Pearl-white. The fog fled the no man’s land quickly now. With the lifting fog came the obsessive German guns, chasing the rest of the squad back across the no man's land. Bullets chopped at the rim of the crater and at the body of the German boy. They tumbled the body backwards, where it slid limp and lifeless and shattered. The bullets were like stones into a murky puddle. John laid across Roddy and contented himself that the shooting wouldn't last forever. He knew, though, that what would come would be far worse.
It was unlikely the Germans knew he and Roddy were there. The fire swept a broad stretch of ground. Even as it chopped the air overhead John wasted little time. He set to work, covering Roddy and them himself with dark French mud from head to toe. That done he quickly piled and packed mud into a small barrier to one side of the crater should a German grenade come flying. It wasn't much, hardly more than a yard long and a foot or so high. John hoped that it would offer a modest bit of protection, which was about as much as he could hope for.
When the barrier was done John hauled Roddy behind it, careful not to poke his head above the edge of the crater. From a laying position John turned the man on his stomach. So that he might appear dead John moved Roddy’s arm and leg away from the body. The effort, from this position and in his weakened state left John utterly and almost catastrophically exhausted.
He paused a moment and looked to heaven, each breath burning in his chest. Black smoke drifted lazily overhead. The German fire had all but ended now. John said a small prayer and began to cross himself, pausing when he noticed a small silver crucifix around the dead German boy's neck.
John crawled a few feet away and lay on one side, facing the German lines. The Enfield lay nearby, with the long bayonet attached and ready. Under his body John clutched a revolver and trench knife. There was nothing more to do now but feign death(which was more than death itself) and wait. With luck they would survive till dark, when John would have a better chance to get them back to friendly lines.
The heat of the day rose quickly. It was a steaming, stifling heat that choked the sweat and life from John. With it rose the stagnate rot of the crater, like a sewer or morgue. John's throat burned with thirst, the sun baking him beneath the heavy steel helmet. Flies buzzed and swarmed, over the German boy and flitted upon the pool of water reflecting the clear blue sky.
John stared into the pool trying in vain to see Anna's face. What else was there to do but go mad? It was as if she had never been real and his whole life had been a mirage. That he could not see her, or adequately recall anything of his life beyond that corrupted crater seemed to betray that it had all been an illusion.
How he longed to run his fingers through Anna's buttery-soft sunset-red hair. He would have given all eternity just to hear her peacefully warm voice once more. He prayed to god for nothing more than to see her once more, even if it was a fleeting glimpse as his soul fled this world. And if he should survive? John resolved that each day beside her would be a blessing, and he would give thanks for as long as breath filled his lungs.
Another voice contradicted that hopeful and contrite voice. It told John he would not survive, and that he would die in that ignominious hole. It only served to remind him that predicting tomorrow was a fool's exercise. It was arrogant to expect anything of tomorrow. He squeezed back tears threatening his eyes. John's heart was so heavy that it almost compelled him to cry out.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Emmetsburg:Thirty-five
Cold gray. The morning sun was somewhere beyond the shroud of fog turning the tortured no man's land into an abstract of ghostly silhouettes. The bullet and shell-stripped hulks of trees reached out as strange creatures among tangles of rusted concertina wire. The ground was tossed by overlapping shell craters, fading to a broken horizon and the German lines hidden behind that merciless fog.
The fog brought a silence, like that of a funeral. It was the silence of loss and exhaustion and of loneliness; a void in which all things once believed clear and immovable where now d ark and uncertain. The scent of death was in the air, but it was a different evolving scent from the strangling putrefying stink of the recently killed. It was a musty scent, not unlike upturned moss, wet earth and sickness. Bodies not collected or claimed, and those beyond collection were being reclaimed by the earth. Bodies not picked over by rats appeared as poorly conceived mud sculptures blending with the French soil.
Still groggy from a cold uncomfortable sleep, curled with his Enfield upon a stack of ammunition crates, John climbed from the trench. He stood straight for a moment, as if tempting German snipers. They couldn't see him, lost to the fog as they were, but the nature of trench warfare was not tactics or strategy, but simple survival. A cough, a sneeze, any errant sound could bring a brutalizing reply from German gunners who were every bit as jumpy and frightened as their allied counterparts.
The khaki-green wool uniform was filthy, blood-stained and damp from the morning dew. It stunk of the dead, of piss and shit, wood smoke and goat meat they'd cooked the night before. It hung loosely on John's gaunt frame. Four exhaustive months and successive bouts of dysentery and diarrhea had taken a terrible toll. Like the dead, he felt himself disappearing steadily from the world. John lifted the Enfield to his chest, unconsciously gripping the cold wooden stock hard enough to cramp his fingers.
