man related to my husband, perhaps a father or uncle. And his voice, with its echo of Cumberland County, of home. I found myself willing, however rashly, to trust this stranger, just as I’d been compelled to trust Rebecca.

  Tilson leaned back at the waist and commented, “My, but it’s a fine night, ain’t it?” He ambled across the dooryard and presented his arm to me, asking next, “May I escort a lady to dinner?”

  I obligingly took his elbow and saw his teeth flash in a grin. He said, “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Davis.”

  “Thank you kindly,” I said.

  “We’ll take a leisurely pace,” he decided. “As the evening is so fine.”

  “It is,” I agreed, almost shyly, and Tilson patted my hand companionably.

  We ambled behind the others on the way to the house, and Tilson said quietly, “Once I had me four fine boys an’ a baby girl.”

  Somehow his gruff voice lent the words an additional quality of wistfulness; I found myself looking up at him as he continued speaking.

  “I loved them more’n I can rightly explain. A part of me always wondered if it weren’t downright foolish to love anyone that much, but I was a fool for them little ones. They bust up my heart with loving them, an’ their mama, my Adeline. She gave me five blessed children. We lost our little Ina Rose when she wasn’t but one, an’ I thought I couldn’t grieve harder’n I did back then.”

  He paused to draw a sigh, as I studied his imposing profile, wordless as he offered to me these confidences. He continued softly, “But my boys grew tall an’ strong. My youngest, my Bridger, weren’t but seventeen when the shots was fired at Sumter that cursed spring. All of them, Blythe, Amon, Justus an’ Bridger, were a-fired to join the Cause. Couldn’t stop ’em, an’ I respected their spirit, I did. I joined up to keep my boys safe. An’ not a one but Blythe survived that godforsaken conflict, Mrs. Davis, an’ their daddy a goddamn physician. My eldest son ain’t fit to live with, since. I ain’t seen him in near three years, the last of my boys.”

  Ahead of us, Boyd, Malcolm, and Cort had entered the house; I could hear Rebecca scolding all of them for bumping the table with their wild roughhousing. Tilson and I stopped walking at the same moment. A pair of brown bats fluttered in the sky directly above.

  “Where is your son now?” I whispered.

  “The Territories south of Kansas, last I heard,” Tilson said. He lifted his chin and appeared to be studying the heavens. He said, “I ain’t got so much as a reason to believe that Blythe is still living, but I swear on my soul that I’d sense it if he left this Earth before me, I truly do, Mrs. Davis.” He admitted, “The way you spoke for your man this eve reminded me something fierce of my wife, my Adeline. She loved me in such a way, an’ God knows I didn’t always deserve it. Had someone tried to hang me back when she was living, they’d a-been forced to get past her first.” And he chuckled, the sound colored with winsome nostalgia.

  For no other reason than simple instinct, I rested my cheek upon his arm, however briefly, and without guile, and then, as a gentleman to a formal dinner, Tilson led the way inside.

  “Lorie,” Rebecca said, coming at once to me. “I am ever so grateful at the news.”

  “Thank you,” I said, realizing she still believed that I was kin to Boyd and Malcolm, and had not been informed of my revelation before the others, at Tilson’s office. Impulsively, I leaned and kissed her cheek and though her eyebrows lifted in surprise, a sweet smile overtook her features.

  “Come, dear Lorie, we’ve cake in honor of young Malcolm,” Rebecca said, directing me to the chair that Clemens had politely withdrawn.

  Rebecca had indeed baked a cake, rich with walnuts and cinnamon, frosted with thick cream; it waited in a tin pan on the sideboard, tempting as the flicker of clear creek water to sweating skin. We crowded about the small wooden table positioned beneath the central ceiling beam, everyone’s elbows in each other’s way, talking of what had occurred this evening, abridging details as necessary for the little boys. Rebecca was in agreement that Judge Hamm would hear us out when he arrived in Iowa City.

  “Leverett Quade is no one’s fool, but not an unreasonable man, as I am certain you have realized,” Rebecca said, seeming not to remain still for more than a breath, her capable hands buttering bread and passing serving dishes, nudging aside her son’s roving fingers when he attempted to steal a swipe of the frosting. I watched Rebecca as discreetly as I was able as she spoke of the marshal, attempting to determine a deeper sense of her feelings for the man. She had quickly parried the subject of Quade’s courtship the day of our first meeting, though perhaps that was the result of simple embarrassment at her son’s forthright words.

