Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage

by Micah Sherwood

  “No.” Micah responded.

  The priest smiled at the youth’s bluntness. I’ve got to go back to St. John’s. Would you walk with me? Do you feel like a walk?”

  Micah looked at Mr. Dorsey before answering. “Okay” and he gulped down his chocolate, carried the maps and rifle to the pickup, and then the two strolled toward the Chapel.

  They sat together in a pew, the same spot where the Derocher family sat at Guy’s funeral. It was quiet, and the Monsignor did not speak but rather closed his eyes and began meditating. The chapel was simple and beautiful. Micah thought back to the great cathedral in Trondheim, Nidarosdomen, with its great stained glass windows and vaulted ceilings. For an instant, he stood again near the river looking toward the giant church, seeing its great green steeple rise above the trees. But this little church, St. John of the Cross, with its birch pews, marble alter, the Statue of the Virgin Mary—these captured a simple holiness that embraced him and seemed to enable him.

  Micah turned to observe the praying man who was encircled with white and pale yellow flames, the flicker of a good man. He looked inside the priest whose prayers were directed upward and were for his benefit. Flashes like camera bulbs exploding popped in and out of reality above both their heads. The Monsignor opened his eyes as Micah thought to himself, “This man is more than what he thinks.”

  “God touches us individually, each one of us specially.” The priest looked toward the boy who smiled at the priest’s accent. “When Jesus looked at Peter, he saw an obstinate and hard headed fellow. When he spoke to Mary of Magdala, his language was full of imagery. And Jesus spoke to everyone in the language of hope.”

  “Mrs. Derocher told me about your seeing Guy, how you explained to her that she needed to let him go. And by setting him free, she would be freeing herself. A psychologist told her the same thing; it’s not hard to deduce that her pain and longing for her dead son was destroying her life. The language of a clinician is cold, direct, exacting. But the words of a child, your words, are soul-felt. That’s a big difference. You may have saved that woman’s life, or at least saved her sanity. She was spiraling downward.”

  “Do you want me to say something? I not sure what you want from me.” Micah spoke gently as he examined at the priest.

  Monsignor Mathias took Micah’s hand. “I want you to tell me everything about yourself: what you see; what you feel; what you believe.”

  “Now? I’m not comfortable talking about myself. It seems a little self-serving.” Micah did not remove his hand from the priest’s; he found comfort in his touch. “You want me to confess my sins or something? I don’t think I believe in confession.”

  “Then tell me what you’re comfortable talking about.” The Monsignor understood that he would have to earn Micah’s confidence. “It won’t be a confession, only two men talking, just a private conversation between friends.”

  “You know that you have a white and yellow flicker?” Micah watched to see the priest’s reaction.

  “Flicker, I’m not sure what that is.” The man responded.

  “There are colors that surround you. I guess it is some kind of energy. Everyone has a flicker. Your flicker says goodness, health and intelligence. But I can read you without seeing your flicker. I feel your emotions. I am sorry, but I could even feel your prayer a moment ago. Thank you for your concern.” Micah paused.

  “If you are sad, I will know it. Anger, hate, love, they are all obvious to me and you can’t conceal them. I once hated this ‘knowing’ because I couldn’t control it. But I am managing it better. I can usually turn it off but sometimes not, like with Mrs. Derocher. Her sadness was debilitating. And right now I know that you believe me; you aren’t skeptical; you sort of expected something like this. Right?”

  Monsignor Mathias laughed. “Yes, but why wouldn’t I expect something weird from you. After all, how many people can talk to dead little boys?”

  “Well, I know a couple of people that can.”

  He looked at Micah a little surprised. “Who are the others?”

  “My secret,” Micah stood. “Mr. Dorsey’s outside. I’ve got to go.” He was happy as he walked to the bright red pick-up. “Confessions are good,” he thought as he hopped into the cab of the truck but then realized that it was not any confession that made him feel content. Rather, it was the Monsignor’s own sentiments that he had tapped into.

  And that was okay.