John glanced back into the trench, and the five expectant faces of his squad. One of them was a tough as nails Irishman named Roddy MacAllister, with thick bright red hair and deep blue eyes. John thought he was a bit of a loud mouth, but he was keen with a knife and a good man in a fight. When John was asked by the Sergeant to pick his squad, Roddy was the first on the list. John nodded and the men rose quick and quiet. Without a word they formed a skirmish line, separated by three yard intervals. From where John stood the last man was almost lost to the swirling mist.
The mission was as much one of security as revenge. German sappers had cut the throat of a French sentry that night before beheading two of the sentry's sleeping comrades. The objective was to sweep the area between the lines, but each man entertained his own fantasy of what he might do should they run into the enemy. The squad drew a long slow arc that would take them mere yards from the German guns before turning back towards friendly lines.
They went cautiously, rifles at the shoulder, barrels angled towards the ground. To John it remind him of stories of the Indian Wars he’d heard from old veterans as a child. Like those Indians John stepped lightly at the edge of his foot, judiciously choosing each footfall, sliding forward to make as little noise as possible. His finger hovered across the iron trigger guard. John had to remind himself to breathe from time to time. Every eight steps the squad came to a halt and knelt, looking back along the line for John’s signal to push forward.
They were near enough the enemy lines that John could faintly make out a German soldier's snoring as he slept. It made him smile, breaking a strain that grew exponentially by the second. The sound tore at his conscience. It was upsetting to think the enemy was a man like him. John brushed away the thought, content that the wind, light as it was, was in the American's favor. Roddy heard it as well and smirked in John's direction. John pursed his lips and with a wave of the hand motioned the squad forward again.
Nearing the German lines John spied movement at the edge of a crater a grenade throw away.. Roddy came up beside him. He'd spotted it as well. As if by one mind they separated, intending to flank their prey from either side. Ten yards out both men rose, aiming their rifles from the shoulder as they closed the gap. John was there first, taken suddenly aback by the unexpected sight.
It was a young blond German boy, fighting to drag himself to the lip of the crater. His blue-gray uniform was in tatters and scorched on one side. Blood had matted and darkened along the back of his neck and into the neatly trimmed blond hair. The boy’s legs were gone below the knees. He turned slowly and peered over one shoulder at John, his eyes wide with fear. With that he only pulled more desperately at earth that slithered through his fingers.
At the edge of the crater, opposite the struggling boy, John lowered his rifle to watch the pathetic spectacle. He took a breath and guessed the wounds were more than a day old. It was quite certain he wasn't one of the sappers. John figured he'd been left behind from a half hearted assault two nights before that had been stopped cold by an artillery barrage. A few feet away Roddy smiled cryptically, and drew a trench knife from his belt. John scrambled down the side of the crater stopping Roddy just as he was about to dispatch the boy.
“What's the matter with you?” Roddy complained, at barely a whisper. The two men struggled. Roddy fought to pull free, staring into John’s eyes., grimacing as John forced the knife from his hand. Neither of them noticied as the boy reached the top of the crater.
“Deutsche Comrade!” he cried. Roddy shoved John away and dove on the boy just as a burst of machinegun fire erupted from the German side. John slipped and tumbled awkwardly, splashing into a pool of water at the bottom of the crater. The boy's head exploded. Another round banged off Roddy's dough boy helmet, flinging him into a heap across the trench. John crawled over, bullets ripping at the air above the trench, and turned Roddy over. He was limp. A trickle of blood ran from one ear and down across his dirt streaked neck.
The fog brought a silence, like that of a funeral. It was the silence of loss and exhaustion and of loneliness; a void in which all things once believed clear and immovable where now d ark and uncertain. The scent of death was in the air, but it was a different evolving scent from the strangling putrefying stink of the recently killed. It was a musty scent, not unlike upturned moss, wet earth and sickness. Bodies not collected or claimed, and those beyond collection were being reclaimed by the earth. Bodies not picked over by rats appeared as poorly conceived mud sculptures blending with the French soil.
Still groggy from a cold uncomfortable sleep, curled with his Enfield upon a stack of ammunition crates, John climbed from the trench. He stood straight for a moment, as if tempting German snipers. They couldn't see him, lost to the fog as they were, but the nature of trench warfare was not tactics or strategy, but simple survival. A cough, a sneeze, any errant sound could bring a brutalizing reply from German gunners who were every bit as jumpy and frightened as their allied counterparts.
