American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “I think he would take a deep lungful from that last gust and say, ‘It’s coming!’”

  “Exactly what I was thinking myself!” rejoined Seth.

  “Who’s Mr. Brown?” asked Cherity, walking up beside him, for she had been gathering behind Seth’s scythe most of the day.

  “An old Indian fellow who was a friend of my grandfather’s,” replied Seth. “He knew the weather and all these hills around here like the back of his hand. I’ll tell you about him later. Right now we’ve got to get this wheat to the barn!”

  “I remember!” exclaimed Cherity. “The man you told me about up in the hills… the man whose house is up there… the Indian cave and all that.”

  “That’s him!” laughed Seth. “You have a good memory. Do you also remember how scared you were in that cave?”

  “I was not!” Cherity shot back with a smile.

  Their banter was soon cut short. Already Seth’s father was running to the two wagons piled high with golden bundles of the staff of life, shouting orders as he went. Seth tore off across the field after him.

  “Why?” called Cherity, sprinting to catch up.

  “It’s about to burst!” yelled Seth over his shoulder.

  The three scythes were now set aside, and every available hand set to bundling and tying the cut grain and racing the bundles to the two wagons. Carolyn and Thomas leapt up onto the beds. Soon the bundles were flying through the air up to them—so skillfully tossed by the black laborers, heavy grain end first, that not a single head of the precious wheat was lost—there to be neatly stacked with the rest. Quickly the load grew high until the wagon could hold no more without danger of the carefully laid wheat toppling to the ground.

  Seth jumped up and took the reins of the two faithful workhorses who had been waiting patiently for the moment when they must make their contribution.

  “Up behind me, Cherity!” Seth called.

  “Where?” she asked, seeing but the one bench seat and a bed behind it piled high with grain.

  “Up on top!” he answered. “To hold the wheat down. We don’t want to lose any in this wind!”

  Seth’s father came forward, took Cherity by the hand, then hoisted her to the top of one wagon wheel. From there, and following his further instructions, she scrambled to the peak of the heap, and there took a somewhat tenuous and wobbly seat.

  “Hang on!” called Seth as the wagon lurched forward.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Cherity, grabbing her hat and trying to steady herself.

  “Yell at me if we start to lose the load!” Seth called behind him. “You’re my lookout!”

  Behind them, what bundles remained were already flying up onto the mounting heap atop the second wagon, which, in less than five minutes and with Thomas perched on the crow’s nest behind his father, followed the first.

  As the redbrick of the house and various barns came into view, and as she rode triumphantly high atop the fruits of their labors like a conquering heroine returning home victorious after battle, Cherity thought she had never been so happy in her life. This wasn’t the wild west of Kansas, but maybe it was even better. She was not a mere observer… she was part of it!

  Cherity saw her father standing ahead beside the barn watching the grand arrival.

  “Hi, Daddy!” she called down, waving and beaming proudly.

  He smiled and waved as they passed. Seth urged the horses on toward the open double doors of the huge storage barn and drove straight inside. He jumped down, first helping Cherity to the ground, then quickly unhitching the team to make room for the second shipment from field to storehouse.

  His father’s wagon was not far behind, and was shortly also safely in the dry of the great enclosure. Within minutes—even as the troop of black workers made their way from the fields back to their homes, singing a happy spiritual whose strains of high and low rich harmonies could be faintly heard half a mile away at the big house—great drops began to fall.

  Mr. Brown had taught the clan Davidson to read the signs well.

  Twelve

  The storm was neither of the fiercest nor the most drenching. Despite the precursors of gusty winds and black clouds, the rain that accompanied it fell gently and steadily and only throughout the night and for about half the following day. It did not damage the crops. What remained of the ten acres, as well as another wheat field of fifteen, was left standing, as was the cotton in several larger fields spread about the Greenwood estate.

  But there would be no more harvesting for a while, until the stalks and their golden heads were dry again in the hot summer sun. In the meantime, activity shifted to the threshing barn, where the bundles of harvested grain were processed—the heads cut from the stalks in precise whacks from the skillfully wielded blades of three black men, which were then tossed and beat and threshed to separate the grain heads from the chaff. Though it was dusty work and there was little for her to do but watch, Cherity enjoyed it immensely. Had it not been for the rain, the men would still be in the fields and their women whacking and threshing the grain indoors. As it was, however, they remained in their houses and the men came up to work in the large barn. The songs that now accompanied the work gave a deep rhythmic cadence that seemed to drive the work from the thuds of blades on chopping blocks to the swishing of grain tossed in the air. Cherity could scarcely understand a word of the slow-paced spirituals of melancholy and masculine voice. But their mysterious tones struck deep into her soul, quieting her spirit and bringing a gentle smile to her lips. They made her feel happy and sad at once, and very content.

  Later that day, when the rain had gradually stopped, Cherity stood at the fence of the horse pasture and corral. She heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw Seth approaching.

  “Hi,” he said. “What are you doing… as if I didn’t know.”

  “What do you mean by that!” she laughed.

  “Only that every minute you’re not doing something else, you’re watching the horses.”