  “Yancy is the one needs convincing, foremost,” Boyd said. “What do you know of this man, Tilson?”

  Boyd sat at the foot of the table, Tilson the head; Clemens was to his uncle’s right, while I was to his left. Rebecca sat beside me, Malcolm directly across, feeding bits of food to his gray kitten, the little boys competing for his attention. The knot in my stomach had eased with the relief of knowing we were not utterly helpless, and I found that I was able to eat.

  “Not a great deal,” Tilson answered in response to Boyd’s question, clapping a second helping of boiled potatoes to his plate. “Yancy’s on circuit here, every few months. I ain’t had a run-in with him, nor that big fella Zeb Crawford, but I aim to have a word with them tomorrow. You’re planning the same, ain’t you, Carter?”

  “That I am,” said Boyd. “I got words, real specific-like, for the both of them.”

  Clemens said, “As have I. I was most troubled by your accounts this evening, Mrs. Davis.”

  “Where are they now?” I asked, attempting to restrain the urge to cast my eyes about the room and into the darkness outside. Merely the thought of Zeb caused fearful sweat to form along my spine.

  “Yancy is within city limits, I am certain,” Clemens said. “I imagine him the type to prefer the comforts of the hotel, while Zeb, from what I am able to deduce, may very well be bedded down in an empty stall in the livery. Or perhaps he has left town. I am uncertain of his whereabouts.”

  “Do you believe Sawyer is safe in the jailhouse?” I asked, suddenly considering the possibility that he was not. “What if—”

  “It is a secure building,” Clemens assured me. “And either Billings or I am within reasonable distance each night. Billings is presently on duty, but I plan to sleep at the office, as is my habit during weekdays, and I promise I shall check in on Mr. Davis before I retire.”

  “In town limits, a man’s less likely to take action,” Tilson said. “I ain’t saying it’s impossible, but a man’s perspective is different in a town. He considers his actions more closely when there’s the possibility of being observed, and caught. Your good man is safe, I do believe, Mrs. Davis.”

  I looked to Boyd, who nodded and then assured me, “I would sit out front of it, if I thought otherwise, Lorie-girl.”

  Clemens addressed Rebecca next, saying, “I invited Leverett to dinner, but he asked me to relay to you that he would call tomorrow evening, if that suits you.”

  Rebecca’s movement stalled for the first time since we’d all been seated. Instead of replying, she only nodded.

  “Will he bring flowers, like last
time?” Cort asked his mother. Before she could respond, he informed us, “He brings flowers for Mama near every time he comes,” and I found myself struggling to imagine the incongruous picture of stern-faced, businesslike Quade astride his horse and bearing a bouquet.

  “Hold your tongue, boy,” Tilson scolded, though he softened the words by winking at his great-nephew.

  I had only by chance been looking Boyd’s way at the start of this exchange, and though I could not interpret his thoughts as I could Sawyer’s, I was quite adept at reading his face. The emotion present there was not one which I could have exactly articulated; I saw his gaze flicker briefly but intently to Rebecca, whose chair was angled in such a way that she would have had to turn her head to look directly at him. And then, quite suddenly, she did—though only for a heartbeat, before turning her gaze to me.

  “I apologize. Here we talk of trivial things, when your exhaustion must be extreme,” Rebecca said; I wondered if I was perhaps reading too much into the slight scald on her cheeks.

  “We are indebted to you,” I told her. “Please do not apologize, not for a thing.”

  “We ain’t had such good company as yours in a long while,” Tilson said, with an unmistakable glint in his eyes; I wondered if he’d intended to subtly jab at Marshal Quade with this statement.

  “Boy, you oughtn’t to have that critter at the table,” Boyd said cantankerously, abruptly directing his focus upon Malcolm, who was quietly feeding scraps to the gray kitten, cuddled on his lap.

  “Aw,” Malcolm wheedled. “He likes being at my side,” but he gamely returned the animal to the wooden crate near the woodstove; immediately it stood on its back legs to peek over the edge.