The khaki-green wool uniform was filthy, blood-stained and damp from the morning dew. It stunk of the dead, of piss and shit, wood smoke and goat meat they'd cooked the night before. It hung loosely on John's gaunt frame. Four exhaustive months and successive bouts of dysentery and diarrhea had taken a terrible toll. Like the dead, he felt himself disappearing steadily from the world. John lifted the Enfield to his chest, unconsciously gripping the cold wooden stock hard enough to cramp his fingers.
John glanced back into the trench, and the five expectant faces of his squad. One of them was a tough as nails Irishman named Roddy MacAllister, with thick bright red hair and deep blue eyes. John thought he was a bit of a loud mouth, but he was keen with a knife and a good man in a fight. When John was asked by the Sergeant to pick his squad, Roddy was the first on the list. John nodded and the men rose quick and quiet. Without a word they formed a skirmish line, separated by three yard intervals. From where John stood the last man was almost lost to the swirling mist.
The mission was as much one of security as revenge. German sappers had cut the throat of a French sentry that night before beheading two of the sentry's sleeping comrades. The objective was to sweep the area between the lines, but each man entertained his own fantasy of what he might do should they run into the enemy. The squad drew a long slow arc that would take them mere yards from the German guns before turning back towards friendly lines.
They went cautiously, rifles at the shoulder, barrels angled towards the ground. To John it remind him of stories of the Indian Wars he’d heard from old veterans as a child. Like those Indians John stepped lightly at the edge of his foot, judiciously choosing each footfall, sliding forward to make as little noise as possible. His finger hovered across the iron trigger guard. John had to remind himself to breathe from time to time. Every eight steps the squad came to a halt and knelt, looking back along the line for John’s signal to push forward.
They were near enough the enemy lines that John could faintly make out a German soldier's snoring as he slept. It made him smile, breaking a strain that grew exponentially by the second. The sound tore at his conscience. It was upsetting to think the enemy was a man like him. John brushed away the thought, content that the wind, light as it was, was in the American's favor. Roddy heard it as well and smirked in John's direction. John pursed his lips and with a wave of the hand motioned the squad forward again.
Nearing the German lines John spied movement at the edge of a crater a grenade throw away.. Roddy came up beside him. He'd spotted it as well. As if by one mind they separated, intending to flank their prey from either side. Ten yards out both men rose, aiming their rifles from the shoulder as they closed the gap. John was there first, taken suddenly aback by the unexpected sight.
It was a young blond German boy, fighting to drag himself to the lip of the crater. His blue-gray uniform was in tatters and scorched on one side. Blood had matted and darkened along the back of his neck and into the neatly trimmed blond hair. The boy’s legs were gone below the knees. He turned slowly and peered over one shoulder at John, his eyes wide with fear. With that he only pulled more desperately at earth that slithered through his fingers.
At the edge of the crater, opposite the struggling boy, John lowered his rifle to watch the pathetic spectacle. He took a breath and guessed the wounds were more than a day old. It was quite certain he wasn't one of the sappers. John figured he'd been left behind from a half hearted assault two nights before that had been stopped cold by an artillery barrage. A few feet away Roddy smiled cryptically, and drew a trench knife from his belt. John scrambled down the side of the crater stopping Roddy just as he was about to dispatch the boy.
“What's the matter with you?” Roddy complained, at barely a whisper. The two men struggled. Roddy fought to pull free, staring into John’s eyes., grimacing as John forced the knife from his hand. Neither of them noticied as the boy reached the top of the crater.
“Deutsche Comrade!” he cried. Roddy shoved John away and dove on the boy just as a burst of machinegun fire erupted from the German side. John slipped and tumbled awkwardly, splashing into a pool of water at the bottom of the crater. The boy's head exploded. Another round banged off Roddy's dough boy helmet, flinging him into a heap across the trench. John crawled over, bullets ripping at the air above the trench, and turned Roddy over. He was limp. A trickle of blood ran from one ear and down across his dirt streaked neck.
Emmetsburg: Thirty-four
If he'd been running straight Louis might have been half way to Illinois by the time John got dressed. He was erratic though, falling and flailing again and again, and through up the most unholy cries, as though he was in mortal agony. John hesitated at the back screen door. He thought better of the pistol and placed it on the counter, pulling a dish towel over it.
Louis was up again, but making feeble progress towards the tree line at the back of the yard. He turned, upturned face ripped by excruciating pain, mouth agape. Louis washed his hands across his head and torso before going down hard once more. He let out a shriek that faded into a silence far beyond pain.
John was running as hard as he could through the dewy wet grass in his bare feet. Each footfall thundered painfully in his injured hand. He ignored it as best he could, believing that the man was truly dying. It seemed that these were Louis' final agonizing assertions. Anna was behind him on the step, still wrapped in the quilt.