  “Is it really that obvious?”

  Now it was Seth’s turn to laugh. “Actually… yes,” he said, still chuckling. “Alexander has begun to notice the way you have with horses and is beginning to worry about his job.”

  “Now you’re teasing me!”

  “Maybe just a little.”

  “I love horses—there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “Nothing at all. I love them too. That’s why I recognize that look in your eye.”

  “What look?”

  “That you are itching for a ride.”

  “How did you know!”

  “Because you’re just like me,” said Seth. He jumped onto the fence and perched himself on the top rail with legs drooping over the other side. “I’ve loved horses all my life.”

  “Me too!” exclaimed Cherity, climbing up beside him. “Well… not all my life. I think I was always drawn to them, but when my father took me to Kansas on one of his trips, that’s when I really fell in love with riding and horses.”

  “What was Kansas like?” asked Seth.

  “I suppose it was a little rough. Everything I read about it now makes it sound like a battleground back then—John Brown and all the killing and fighting about whether it should be a slave or a free state. I’m still not sure why my father took me with him, but I’m glad he did. I was so young then. Now I see what a dangerous time it was out west.”

  A silence fell as both young people stared at the twelve or fifteen horses out in the pasture in front of them.

  “Well…?” said Seth at length. “Which one do you fancy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pick one. Do you like Silverfoot, Moonbeam, Apricot Rose, Golden Cloud, Grey Laird—”

  “Wait a minute!” laughed Cherity. “I can’t keep them all straight. I’ve forgotten half their names from three years ago. Although I do remember old Diamond!” she added laughing.

  “Unfortunately he’s even older and slower than before.”

  “
It sounds like you have some new ones too.”

  “We do,” replied Seth.

  “And do you still try to name them according to their color and personality, like you told me before?”

  “Of course. That one there, for instance, whom you haven’t met yet, is called Proud Lord.”

  “Why that?”

  “Because he always remains a little way from the others, carrying his head high and a little aloof. He was rebellious and violent at first, but once trained he became as docile as a child.”

  “It’s a perfect name!”

  “And a little beyond him, the jet-black mare is called the Gentle Demon.”

  “It sounds like a contradiction.”

  “No more than all of the feminine of the species,” said Seth with a twinkle in his eye. “Yes… a contradiction!”

  “But why?” laughed Cherity.

  “My mother, who named her, explains it like this—that she is gentle with women, but has a nasty streak that rears its head whenever a man tries to ride her. Mother says she is just like some women she has met—fine around other women, but antagonistic toward the slightest interference of male authority! So the minute she senses a man approaching with a saddle, back go her ears in defiance!”

  “That’s funny!” laughed Cherity. “Tell me the names of the rest—I want to learn the name of every horse at Greenwood.”

  “All right then,” replied Seth, pointing farther into the pasture, “there are Malcolm and Midnight, and over there we have Swift Fire, Paintbrush, Blue Flash, and Dusty.”

  When he had completed giving Cherity a brief description of each horse and its temperament, Seth turned to her where she sat atop the rail and asked again,

  “So… now that you know them all, which one do you fancy?”

  “I think I like the beautiful hue of Golden Cloud best,” replied Cherity, “although I love what you said about Malcolm and how he has noble blood but is humble and unpretentious.”

  “Well, then, pick one and let’s go for a ride.”

  “Do you mean it!” she said. “Right now?”

  “Sure,” laughed Seth. “Pick any of the horses in this pasture.”

  “Oh!” squealed Cherity in uncontained delight. “Oh… oh—” she went on, gazing almost frantically about. “All right,” she said, “I think I would like to ride Golden Cloud.”

  “An excellent choice,” said Seth, hopping down into the pasture. “Though you have to be a little careful—an Akhal-Teke gallops differently than most horses, almost sliding over the ground in a flowing movement. It will feel different at first, but I know you’ll do fine. She is spirited but not skittish.” He gave a sharp whistle, then called into the field, “Golden Cloud!” Almost immediately, the Russian Akhal-Teke perked up its head and began to walk toward him.

  Cherity bounded down from the fence and followed eagerly. “She came the instant you called her name,” she said as she hurried to his side and fell into step alongside him.

  “They like to be called. Once a horse is broken and taught that its master loves him, there is nothing that gives him greater pleasure than to be with his master.”

  “Which one are you going to ride?” she asked.

  “I think… Blue Flash,” replied Seth.

  “Why him… he is a stallion, isn’t he?”

  “Yes—you have a good memory. And because I haven’t taken him out for a while and don’t want him to think I’ve forgotten him.”

  Again he whistled and called. “Flash… come!”

  When the two horses had joined them, Seth turned toward the pasture gate leading to the stables and barn. As they went, the two horses followed behind without need of rope or halter or enticement of feed bag. Seth unfastened the gate and went through. They were soon under cover of the roof.

  “How do, massa Seth,” said a wiry black man, ambling toward them.

  “Hi, Alexander. Miss Waters and I are going out for a ride.”

  “You want me ter saddle dem up fo’ y’all?”

  “I think we’ll saddle them ourselves, but thank you, Alexander.”