  “You haven’t named him yet,” Cort reminded Malcolm, and the three boys took up what was certainly a previous conversation, discussing a variety of options.

  Boyd sat with his forearms surrounding his plate; I knew he was every bit as fatigued as I, shadows dark beneath his eyes, but Rebecca’s table was a proper place, and I caught his gaze with a small motion, frowning unobtrusively; he took my meaning and eased back, politely removing his elbows from the table. Boyd’s dark hair was flattened from his hat, his shirt dirty, though he’d washed his arms to the elbow, outside at the pump. He was a good-looking man, solid as an ox and with strong features, black brows above expressive eyes in which the given mood was rarely a mystery. Unable to prevent drawing upon past experience, I considered how the girls in any whorehouse would fight each other for his attention—he and Sawyer, both, and very nearly had, the first night I’d met the two of them.

  Though Rebecca sat to his right and within arm’s reach, she seemed to be now avoiding looking his way, but he addressed her, saying courteously, “Ma’am, I apologize for my lack of manners. There ain’t no excuse. My dear mama would have plenty to say about me appearing in such a state at a proper dinner table.”

  “On my birthday, too!” Malcolm said, before Rebecca could reply, his brown eyes twinkling, and I was heartened to hear his usual good-humored tone. “Mama wouldn’t let you hear the end of it. You look like you ain’t combed your hair in days, Boyd!”

  “You have ridden far, and hard, this day, Mr. Carter,” Rebecca said, politely ignoring the giggles that emerged from her boys at Malcolm’s teasing. “Please, do not apologize. You are my guest. Our guest,” she corrected hastily, and she was flustered, I was not imagining this. Boyd’s face remained solemn; I sensed that she caused him unexpected agitation, and he did not know exactly what to make of this.

  Boyd said, “Well, I appreciate your hospitality all the same. Makin’ a cake for the boy was downright sweet of you.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks were broiling now; I peeked at her from the corner of my left eye, mildly astonished, observing the way she deliberately buried her face behind a sip of water. Boyd continued eating as though he had no notion of her slight discomposure, and perhaps he did not—but then his gaze was drawn again, resting upon her for the space of a breath, before he continued eating.

  “Oh, I surely am thankful,” Malcolm said. “I ain’t had me a birthday cake in ages. Not since Mama was alive. I’m most grateful, Mrs. Rebecca.”

  She smiled warmly at him and said, “And you are most welcome. I have grown quite fond of your company, dear Malcolm. The boys have as well, haven’t you, boys?”

  “Young Malcolm knows how to entertain the ladies, same as myself,” said Tilson, using his fork and knife with a proper air, as of a well-bred gentleman. His hair was parted unevenly, ragged at the ends and tucked behind his ears. I found myself wondering if Tilson had noticed the undercurrent flowing between Boyd and Rebecca; of course it would be unseemly of me to ask him, even if I could catch him for a moment alone. He caught me studying him and offered an affable wink, then regarded his great-nephews, one on either side of Malcolm, advising, “Pay attention, young fellas.”

  “Maybe we can have a fire this night, Uncle Edward?” asked Cort.

  “I suspect we could,” Tilson said. “After all, it ain’t every Friday that a boy celebrates the day of his birth.”

  Tilson built a fire in the stone-ringed pit in the side yard, and we sat long into the evening; I collected Sawyer’s jacket from the wagon, wrapping into its ample warmth, which blessedly retained the scent of him. Snuggling into it, I thought his name. And moments later he acknowledged softly, Lorie.

  Rebecca served cake on small tin plates; Malcolm was allowed two pieces, topped with thick, sugar-laced whipped cream. After eating his dessert, and despite now being a boy of thirteen years, Malcolm hooked an elbow over my lap and there lay his head, and I stroked his soft hair.

  “Boyd, might you play a spell?” I asked, and he obliged.

  For the span of an hour, while Boyd made the fiddle sing, bowing out melodies sweet and haunting, I felt removed from time, suspended between moments; perhaps simple physical exhaustion was at fault, as Boyd and I had traveled dozens of miles on horseback this day. And still the level of emotional strain we had withstood was incomparable to the physical, far more taxing. I leaned against a split log meant for a seat, propping my elbow, and the firelight shimmered as my eyelids grew heavier. My fingers sank into Malcolm’s hair, and I let myself drift to sleep.