John caught up to him almost at the tree line, where the grass was deep enough to wet the bottoms of John's trousers. Louis was on his hands and knees hardly making any progress at all as he swatted at something unseen torturing at his head and shoulders. Louis moaned loudly and rolled onto his back, drawing his legs up. His eyes were wide and distant, fixed somewhere among the starry heavens.
A body dies from head wounds like the one Louis had suffered. Not right away. Some pass on in their sleep. Others writhe and cry at the excruciating pressure as blood pools in the skull, crushing life from the brain. Louis had seen that before. The memory took him back to the bloodied fields of France 1917.
Louis was up again, but making feeble progress towards the tree line at the back of the yard. He turned, upturned face ripped by excruciating pain, mouth agape. Louis washed his hands across his head and torso before going down hard once more. He let out a shriek that faded into a silence far beyond pain.
John was running as hard as he could through the dewy wet grass in his bare feet. Each footfall thundered painfully in his injured hand. He ignored it as best he could, believing that the man was truly dying. It seemed that these were Louis' final agonizing assertions. Anna was behind him on the step, still wrapped in the quilt.
John caught up to him almost at the tree line, where the grass was deep enough to wet the bottoms of John's trousers. Louis was on his hands and knees hardly making any progress at all as he swatted at something unseen torturing at his head and shoulders. Louis moaned loudly and rolled onto his back, drawing his legs up. His eyes were wide and distant, fixed somewhere among the starry heavens.
A body dies from head wounds like the one Louis had suffered. Not right away. Some pass on in their sleep. Others writhe and cry at the excruciating pressure as blood pools in the skull, crushing life from the brain. Louis had seen that before. The memory took him back to the bloodied fields of France 1917.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Emmetsburg:Thirty-three
Louis was well enough to sit up. Not great, but better. He rose to meet John just crossing from the stairs with a glass of milk and some bread with sweet ruby-red rhubarb jam. The bread was still warm from the oven. Louis' eyes widened a bit at the thick pieces stacked upon the small flowered china plate. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit. He held the milk in his good hand, with the plate balanced on the forearm. With the darkly bruised and swollen fingers of his injured hand John steadied the plate.
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
“Go slow,” said John. John set the plate and milk on a bookshelf and hurried over to help him sit.
Louis waved a hand in the air. He felt dizzy and weak, but when his feet touched the hard wood floor for the first time Louis felt alive again. Not a lot alive. The pulsing thunder behind his eyes made life and consciousness and balance all negotiable points. He looked up into John's rescuing eyes.
“Maybe I ain't quite ready yet,” he managed a weary smile. “Gravity seems a little trickier than I remembered.”
“You really took a shot,” said John. “Gonna take a little while before you're back among the living.” John knelt and studied Louis' dark brown eyes, and saw his own face reflected there. “Stand to eat something?”
John stood and took the bread and milk from the shelf. He paused a moment, his gaze moving over some old dusty volumes; GOODRICH'S PICTORAL HISTORIES OF THE UNITED STATES, Mary Macgregor's THE STORY OF ROME, BESIDE THE BONNIE BRIER BUSH by Ian Maclaren, and THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. He saw them, but his thoughts were at war whether or not to ask Louis about Bert Himmel.
“Bert Himmel passed away,” he finally said. John turned slowly and scooted the stool beside the bed watching Louis for the smallest clue to something hidden. John sat looking scant-ways at Louis.
“He a friend of yours?” Louis asked, gobbling down a bit of bread and jam madly.
“Was,” his tone was leading. John placed the glass of milk in Louis' hands.
Louis' silence was potent, as he stared into the white liquid. When he spoke it was quiet and low, leaving John with far more questions than he might have wished.
“Sorry for your loss.”
“Lived up there in Mallard,” said John, leaning a bit in hopes of gauging Louis' expression. “Ever been up there?”
“Can’t say I have?” He hesitated, still refusing to look directly at John. Louis lifted the glass and emptied it in just a few gulps.
“Pulled you out of that creek just this side of Mallard,” said John, with deepening suspicion. “Seems that was the direction you were coming from.”
Louis pursed his lips, turning the empty glass in his hands. He held it out abruptly and John took it, holding the glass and Louis’ hand fast for a moment. Alarmed, Louis lifted his eyes to John.
“Told you,” he said quietly, “don’t recall nothing before the accident.”
John sighed and stood, as Louis lay back and turned towards the window. He was asleep almost instantly. John shook his head and thought this all very odd, and wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind.
