by T C Donivan
“And what is that?”
“If you sleep with her first and can claim her heart, I will leave her alone,” he said.
“You are a monster,” I replied.
“That is the contract. If you sleep with her first and she pledges herself to you, I shall give up the notion. Otherwise, I shall ruin her. I will corrupt her morals and leave her a broken woman. It’s what I do,” he said jauntily. His words had stunned me so, I could say nothing. Spencer nodded to Mozart. “Pick me a mess of those wildflowers will you Moze?”
The African grinned and skipped merrily to his work. He returned shortly with a fistful of Purplish Red Clovers, Black Eyed Susans, Chicories and yellow Poppies, so fragrant they made my eyes water.
“Are you a virgin then?” Spencer asked.
I laughed. “It’s none of your business.”
“I’ll bet you’re not, a fine, healthy lad like you. C’mon tell us about her,” he goaded.
I am not unchivalrous and had never spoken of such things to any living being before in my life, but Spencer’s presence seemed to loosen my tongue, even in matters so intimate as this.
“There was a girl at Harvard, or rather Cambridge. She worked at the local tavern,” I told him.
Spencer let out an exclamation and clapped his hands together. “A barmaid! Good. None better to initiate a young man into the pleasures of female companionship. Now, tell me more.”
“There is no more to tell,” I said.
Spencer rolled his eyes in mock frustration. “Let me tell it for you. She was a girl of easy virtue. Your introduction to the physical act of animal copulation was an embarrassment you’ve kept locked away and for which you do penance in your soul. It felt cheap and tawdry, a desultory assignation without purpose, or meaning. You blamed your fall, no doubt, on alcohol. But despite your best efforts, you returned to her on a regular basis, drunk or sober, until you left school. It is a black mark on your soul; one which you feel you may never wash clean. Am I wrong on any count?”
“You are a devil,” I said.
Spencer laughed monstrously. We walked on in silence, Mozart whistling a tune of his own invention. I saw the smoke of the cook fires of our companions rising up in the sky. We were nearly to camp when I made up my mind.
“Here, give me the flowers,” I commanded, taking them from Spencer. He grinned wolfishly at me.
“You must tell me every detail,” he coerced.
“Not likely.”
“I must know. I will find out in my own way if you don’t,” he warned.
“How shall you know? Do you intend to watch? Are you a voyeur?” I asked.
Spencer laughed. “Don’t be so crass. I shall look into your heart dear boy. I will divine it from your tea leaves. I have the mind of a seer. There is nothing you can hide from me.”
The encampment was busy with the immigrants feeding and watering their livestock. Sebastian, Zenobia and the scouts were cleaning game they had slaughtered. We tethered the horses and I went straightaway to Rachel, Spencer and Mozart at my heels. She was rolling out bread dough with her mother and Sosanna, preparing the family meal, covered to her elbows in flour. My heart was pounding like a steam engine. I knew if I hesitated in the least, I would be lost, so I thrust out the flowers without premeditation.
“For you,” I said.
She gave me a perplexed look, then smiled and brushing her hands off on her apron, she took the flowers and held them to her nose, basking in their aroma.
“Thank you Clayton, that’s very sweet,” she said.
Her kind words would have sufficed to send me into waves of ecstasy for days, but Spencer remained at my shoulder, waiting to swoop in should I falter, so I forged one.
“Will you go walking with me after supper?” I asked with unusual confidence.
She glanced, almost instinctively, at Spencer, but he remained impassive as the Sphinx. A moment suspended in eternity passed while she turned the proposition over in her head. I drank in her divine countenance, my soul reaching out to touch hers with the purity of my desire. Her mother glared at me with suspicion, as if she knew the unholy bargain I had made to deflower her daughter.
Finally she replied, “Of course Clayton.”
My heart leapt with amazement and joy.
