Golden-brown. John woke early, just as the morning sun was hitting the highest roofs and treetops across the road, as though the curtain of night was being withdrawn from the world. The storm had moved off sometime during the night, but the world was still wet. The air was light with the scent of grass and of all things enlivened by the rain. He lay there for a time listening to Anna’s soft slow breaths. The room was still, almost to the point of becoming deafening. It still carried the essence of their love making some hours before. John took a breath, but it stuttered in his chest. A tear slipped across his cheek to the pillow.
John felt suspended, as if the world had congealed around him, formed into some sort of new mineral. Not like amber, but more like warm sweet molasses, in which he could move and breathe but with resistance. And he felt warm for it, as though at the edge of a fever.
John sat up quite suddenly, planting his feet firmly on the wooden floor, testing its veracity. He looked back to Anna. She was still asleep, apparently undisturbed. The blanket was stretched across her rounded belly. John dared to run his hand lightly across it, pressing the palm lightly, smiling with a mixture of love and terror at the slightest movement within. He stretched and rolled his head around once or twice to loosen the tension residing, dissipating a kink that threatened a headache. John sighed again.
He left her asleep in bed and went to the back door. He pushed the screen open disturbing a hand full of sparrows on the back step. They fluttered away, running low over the wet grass, chattering all the way to the trees at the back of the yard. In the early morning light the overnight rain rose as steam from the grass and bonding with the air in a symbiotic relationship, like too perfect lovers. That diffused light gave everything a dreamy, painted sense.
Just as in the dream, pieces of black tar paper from the roof littered the yard. The Irises, which had been flattened in the down-pour, were beginning to find their feet again. It all gave John an eerie sense of déjà vu, and helped to erase the flimsy line between reality and his mind.
We are dreams, thought John, and just as fleeting. We are moments in time, waves upon an unknown shore, falling upon the memory of those before and erased by the waves to come. He could count on nothing except his own arrogance and the decision to love Anna. Everything else was hardly more than a notion, which is where he was happy to leave them.
John looked at his hands. They were coarse and calloused and strong. He made a tight fist with each and flexed the fingers again, exhilarating at the life in them. The dream had alternately shaken and reaffirmed him. After a time, his thoughts spent on the dream, which was already fading from memory, John went back in and dressed.
Anna awoke just as he was slipping on his shoes. He smiled dreamily at him and stretched with a groan to awaken her senses. The sunlight through flowery lace curtains painted quiet shadows across Anna and the bed. She stretched again and smiled as though she might burst with light.
“God, I slept like a rock.”
“Didn’t hear the storm?” he asked.
“I was dead!”
“Storm took off part of the roof.” John stood and tugged the suspenders over each shoulder.
“Oh dear!” Anna gasped.
“Patches here and there.” He reached over and ran the back of his fingers across her cheek. “Run up to Mallard and see Bert Himmel about a roll of tar paper.”
He leaned and kissed her softly. John buried his face in Anna’s neck a moment, savoring the warmth and musk of her soft skin. As he drew away Anna wiped her fingers softly along his nose.
“Be careful.”
He started for the door, dragging his fingers along the edge of the bed, as if it was the world and he was holding on for just as long as he was able. “Won’t be gone long.”
“John,” said Anna, as he reached the door.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He nodded. The words lifted him. John found her green eyes. “Me too.”
Monday, April 5, 2010
Emmetsburg: Eighty
They were gathered tightly above him. Some of the faces were familiar. Others were strangers to him. One of the soldiers was waving people back, urging the others to give John some air, as if air could undo the mortal damage done to his body, as if air could stop the crimson blood flowing freely from John’s body into the warm Iowa soil.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
The rain had moved off. A thunderhead grew in the distance. John watched it grow along an axis, spreading across the eastern sky, Like floating white-capped mountains. It was like another world that he could well imagine among the folds, the contours and plunging canyons. He imagined towns and roads and farms where love and life were idyllic. Not like this one, burdened with sin and guilt and pain.