Anna was waiting for him already in bed. He undressed quickly and slipped beneath the sheets beside her. She was up, straddling him in an instant, her long full red hair tumbling over his face and shoulders as she kissed him deeply, catching him fully by surprise. It all took him aback for a moment, before his body responded to hers. Anna rose and lifted away her gown, letting it fall to the floor. She helped him from his shorts and guided him to her. Anna sighed deeply and threw her head back, their bodies now a rhythm joined and rushing headlong to climax. Outside the crickets and night seemed to fall away, as if nothing beyond that lover’s bed existed
John quickly felt himself at the edge, straining to meet her as Anna focused on her own pleasure. Nearly there, John strained, moving a hand across her soft full breasts. Suddenly there was a sound from the kitchen. It was the sound of the back screen creaking open on its ancient hinges before banging closed again. Anna froze, her eyes wide with sudden alarm. John pushed her off and went for the pistol, fumbling in the dark and interrupted sex for the bullets in the bottom of the box. He managed barely one round in the cylinder, the rest falling and clanging upon the floor at his bare feet.
“John,” she gasped, covering herself with the quilt at the end of the bed. “Someone is in the house!”
“Be still.” He snapped the cylinder in place and pulled the hammer back. Naked, John lifted the weapon before him and went to the door. It was then he spotted Louis out back, staggering through the night towards the line of trees at the back of the property.
“It’s Louis,” said John, laying the Pistol on the bed and pulling on his trousers.
“What’s he doing?”
“Damned if I know,” he said, lifting the revolver again, “but I’m bound to find out.”
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-two
The standoff at the Himmel farm swept through the countryside like an autumn frost, seeming to materialize out of the air and paint everything. Like a frost there was a beauty to the news, like a victory had been won by the common folk; a certain refreshing, to reference the good Thomas Jefferson, of the freedoms paid for in the blood of generations of common folk. Power, privilage and exploitation had been knocked back on its heels.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
It was a time to rejoice and reflect, but there was a much danger as well, as it threatened to unleash the forces of chaos and anarchy. It threatened the age of might and the bully, and of schemers behind the bully. For nothing in that world was bound by the law and of mutual compromise and community, but by of ego and gluttony and division.
Up town, an angry crowd of farmers, church folk and a certain class of folk more akin to scavenging dogs gathered in front of the courthouse. They carried signs and marched up and down. They roared and yelled, as though they were going to war, over inflammatory words by a baptist Minister from Cedar Rapids. They were outraged and in full agreement with Avery Lysander, and brought almost to tears by a hand full of furtive, stammering words from Myron Himmel.
Sherriff Bremer, in a big tan ten gallon hat, and a couple deeply conflicted deputies watched all this from the jailhouse. They let the crowd do just about as they pleased, hoping they would get the worst of all this, the wild and unchecked emotion burn away. Bremer nodded respectfully, folding his arms and rocking on the heels of his dusty black ranch boots when they paraded past the jail. And when they shouted and demanded to know where he stood on the issue Bremer had no wish to be pigeon-holed by either side. With an ironic smirk and a shake of his head he only waved and disappeared with his men into the jail.
How folks came to all this drew the battle lines rather than discourse, and only succeeded in dragging Emmetsburg and surrounding counties into ranks. Up to now it had hardly proved more than a distraction for most, except the agitators and those directly involved. It was a curious and uncomfortable topic of conversation. It grew as the night on the horizon, refusing to be ignored. No one, most especially John perkins, could escape the night.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty-one
Churning clouds of dust grew in the distance, rising into the pale blue to erase all distinction between earth and sky. In the still and stagnate air the men heard the vehicles some time before they came into view. There were three long dark sedans. The first everyone recognized immediately as C.W.'s hunk of junk. It was followed closely by two big beige '25 Broughams. They were moving quickly, covering the mile and a half from the county road in no time. Fifty or so yards from the blockade they drew to a stop beside the road.
C.W. Climbed out and stretched a pain in his back. He twisted, still stretching, and motioned for the government men to remain behind. In tan trousers and a clean white button shirt he appeared to have materialized from the landscape, like some monotone watercolor in which lines blended and merged. He slapped a bit of dust off his brown cap and placed it carefully on his head.
C.W. was in no hurry to span the gap between the inspectors and the others. He was anxious, squinting through sweat that poured into his eyes. His steps were heavy with a consciously managed confidence, one that he had to manufacture anew. He half wished he hadn't left his revolver in the automobile. C.W. scooped the cap from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the cap back on.