  Chapter 22: Maria Sewell

  They drove along Eastern heading north, but rather than turning onto Hillcrest toward home, they continued northward on the dirt road that took them to Mr. Dorsey’s new house, which sat on the highest spot of land around, and behind it was the barn, a large multistoried structure that dwarfed the stables at the creek.

  “We’re never alone anymore. Someone is always at the house; and when they’re not, you’re working or running or riding. I thought we’d have some quiet time you and me.” Mr. Dorsey smiled as he pulled up and parked.

  Micah did not respond but only followed him into the barn.

  “This is Gigolo,” Tom went up to an elderly gray horse. “I helped deliver this critter many years ago. He was a hard worker, but now he’s enjoying retirement. You can ride him, and I’ll take old Nobby here.” Both mounted their geldings bareback and headed along a ranch road that led them northward, but they stopped after a hundred yards or so.

  Micah peered across the undulating panorama looking downward toward the creek flowing three or four miles away; a small portion was hidden by cottonwoods but it mostly swerved back and forth across the high prairie exposed and naked. He could see the homes lining Willow Wood. East of there was the Juvenile Detention Center and the parklike area where the old hospital once stood. The railroad track snaked northward separating the old hospital land from Dane’s family ranch, which was cultivated in dryland wheat, and this year it was tall and green. A turn toward the north and Micah stared at the Great Plains dotted with mesquite, sage and yucca.

  “We’re on top of the Caprock here,” Mr. Dorsey lectured. “Looks a lot different than at the river doesn’t it?” The old man was talking more to himself than to Micah. “Our little creek eroded the land slowly and gave the winds and rains enough time to smooth out the terrain; but at the Canadian River, the river cuts much faster, deeper and didn’t allow the weathering away of the land, so you have the box canyons and the gulches. If you head straight north from here, you’d end up standing on top of the Caprock looking down a couple hundred feet into the flood plain of the Canadian. When you ride along that creek, you never really feel the elevation drop, but your campsite where I found you last Sunday is probably close to 1000 feet lower than where we are now.” Tom became quiet as he pondered not his words but his memories, about running along the creek as a youth. Age did not bring him sadness but a sense of completion.

  Micah had said very little. “What’s on your mind?” Tom asked him.

  “Georgia O’Keeffe,” he replied.

  Tom laughed. “That’s sort of an odd thing.”

  “Hum!” His voice became animated as he spoke. “The blue skies against the green wheat and in the distance you can see the browns and reds, whites and oranges of the prairie dirt that sort of intersects and outlines both the fields and the sky. I think she would paint this if she were here. It feels like her. And there,” Micah pointed toward the southwest. “Look at the city, that old stack sending smoke into the air. See how the chimney is splattered with red and white stripes; and a little further east, the Santa Fe Building, the Courthouse and the Herring Hotel spring up from the flatland: voilà, another painting for Georgia. You’ve got to appreciate the colors, how they contrast: the gray smoke against the cyan sky, the white Santa Fe Building against the reddish Herring Hotel against the blue-blue heavens. Can’t you feel the sacred?”

  “I assume you’re being rhetorical. I’m not sure how to reply to that. You seem to see the sacred in everything.” The old man paused for a moment. “That is not a critic
ism but an observation.”

  Micah continued his soliloquy. “O’Keeffe can capture the complexities of nature and turn them into something simple and complete. Up there, a golden eagle plays in the thermals and over on that fence post, see the meadowlark watching us—a potential killer and the potential prey—another contrast” The boy turned to look at the old man before he continued. “We are part of this. This is who we are.” He studied Tom. “I’m not sure how you can separate the sacred from the profane. Who says what’s sacred or not sacred?”

  Tom listened to the boy, shook his head and foot tapped his mount; the two riders headed toward the byre in a valley studded with bundles of fresh alfalfa to be stored away for winter. A tractor rested under a small canopy for protection against the weather; and a windmill, its blades spinning in the constant wind, stood next to a rusting metal tank filled with cold aquifer water. They released the horses, letting them roam the small paddock. Micah sat on the edge of the tank, watching a half-dozen fish swim around. They were black, silver and orange; a couple had bug eyes and others regular ole fisheyes.