  “Do you have any choice of saddle?” asked Seth as they went inside the barn and stopped at the saddle rack.

  “A saddle is such a personal thing,” said Cherity. “I don’t have a saddle of my own at home yet.” She walked slowly about the rack, looking at the saddles and letting her hand run across them. “I haven’t found the right one for me yet… but I think for today I like… this one right here,” she said, returning to a particularly worn-looking saddle whose brown leather was nearly black from age.

  Seth smiled. “This is a worthy saddle indeed,” he said. “It has seen a lot of use and has always proven faithful. But it is a man’s saddle.”

  Cherity looked over at him with a look of mingled disgust and astonishment.

  “You don’t think I ride with a woman’s saddle, do you! Sidesaddle… ugh! Surely you remember from last time.”

  Seth laughed at the abhorrence in her tone. They picked out two blankets and set about preparing the two patiently waiting mounts to take them out for their day’s adventure.

  Ten minutes later they rode out of the grounds, heading west toward the ridge.

  About the same time the two riders had disappeared among the trees in the distance, Richmond and Carolyn were taking advantage of the reemergence of the sun and were walking toward the arbor with their guest. Maribel followed ten minutes later with a tray of tea, crackers, and small cakes. She found them seated in the summerhouse.

  “Your daughter is positively delightful, James,” Carolyn said as Maribel left the garden and they began to sip at their tea, “beautiful, vibrant, personable, and with such a wide range of interests.”

  Waters nodded appreciatively. “I have a great deal to be thankful for,” he said. “Raising her without a wife has been full of challenges. She has grown into a young woman, yet at the same time she still has all the enthusiasm for life of a girl.”

  “And Cherity’s two older sisters?”

  “Both married, as you remember, and I am now the proud grandfather of three little ones.”

  “Congratulations,” said Richmond.

  “It is bittersweet, of course, in that having little ones around—though I am not able to see them often—not to mention seeing my daughters grow into women, cannot help but remind me of my wife.”

  “What was your wife like?” asked Carolyn. “As I recall, did you say she was a practicing Christian when you met her?”

  “She was active in church,” replied Waters. “She was from a Puritan background and brought that same Northern tradition into our family, with the older girls especially. Church was very important in her life. She and the two older girls were at church, it seemed, more than they were at home. And for a time it was important to me too. But I had spent a great deal of my own youth alone, and… well I will just say that raising Cherity without a mother was very difficult for me.”

  Carolyn and Richmond listened pensively but did not respond.

  “It was during that time of my life, when I was nineteen or twenty, when I was saved, as the expression is, during a revival service some of us attended from the college where I had been enrolled. I became quite caught up in the whole thing for ten years or more. With no family of my own, it fulfilled a need I suppose. That’s how I met Kathleen, in church, though in retrospect I have come to see, as much as I loved her, that we probably were more dissimilar in our outlook on spiritual things than I recognized at the time.

  “In any event, when Kathleen died, the older girls stopped being quite so regular in church, and I certainly saw no need to push it, especially as Cherity grew. What good had belief in God done our family for the mother of these three girls to devote her whole life to the church, only to be taken away from them when they needed her most? And when the pastor of our church called on me as we were making funeral plans, he had only the absurdist of platitudes to offer, telling me that God must have had a purpose in taking Kat
hleen. Kathleen was dead—nothing could change that. People die, tragedies are part of life. All right, I can accept that. It was hard and I wept, because I loved her. But to say that God took her, even wanted her to die for some grand purpose that fit into his cosmic scheme… that I could not accept. What kind of God would do such a thing? Even if his role in the thing were more passive than the ludicrous view presented by our pastor, if he might have prevented it, why would he let her die? What kind of God would—”

  Suddenly he stopped. He glanced at Richmond and Carolyn. Both were staring intently into his face as they listened. Waters smiled and laughed uneasily.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to go into all that.”

  “We are very interested, James,” said Carolyn. “Everyone has a story, and sometimes the painful portions of those stories are the most significant. Please, do not be apprehensive about anything you want to share.”

  “Well… I don’t suppose there is much more than that,” smiled Waters a little sadly. “The conclusion is that my wife’s death caused me, as the saying goes, to lose my faith. I did not return to the church and I have not been since. It could no doubt be argued, if my faith was so tenuous that it could be lost so easily, that it was probably on shaky ground to begin with. That may be true. It probably is true. So I had nothing to fall back on. Once I started really thinking about Christianity as a mature adult, I realized I had no solid intellectual reasons for believing all I had been taught. That I was active in church and played at being a Christian for so long, and thought I was sincere and devout, cannot change the fact that within a year of Kathleen’s death I no longer believed a word of it. But I would be remiss if I did not add that Cherity and I have managed to get along quite well together after those difficult first years. She is a very special girl and has brought great joy to my life.”

  “She is very special indeed,” smiled Carolyn. “That much is clear after five minutes with her.”

  A brief silence fell. “More tea, anyone?” asked Carolyn, picking up the pot.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” said Waters.

  “I believe I will have some also, my dear,” said Richmond.