The next day, Seamus awoke again before dawn, this time in quiet anticipation. His stomach had been turning somersaults all evening, his mind wondering with dreams of grandeur. Should he get all he wanted for his birthday he presumed, he would be the happiest boy in the world. Even if he didn’t, he realized, there would be very little to compete with the title "Best day of the year," unless you counted Christmas, of course – still, on Christmas you had to go to church and celebrate someone else’s birthday. This would be much better than that.
Lying in the quiet predawn, the boy had little to ponder except how the day would play out. His most looked-forward to gift would be that pack rifle from the general store. Just a little .22, he thought when he saw it in the window. His brothers three, Mack, William and Tristan, all received their first rifles at different times – Mack got his at eight, William at seven and Tristan not until this year, when he turned ten. All wanted something completely different for their first gun, but they all received something of similar import – a pack rifle, small enough to be broken down and carried on the trail, but of enough weight to build muscles in a boy.
Passing by the general store window five months ago, Seamus had seen the weapon and stopped dead in his tracks, lost in the wonderment at the idea that something of such magnitude might one day come to claim him, even as he would claim the firearm for his own.
"Pop," he said as he trudged along after Agnius. "Pop, I like that pack rifle in the window there." Agnius looked down at his youngest son, a gleam in his eye and a careful trod coming into his step.
"Oh, you do now son? What turned your face to that weapon? You were looking at the Springfield, I bet."
"No sir, not the Springfield."
"The Rossi, then?"
"No sir."
"Well, which was it?"
"The Winchester, sir. I was looking at the Winchester." Agnius chuckled to himself and swung his head as he was prone to do, like a horse. They walked on in silence a few more paces, each consumed by his own thoughts until Agnius broached the subject once more.
"You got strong taste, boy."
"Thank you, sir."
"How old are you now?"
"Six and a half, sir."
"Aye, six and a half. The half is for good measure, I reckon. OK, let’s do this. You want that weapon for your own?"
"Yes sir." The boy nodded sheepishly and his mind raced back to that store window with the Winchester hanging behind the pane of glass. He could feel the warm hickory stock in his hands, the weight of it becoming comfortable, the stock coming warm and familiar against his little shoulder, his eyes down the sights, the pull of the trigger … "Yessir. That’s what I want."
"What you want for … ?"
"For my birthday, sir. That’s what I want for my birthday."
"Ha, I see. Already planning ahead. That, I bet, is why that ‘and a half’ was thrown in there. Well, do you know how old Mack was when he got his first weapon?"
"Eight, sir. I remember the story."
"That’s right. He was eight and worth his weight in salt, that one. He knew the value and responsibility of such a weapon. And do you know how old William was?"
"Bill was seven, sir. Same age I’m turning." The two turned the corner and began the trek out of the township and into the country. Seamus was kept on the inside, away from the rutted road while Agnius walked nearest the center of the lane, one hand in his pocket, hand gripped loosely on his ever-present flask, and the other swinging freely.
"Indeed. Seven. And do you know why he got his at seven while my eldest, my pride and joy, got his at eight?"
"No sir. I sure don’t."
"Well, though Mack is the stronger and the faster of the two, William had him beat in the responsibility department by a full year. I never had to tell William when to pull the eggs, only showed him once how to milk the old cow. All of that. William took to manhood quicker than Mack did. And that’s something. You can’t count that sort of thing like you can with speed, or strength or intelligence. That’s right here." Agnius pointed to his heart with middle and index fingers and thumped heartily. "Can’t teach that. I’ll tell you what, dear lad, you prove to me that you’re as heartful and responsible as William when he was seven and I’ll be glad, more than glad, to get you that rifle. But if you don’t end up with it come September, we’ll both know it was no fault of mine. Deal?"
"Deal, sir."
"’Atta boy. Now, that doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two about shooting, regardless of what kind of man you turn out to be, does it?"
Seamus, a sure smile turning his face, went wide eyed. "No sir. Doesn’t mean nothing like that no how."
"Alright then. We’ll begin the lessons after chores tomorrow and I’ll take you with me, empty handed of course, when we go hunting. You won’t be one of us, you know as you’ll have no rifle, no bullets, no opinions on the going ons of we men, but you’ll be allowed to listen and, when we get home, ask questions."
"OK, sir. Thank you."
"You’re welcome. And son?"
"Yes sir."
"You don’t mention our deal to Tristan, you understand? He didn’t receive his first weapon until this year, just a few short months ago and I don’t … well, just don’t mention it to him. You hear?"
"Yes sir."
"Good."
Seamus lay back in his bed and put his arms behind his head, hoping he was actually coming as close to manhood as he hoped. If he received the Winchester, it would prove something to himself, deep down, that he wasn’t just the runt of the litter, that he was able to stand up in the same realm as his brothers. He understood that his father cast but a small shadow in the world of men, but he hoped to cast any shadow at this point, if only he might be included in their world, in their realm, in their ways. Tristan, turning over in his sleep, mumbled something unexplainable and Seamus looked over at him, happily content that his brother was not truly awake to ruin this little moment he was having with himself. He relived the lessons his father taught him about gun safety, how to hold the gun, where the safety would be, when and why to fire – even when and why not to fire. He thought this lesson one of the most important, Seamus recalled, and pounded it into his head.
