by Sarah Chorn
“Cass, take Ianthe and go.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Just go!” Annie shouted.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the ladder with the intent to take her up to the loft, but her gaze moved, froze on the prone shape of my father laying on the bed. She stopped, and I watched as her eyes went wide, and tears spilled down her cheeks. Watched as a cough started somewhere low in her lungs. She brought a kerchief to her lips and stained it red with her blood. I watched as the life spilled from her. As she stared at the man who had taken her father from her.
I would have done anything at that moment to ease her, but there was nothing I could do. I could not imagine what she was thinking, and she would not be moved. Imogen was weeping on Annie’s shoulder. Jasper was staring out the window, doubtless watching to see if the lawmen were coming to see what was going on. Harriet and Jack made their way back up to the loft, and I stood there, helpless, while Ianthe studied my father laying on that bed, stitched up and full of shine.
All, it seemed, I could do was watch while she fell apart. It started quiet, her tears spilling down her cheeks, and then got louder as her sobs tore through her, dredging up horrible, bloody coughs. Her grief seemed to go on and on, far deeper and darker than anything I had confronted before. I wanted to hold her in my arms until she had made it through these stormy waters, but this was an ache that could not be hugged away. She was a storm with no calm eye at the center of it.
No child should be forced to bury a parent. It is too cruel. Yet that was what Ianthe had spent her day doing: putting the remains of her father in the ground while the sickness ate up her lungs. And there my father lay in the next room, fighting for his own life, after taking the life of hers.
She must have hated me then. I would not have blamed her for such an emotion. I have given her so many reasons to despise me, yet she never has. The truth is, Ianthe has always had a wildflower soul. It is as though nature itself reached out to pluck the fragile column of her spine, and made her bloom. She is too good for this world.
She broke that night. Shattered into a thousand sharp pieces. My hands were too small to hold them all, but I did the best I could. She pressed her face into my shoulder and sobbed until she was raw and she was emptied of her ocean of sorrow, wrung dry, and exhausted.
“He left, and I was too shine-drunk to say goodbye to him. I will never see him again. He will never come home and tug on my hair, or read me stories while I am unwell, or kiss my ma. He’s just… gone. There’s a big hole where he should be, and it’s so dark and so cold.” She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. I pulled out a chair at the table, barely noticing that Annie had taken Imogen outside. Now the cabin was quiet. No one dared so much as move.
I stood behind her chair and wrapped my arms around her, the two of us, so small and unsure, holding each other tight through the drowning times. Her body shivered and shook. She coughed and cried, and still, I held her. I stared at my father’s unconscious form over Ianthe’s crown.
He had done this. He had taken a good man from good people. For a cause or not, he had killed people. People I knew.
How Ianthe could stand being in the same house with my father, I will never know. Even now, I do not know how she can tolerate being near me, knowing I share his blood. Knowing all he took away from her.
They spent the night at our house, and in the morning Imogen and Ianthe left, with Jasper driving the cart so they would not have to walk. I helped Annie make sweet rolls in our large cast iron pans. Our house was hot and smelled of delicious food. Occasionally, I would peek in on my father. He had survived the night, and I was assured that was a good sign, but I was still afraid of touching him. Afraid that somehow, I would affect the shine that was helping his body heal. I ached to hold his hand, to feel his pulse, to know his skin was still warm.
We were somber, and none of us spoke much. This was my first real encounter with death, my first experiences with violence. I had been kept carefully ignorant of the details of his various philosophies, and what he had done in the name of his belief, but now it seemed like the ugliness of it was thrust upon me
I was sad for my friend. Angry for the senseless, hopeless loss she was dealing with, and yet.
And yet.
And yet I still felt a deep and abiding loyalty to my father.
I could no more stop loving him than I could stop breathing. He is, after all, my father. He gave me my life and has done his best to keep me as safe as he could. He is not perfect. What man is? But he was my reason. He kept me swimming when all I wanted to do was drown. My loyalty to him was the bedrock my life was built upon.