He took his time making his way over, figuring if the moment was weighing this heavily on him then it should weigh as heavily on this rabble as well. They were set in a ragged but closely held line across the road. The sheriff paused a moment to inspect a bent bender on Ernie Vogel's Essex coupe. C.W. ran his fingers over the dent and shook his head with slightly exaggerated concern. He found Ernie's eyes for a moment before the man looked shamefully away.
The Sheriff waded into the men with all the confidence he could muster. He'd known most of them his whole life and had, at least until now, nothing to fear from them. He also knew that Avery was behind most of this, that he had whipped up these men in to a frenzy and set them apart from the law and good order.
C.W. moved along the line, looking purposely into each man's eyes. Some glared angrily. Others refused to meet his gaze, or seemed deeply betrayed by all this. C.W. took heart that at least a few men nodded respectfully, which gave him hope into appealing to their better reason. He took heart that Avery Lysander’s rule over these men was anything but absolute.
Myron Himmel stood at Avery’s side, somewhere between boyhood and grief. There was a look in his eyes, which seemed wholly unnatural, but fully explosive. C.W.s heart went out to the boy, and he felt deeply for the loss of his father. C.W. also knew full well what this inspection might mean for the family, but as a lawman it was the weight of all this that had to be considered. C.W. glanced back at the government inspectors and then again at the line of men, as if seeing those opposing weights, as if deciding where he truly belonged. It was then he realized how utterly alone he was.
Avery's eyes fixed most purposely upon him. They had been from the moment C.W. Stepped from his car, studying him with the keenness and detail of a scientist, or the way a surgeon might carefully discern healthy tissue from diseased with an eye to excising it from the body. Avery's mood was altogether different from the others. His was a direct challenge, and assertion that he and he alone was the master of this moment and these men. C.W. was still working on just the right words when Avery got there first.
“Deeply disappointed you couldn't see your way to our side, C.W.”
He might have responded directly to Avery, but his power and danger lay fully with the men. C.W. signed and looked along the line.
“That what you all think?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Don't split ranks here, C.W.” said Avery. “Divide and conquer, eh? Stand fast, boys!
“That how you feel, Ernie?” C.W. ignored Avery altogether. “Big Jim? Laughton?”
Avery asserted his position, moving between the Sheriff and the other men, all the while keeping Myron close by his side. “If you want to cross this line, Sheriff, you're gonna need a whole lot more men.”
It was more than C.W, could stand. Those massively powerful hands snapped out and twisted Avery's arm behind his back, wrenching it high enough that Avery cried out in pain. His free hand grabbed the back of Avery's neck and forced him to the road onto his knees. Myron bolted through the line of men as C.W. wrestled for control of Avery.
“Started enough damn trouble, Aver…” he began.
There was a blur of motion to one side, followed by the telltale metallic click as the hammer of a weapon clicked back and locked into place. C.W. found himself staring down the twin barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun. His heart skipped a beat as Myron reaffirmed a grip on the worn gray wooden stock.
“Leave him be,” cried the boy, “and get off my property!”
Tears threatened in the boy's eyes. C.W. Knew this wasn't him. He knew that the boy wasn't thinking right, but Myron felt himself cornered and there was no limit to what a cornered man is capable of. Still, C.W. was the sheriff, and that was a non-negotiable issue.
“You're at a crossroads here, son,” he said as coolly and certainly as he could under the circumstances. Avery was silent, as were the others, not a few of whom were shocked the turn of events. “I've been to dinner at your house, Myron. What do you think your papa would say to all this?”
“He'd want me to do right by the family. To...to...protect them.” His voice was low and trembling, but he held the shotgun steady enough, his finger covering the trigger.
“Son, I'm not going to talk you like a child. You're a man now. You proved that well enough. But a man also knows there's consequences for his actions. Maybe you pull that trigger, but that won't put an end to things. Shoot me and a hundred law men will come back here and you'll go to the electric chair for sure. Want to bring that shame to your family and forever stain the memory of your father; my friend?”
There was along terribly uncertain moment. It was a moment so light and delicate that it might have turned unexpectedly with an unguarded breath, or with the turn of the wind. Myron steadied the shotgun in his hands, his gaze solidly fixed upon C.W. They all felt frozen in time, as though everything had stopped all at once, breaths, hearts, the turning of the world.
“Let Mister Lysander go.” Myron's voice was unequivical, but calmer.
C.W. nodded slightly to the boy without breaking their gaze. “Then I'm going back up that road and get those government fellas. They'll do their test and then we'll be on our way.”
But C.W. knew that he had lost. He ran through a dozen outcomes in his mind, all of them ending the same. Once he released Avery those men would never allow the inspectors to pass. He'd have to come with the State Police the next time and make an example. It made the walk back to the car a long and arduous one.