"It’s a lot better for you to have a gun and not need it, son. The trigger’s an unsympathetic thing. Once you fire that shot, there’s no going back. You need to use your mind and your heart, knowing when to put a bullet in a thing – whether it be duck, deer or man, you fire no shot aimlessly, you hear?"
Three months into his training, he went on his first hunting trip. The boys tracked incredibly well and ended up with a deer – William had brought it down – but they all took part in the hunt in a manner Seamus had not understood, even as an outsider. They encouraged one another in ways that were foreign to him. Never during chores did Mack put a hand on William’s shoulder. Tristan was not usually treated with such respect for, though he was but ten years old, he was a dead eye with his pack rifle. You weren’t allowed to fire on a deer until you got your first shotgun, but Tristan came home with a couple of quail and an expression of triumph that Seamus knew too well; he saw it every time he was thrown from the bed. There was something in the lad that Seamus mistook for evil – perhaps it was arrogance or pride, but even when the boy should have been the most humble or the most reverent, he found a way to cast a shadow of hubris on the scene. When he got the quail, for instance, he yelped out like a puppy when all the other men, Seamus included, stalked up the kill quietly, joylessly, knowing they had taken a couple of perfectly good lives in the killing. This murdering, it seemed, came more naturally to Tristan than the rest of the O’Leary clan.
Seamus rose from the bed, unable to stay put any longer. He dressed quietly in the morning cold and went out to the hen house, the same route that he had taken the day before. Though today was not his day to pull the eggs, he did it anyway – Elizabeth was supposed to do it, but he thought the pancakes she would be making would be work enough. The pre-morning air was chilly but not uncomfortable. The frost lay helpless on the grass and he kicked at it as he came back toward the house. He wondered if this was still a sign of that lasting childhood, then shook the thought from him. He was seven, after all, and found that seven was a great number to be. He would still be able to play with Tristan, he realized – wouldn’t even begin taking up too many more chores outside of occasionally shoveling up the horse dung, or helping Bill bring hay down from the loft – but he would begin the process of inclusion, that slow and quiet welcome into the world of men.
But what if, he wondered? The thought of failure hadn’t even crossed his mind until this very moment and the boy stopped dead in his tracks, hands white knuckling the basket of eggs until the weave groaned under the pressure. What if he looked forward to such a moment as this only to have it pass him by, forcing him to wait another year? "No," he thought. "I’ve done right. Pa knows it. I’ve done right. I’ll have that rifle."
As he came back into the cabin, he stomped his feet as Mack taught him, getting all the mulch from his boots. The screen door came quietly to its hinges as he kept his fingertips against the frame, cradling it so that it wouldn’t bang as he entered. Elizabeth, sure enough, was already at the stove, mixing up a batter for pancakes.
"What’cha got there, birthday boy?"
"Present for you."
"Well, whose birthday is it again? Thought it was yours." She laughed a little loudly then, stifled it and took the basket from her youngest brother. "Thank you for getting the eggs this morning. You really did volunteer this time ‘round, didn’t you?"
Seamus smiled and looked down, aware that she knew all too well what happened the previous morning. "I volunteered yesterday, too. Just… today was a different kind of volunteering."
"O yeah? How so?"
"Well, today was real volunteering."
She chuckled again and looked at Seamus with semi-serious eyes. "And what was yesterday?"
"Yesterday was practice for today."
"OK, little brother. That’s good enough by me. Have a seat, the pancakes will be up shortly." Seamus drew up the same chair he had taken up the day before, eager to get his fork into the fluffy goodness of Elizabeth’s pancakes. She always made them a little better than anyone else, he realized – partly because she was his sister and she thought the world of him, but mainly because she used a little bit of cinnamon in the batter and tossed on some macerated apples for good measure. They continued talking for about 20 minutes while she worked and the remainder of the household woke up. On a day like this, when one of the clan had a birthday, everyone took half a day off. Chores got done later than normal, people got more rest and, by and large, everyone was a bit happier than they would normally be.
Everyone arose of their own accord and, as they came through the hallway, wished Seamus a happy birthday. Even Tristan, for all his salt, smiled encouragingly. When Agnius came out, he put a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder, looked him in the eyes and smiled knowingly. Elated, Seamus hoped this was a sure confirmation of what was to come. "Pop is proud of me," he thought. "This has to be a good sign." The day passed like any other, except that the boy had an elated feeling throughout the majority of it. When he looked back on his birthday as an adult, nothing seemed out of the ordinary but for the continuous quick and heavy clip of his seven-year-old heart.