Someone wiped sweat and dirt from his face. He could no longer feel it, much as he could no longer hear the voices, the birds fluttering in the yard or the Myron Himmel weeping nearby. Life was falling away, darkening at the edges. It was losing focus, everything but that distant thunderhead, which felt like a destination. It felt like home, and like home broke his heart and gave him hope just the same.
Anna pushed through the circle of faces around him. Kneeling cradled his head, her expression somewhere between a forgiving smile and unfathomable grief. For John seeing her was the ultimate destination. Whatever awaited him beyond the threshold of this life, it was her face that would see him through. There was nothing more. There was no sadness, no guilt, no sense that he was leaving the world too early. Worries and recriminations are the fantasies of romantics and novelists. In the end it all comes to nothing, sweet beautiful nothing. Death comes. Death comes.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Emmetsburg: Seventy-nine
Crimson. John’s truck roared around the bend, straight at the wall of townsfolk who were still unaware and fully focused on the soldiers and police ahead of them. The rain and rumbling thunder masked the rattle and bang of the old truck. It bore down seemingly intent, despite john’s better intentions, upon smashing directly through those unsuspecting souls.
The effort to move at all became a gargantuan task. His body was charging from life as much as his spirit fought desperately for every remaining moment-if only to see Anna once more or to prove some purpose for all this, and that there was still justice in the world instead of a blind lottery folks alternately succumb to or gorge upon.
Nothing was working for him. This damned body seemed all but out of his control any longer, as if some long denied separation between the body and will was now undeniable. His eyes were liquid, drifting, heavy and unfocused. He swung his head wildly and shook it again and again in a waning attempt to keep them open a little longer. John moaned in an attempt to rally body and spirit once more.
“Anna!” he cried, not knowing for sure if he’d actually spoken the word. But it allowed him the strength to jam his hand down upon the horn at the final instant. People dove from the truck as it cut a swath through the crowd. It was all the effort he had left. John’s head tipped back and his arms fell away limp.
The truck careened hard to one side. The group of soldiers about to fire on the crowd suddenly reeled back, fearing the truck might swing their way. Instead it cut hard across the road, fully separating Myron Himmel and Avery Lysander from the rest of the protesters. They were still struggling for the gun when the truck sped past and slammed into the embankment with a terrific bang, nearly flipping end over end. The sound startled Myron enough for Avery to wrest control of the gun, just as it went off.
It was the gunshot that riveted everyone’s attention, more that the crash, at least at first. The bullet had grazed Myron’s cheek, chopping away a bit of his ear. Blood poured in a torrent, making the wound appear for worse to the stunned onlookers than it actually was. He stood apart from Avery, now alone in the gap between the crowd and the government men, in his hand the smoking gun was now the final tombstone for his schemes and crimes.
The effort to move at all became a gargantuan task. His body was charging from life as much as his spirit fought desperately for every remaining moment-if only to see Anna once more or to prove some purpose for all this, and that there was still justice in the world instead of a blind lottery folks alternately succumb to or gorge upon.
Nothing was working for him. This damned body seemed all but out of his control any longer, as if some long denied separation between the body and will was now undeniable. His eyes were liquid, drifting, heavy and unfocused. He swung his head wildly and shook it again and again in a waning attempt to keep them open a little longer. John moaned in an attempt to rally body and spirit once more.
“Anna!” he cried, not knowing for sure if he’d actually spoken the word. But it allowed him the strength to jam his hand down upon the horn at the final instant. People dove from the truck as it cut a swath through the crowd. It was all the effort he had left. John’s head tipped back and his arms fell away limp.
The truck careened hard to one side. The group of soldiers about to fire on the crowd suddenly reeled back, fearing the truck might swing their way. Instead it cut hard across the road, fully separating Myron Himmel and Avery Lysander from the rest of the protesters. They were still struggling for the gun when the truck sped past and slammed into the embankment with a terrific bang, nearly flipping end over end. The sound startled Myron enough for Avery to wrest control of the gun, just as it went off.