Chapter 11 – Rachel
We stood upon the crest of a rise, lost in the gorgeous bliss of the evening. The flickering of the campfires that lit the square of wagons behind us was a small candlelight beneath the black abyss of the starlit sky. Scott’s Bluff stood against the western horizon, the last, red embers of the setting sun casting it oblique against the country of our destination. The night was humid, the promise of thunderheads in the air. The wind carried away all the sound from camp except the occasional rattle of a pan, or the moan of oxen, creating a hush akin to that of a holy cathedral. I took her hand. She stared off at the thunderheads that were gathering in the night sky, flashes of lightning illuminating their ghostly shapes.
“Take me with you Clayton?” She asked.
“Where – to Tree Owl’s camp?”
“Yes.”
“It’s no place for a white woman,” I told her.
“Why not?”
“What would your parents say?”
“I don’t know,” she said dumbly.
I leaned over and kissed her. She did not pull away, but drew closer. Her lips parted and our tongues met, probing one another until they had disappeared into a single, wet passion that inflamed my body. I kissed her neck, the sweet taste of her skin inspiring me. She smelt of the wildflowers I had given her. Instinct guided me as my hands followed the curve of her hips. Her motions mirrored mine, touching me intimately.
I nuzzled her, basking in the smell of soap in her hair. She deftly undid the buttons of my pants and giggled when she felt my rising manhood, her touch nearly bringing me to a climax before we had begun. She pulled the dress over her head and laid it on the ground as a bed. A moment later, she had slipped out of her petticoats and stood naked in the moonlight. Her skin was olive, the color of the sky at dusk. I hesitated, uncertain even then if I should go through with it.
“Are you shy?” She asked.
“No.”
“Make love to me Clayton.”
She lay down in the tall Buffalo Grass. I kicked off my boots and struggled out of my clothes like a man possessed, the instinct that motivates all my gender now driving me like a Billy-goat. It had been more than a year since I had been with a woman and I felt the need keenly. I joined her in the grass, swatting as a swarm of buzzing insects rose up around us, flying into my eyes and mouth. Rachel laughed at me and I became angry with her, then disappointed in myself at my short temper, but the sound of her laugh had contained a strain of cruelty I thought.
“It’s all right,” she whispered taking my hand and pulling me down on top of her.
With a few quick thrusts I finished. We lay together in embarrassed silence.
“Is that all Clayton?” She asked finally.
“I’m sorry, yes.”
I was a muddle of mixed emotions, the elation I’d felt at the sexual release fading so quickly it seemed no more than a vague memory already. In its place was disappointment at both my own performance and guilt for the bargain I’d made with Spencer. I had not meant to consummate our love for the sake of the pact, but events had taken their course and the deal was complete, regardless.
“I am not a virgin,” Rachel whispered.
I detected a taunting note in her words. I must admit, I had not noticed and likely never would have if she had not pointed it out. Her admission meant little to me, rather the manner in which she delivered it.
“I don’t care,” I said.
“I must tell you, so there are not secrets between us. The boy I told you about who wanted to marry me in Kiev, I let him take me as you did, but you are only my second man. I am not a whore.”
“I didn’t say you were!” I said defensively.
“S
ometimes a man takes a woman and then treats her like a whore,” she said.
“It is not that way with me.”
“But I laid with him as a woman does a husband. Does that not anger you?” She asked.
“No, an ocean and thirty years servitude in the Russian Army are sufficient to quell my jealousy,” I said.
I had supposed my answer would anger her, but instead she laughed. We lay beside one another, a death-like stillness consuming us. I struggled for words.
“Do you like music?” I asked thrashing about for something to say.
She considered the question then spoke as if casting a judgment upon me, “Not so much.”
“That’s too bad. I love the classics. We had a small ensemble that played chamber music at Harvard and I’ve always enjoyed a simple song on the guitar as well. My mother liked the old tunes of Ireland,” I told her.
“Music is for rich men and low women, that is what my father says.”
I bit my tongue to tamp down my anger at such an asinine statement. Everything she said seemed aimed to provoke me. We lay in silence again until I could regain my composure. I moved onto what I supposed would be a safer subject.