  It seemed only seconds later that I woke to the scent of tobacco and the absence of music; the fire had burned to embers, though still radiated heat. I was curled in Sawyer’s jacket and leaning against the split log, while Malcolm snored. My lap prickled with needles and pins from the weight of him, my left arm sore from its position against the raw wood, but I felt oddly rested, as though my body claimed at least a part of what it required. Tilson and Boyd spoke in low, hushed tones; Clemens was no longer present at the fire, surely having ridden for town, and Rebecca’s boys had settled with their heads upon her skirt, also asleep. Boyd’s fiddle case rested near his right thigh, and he and Tilson were both smoking.

  “We’ve all a need to leave behind the darkness,” Tilson said in a quiet murmur, drawing on a pipe. “I keep the dear memories tucked close, but I ain’t got use for the others. Drives a man mad, after a time.”

  “I wish it was that easy,” Boyd said in response, low and soft.

  “You’s a young man,” Tilson said, his eyes in the fire. “You’ll outlive the worst of them memories, even if it don’t seem that way, at present.”

  “I still can’t hardly figure that many men dead in one fell swoop,” Boyd said, in his fashion of thinking aloud. “An’ the horses. All them broken bodies, lying there under the sun an’ rotting away. Like as I would to believe that they’ll leave me at peace, I feel them sights’ll be with me ’til I leave this earth.”

  Rebecca was silently studying him, her body angled just slightly in my direction, while Boyd and Tilson sat opposite, beside one another.

  “Ma’am, I apologize,” Boyd said, interrupting himself, his dark eyes lighting upon Rebecca and holding fast. He said, “It’s the late hour, I s’pose, that’s loosening my tongue. I ain’t f
ond of the idea of you bein’ forced to think of such terrible things.”

  Rebecca only shook her head, gently dismissing his concerns. Her eyes were steady on Boyd’s; no more than a few feet separated them and yet it somehow seemed an impassable distance. Boyd swallowed as their gaze remained intertwined and unbroken; something far more complex than any words passed between them. And then a log snapped with an explosion of little sparks, and broke the stillness. Rebecca blinked and looked discreetly away from him.

  “Maybe it ain’t even right to forget, much as we want to,” Boyd murmured, and passed a hand over his face as if swiping at unwelcome memories. He explained, “If we forget, I start to feel as though my kin died for nothing. My brothers, my cousins, my folks, all gone. Once I coulda spoke of the Cause, justified it to my last breath. An’ now, I can’t remember a goddamn thing about the why of it. My kin died for no reason a’tall but to satisfy the needs of those in power, them that would let others die in their place. Once there was more Carters in the holler than you could count in a day, an’ now there ain’t but the boy an’ me left to bear our name.”

  “We like to blame the devil for the evil in the world,” Tilson said, and sighed, exhaling smoke. Tilson possessed what Deirdre would have called a solid ‘poker face,’ in that his expression was carefully neutral, and therefore difficult to read. He elaborated, “It’s easier that way, see? The way I see it, the true evil ain’t the work of any old devil. It comes from the capacity of one man to hate another man. A man he ain’t ever met, ain’t ever spoke to, but that he’s made to hate right to his very guts. A man he’d just as soon shoot as look at. The speed with which a man can be galled into taking sides, an’ overlooking all else, that’s evil.”

  “I do not disagree,” Boyd said.

  “I cared not for causes, or politics. I begged Elijah not to go,” Rebecca said, with quiet bitterness, and I looked her way at these unexpected words. She was to my left, wrapped in a shawl and with her palms resting upon her boys; her gaze was deep in the embers, snagged there, though it was clear she was not seeing the pile of glowing coals. The fire danced over her fine features. I knew well the blade of loss. It had cut into all of us—robbing us of fathers, brothers, husbands, sons; inescapable, it struck without mercy and sliced indiscriminately, caring not for any of our foolish hopes. The War had made widows and orphans of an entire generation; I heard this sentiment expressed many times while employed at Ginny’s.