It was the gunshot that riveted everyone’s attention, more that the crash, at least at first. The bullet had grazed Myron’s cheek, chopping away a bit of his ear. Blood poured in a torrent, making the wound appear for worse to the stunned onlookers than it actually was. He stood apart from Avery, now alone in the gap between the crowd and the government men, in his hand the smoking gun was now the final tombstone for his schemes and crimes.
Emmetsburg: Seventy-eight
“I can’t do it!” Myron Himmel hung his head. He was still cradling the gun. It was still wrapped in the cloth. It’s weight sickened him. His father would never have condoned this. His father would never had become implicated in crimes and shame. That Myron had been blinded to the truth by grief was hardly an excuse. Bert Himmel wasn’t some Bible thunper, by any stretch, but he had imbued in his children a deep moral upbringing. He would have been ashamed of his son.
“I won’t do it!” Myron brought his eyes up to meet Avery’s. Myron was still weak in his resolve, and a part of him expected some answer from Avery Lysander,
“You’ll do it, all right,” growled Avery. It wasn’t about the battle for him. It was about the aftermath that suited his needs.
“Why me? Why not you?”
Avery didn’t have a proper answer. He stared blankly at the boy, murder rising in his veins. Myron almost wished he had said something, instead the boy found all he needed to know of Avery’s true motivations.
“You little bastard!” Avery slapped Myron hard across the face. “After all I sacrificed for you and your family. I didn’t have to do nothing…”
“And you won’t do nothing now.”
“The hell I won’t.”
“You won’t ‘
“Cause you’re a coward. You need all us around you to hide your crimes. Well I ain’t no more. I’m gonna confess it all, starting with my part.”
“You won’t.”
“And then I’ll beg God and C.W. for forgiveness.”
Avery grabbed for the gun, but Myron’d had enough of all this. Somehow he’d make amends, or failing that, work his whole life to atone. He drew away, despite that Avery was so much stronger for his hate and rage. The cloth fell away and a woman screamed. One of the soldiers saw it and cried to the others. A dozen rifles went up as the young recruits took aim at the crowd.
“I won’t do it!” Myron brought his eyes up to meet Avery’s. Myron was still weak in his resolve, and a part of him expected some answer from Avery Lysander,
“You’ll do it, all right,” growled Avery. It wasn’t about the battle for him. It was about the aftermath that suited his needs.
“Why me? Why not you?”
Avery didn’t have a proper answer. He stared blankly at the boy, murder rising in his veins. Myron almost wished he had said something, instead the boy found all he needed to know of Avery’s true motivations.
“You little bastard!” Avery slapped Myron hard across the face. “After all I sacrificed for you and your family. I didn’t have to do nothing…”
“And you won’t do nothing now.”
“The hell I won’t.”
“You won’t ‘
“Cause you’re a coward. You need all us around you to hide your crimes. Well I ain’t no more. I’m gonna confess it all, starting with my part.”
“You won’t.”
“And then I’ll beg God and C.W. for forgiveness.”
Avery grabbed for the gun, but Myron’d had enough of all this. Somehow he’d make amends, or failing that, work his whole life to atone. He drew away, despite that Avery was so much stronger for his hate and rage. The cloth fell away and a woman screamed. One of the soldiers saw it and cried to the others. A dozen rifles went up as the young recruits took aim at the crowd.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Emmetsburg: Seventy-six
Silver. The rain picked up again, but the clouds had lightened polishing the world, redefining it in simple patterns of light and dark. The rain rustled like fine tinsel. It poured from eaves and weighted leaves. Everywhere the world seemed to shimmer and change with each passing moment.
