Blood Standard

by Laird Barron

  I figured once we got more familiar, we’d get along fine.

  Kline ferried me north and east into what city folk consider the wilderness and I beheld a panoply of debauched, gothic America. At my request, he took the scenic route in a big loop around our destination. I wanted to get a feel for the landscape while someone else worried about driving. The outskirts of Newburgh, Poughkeepsie, and Kingston slid past like a dream of ruin—during the revolution this town had been burned and that town sacked. Brick-and-mortar shops with cracked façades, shuttered warehouses and rusting bridges, moribund churches, tall and sinister upon battle rises, abandoned colonial graveyards, derelict memorials, and overgrown estates of dead-as-dust patrician overseers, all unspooling.

  We rolled over the Wallkill, then hard left onto an unpaved country road that meandered into the foothills and their cave tombs.

  Hawk Mountain Farm and Center for Symbolic Studies occupied many acres between the Wallkill Valley Rail Trail and Hawk Mountain. I’d traced the Rail Trail on a map. Its path intersected many a highway and secondary road as it arrowed northwest and toward the borders of the state and transitioned to another trail system. Maybe I’d lace up my hiking boots and go for a wander when my health returned completely. It had been a few moons since my last excursion into the wilds.

  We passed through densely wooded draws and bucolic fields tenanted by distant A-frame houses. Nearer our destination where the road doglegged stretched an expanse of cropped turf designated HOUNDS TRAINING GROUNDS. Next door, behind a tall cyclone fence, were rings, swings, and nets and a bunch of other high-wire equipment. A wooden placard said TRAPEZE CLUB.

  Acrobats in leotards hung around the parking strip, laughing and passing a water bottle. A woman in green stood apart from the other performers. She smoked a cigarette and watched our sedan trundle past. She didn’t smile when I gave her a little wave. She turned away with deliberateness and arched her back and stretched her arms toward the light.

  “Wow,” Kline said without rotating his head. The only word he’d uttered since climbing behind the wheel.

  “Holy smokes,” I said.

  Three ramshackle turret-style cottages peeped through the trees atop the ridgeline. The stone cottages were surmounted by geodesic domes painted bright green and brighter red. All of this belonged to the Walkers, a family with roots extending back to the Civil War, although white settlers first cleared the land before the nineteenth century. Much of the modern infrastructure went in during the 1950s and ’60s. Hard not to imagine the architectural committee sky-high on magic mushrooms during the planning phase.

  “What the hell are those?” I said.

  Kline drove up a steep hill with washboard ruts.

  “Gnome homes,” I said to test the sound. “Hobbit houses.”

  “Probably full of hippies, sir.”

  We pulled into a long pasture. The main house was a rambler with freshly stained pine siding. The farm was divided into plots by a picket fence and a cabbage patch, then another heavier post-and-wire fence and a slab log bunkhouse, an L-shaped stable-and-barn combo, a woodshed, and an antiquated mill partially blockaded by cedar shavings piled high on the side. Farther away, horses grazed on tufts of weeds in a field. Ducks floated upon a muddy pond. Even more distant, and among the bordering forest, crouched another of those wacky gnome huts. This shanty had a yellow Dr. Seuss roof.

  As my boots touched gravel I got a snootful of cedar, ripe horse dung, and hickory smoke boiling from the chimney stack. Kline unloaded the three canvas seabags and a dented footlocker that comprised my worldly possessions. We stood there for a moment in a cloud of gnats and flies.

  “Good luck, sir,” he said, catching himself mid-salute, instead embarrassedly tugging his ear.

  “Sayonara, and thanks for the lift. Tell my old man to piss up a rope, if you see him.”

  Kline nodded as if taking a mental note. He drove away without another word.

  SIX

  An elderly couple approached from the direction of the barn. The man could’ve doubled for Sidney Poitier if the lighting were right. The lady had piled her white hair in a severe bun. Her wrinkles dug to the bone. They wore wool sweaters and lace-up work boots.

  “Welcome to the farm. I’m Virgil Walker. And this is my wife, Jade.” Virgil Walker grabbed my hand and shook it. “Hey, honey, this young fella is big enough to slap a saddle on.”