C.W. Climbed out and stretched a pain in his back. He twisted, still stretching, and motioned for the government men to remain behind. In tan trousers and a clean white button shirt he appeared to have materialized from the landscape, like some monotone watercolor in which lines blended and merged. He slapped a bit of dust off his brown cap and placed it carefully on his head.
C.W. was in no hurry to span the gap between the inspectors and the others. He was anxious, squinting through sweat that poured into his eyes. His steps were heavy with a consciously managed confidence, one that he had to manufacture anew. He half wished he hadn't left his revolver in the automobile. C.W. scooped the cap from his head, wiped the sweat from his forehead and pulled the cap back on.
He took his time making his way over, figuring if the moment was weighing this heavily on him then it should weigh as heavily on this rabble as well. They were set in a ragged but closely held line across the road. The sheriff paused a moment to inspect a bent bender on Ernie Vogel's Essex coupe. C.W. ran his fingers over the dent and shook his head with slightly exaggerated concern. He found Ernie's eyes for a moment before the man looked shamefully away.
The Sheriff waded into the men with all the confidence he could muster. He'd known most of them his whole life and had, at least until now, nothing to fear from them. He also knew that Avery was behind most of this, that he had whipped up these men in to a frenzy and set them apart from the law and good order.
C.W. moved along the line, looking purposely into each man's eyes. Some glared angrily. Others refused to meet his gaze, or seemed deeply betrayed by all this. C.W. took heart that at least a few men nodded respectfully, which gave him hope into appealing to their better reason. He took heart that Avery Lysander’s rule over these men was anything but absolute.
Myron Himmel stood at Avery’s side, somewhere between boyhood and grief. There was a look in his eyes, which seemed wholly unnatural, but fully explosive. C.W.s heart went out to the boy, and he felt deeply for the loss of his father. C.W. also knew full well what this inspection might mean for the family, but as a lawman it was the weight of all this that had to be considered. C.W. glanced back at the government inspectors and then again at the line of men, as if seeing those opposing weights, as if deciding where he truly belonged. It was then he realized how utterly alone he was.
Avery's eyes fixed most purposely upon him. They had been from the moment C.W. Stepped from his car, studying him with the keenness and detail of a scientist, or the way a surgeon might carefully discern healthy tissue from diseased with an eye to excising it from the body. Avery's mood was altogether different from the others. His was a direct challenge, and assertion that he and he alone was the master of this moment and these men. C.W. was still working on just the right words when Avery got there first.
“Deeply disappointed you couldn't see your way to our side, C.W.”
He might have responded directly to Avery, but his power and danger lay fully with the men. C.W. signed and looked along the line.
“That what you all think?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Don't split ranks here, C.W.” said Avery. “Divide and conquer, eh? Stand fast, boys!
“That how you feel, Ernie?” C.W. ignored Avery altogether. “Big Jim? Laughton?”
Avery asserted his position, moving between the Sheriff and the other men, all the while keeping Myron close by his side. “If you want to cross this line, Sheriff, you're gonna need a whole lot more men.”
It was more than C.W, could stand. Those massively powerful hands snapped out and twisted Avery's arm behind his back, wrenching it high enough that Avery cried out in pain. His free hand grabbed the back of Avery's neck and forced him to the road onto his knees. Myron bolted through the line of men as C.W. wrestled for control of Avery.
“Started enough damn trouble, Aver…” he began.
There was a blur of motion to one side, followed by the telltale metallic click as the hammer of a weapon clicked back and locked into place. C.W. found himself staring down the twin barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun. His heart skipped a beat as Myron reaffirmed a grip on the worn gray wooden stock.
“Leave him be,” cried the boy, “and get off my property!”
Tears threatened in the boy's eyes. C.W. Knew this wasn't him. He knew that the boy wasn't thinking right, but Myron felt himself cornered and there was no limit to what a cornered man is capable of. Still, C.W. was the sheriff, and that was a non-negotiable issue.
“You're at a crossroads here, son,” he said as coolly and certainly as he could under the circumstances. Avery was silent, as were the others, not a few of whom were shocked the turn of events. “I've been to dinner at your house, Myron. What do you think your papa would say to all this?”
“He'd want me to do right by the family. To...to...protect them.” His voice was low and trembling, but he held the shotgun steady enough, his finger covering the trigger.
“Son, I'm not going to talk you like a child. You're a man now. You proved that well enough. But a man also knows there's consequences for his actions. Maybe you pull that trigger, but that won't put an end to things. Shoot me and a hundred law men will come back here and you'll go to the electric chair for sure. Want to bring that shame to your family and forever stain the memory of your father; my friend?”