John stopped at the top of the jailhouse steps. Louis was just ahead of him. John grabbed the back of his shirt, nearly pulling Louis off his feet. The pistol was tucked in the waist of John’s trousers. His injured hand covered it. He resolved to use it if need be, while praying to god it wouldn’t come to that. The soldiers at the corner were huddled around a single cigarette beneath a red and white striped shop awning. John spied them carefully then pushed Louis down the last steps and across to the truck. He opened the driver’s side door and motioned with a nod for Louis to get inside.
“No, John, I won’t go.”
“I ain’t asking you twice,” she said through gritted teeth, glancing over to the soldiers once more.
“What do you think you’ll accomplish?”
“Testing fate, my friend.”
Thunder rumbled distantly. It was low and hollow. Not as something apart from the world, but as if the whole earth, the trees and houses, the oceans, souls and creatures had joined together in a collective moan.
“John, this is madness!” Louis whined, crestfallen and confused.
A pistol shot exploded. A bullet slapped into the truck beside Louis’ head. Two more shots followed in quick succession. John wheeled and leveled the gun without thinking. Homer stood at the door to the jail, holding the pistol unsteadily in both hands. His face was pale, almost if he might be sick from the act of trying his damnedest to kill someone. He fired again and Louis slid to the ground with a gasp.
John fired twice. His aim was careful and calculated. He was back in the war again, and just as steady. As intended both bullets found their mark precisely. The wooden door frame to either side of Homer splintered and came apart in bits and pieces. An hour before he might have coward or fled. Instead, fearing the humiliation and shame he would face, Homer fell to one knee and took aim once more.
Hearing all this, the soldiers at the corner were already charging up the street, their rifles and bayonets at the ready. John turned to face them, scattering the men with two shots that went high. John knew he was outgunned. A sudden sinking feeling in his gut told him just how terrible a miscalculation he had made. The searing hot punch of a bullet to the side slammed him against the truck. Warm silk-red blood poured down his side. John knew instantly he probably would never see Anna again. Fighting for breath, John took aim and put a round neatly through Homer’s shooting arm. The boy spun backwards, the pistol skidding away from him.
The soldiers had taken up positions and unleashed a fusillade against the truck. Untested and inexperienced, their shots came in groups of three, each preceded by a pause as they worked the bolt of their Enfields and took fresh aim. One of the men stood, exposing himself as he moved to a better firing position. John put the last round at his feet, chasing the man back. Out of bullets John flung the pistol away and looked down at Louis.
A bullet had pierced Louis’ chest. John could tell right off it was a grievous wound. Blood soaked his shirt and spread across the pavement beneath him, spattering with the rain. With each hollow and excruciating breath the blood gurgled and bubbled from the wound. Louis’s eyes rolled back and the other-worldly expression returned to him. He gripped the leg of John’s trousers and coughed through a spray of blood.
John stopped at the top of the jailhouse steps. Louis was just ahead of him. John grabbed the back of his shirt, nearly pulling Louis off his feet. The pistol was tucked in the waist of John’s trousers. His injured hand covered it. He resolved to use it if need be, while praying to god it wouldn’t come to that. The soldiers at the corner were huddled around a single cigarette beneath a red and white striped shop awning. John spied them carefully then pushed Louis down the last steps and across to the truck. He opened the driver’s side door and motioned with a nod for Louis to get inside.
“No, John, I won’t go.”
“I ain’t asking you twice,” she said through gritted teeth, glancing over to the soldiers once more.
“What do you think you’ll accomplish?”
“Testing fate, my friend.”
Thunder rumbled distantly. It was low and hollow. Not as something apart from the world, but as if the whole earth, the trees and houses, the oceans, souls and creatures had joined together in a collective moan.
“John, this is madness!” Louis whined, crestfallen and confused.
A pistol shot exploded. A bullet slapped into the truck beside Louis’ head. Two more shots followed in quick succession. John wheeled and leveled the gun without thinking. Homer stood at the door to the jail, holding the pistol unsteadily in both hands. His face was pale, almost if he might be sick from the act of trying his damnedest to kill someone. He fired again and Louis slid to the ground with a gasp.