  “Weird fish in a weird place,” Micah commented.

  “Oh,” Tom chuckled. “It’s sort of a family custom. My grandparents had fish in their water tanks, and when I was a lad it always intrigued me. So I have them in my tanks. I put two fish in there originally. One was a regular goldfish and the other was a Black Moor. I’ve had their descendants in there for years now. Never feed them, so I guess they live off of bugs and algae.”

  “Over there,” Tom pointed toward a herd of cattle. “I have a hundred Herefords in that pasture and another hundred in a field a mile further north. Henry took most of the horses down to the ranch near Paducah. That’s where I make my money. I break even here, and I have a section of land north of Old Mobeetie, but it lies fallow. It’s not too far from the Canadian. Someday I might run some cattle on it but not anytime soon.”

  “Ranching made you rich?” Micah asked

  “No, you made me rich, you and the boys. Land speculation made me money. Ranching is just a hobby. I love ranching and the land. If I wanted more money, I’d sell-off my property and focus on land development. But I don’t need more money. Don’t need more land either.” Ranching and lawyering are just diversions.”

  “Am I a diversion?”

  Tom threw his arm around Micah and gave him a hug. “No! I thought I had a complete life until you came along. Then I discovered how unfulfilled I was. Now I couldn’t imagine a life without the Cowboys.” He grew quiet; he had said more than he intended. But it was said and there was no taking it back.

  “So you still interested in helping out around the ranch. I got some things going on and I could use some extra muscles.”

  “Sure,” Micah responded with excitement; “whatever you want.”

  “Come with me,” and Tom led the boy over to a tractor. “I am losing my foreman in Paducah, and Henry will go down there to head up the ranch in August. I decided I could do without a foreman here, but that means I will need your talents. You got to learn to drive that old pick-up and maybe this tractor. Come winter, you’ll have to deliver hay to the pastures come rain or snow. It’s a hard job. You sure you want it?”

  “Yup, but will I have time for track too?”

  “You don’t want to give up track?”

  Micah thought for only an instant before speaking. “I don’t want to, but I will.”

  “You won’t have to. Being a kid is more important than working on the ranch. We will make the time for track and boxing—and your girlfriend.” He paused for a second as he looked across the range and then at Micah. “So you have a lot to learn by the end of July. Henry and I will head to Paducah in August for a week. I need you to be comfortable doing the work here while I’m gone. You’ll need to be staying at the new house. We will bring the animals here from the old barn. You’ll need to work out something about getting to boxing practice.”

  “Can the boys come too?”

  “I already assumed that they’d be here.”

  “But your daughter hates me. Would it be okay with her?”

  Tom grinned. “She’s in England, not here. And she doesn’t hate you any more than she hates everyone.”

  ~

  July raced by, and Micah worked and went to boxing practice; rode Styx as often as he could and ran almost every night. By the end of July, he was driving the old truck through the wheat fields hauling equipment and learning about the mechanics of combustion engines and windmills. He and the boys spent hours-and-hours each week with Henry learning to mend fences and waterlines while camping out the whole time. The extra ranching duties and his lawn mowing jobs grew his savings account to almost $1500.

  The sun turned him as ruddy as his Osage grandfathers and bleached-out his hair to a deep auburn-blonde. Stacking 40 pound bales of hay made him stronger, made them stronger because all of the boys were working on the ranch. Not working really, it was more like play.

  And he was happy, happier than he had ever been. There had been no dreams, no specters, no other strange to-dos; only the Shadow Choir which serenaded him nightly regardless of where he slept. And there had been no sign of Harry for over a month, but he knew the old foreman was a malignancy only in remission; something that was always there, always stalking and always dangerous.

  But today, as he sat riding in the red pick-up with the old man and Cory heading north from Dallas on Highway 287 toward Amarillo, he felt alive and finally free of the nightmare of last December. Doctor Ford never needed to see him again. His heart was officially healthy and working normally. They drove up to the barn at the old homestead as the final rays of the sun were disappearing on the horizon, leaving only a few pinkish highlights to decorate the sky.