  “The farm is saved, hurrah!” Jade said without enthusiasm. She looked me over, pursing her lips at my sallow complexion and gimpy leg. Her expression made me thankful I wasn’t an injured horse. They scowled at my shaggy hair and thickening beard; nor were they pleased by my leather jacket, slacks, and scuffed Doc Martens. Tinhorn, city slicker, ne’er-do-well, is what my Big & Tall duds said about me. How much did they know of my background? No telling what lies Mr. Apollo had fed them, no telling what manner of bargain he’d struck.

  “So, you drink like a fish, huh?” Virgil said, dispelling part of the mystery. “Well, mister, we got a cure for that. It’s called honest labor.”

  “Honest labor?” I said, no doubt reinforcing my first impression of a great lummox. They were right about the drinking, although I sort of thought I drank precisely enough.

  “What my husband means is, you’ll be bucking so much hay and mucking so many stalls you won’t have time to drink. Or go around wrecking motorcycles.”

  I smiled toothily and cursed Mr. Apollo and his choice of backstory.

  “How do you know Mr. Apollo?”

  Jade examined her nails.

  “Our families go back a long way. Mr. Apollo has sponsored the farm since we opened. He’s been kind.”

  “You’re awfully peaked.” Virgil said it pee-kid. “We don’t wanna break you the first few days.”

  “I’m grateful, Mr. Walker. I’ll take it slow.”

  “D’you like horses?” He unfolded a pocketknife and cut himself a plug of tobacco. He chewed the plug and stared at me with skepticism.

  “I like horses fine.”

  “Is that so? I hope you like horse crap too,” Jade said.

  I probably would’ve fallen in love with the dame then and there if she hadn’t been a hundred and fifty years old.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, Virg, I guess he’ll do. Listen, young man. Here are the ground rules: No partying. No tomfoolery. No drugs. Horses get fed at seven a.m.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ah, and do try to exercise prudence in the friends you choose to invite to the farm.”

  “She means ixnay on a parade of whores coming and going from your shack,” Virgil said.

  “I wish,” I said.

  A station wagon pulled into the yard and a cadaverous man in a plaid jacket emerged. Virgil introduced him as Norman Coates, manager of the Hawk Mountain Farm.

  “Chief cook and bottle washer, mainly,” Coates said.

  We shook. He had the watery blue eyes of an old sailor who’d seen the worst. His accent, although faint, placed him as a native of the Shetlands.

  Virgil hollered, “Gus!” and a lad with a vacant expression eventually toddled over. Gus got tabbed to haul my bags to an empty cabin catty-corner to the barn. The Walkers then gave me a brief tour of the immediate grounds. They chatted in their laconic fashion, idly brushing aside peahens and chickens as we crossed the yard. I tried not to limp too noticeably, nor wheeze, nor lag. The trip had taken its toll.

  Along the way, I discovered a few things. The Walkers both possessed doctorates in literature and sociology. Suckers jetted in from around the world to partake of drum circles, sweat lodges, and “incense”-fueled seminars at the Center. Bottom line: numerous people came and went from the property. In addition to relatives and hangers-on who dropped in at all hours, one had to contend with volunteers and random visitors. Festival season lay around the corner, and tourists would flood in
to attend the Beltane ceremonies. The veterinarian, farrier, and accountant paid regular house calls.

  “What’s the Beltane celebration like?”

  “Heard of it?” Jade arched her brow.

  “I’ve seen The Wicker Man,” I hedged.

  “Oh, then you get the gist. Rivers of beer. Great, ruddy fires. Topless lasses. Dancing around the maypole and fornicating in the rows.”

  “Really?”

  “Not really,” Virgil said glumly.

  Next I met Lionel Robard, the farm’s other full-time employee. He proved an acerbic towheaded man a few years younger than myself. Lean and weathered and handsome like a guy who should’ve made it onto the silver screen but never did. Definitely an ex-soldier. Something in the flick of his cold glance, how he appraised me without seeming to, hinted at Special Forces. He was pitching hay when we came across him.