John fired twice. His aim was careful and calculated. He was back in the war again, and just as steady. As intended both bullets found their mark precisely. The wooden door frame to either side of Homer splintered and came apart in bits and pieces. An hour before he might have coward or fled. Instead, fearing the humiliation and shame he would face, Homer fell to one knee and took aim once more.
Hearing all this, the soldiers at the corner were already charging up the street, their rifles and bayonets at the ready. John turned to face them, scattering the men with two shots that went high. John knew he was outgunned. A sudden sinking feeling in his gut told him just how terrible a miscalculation he had made. The searing hot punch of a bullet to the side slammed him against the truck. Warm silk-red blood poured down his side. John knew instantly he probably would never see Anna again. Fighting for breath, John took aim and put a round neatly through Homer’s shooting arm. The boy spun backwards, the pistol skidding away from him.
The soldiers had taken up positions and unleashed a fusillade against the truck. Untested and inexperienced, their shots came in groups of three, each preceded by a pause as they worked the bolt of their Enfields and took fresh aim. One of the men stood, exposing himself as he moved to a better firing position. John put the last round at his feet, chasing the man back. Out of bullets John flung the pistol away and looked down at Louis.
A bullet had pierced Louis’ chest. John could tell right off it was a grievous wound. Blood soaked his shirt and spread across the pavement beneath him, spattering with the rain. With each hollow and excruciating breath the blood gurgled and bubbled from the wound. Louis’s eyes rolled back and the other-worldly expression returned to him. He gripped the leg of John’s trousers and coughed through a spray of blood.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Emmetsburg: Seventy-five
“What’s your name?” John asked. The young deputy fumbled nervously with the keys to the j ail door. His face was beet red, and it looked as if he was about to just dissolve into a flood of tears.
“Homer, M-Mister Puh-Perkins. Homer Lovett.” He found the key and pushed it into the lock. “Thuh-think your making a big mistake.”
“Think you might be right, Homer,” John replied. “But I’ll be damned if I know just what is right anymore. All I know is I gotta do this, but I am sorry. Hope you can see it in your heart one day to forgive me.”
The tumblers in the lock fell into place. Homer looked over his shoulder, past the gun barrel into John’s determined eyes. “You-you go now and I’ll forget any of this…”
“Can’t son. Open the door.”
Louis was already up and standing at the door to his cell when the door opened. His expression was resigned, as if he knew this was coming. His eyes held John’s for a moment before sinking to the cold gray concrete floor. Louis shook his head slowly. He snickered at the absurdity of it all, making John feel foolish and small.
“This is all wrong, John,” said Louis. He stepped back from the door until his back was against the wall.
“Didn’t see this, did you?” said John.
Meantime, Homer had collected himself a bit. Enough that as John’s attention was on Louis he slipped one of the spare keys from the ring and pushed it into his pocket. Wasn’t a moment later that John patted the boy’s shoulder and motioned to the lock with the gun.
“Open it up,” said John.
Homer did as he was told and the door swung open wide. The fear was leaving him. replaced by anger at being thought a fool by John. Even more, he could already feel himself become the butt of jokes. The blood rose in his face. When John pushed him into Louis’ cell every thought, every cell in his body screamed for justice.
In the same motion John pulled Louis from the cell. He swiped the key ring from Homer’s hand and shut the door tight, locking the boy inside. John paused, tearing his own heart out for what he was doing to that boy. That he could come to no other solution offered not the slightest reprieve from guilt.
“John, you cant. It isn’t, it’s not…”
“Fate?” John cut him off quickly.
“Right, John. This isn’t right.”
John brought his face close to Louis, and shoved the gun barrel into his side. “Maybe I pull this trigger. Maybe I shoot Homer and make it look like you tried to escape. Maybe I do nothing and let them put me in jail and throw away the key so I can rot here. Where would that leave your premonitions? Truth is there are many fates, and all of them are negotiable.”