Everyone deserves love, even if they make the loving of them difficult.
Even Christopher Hobson.
Later, all of us aside from Jasper, who stayed behind to watch over my father, made our way across the meadow to give the food we had toiled over to Imogen and Ianthe. Already, the white mourning banners were hung above each window, and the yard was full of horses and carts, and men and women dressed in spotless mourning white coming and going.
We walked into the house, the four of us, as unobtrusively as we could. I was instantly aware of the fact we were not welcome. It was nothing anyone said to us, rather it was the tense atmosphere and the quiet that hung in the air when we were seen. Quiet spread out from us like a stain, as those gathered turned their shocked gazes in our direction and watched our slow progress. Annie, at one point, said hello to a friend she saw, and the woman fled our path rather than speak with her. Instead of running defeated, Annie stiffened her spine and straightened her shoulders in defiance, silently challenging the room to deny her this act of sympathy.
We made our way through the press of people. The kitchen was clear, save a few women from town huddled around Imogen. I think every color of the rainbow was represented by them, beautiful and glistening, their heads bent together, shoulders touching, all of them helping carry the burden of her sorrow.
Annie and Harriet put the dishes down. The soft thump must have been what alerted her to us.
Imogen marched over to us, fairly shaking with fury. “You bring her here?” She hissed, waving a hand at me. “You dare!”
I had never seen her lapis eyes filled with anything but love. This woman before me was all stiff lines and rage. She was a stranger, and she frightened me.
I don’t think I was aware of the fact that she slapped me until hours later, when I ran events over in my mind. At the time, I was so shocked by the change in Imogen, I only heard her hand hitting my skin, felt, perhaps, the dim sting of it, but naught else. I was in shock. Shocked that I was being treated as some sort of cursed agent. Annie wrapped her arms around me, held me protectively against her.
“Get her out of my house,” Imogen said. The words were barely heard, a whisper, a hiss.
“Imogen—"
“Get her out of my house!” She screamed, and I was suddenly aware of the stillness, the weight and texture of it. The way it settled around me, bowing my spine. “If I ever see her around my daughter again, I swear to you, Annie, not even our years of friendship will save any of you.”
All we could do was leave, the whole of Grove, everyone we knew, watching us retreat. The house, the yard, even the horses seemed quiet. I felt color flushing my cheeks. No one whispered, but this particular silence was louder than a scream.
And oh, that hurt.
That is probably when I knew I was in love. Ianthe was the starlight that chased away my dark. She was the echo in my aching emptiness. I needed her the same way I needed air.
I ask you, what is the moon without the sun? What is the night, without its dress of stars?
I had given her my heart, and I was leaving it in her keeping. For the first time in my life, I felt truly alone.
Perhaps the part that hurt the most was, I could not blame Imogen. I knew who my father was. I would always be a reminder to her of what she lost.
More, the entire town ha
d seen the altercation. They had all witnessed my shame, watched me be cast out. How could I show my face to any of them? I could not help whose blood I carried in my veins. I did not blow up the shine fields. I did not kill Ben, or anyone else. I only knew the barest outline of what my father had done, the faint hint of his plans, and yet I felt as though I carried all his sins on my shoulders.
I had been marked.
And still.
And still, I loved him anyway.
I made my way back to the cabin when the sun was setting. Instead of going inside with everyone else, I ran into our fields, lost myself in them. I trudged through tall grasses, upsetting the birds and butterflies that dwelled there. Clouds of them lifting into the heavens, blocking out the sunset.
“Cassandra,” Annie called, running toward me after hours had passed, “we were worried about you. I was about to send Jasper out to find you.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
I was not fine. I doubted I’d ever be fine again.
The walk from the cabin to Grove had taken three days. They’d followed a river as it cut through the forest and foothills. It was a simple enough route, and Arlen knew it would be easy to follow it back someday. It comforted him to know which direction led home.