‘What kind of books do you enjoy reading?”
“Reading is not for pleasure. It is to enrich the mind. Papa does not allow Sosanna and me to read anything except scripture and the geography of the world. Science is the province of men and novels the haven of loafers,” she said.
I felt as if I had been bludgeoned betwixt the eyes, literature being my life and livelihood. Still, like a fool, I went on, the close proximity of her velvet flesh enticing me despite my initial disappointment. I stroked her arm and she did not pull away. We kissed, rubbing up against one another. I felt my manhood begin to rise again. She was equally amorous. As passion overwhelmed my sense, a new purpose filled my mind.
“I don’t really care about seeing Tree Owl’s camp. We could go to San Francisco in California and catch a boat to the east coast if you’ll marry me,” I proposed, the fever of my loins overpowering my brain.
She did not answer. I felt her body stiffen beneath my touch and she pulled away. We lay together, looking up at the stars as they slowly disappeared behind the skulking canopy of clouds. A blast of cool air stirred the thick grass as a ripple of thunder shook the sky. Rachel sat up and began to dress.
“I must get back,” she said.
“You wanted to go with me before. What changed?” I asked.
“I don’t know what I say. My head was bewitched with the night. My family needs me,” she said in a tight voice.
Waves of regret seemed to emanate from her like heat off the desert. I touched her arm and she recoiled. Confusion tightened the hollow of my belly. She would not meet my gaze. I felt sick at what I had done.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“Do not be sorry!” She replied, her answer so sharp it could have cut glass.
“We could make love again. Lie down,” I begged.
“No,” she said.
I picked up my clothes and put them on. We started back for camp as the rain began to splash around us. Thunder echoed across the prairie, rumbling like the kettle drums of a symphony. As we slipped into the camp, a broad shadow came at us. I had not brought a gun, but my hand went to the long knife at my belt. Uriah Kingfish’s ugly visage stepped into the flickering light of the campfire, rifle in hand.
“Where’ve you been?” He asked.
“It’s none of your affair,” I told him.
Rachel flared at me. “Do not answer for me Clayton.”
His large, crazy eyes drank in the girl with bad intent. “Do your folks know what you been up to?”
She turned upon Kingfish and struck him across the face with the flat of her hand making a cracking sound like a whip being drawn across a mule’s back. He roared at her and wrapped a hairy paw around her delicate wrist. I stepped between them, forcing his hand from her arm. Kingfish shoved me backwards. I stumbled and nearly fell to the ground, but kept my feet. I pulled my knife clear of the sheath and pointed it at him, a heady froth of anger clouding my judgment. Rachel stood to the side, a strange light in her eyes, watching us as if it were all a great entertainment. By now I was spoiling for a fight, the night’s ecstasy having dissolved into a morass of frustration. I stared the blackguard down, waving the knife at him.
“Where’s your wife Kingfish? Did she kick you out of bed for the dog?” I asked spitefully, remembering the sad eyed woman he bullied from sunup till sundown.
“You shut your filthy mouth! I’m in charge of this bunch and I say who comes and goes,” he said sounding like a wounded hog.
He leveled the rifle at my midsection, his thumb fumbling with the hammer. I thought I was dead. A familiar chuckle rippled across the wagon enclosure like sparkling spring water. Spencer and Mozart stood by the fire. I had not noticed them a moment earlier.
Spencer called out to us, “Put away the rifle Kingfish. Clayton was just playing a wager we’d laid. From the look of the girl, I’d say he made good on it.”
Rachel turned on me as if I was a whoremaster escaped from Sodom and Gomorrah. Her face turned to stony rage. She spit at me and ran away to her family’s wagon. Kingfish laughed and leaned the rifle on his shoulder.
“What was it like? Was she soft and wet, or tight like a clamshell?” He asked in his insolent voice.
“You’re a bastard,” I replied.
The brute snorted and went back to his guarding, marching off like a stiff legged tin soldier. Spencer stared at me, his blue eyes like lanterns in the semi-gloom.
