Neal Barrett Jr.

by Dawn's Uncertain Light

  Passing through a thick band of trees. Howie came out on the gravel road some fifty yards south of the gate. The lights of the town were far away, but he didn’t greatly care. He was relieved to be out of the house, and the road was downhill.

  Not ten minutes into his walk, a farmer stopped with a wagon full of onions and offered Howie a ride into town. Howie grinned as he perched beside the man, his good eve tearing from the pungent load behind. Now, if he could find someone going back up the hill he’d be fine. Take a look at the town and get back and go to bed. Lorene would almost certainly be celebrating late, and with any luck at all, he’d be lying there waiting when she arrived. He didn’t have any doubts that she would. Her sly little grin as she’d left him in the garden told him that.

  Even though he’d seen the town briefly on the way from the pier, being there and walking down the streets was something else. Howie was astonished at the goods in the stores, the way everything looked. There wasn’t any garbage in the streets or any smells at all, except for lots of things that smelled real good.

  And the lights—he couldn’t get used to that. The streets were lit up with oil lamps on poles, lights behind glass that gave everything a soft yellow glow. They had done that some in Alabama Port, but not anything like this.

  It was nearly nine o’clock and there were folks everywhere, well-dressed men and pretty girls, and soldiers from both sides of the war. The lights let people walk around, just like it was day. He wondered if folks in New Los Angeles ever went to bed. There were even a few Asians on the street, short men and women dressed in colorful jackets and funny pants.

  Now and then, Howie spotted uniformed officers of the law. They wore blue suits with brass buttons and walked along in pairs, but there wasn’t anything for them to do. No one was looking for trouble, everyone was just having fun.

  There were fewer lights on the side streets, but plenty of things to see. There were open-air cafés, and fancy restaurants like the hotel dining room in Alabama Port. Howie figured that kind of place would cost a lot; some posted menus on the door, and he saw that he was right. Instead, he bought some hot fruit pies from a man who sold food from a cart. He couldn’t tell what kind of fruit was inside, but they were hot, sweet, and delicious.

  A narrow way wound downhill past the street full of places to eat. Here the streetlights were behind colored glass, casting pools of blue and green on cobbled brick. There were taverns on every side; Howie counted half a dozen before he’d walked a full block.

  A drink seemed like a good idea; Ritcher Jones had all kinds of wine at the house, but there wasn’t any ale. Howie had seen the preacher put down a few mugs in the Tallahassee tavern, but wine was clearly the drink he liked best. Either that, or he did things different when he was out of California.

  Howie strolled into a blue-lit place called The Whale’s Belly—and walked back out at once. The tavern was full of Loyalist soldiers. They had evidently taken this place as their own. Blundering into a nest of government troopers made him wary, and he was careful after that. Instead of going in just any place at all, he walked along and watched, seeing what kind of people went where.

  The Blue Deep seemed inviting; the wails and the floors were made of decking and bulkheads from old ships. There were ship’s lanterns and wheels, and a moth-eaten, poorly stuffed shark on the wall, in a moment, though, Howie saw the patrons were mostly old men, landlocked sailors who hadn’t sobered up in some years. After one mug of ale, he was back on the street.

  Laughter came from a tavern down the hill, a place with a most peculiar name, The Dirty Tub. Young men and women his own age strolled in and out of the swinging wooden doors; the girls were bright-eyed and slender, and Howie paused to watch. He made up his mind in half a minute, and followed a girl with red hair and awesome breasts inside.

  At once, he was smothered in darkness. The place was as black as the inside of a barrel. Stubs of candles guttered at one end of the room, weak points of light that hardly helped at all. Howie stepped on a young man’s foot, and got a muttered curse in return. He reached out and found a girl’s waist. The girl laughed and glanced at him in the dark, and Howie smelled a sweet flower in her hair.

  He moved along in the crowd, going where the press of bodies took him. The air was hot and stale with the smell of people, spilled drinks, and candle wax. By sheer luck, Howie bumped against a table, felt around and found a chair. Shadows told him that a boy and two girls had found the place before him, but they didn’t seem to mind. One of the girls, a pale blur in the dark, leaned in and said something to Howie, but he didn’t catch a word above the din.