  “Hi, I’m Lionel.” He left it at that. He tucked a hideout pistol into his boot, and I bet nobody else had noticed it yet. He didn’t seem to care for my demeanor, but he also didn’t hate me on sight, which I get a lot, being so handsome and whatnot. There’s a warm place in my heart for shifty dudes who stash deadly weapons on their person for apparently no sane reason. Maybe we could be friends.

  “This is our granddaughter, Reba.” Jade gestured toward a skinny girl in an orange T-shirt and cargo shorts as she skulked past us.

  I pegged her for seventeen, maybe eighteen, going on forty. Lighter of complexion than either grandparent, with a suggestion of Egyptian heritage in the shape of her eyes and cheekbones. Reba didn’t shake my hand, didn’t acknowledge me, beyond a sharp, contemptuous glare on her way to join Lionel in the loft. I recognized that would-be badass stare.

  “She’s standoffish,” Virgil said as the girl disappeared up the ladder. “Getting over some troubles in the city.”

  “Wild child,” Jade said.

  I’d figured as much. The 13 tattooed on her calf was a declaration of sovereignty or a cry for attention. It required twelve jurors and one judge to send an original G to the pen. Everybody knows that, though; real criminals and aspiring delinquents alike. She’d forgotten the ½, which meant “half a chance.” It didn’t mean anything except I should keep one eye open and my hand on my wallet.

  Reformed hippies with dubious business schemes, a paranoid war vet, and a gangster in the making. Gnome huts and the Black Forest in the backyard. Yeah, this already felt like home.

  * * *

  —

  LE CHTEAU DE COLERIDGE comprised a rustic main room and tiny bathroom. Pine floors and walls and low timber beams, sooty and dusty from benign neglect. Toilet, shower, and a double bed. Electricity, but no phone line, no television, no space for anything more than the sparse handmade furniture, a record player in an oak armoire, an empty gun rack, and a fireplace. Some tenant left behind an oil painting of naked Hercules slashing the Hydra with a gladius while a peasant cowered, his upraised torch a tongue of red fire. I had a chuckle at the serendipity of that particular image. Outside, moss crusted the shake roof. Bats and songbirds nested in the eaves.

  A hairy spider scuttled under the bed at my approach. I collapsed on the mattress and lay in an exhausted sweat. Everything on me hurt, so I swallowed some Vicodin and closed my eyes until the spinning stopped.

  “What are you doing here?” Reba stood in the open door. The sun sank behind her shoulder and cast her face in shadow.

  I lifted my head.

  “Admiring the ceiling.”

  “What are you doing at the farm?”

  “Same as you, sister. Same as you. Suffering for my sins.”

  “I’m not your sister, pineapple.”

  I didn’t bother correcting her about my ethnicity.

  “You do a mean Eastwood.”

  “Dude, I know what you are.”

  A quick study—I didn’t even have any ink work to tip her off.

  “What am I?”

  “Bad news. It’s your eyes.”

  “Eyes without a face,” I sang in a creaky falsetto.

  She waited, arms folded tight.

  A ray of sunlight reflected off a crystal starburst someone had hung from a string in the window. The red light caught at her throat and momentarily illuminated a death’s-head. I blinked, and it wasn’t a death’s-head on a chain around her neck but rather a stylized horse. The afterimage of the human skull revolved in my mind, sent a shiver through me.

  “When did you get out?” I said.

  “Who says I was in?”

  “You were in. Somewhere with locks and bars and a curfew. Or you’re fronting.”

  “Think I’m frontin’?”

  “Does it matter? Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. Maybe Grandma and Grandpa have a custody deal with the state. Honestly, I’m more interested in finishing this nap.”

  “There’s only one thing about me you need to know.”

  “What’s that, sister?”

  “If you mess with Jade or Virgil, I’ll stab you in the heart.”

  I liked her better already.

  “When you put it that way . . .”

  SEVEN

  I dream of the old days, of childhood and family. I dream of hell.

  My father is Mervin Coleridge, son of an English fellow well met and a Kentucky preacher’s daughter. Dad fled home and joined the military at the tender age of eighteen. He made full bird Air Force colonel in minimum time thanks to conniving and toil. I’ve seldom met craftier or more ruthless operators, and considering the company I keep, that’s saying a lot. From him I learned how to throw a punch and shoot a rifle.