Home. Wasn’t that a thought that sent a thrill right through him. He’d finally found one. Sure, Union City was where he lived, but this actually felt like home. This untamed land, that tiny cabin tucked away in the woods, and all the tragic, heartbreaking history it held. That was home. It wasn’t a city or a place far away. It was right here, right now.
He thought of his life, his obsession with copper-piece stories, and the heroes and villains that lived out here. Thought hard about it, and realized that his entire life he’d been preparing to go west. To go home. It was like some part of him always knew where he belonged.
They hadn’t spoken much during their journey. Chris was quiet at the best of times, but now his quiet seemed to be filled with a sort of tension. It wasn’t the comfortable silence of before. No, this was a different beast. Like they were both perched on the edge of a precipice, waiting for an approaching storm.
Arlen was going to meet his sister. It sparked a riot of emotions, each one complex and layered, bubbling within him. He was a pot on a stove, any minute now, he’d boil over.
He’d made his decision when he jumped out of Rose’s window all those days ago, and while he didn’t regret it, he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be doing right now if he hadn’t gone with Chris. Would his life be easier? Would he be happy?
Somehow, he doubted it. He thought, maybe, this was the happiest he’d ever been, or ever would be.
He’d been lost in thought, hadn’t noticed Chris had stopped until Arlen walked right into his back. “Hush,” the big man hissed, glancing at Arlen over his shoulder. He held a hand, and Arlen went still, straining to hear whatever had set the outlaw off.
He didn’t have to wait long or listen hard. He knew it instantly. He’d heard the roar of guns before. He knew the sounds they made as all that shine burned through the world.
Chris was tense. He pressed a finger over his lips, and together they crept forward, moving through the brush, Arlen trying to mimic the outlaw’s sure steps. Their bodies were a whisper through the trees, a hush in the underbrush.
The sound of firing guns filled the air.
“Shit,” Chris hissed.
Arlen wanted to ask questions, wanted to know more, but his heart was beating its way out of his chest and his lungs didn’t feel large enough. It was like he was back on the train, nothing but him and all that gunfire, that big sky overhead and no one around to help him. Anything could happen out here. Anything and—
“Calm down,” Christopher said, cupping his face, forcing Arlen’s gaze to meet his own. He wasn’t a stranger now. Not anymore. No bandit or outlaw, this was a man he knew. A man he’d spent time with. He wasn’t on that train, but out in the woods. He wasn’t alone, but with his father, who knew how to handle himself with a gun. Arlen closed his eyes and focused on the moment. Then, when he seemed to be in control of himself, Chris nodded once and they started moving again.
Closer now, he could hear the screams, hear the shouts of people fighting.
It couldn’t possibly be Cassandra’s homestead being attacked. The company wouldn’t do such a thing, would they? Even as he asked himself that question, a dark knowing settled in his soul but there was no time to pick at it before—
A spray of shine hit the underbrush, burning its way through the leaves, leaving a hole the size of his head in the trunk of a pine tree. The brief flash blinded Arlen. Something hit him, dug deep into his side. He felt faint, both cold and hot at the same time. Chris went white, and then, with a clenched jaw, he turned to Arlen. “Remember the fork in the river a ways back?”
“Yes,” Arlen said. His voice was quivering. No, his whole body was shaking. More shine sprayed across the darkness of the forest, cutting through trees and underbrush. His heart was thudding, his bones felt too heavy. His side was warm and wet. Blood. He was bleeding. Pain in his side. He felt faint.
Accountants didn’t bleed or get shot at. But he wasn’t an accountant anymore, was he?
“You’ve got a hunk of the tree sticking out of your side, Arlen. You need to get back to Grove. Find the healer. You’ll be fine.” Chris was already pulling out his gun. “Go back to the river, and take the fork. Follow it all the way to Grove. Don’t pull the wood out of your side until a healer has seen to it.”