“Why did you say that?” I asked, my anger now turning on him.
He made an indifferent gesture. “To save you from getting a bullet through your guts. Kingfish meant to kill you,” he said.
I stuffed the knife back in its sheath. “I can take care of myself,” I told him.
He put on a sheepish look. “Sorry if I spoiled your romance.”
I stared off in the direction Rachel had gone. “It was already ruined.”
Chapter 12 – Evocation of Memory
In the Camp of the Sioux
Tree Owl sat at the head of a great table in a library, his brown skin as deep and rich a mahogany as the paneling that lined the book laden walls. Bindings of winter green, autumn red and summer gold plunged at precipitous angles from hand carved shelves like chandeliered scholarships. The carpet was made of prairie grass, jade soft and whispering. The ceiling was the blue canopied constellations of the night.
“Dancing spirits live in the four corners of the wind, in the clouds and among the stars. They are the children of the gods and the sire of men. They were old when the world was young and will still be there when the People’s time has passed and beasts rule the Earth again.”
Tree Owl’s eyes sparkled with the reflected light of divine inspiration. He seemed a voyager among the heavens he spoke of, his body rooted to the ground, but his soul in flight. Illusions, I thought. I am dreaming, but I am not. The library faded, its walls pushing outward until they lay among the stars. How long had I been lost in the hallucination? I did not know. A moment perhaps, but the passage of time had slowed to a crawl. As the library slipped away, I fell upward into the sky. I was again beneath the hooves of the buffalo herd. I cried out for the girl I had seen on the path to the cathedral, but could not find her. Reality lost its shape as mountains balanced upon the head of a pin. I had felt this before as a child in the grip of a fever. The effect was unnerving, as if gravity had surrendered its power over the physical world. I cast about for something to take hold of, but fell only deeper into the well of eternity.
Waves of heat rise off the grassy plain around me. The sky is near cloudless, white bands of torpid haze drifting upon the horizon. It is summer, the time of birth and dying. The females, made pregnant in winter, are dropping their whelps, even as the elders die of thirst, the waterholes having shrunk to muddy puddles. The monsoons will come in another moon and
then there will be plenty for all, until then, only the strong will survive. But I am not afraid, for I have escaped the cycle of fear and yearning.
Breath comes easily through nostrils clear and sensitive to the pungent scent of the world. The warm desert air fills the lungs and peace settles upon me like my mother’s caressing arms. I have little, but I desire nothing. I savor this moment, for I know it will not last. Pain will come. It always does. And if I escape the predator’s claws, age and decay, inevitable death, the ending of this incarnation, a release from sorrow and suffering and birth into another cycle shall follow. But I must retain this, for to lose it is to lose consciousness.
The talkers do not understand. They make circles in the sky and chant to the moon. They draw down gods from the stars and spirits from the ground. They entertain for a time, opening the mind to the possibility of existence, then escape into themselves with superstition, the darkness of their fears devouring them. But I understand. I have existed before. I do not remember where or when, but I know that I have always been and always will be.
True, attained consciousness is not simply to say, ‘I am’, but the ability to turn inward and make no declaration at all. It is the ability to observe and make no judgment, neither good nor ill, but simply to be; understanding the moment, for the moment is eternity.
I am alive. The concept fills me with joy. I have always been alive. Now fear creeps in. Have I? I was sure of it a moment ago. Now I cannot say. Will I be alive when this body falls away and is buried beneath the moldering Earth? I do not know. Unfamiliar emotions fill me, anxiety, anticipation, logic, fear.
Spirits come to me, mother, aunt, grandparents. They have slipped the bonds of death and crossed over at what expense I do not know, but they have come to me, in terms, not uncertain, and opened my inner eye to the existence of life beyond the fleeting spark of humanity. If they had not come, I would not know. I would grieve at the undeniable futility of existence. The beauty of all that I love would fade to gray, waiting only for the fall of eternal night. Food for the worm. But I am alive, in this moment.