  An arm came from somewhere and set a mug of ale on the table. A voice asked for three coppers, which Howie thought was a lot. Ale was only one at The Blue Deep. Still, now that he was in, he wasn’t about to try to leave against the tide.

  Someone lit a lamp up front and turned the wick down low, then set the lamp on a box. The crowd began to still as if they knew what was going to happen next. In a moment, a girl in a plain white dress made her way through the crowd past Howie’s table. As soon as the young people saw her, they began to clap and cheer. The girl found a three-legged stool and placed it by the lamp. Someone handed her a guitar.

  There wasn’t a sound in the room. The girl smiled and tried a few chords. Dark hair fell to her waist past a plain ordinary face with pale eyes and a pointed chin. The girl reminded Howie of Camille, if Camille hadn’t been near as pretty as she was.

  Then the girl began to sing. At once, Howie forgot how she looked. Her voice was high-pitched and clear, as sweet as any sound he’d ever heard. She sang, and her voice filled the room. The lantern by her feet made shadow and light dance in her face, and she didn’t seem plain anymore.

  “Oh, they came from the fields,

  And the rivers and the plains,

  Fine boys one and all, one and all.

  Fine boys one and allllll.

  They left their girls behind

  And took their guns and took their swords

  When they heard the battle cryyyyy.

  Fine boys one and all, one and all.

  Fine boys one and allllll….”

  It seemed as if everyone in the room except Howie knew the words. They joined in at the chorus, and the girl looked pleased. Howie was surprised that the song was about the war. No one from New Los Angeles, or anywhere else in California, had fought on either side. Yet the young people clearly liked the song.

  Howie’s eyes were getting used to the dim interior, and now he could vaguely see several tattered banners on the wall, a few old rifles, and a sword. He felt a little sad at the sight. It was easy to listen to pretty words about war, if you didn’t have to go out and fight.

  The girl finished her tune with a flourish on the strings, and everyone in the room stood and cheered. The girl bowed shyly, and politely held her hands for them to stop. But no one wanted to quit applauding; they wanted to hold the girl right there.

  Finally, the girl looked down at her guitar and fingered the beginnings of a tune. A collective sigh swept through the room and everyone found a chair. The girl smiled at the barely visible faces. She knew how to work this crowd, how to bring them to their feet and set them down, how to make them wait. After a while, she strummed the chords again, raised her head, and looked out across the room. Her eyes were on some distant place, somewhere past California far away.

  “Oh, no one knew from where he came-oh,

  No one even knew his name.

  Born in sorrow and sadness,

  No one knew from where he came-oh,

  No one knew from where he came.

  Oh, the sun rose bright on the

  Day the troopers came-oh,

  The sun rose bright the day they came.

  And the boy didn’t know that the day would

  Turn to dark, for the troopers had murder in their

  eyes-oh,

  The troopers had murder in their eyes….

  They murdered h
is mother and his pa in cold blood,

  For the troopers had murder in their eyes-oh,

  Jacob’s troopers had murder in their eyes….

  Howie felt as if someone had shot him in the gut. He was too stunned, to move. God A’mighty, she was talking about him! Him and Colonel Jacob! He knew that couldn’t be, but it was.

  He wanted to stand and run, but his body wouldn’t move. He wanted to die right there, but the girl kept on, telling how he’d carved his name in Colonel Jacob’s chest, how he’d fought the gallant fight in Colorado, how Jacob had caught him and tortured him and cut out his eye, before Howie escaped to bravely lead the Rebels into the Loyalist keep and take the day…

  Howie couldn’t breathe. He felt the cold sting of sweat on his brow and came shakily to his feet. The walls seemed to sway in a dizzying circle about the room. Stumbling on feet like clubs, he fought his way through the crowd, pushing aside anyone who got in his path. A girl cried out. A boy cursed Howie and blocked his way; Howie hit him savagely in the chest. The boy folded and fell across a table. Howie saw he had a patch on his eye. He thought he was going mad. He glanced wildly about, and saw nearly everyone there looked the same; they all wore black paper patches on their eyes. The girls wore them too, pretty girls with black paper patches. Howie cried out in anger, and wondered why no one could hear. A waiter with a tray full of mugs loomed up in Howie’s way. He ripped the boy’s black patch away and knocked him aside, stepped on ale and broken glass, saw the swinging doors ahead and didn’t stop.