“But—"
“I can’t leave them to die, Arlen. Annie and Jasper are down there. I can’t just let them die.” Christopher paused. “Cassandra,” he breathed.
And that was it. No matter what was happening, no matter how it impacted him, Cassandra might be down there, and that right there charted his course.
“But if you go down there, Chris, they’ll take you.”
A distant scream cut through Arlen, freezing his blood.
“Son, look at me,” Chris said. “We were never going to have enough time.” He pressed his lips to Arlen’s brow. He had his pistol out, already had his long gun, which had been strapped to his back, in his other hand, pointed toward the sound of all that dying. He was busy dumping a load of shooting shine into the barrel.
And then, he was gone. Slipped through the trees like he’d never been there in the first place.
He’d forgotten about his pain. Just turned and ran, and hated himself for it. He should have gone after Chris. He should have taken a stand. He should have done any number of things. Shine couldn’t hurt him. He’d be more protected than just about anyone else down there, save his sister.
Coward, his heart whispered.
Coward.
Coward.
Coward.
He could have turned around at any time, but he didn’t. He kept going, his side hurting more and more with each step. His head swam, and his clothes were sticking to his skin with all the blood he was losing. He found the fork in the creek, and followed it.
He thought of his father. Wondered if he was still alive. Would Arlen feel it when he died? Would an ache bloom in his chest like a flower, a black rose born of blood and toil?
He’d just found the man. Just found his home, his family, just shook hands with his own story. To have it so brutally ripped away from him now seemed overly cruel. Somewhere out on the frontier, people were dying. His people were dying. They were no less his because he didn’t know them, and oh, that hurt. It rose up a powerful ache in him.
No. He couldn’t think about that. He had to keep going. He was too far along his path now. His feet were taking him away, further and further from that shootout and all those screams. He focused on his feet. One step, and then another. He was dizzy. His vision blurring. He should just lay down under a tree and let the world have him, but instead, he kept going. Kept walking forward. It’s what Chris would have wanted.
Grove snuck up on him like a thief. A
spray of buildings, a large central street and not much else. He hadn’t expected to enter the town alone. Hadn’t expected to see civilization again without Christopher by his side, and it caught him by surprise, being around people, around normal life going on while he felt like his entire world was crumbling.
He was staggering by the time he crossed that bridge, each footstep a battle. He sagged against the nearest wall, his hand cupping the bit of tree sticking out of his side. Fate, it ached. It ached bad. His vision swam, and the pain dug in its claws, stealing his breath.
“Hey,” a stranger said. “Hey buddy, you okay?”
All he could do was shake his head. The man smelled like sweat and hard work. He wrapped an arm around Arlen’s shoulders and took him… somewhere. Up a few wooden steps, along a platform. A door swung open. “Found this man at the edge of town, Edward. Looks like he’s been stabbed by a tree.”
“Put him on the table,” another man said. His voice was soft, barely a whisper, and somehow comforting for its low tone. “Thanks, Robert.”
“Let’s see what’s wrong with you,” the soft-voiced man said. Edward, Arlen assumed. Arlen opened his eyes and studied him. Orange, from hair to skin. Orange all the way through. Older, but with a quiet determination about him that eased Arlen instantly. “You okay, son?”
“I’m fine,” Arlen said. Tried to smile. Failed.
He wasn’t fine.
“What’s your name?” Edward asked as he bent to get some surgical tools.
“Arlen,” he replied. Just that.
Then, he focused on the here and now, pulling his mind away from all his haunting thoughts. The room he was in was small, a few chairs around the edges, a table for treatment, which he was sitting on. Along the wall were shelves full of ointments, powders, and tinctures. On a small table, rested splints and wrappings for broken bones as well as scissors and various other tools a healer would need. “Seems like a tree stabbed me,” Arlen said, trying to make light of the situation, but falling well short of the mark.