  Dad’s first wife hailed from a distinguished lineage of cattle barons and wildcat oilmen. Blonde, refined Clare Sexton, the Texas belle, gave birth to four strapping boys: Wyland, Steven, Hayden, and Hoyte. However, an officer’s life was not for her and she soon fled back home to her parents. There may have been other issues. Legend has it she issued her regiment of brothers and cousins orders to shoot Dad on sight.

  I’ve tilted the occasional brew with Wyland and Hoyte when they flew up to Alaska for salmon fishing season. Steven won’t speak to the likes of me, and Hayden is too busy with landgrabs and range wars to be bothered. Sadly, I’ve never met Clare. She remains, by all accounts, the Gila-eyed matriarch of a ranch on the Rio Grande where the water runs clear and the grass is sweet. She hates Dad to this day. I adore her from afar.

  Skip forward five years after the blowup of a divorce and Tepora Ulu, my mother, becomes Dad’s second wife.

  Mom came from a large family that had resided in New Zealand since ancient times. A scandalously beautiful woman whose countenance allegedly launched a thousand bar brawls, Tepora was a girl of nineteen when she married Dad, who by then had gotten long in the tooth. He always cut sharp in his dress uniform, I must admit. How could a girl resist? What could her disgruntled parents do except mutter and shuffle their feet?

  The couple initially crossed paths at a bar near the Christchurch air base. She worked as a cocktail waitress. On the spot, Mervin decided he simply had to have the winsome lass. He successfully wooed her and along came baby Isaiah before the ink dried on the marriage certificate. A barn burner of a May-to-mid-October romance, I’d still lay odds that nobody figured it’d last until the leather anniversary.

  In quick succession, Mom had Jordan and then Erika. I’m not close with them either. These days, we three exchange Christmas cards and Facebook “likes” and that’s the extent of it. I don’t blame them. Even the strongest sibling bonds couldn’t hope to withstand the stress of coping with a brother who kneecaps fellow gangsters for a living.

  The childhood of a military brat isn’t a stroll through a rose garden. Compound the customary trials and tribulations if you’re a heavy, dark-eyed boy who can’t pass for white. Alas for me, I resembled Mom. Neither Caucasian nor Maori, I suffered th
e slings and arrows of prejudice as mixed bloods ever have.

  Dad was moved around a lot. The Philippines, South Korea, Guam, Germany, Hawaii, Alaska. Everywhere we traveled I met new and interesting people and beat the shit out of them, and, often enough, had them come after me in wolf packs to return the favor. These thick scars on my calf? Bike chain to the leg. The stripes across my shoulders? Got those from being whipped with a radio antenna off a car. The notch above my left eye? Some little bastard with a great pitching arm caught me with a Fanta bottle from across a parking lot. Forget about the puckered bullet holes in my stomach or the patch of glassy, keloid-darkened flesh on my neck that came from a splash of industrial acid—those are long stories that occurred after I emerged from a misspent youth and started a second mortgage on adulthood.

  The only good and true constant during those Dark Ages was my dog, Achilles. Dad’s status enabled us to transport pets to several of the stations. When that proved impossible, Achilles stayed with Uncle Lucius. I hated those stretches and took it out on my enemies, which meant anyone who looked at me cross-eyed.

  Dad had become a big wheel with the Intelligence and Reconnaissance Service. Big wheels got to roll, right? What could dear devoted Mom do but allow herself to be dragged along, babies in tow? Mervin was also a drinker and a taskmaster and an absentee father. Not an easy man to live with, but for a while we kids loved him; loved him like dogs love their master no matter how rough it gets.

  Mom wasn’t exactly a picnic either. Tepora believed in the merits of the rod. She brooked no nonsense in her house. A kind woman, though. I remember that. She protected us from the worst of the old man’s ferocious moods, and comforted us during those endless months he’d be missing in action, reassigned to Timbuktu or jetting off into the wild blue yonder on clandestine missions to save the Free World. I remember that too. Traces of her kindness haunt my soul and that’s probably my saving grace.

  Everything might’ve been okay, maybe we would’ve settled in as a family if we could’ve held on until the old man retired and relocated us to the islands as he’d always promised. Everybody knows how the gods are when it comes to the plans of mortals.