There was along terribly uncertain moment. It was a moment so light and delicate that it might have turned unexpectedly with an unguarded breath, or with the turn of the wind. Myron steadied the shotgun in his hands, his gaze solidly fixed upon C.W. They all felt frozen in time, as though everything had stopped all at once, breaths, hearts, the turning of the world.
“Let Mister Lysander go.” Myron's voice was unequivical, but calmer.
C.W. nodded slightly to the boy without breaking their gaze. “Then I'm going back up that road and get those government fellas. They'll do their test and then we'll be on our way.”
But C.W. knew that he had lost. He ran through a dozen outcomes in his mind, all of them ending the same. Once he released Avery those men would never allow the inspectors to pass. He'd have to come with the State Police the next time and make an example. It made the walk back to the car a long and arduous one.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Emmetsburg: Thirty
Gold. Burt Himmel's house stood at the end of a long straight dirt track that ran downhill for the better part of its course. The track was little more than two well worn ruts, separated by a ribbon of deepening green grass. The house, small green barn and smaller chicken coop were centered in a small bowl. It made the farm look so much farther than it truly was. On the post at the top of the drive an official notice of inspection was nailed.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
The house, like the yard and chicken coop was well tended. The rectangular coop had recently been painted and stood out sharply in the morning sun. The low roor slanted sharply on one side towards the barn. The barn was sorely in need of repair, with patches of yellowing moss on the roof. Pieces of the roof had rotted or fallen away, making it appear as though the moss was some sort of infection slowly consuming the structure. Beside the barn, upon the slope of a hill a half dozen black and brown cows grazed lazily.
The two story wood-frame house was tall with wood shingles and clean white shutters. A fat oak stood as an exclamation in front of the house. A tire swing hung from the sturdiest branch above a bare spot of ground, nearly lost to an island of midnight shade. Beside the tree, in the cool of the shade, Burt's old Black Labrador, Lincoln, watched laconically the commotion at the top of the road.
A dozen or so vehicles and horse-drawn wagons were arrayed haphazardly to either side of the road so that anyone wishing to pass would have to inch by slowly, snaking slowly through the ramshackle blockade. Ten or fifteen men were gathered in a tight group in front of the blockade. Central among them was Avery Lysander, his arm around the shoulder of young Myron Himmel.
This should have been a time of mourning for the boy. It should have been a time for memories and family and reflection. Instead Myron steeled himself for an epic fight whipped up by Avery and some of the other more boisterous nd energized farmers. The moment felt immense to the boy. As he saw things his family's life and future depended fully upon the outcome. His proper place of course was with them, instead of the men on that road, to whom he offered himself fully and without question. He gave himself fully to men like Avery Lysander who used the boy's tragedy and gullible nature as a means to an end.
The air was still and stale. Even at this early hour the heat seemed to rise from the earth, moistening necks and foreheads and backs. Myron swept the sweat from his face and rubbed it across the leg of his trousers where it left a stain. He looked around at the stern and determined faces around him. He felt at once stifled and saved by those faces.
Avery was saying something. Myron's thoughts were a jumble and so the man's fevered words didn't register. He wasn't so much paying attention as using the murderous energy of the men as a crutch that kept him from crumbling and weeping with grief. Avery shook him and said something. Myron looked dumbly into the man's face, half hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat.
“What say you, son,” Avery shook him again, pausing from his emotional but carefully calculated tirade.
“Me, sir?”
“We're all here for you and your family. We're here for the memory of your father, who all of us cared deeply for. And we're here for each other, for the time those government inspectors come calling to our door.” Avery pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sons-'a-bitches! Fall prey on a man's family when he ain't even fresh in the grave.”
Myron didn't know quite what to say. His chin quivered as he straddled the line between childhood and being a man, for whatever that meant. He was hanging out in space, overwhelmed and baffled at the passing of his father, spun and outraged by the government inspectors, seduced and blinded by Avery Lysander.
“Worried for my mom.”
“Course you are,” said Avery. “Course you are.” He hugged the boy closer to his side. “Damned if I'll let those inspectors set one foot on this boy's land!”
There were nods and agreeable rumblings from the other men. Encouraged and riled by Avery, they had drawn a line at Bert Himmel's farm.
“Go to my grave,” Avery continued, “before I let that happen.”
Myron looked up at Avery. Like his papa, Myron never much cared for the man. He always seemed a little on the sneaky and disingenuous side, like he was figuring all the angles. Now, with the loss of his father, Myron was lost in a blizzard, stumbling blind into an unknown abyss, and desperate for any shelter. That desperation required abandoning conventions he might have otherwise fought hard to maintain.
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