  “Oh, Howie Ryder lost his eye, yes it’s true-oh,

  But he never lost his courage or his heart.

  And now every soldier knows his name-oh,

  Every Rebel lad knows his name….

  He wasn’t really sure where he was. Somewhere on the far edge of town, away from the brightly lit streets. There was a grassy park with a fountain. He washed his face in the cool water and started walking toward the hills above the town. After a while, his heart began to slow to a normal beat. The fear went away, and raw anger took its place. Lord, they were nothing but kids who’d never gone without a meal, or gotten anywhere close to the war. They’d never seen a man scream and try to hold in his guts, watched a friend die with a cold rain filling up his mouth. They didn’t have anything to do so they played at being soldiers. And singing a song about him—maybe coming out to that place every night to put a toy paper patch on their eyes. As if he’d ever been a goddarn Rebel or a trooper on either side. Some fool soldier had been looking for a hero after the bloody fight, and stumbled on him.

  And worse than that was that even if they had it all wrong, folks knew who he was. He had never even dreamed of a thing like that. Just thinking on it brought the fear back strong. All he’d ever wanted was for people to forget who he was—just leave him the hell alone. He’d lost about everyone and everything he had, and now he didn’t even have that. Now he was a goddam song.

  It took nearly half the night to walk back up the hill. There weren’t any farmers with wagons or anyone else on the road. The big house was dark. Corning across the lawn through the trees, he eased quietly through the front door and started across the hall to the stairs. Ritcher Jones was sitting in a chair in the dark.

  “Might I ask where in God’s holy name you have been, boy? I have had riders out half the night!”

  Howie had seen the preacher angry once before, when he walked in the jailhouse in Alabama Port. Still, that particular event didn’t begin to match the fury Howie saw in the man now. Jones didn’t raise his voice, but the rage was clearly there.

  Howie stood his ground. “What the hell’s the big fuss? I went out. You got some rule against that?”

  Jones took a breath. His eyes bored into Howie. “Where did you go, Cory?”

  “I went into town.”

  “Into town?”

  “That’s right. I had a mug or two of ale, but I don’t guess that’s no sin.”

  The preacher grasped the arms of his chair. He wouldn’t look at Howie. “I am sure that I reminded you, boy, that California is not like anyplace you’ve ever been. It is not somewhere you simply—”

  “Listen, dammit, I ain’t no boy, I’m a man,” Howie exploded. The night’s event had wound him up tight, and a sermon wasn’t what he cared to hear. “And I’m not one of your Brothers in a robe. Don’t talk to me like some kid, ’cause I ain’t!”

  “I know that, Cory.”

  “Well, it don’t sound like it. I’ll go where I damn well please, mister. You can tell those pie-faced Churchers of yours what to do, but I ain’t one of them. And I’m thank- in’ that God of yours for that!”

  Jones’s face turned the color of port wine, but he held himself back. “I expect you had better get some sleep,” he said coolly. “We leave for High Sequoia in the morning.

  “Well maybe I’m not going to High Sequoia,” Howie said. “Maybe I ain’t decided yet.”

  “Suit yourself, Cory,” Jones said. He stood, and left Howie in the hall.

  He waited a long time. He lay awake in the dark and watched the stars shift across the night sky. He stayed awake as long as he could, but Lorene never came.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The caravan left for High Sequoia just after first light, four closed carriages accompanied by ten Brothers on horseback. Ritcher Jones acted as if nothing had happened between them the night before. He greeted Howie at breakfast with a smile and seemed to be in high spirits, eager to get on the road. Still, when it came time to go, Howie saw Jones would be riding with Lorene and Camille and Brother Harmon, and he himself was assigned to a carriage with three Brothers he didn’t know.