The best John could figure from all this was that fate was a storm front. There was a grander order, a boiling, tumultuous and repentant order, even if a body couldn’t see it. And those clouds were the sum of innumerable small droplets. Had they a perspective each might see its place in the storm as unique and even exalted. Not that it necessarily held a place of any greater or lesser importance.. These were the assertions of ego and the arguments of history. Truth of it was no single one of them was exalted, for history was imbued with the power of every soul, and forged under their collective weight.
“Homer, M-Mister Puh-Perkins. Homer Lovett.” He found the key and pushed it into the lock. “Thuh-think your making a big mistake.”
“Think you might be right, Homer,” John replied. “But I’ll be damned if I know just what is right anymore. All I know is I gotta do this, but I am sorry. Hope you can see it in your heart one day to forgive me.”
The tumblers in the lock fell into place. Homer looked over his shoulder, past the gun barrel into John’s determined eyes. “You-you go now and I’ll forget any of this…”
“Can’t son. Open the door.”
Louis was already up and standing at the door to his cell when the door opened. His expression was resigned, as if he knew this was coming. His eyes held John’s for a moment before sinking to the cold gray concrete floor. Louis shook his head slowly. He snickered at the absurdity of it all, making John feel foolish and small.
“This is all wrong, John,” said Louis. He stepped back from the door until his back was against the wall.
“Didn’t see this, did you?” said John.
Meantime, Homer had collected himself a bit. Enough that as John’s attention was on Louis he slipped one of the spare keys from the ring and pushed it into his pocket. Wasn’t a moment later that John patted the boy’s shoulder and motioned to the lock with the gun.
“Open it up,” said John.
Homer did as he was told and the door swung open wide. The fear was leaving him. replaced by anger at being thought a fool by John. Even more, he could already feel himself become the butt of jokes. The blood rose in his face. When John pushed him into Louis’ cell every thought, every cell in his body screamed for justice.
In the same motion John pulled Louis from the cell. He swiped the key ring from Homer’s hand and shut the door tight, locking the boy inside. John paused, tearing his own heart out for what he was doing to that boy. That he could come to no other solution offered not the slightest reprieve from guilt.
“John, you cant. It isn’t, it’s not…”
“Fate?” John cut him off quickly.
“Right, John. This isn’t right.”
John brought his face close to Louis, and shoved the gun barrel into his side. “Maybe I pull this trigger. Maybe I shoot Homer and make it look like you tried to escape. Maybe I do nothing and let them put me in jail and throw away the key so I can rot here. Where would that leave your premonitions? Truth is there are many fates, and all of them are negotiable.”
The best John could figure from all this was that fate was a storm front. There was a grander order, a boiling, tumultuous and repentant order, even if a body couldn’t see it. And those clouds were the sum of innumerable small droplets. Had they a perspective each might see its place in the storm as unique and even exalted. Not that it necessarily held a place of any greater or lesser importance.. These were the assertions of ego and the arguments of history. Truth of it was no single one of them was exalted, for history was imbued with the power of every soul, and forged under their collective weight.
Emmetsburg: Seventy-four
Blue-gray.
“Here they come!” someone cried. Above the heads of the citizens upraised bayonets gleamed brightly against storm clouds. Thunder spoke loudly, chasing lightening over the land. The storm awoke fully in sheets of rain.
Men contrive. Avery contrived to protect his own sins by sacrificing Myron, but he was as swept up in things that had grown much larger than himself and his self-serving schemes. They rejoined the crowd now surging into the road and forming a wall in the faces of the soldiers and police.
When men resolve to violence no amount of reason, no fellowship among country men and no love among brothers can steer them from that course. Both sides found that in one another. Both gambled that their spirit, that their violence would carry the day, and both swore by the righteousness of their cause. Reason and commiseration would only come long after the battle had ended, long after the physical wounds had healed and the dead buried, but only to a few.