  There was no dancing and prancing by Raggéd, who did not greet them as usual. The gate toward the creek was open and apparently the dog was exploring—nothing that he had not done before. They had left for Dallas hours before sunup, while Dane and Tandy remained behind to do the chores. Cory and Micah went to round up the horses from the small pasture next to the creek and bring them home. Then they would run far and fast cross country to the playa. But first they had to jump into some running clothes.

  Micah stepped into his bathroom to change, the only light came from the glow of the bulb on his back porch. He gazed at himself in the mirror. His hair had grown long leaving no trace of his Mohawk. His face had thinned becoming hardened and angular; peach fuzz was growing on his upper lip and lifting bales of hay, stringing barbed wire, and digging waterlines all had worked together to enhance his musculature. Rubbing his hand across his bare chest, there was no way that the reflection could be his; it was an image of a young man—not his image.

  Cory came into the room and joined his friend glaring at their reflections. They were mirror twins. Everything about them was the same except Micah was left-handed and Cory right-handed. Their flickers fused as they stood side-by-side, and within their conjoined auras, the Shade stared back at them with his quicksilver eyes. The boys turned to each other, smiled, and left on their run.

  The Golden Spread was blanketed with stars and a crescent moon. They raced toward the pipeline, keeping an eye out for Raggéd. Not too far from the crossing, Micah glanced across the pastureland, and a lump of something lay upon the ground no more than 10 yards away. He recognized the carroty coat before he took a step closer. Nausea assaulted his body immediately. The corpse of a canine lay in the prairie grass, its head pert near blown away by shotgun fire. Raggéd’s collar remained buckled on his bloodied neck; his belly torn open.

  Micah did not cry; his pain ran too deep. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Cory, returning with a shovel to dig a hole to entomb his much-loved pet. Cory was not allowed to help. Raggéd was Micah’s dog, and it was Micah’s duty to care for him. The grave was dug deep, but before placing the animal in its forever resting place, the boy dropped to his knees next to the still form. His soul was weeping even if no tears
fail. He touched the gore soaked collar and instantly saw the hand that held the shotgun, aiming it carefully, lightly tugging its trigger and then dropping the gentle dog. But the killer wasn’t finished; drawing a knife from his belt, he slit open Raggéd’s belly and pulled out his guts, blanketing Raggéd’s body with the grizzly mess. Then the butcher laughed insanely. Micah could see him, smell him. Harry stood and urinated on the lifeless canine; aroused by his actions he began stroking his manhood and fantasizing, ’not a dirty animal next time.’”

  Micah was overwhelmed with the depraved mind-scene, which caused him to retch, to heave out everything he had in his stomach. He sat back and commenced his breathing exercise. He had to get himself under control because there were people to protect, all-the-while knowing that he was not really in control and would likely never be, the prey rather than the predator, and this was unacceptable.

  But for a moment, Micah had to turn within himself, visualizing the imaginal world where he could become lost in the vibrancy of colors and harmonies. Bluegreen auroras danced through the night sky, shifting now-and-then to yellow and then to red. The Shadow Choir serenaded him, but its melody had become wild and cacophonic.

  Two youths near his age stood before him; one’s body bloodied and beaten; and the other seared; both speaking simultaneously: “No justice,” then evaporating into the ether.

  Over his shoulder he heard Grandma Sherwood’s voice echo through the night disparaging him again about fear, directing him to “handle it,” making him angry which jerked him into awareness.

  Raggéd lay under a yard of dirt, another friend buried, and finally Micah broke down and bawled, sitting on his knees, his head resting on his hands as he slumped on top of the burial mound with Cory next to him weeping equally hard. After the tears ended, after their spirits were spent, the boys rose and started running toward the playa. They sprinted through the steppe unaware, dodging obstacles when necessary while their eyes stared directly ahead unmoving. The coyote family joined them with a young pup racing to keep up, squealing now-and-then in protest to his mother. But Micah and Cory never noticed. The only sound that they perceived were the reverberation of their feet hitting the dusty trail; their souls absent, lost again in the imaginal realm.