  Being left out didn’t bother him at all. It sure wasn’t worth being close to Lorene if it meant having Harmon on hand for several days. After two or three minutes with the little bastard, Howie was sure he’d either strangle Harmon or get out and walk. Maybe Lorene or Camille had put a bug in the preacher’s ear, let him know that he and Harmon didn’t exactly get along. That made sense. Maybe it was true that Jones had forgotten about their quarrel, that he wasn’t just pretending everything was all right.

  Howie didn’t believe that for a minute. He hadn’t forgotten, and it wasn’t likely Jones had either. Still, if the preacher wanted to play it that way, Howie was glad to go along. The truth of the matter was, he was more than a little relieved to see the preacher’s breakfast smile— real or otherwise. Lying awake the few hours before the dawn, he had cursed himself for losing his temper with Jones, threatening not to go to High Sequoia. Lord, what if Jones had taken him at his word? He’d lose Lorene, and his chance at Harriver Mason—the only two reasons he had for being in California in the first place, It was a fool thing to do, spouting off when you ought to be thinking instead.

  The road ran nearly due east along the coast. The Pacific was a magnificent sight, a deep and translucent blue. A Brother named Jonas said the mountains to the right were named the Santa Ynez. He seemed proud of the fact that the smooth gravel highway had been rebuilt from one that had existed before the Great War.

  “Enjoy the ride,” he told Howie. “You won’t see many roads like this where we’re going.”

  Half an hour later, the highway turned abruptly north, away from the sea. Brother Jonas pointed out the somber, gray-green heights of the Sierra Madre range to his right. They were pretty to look at, but Howie didn’t care about mountains.

  “We going to see the ocean again?” he wanted to know.

  “No, that’s it,” Jonas said. “We’ll be heading inland from now on.” He pointed straight ahead. “North and east to High Sequoia.”

  Howie felt as if a dark cloud had covered the sun. He knew from the map at the house that High Sequoia wasn’t near the sea at all, but he had hoped they wouldn’t leave it so soon.

  The smell reached the caravan close to noon. Howie knew at once what it was—the all too familiar, unmistakable stench of stock. Still, it was a full half hour before the pens themselves appeared. L
ong before that, Howie was certain he’d throw up. The Brothers in his carriage dipped handkerchiefs in a clay jar they’d brought along, and Jonas offered one to Howie. The water was saturated with cloves, and when he held the cloth up to his nose, the awful odor nearly disappeared.

  Howie had thought the pens near the docks were immense, but they were nothing compared to this. The complex seemed to stretch out forever on either side; it took close to an hour to pass it by. Howie was grateful for the cloth, but there was no way to blot out the sight of the stock, the vast herds of meat that he knew weren’t really meat at all, but a lie that had lived a hundred years. He thought of Elena and her handful of hopeless wards, far to the south in Nueva Panama. Had she ever seen a sight like this? It wouldn’t much matter, he knew. Elena didn’t care if her task was impossible or not. She didn’t think about that. Howie wished he could believe in something that much, and knew he likely never would.

  In spite of his distaste for the pens, Howie was once again struck by the contrast between the wealth of California and the poverty he had witnessed in the rest of the country.

  “Everybody’s starving, and you got plenty here to feed ’em,” he said, not truly intending to speak aloud.

  Two of the Brothers exchanged a look at that, but Jonas seemed to understand.

  “It’s the way of the material world, I’m afraid. If those who hunger can’t pay, they go without. It is not the Lord’s way, but it’s a fact.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Howie said.

  “Most of the meat here isn’t sold in this country at all,” Jonas said. “Practically all of it is bought by the Asians. They ship stock live overseas.”

  The Brother’s statement puzzled Howie. “What for? Why don’t they raise their own?”

  “They are not agricultural, I understand,” Jonas said. “And they pay a good price—better than the merchants can get here.” He gave Howie a knowing look. “And even if they did want to raise their own meat, the merchants make it hard for them to get a good start on our herds. Every buck that leaves California is cut—and the females as well.”