Avery and Stan Pickett had a hold of Myron. They worked their way forward, angling towards the opposite side of the road. Avert wanted to keep out of the direct line of sight of the troops, and should it come to things, out of the direct line of fire. Near the center of the crowd he paused to survey the troops opposite. They had stopped, leveling their rifles and bayonets. It brought the citizens to an abrupt halt. Thunder roared again and fled across the fields, leaving the chorusing rain.
The soldiers were tense and frightened, Avery observed. A gunshot was likely to panic them into opening fire. He recalled Ernie’s reference to the Boston Massacre, and how the thuggery of a handful of youths and drunkards had provoked untested and frightened British lads into a stupid reprisal. Rebel leaders vaulted the moment to mythical proportions to inspire a revolution. Avery looked at Myron, looking every bit as terrified and apprehensive as the soldiers. The boy teetered at the edge of a precipice. Avery determined to push him over.
“All revolutions are started by a single brave and selfless act,” said Avery. He held Myron by the shoulder with one hand. The other hand covered the pistol Myron cradled to his gut. “be brave son. The rest of us will follow.”
Just them Ernie Vogel lunged for the pistol. Stan caught him by the color, but it was too late to keep him from getting to Myron.
“Can’t let this happen.” He and Avery and the boy struggled for the gun. “I’ll go to jail, I’ll go to the grave before I…”
Stan cut Ernie’s words short with a well placed slug to the side of Ernie’s face. He was out instantly, falling limp to the ground. Stan nodded once and watched as Myron and Avery disappeared through the crowd.
“Here they come!” someone cried. Above the heads of the citizens upraised bayonets gleamed brightly against storm clouds. Thunder spoke loudly, chasing lightening over the land. The storm awoke fully in sheets of rain.
Men contrive. Avery contrived to protect his own sins by sacrificing Myron, but he was as swept up in things that had grown much larger than himself and his self-serving schemes. They rejoined the crowd now surging into the road and forming a wall in the faces of the soldiers and police.
When men resolve to violence no amount of reason, no fellowship among country men and no love among brothers can steer them from that course. Both sides found that in one another. Both gambled that their spirit, that their violence would carry the day, and both swore by the righteousness of their cause. Reason and commiseration would only come long after the battle had ended, long after the physical wounds had healed and the dead buried, but only to a few.
Avery and Stan Pickett had a hold of Myron. They worked their way forward, angling towards the opposite side of the road. Avert wanted to keep out of the direct line of sight of the troops, and should it come to things, out of the direct line of fire. Near the center of the crowd he paused to survey the troops opposite. They had stopped, leveling their rifles and bayonets. It brought the citizens to an abrupt halt. Thunder roared again and fled across the fields, leaving the chorusing rain.
The soldiers were tense and frightened, Avery observed. A gunshot was likely to panic them into opening fire. He recalled Ernie’s reference to the Boston Massacre, and how the thuggery of a handful of youths and drunkards had provoked untested and frightened British lads into a stupid reprisal. Rebel leaders vaulted the moment to mythical proportions to inspire a revolution. Avery looked at Myron, looking every bit as terrified and apprehensive as the soldiers. The boy teetered at the edge of a precipice. Avery determined to push him over.
“All revolutions are started by a single brave and selfless act,” said Avery. He held Myron by the shoulder with one hand. The other hand covered the pistol Myron cradled to his gut. “be brave son. The rest of us will follow.”
Just them Ernie Vogel lunged for the pistol. Stan caught him by the color, but it was too late to keep him from getting to Myron.
“Can’t let this happen.” He and Avery and the boy struggled for the gun. “I’ll go to jail, I’ll go to the grave before I…”
Stan cut Ernie’s words short with a well placed slug to the side of Ernie’s face. He was out instantly, falling limp to the ground. Stan nodded once and watched as Myron and Avery disappeared through the crowd.
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