12.19.2008
The Game
In the fields, the boys became friends more than enemies and felt at home among the wheat. They always met at the gap in the fence, typically dirty and typically smiling. Tristan, more than Seamus, had a tendency to pluck an apple from the tree when they were ripe, or swipe some bread off the window sill, stuffed down in his britches, to be eaten in the wide open fields with his brother. Though he had a mean streak and a bit of laziness around the mind, he was still willing to share the spoils of war, as they were called. Seamus could locate the cleanest part in the stream when they were in the woods, always managed to find the juiciest berries to be taken from the mulberry bush. For the latter, he would take up a piece of cheesecloth that he had acquired from Elizabeth and pull it out of his pocket, wrinkled and boy-smelling, to catch the purple sweet berries as he pulled them off their branches, careful not to crush or bruise them. This was a much more delicate job than the ones Tristan was used to getting. When they were very tiny, Tristan tried to help, but ended up crushing the berries and getting purple juice all over his overalls and hands. It was a horrible mess and one that Seamus didn’t want to relive. On this particular morning, however, there were no plans for mulberries or creeks and dying riverbeds. Instead, they only hoped to play some tag in the wheat field, perhaps finally climb the old oak and just avoid the homestead as long as possible.
At the gap in the fence, Tristan sat and whittled a piece of pine his father had abandoned in the barn. Try as he might, the young boy was unable to turn it into the goose he imagined, even with the help of the pocket knife he filched from Bill over a week ago. As Seamus approached his older brother, still a little nervous after Elizabeth’s questioning, Tristan whittled the beak of the bird right off. It landed with a thud against the high grass near the fence post. The next moment, the blade was thrown point first into the dirt 5 feet from Seamus’ walking body.
"Dammit," the elder muttered.
"’Salright. You’ll get it." Seamus picked up the blade and closed it against his hand, the rosewood handle warm where his brother had been gripping it. As he pushed the knife back toward Tristan, he also took out of his pocket a mason’s jar of water, held it up and said, "Got this, too. Had the bottle. Stopped at the pump and got some water."
"That’s good. Really. Let’s go, huh?"
"Yeah."
Tristan hopped off the fence and began trotting into the field, loping until he was about 100 feet ahead. There, he dropped to all fours and disappeared from sight.
"Hey, no fair," Seamus yelled into the blue. "I thought we wouldn’t play until the oak tree." When he got no response, he picked up his pace until he came to where the wheat told him his brother had stopped. Here, he stopped, too. With his hands and his eyes, he read the secrets the field told him - where his brother had dropped to all fours, how fast he was moving, how he tried to flank Seamus without his knowledge. The point of the game was to take your opponent unawares, tackling him from behind and holding him to the ground in any position for three seconds. Granted, they weren’t real seconds, as the boys counted as fast as their mouths and minds would let them - and as loud, too - but the point was never lost. As a result of The Game, as it came to be called, each boy later became an exceptional tracker. Tristan, more than Seamus, went on to become a skilled hunter as well.
Seamus caught his breathing, knowing that it was giving him away. He kept low to the ground - not on all fours like his brother, but stooped over and on the balls of his feet, checking the newly rained soil for footprints that were barely visible. The tall grass grew in every direction, this being more grass and less wheat. Whatever wheat that grew before Mr. Hanover’s own fence was a direct result of shifting winds and crows dropping seeds where they didn’t belong. As a result, the field they young boys walked through and sought one another through, was a kaleidoscope of height and flexibility. Where the wheat would be stiff one moment, the grasses would be flexible and malleable the next, making it difficult to gauge distance or track accordingly. However, Seamus found that Tristan held to a few major plans and acted as though this were currently true.
He kept low, not moving very much and keeping his breath still. He pictured his older brother circling behind him, probably from his left, and closing in on him like a cat. Seamus took two sideways steps to the right, and paused, listening. Behind him, he heard Tristan slightly change direction. At his right hand, he palmed the broken branch of a mishandled oak and grasped it firmly. With a quick thrust, he threw it farther to his right, low to the ground, so that it crashed among the reeds. Again, he paused and listened. And again, he heard his brother misjudge the sound and move a step or two more to the right, just a touch off course. He backed his right leg up a bit, keeping his left foot planted and acting as a fulcrum. As he backed up the right leg, he turned ninety degrees, now looking to his right at about where his brother should be coming upon him. He waited with bated breath, heart pumping hard and beginning to get a little cold. Five minutes later, his brother came into sight, crawling like a cat a few feet away, intent on a mistaken shape where the branch fell. Seamus desperately waited for his moment and, just when Tristan had passed the point where Seamus might be seen in his peripheral vision, our hero whispered:
"I’m over here, brother."
With a quick turn of the head, Tristan saw what he had previously missed and cursed himself. Seamus leaned forward, smiling, and rushed his elder so that they went tumbling backwards into the grasses. No one could get the upper hand, but they became itchy and nearly cut by the blue grass and the wheat. After a few minutes, both were out of breath and laughing.
"You got me this time," Tristan said. "I was surprised."
"You were scared, I saw it."
"No. Not scared. Surprised is all." But Tristan was very much afraid of his brother’s little whisper, of his gallant resolve, of his superior instincts. Were Tristan the one waiting for the ambush, he would have rushed his younger brother and pinned him there to the ground, yelping as he did so. Looking back, Tristan thought he might have even given himself away if he were in Seamus’ shoes, knowing that the boy three years his younger already had more patience on the trail than himself.
"Just surprised," he said again. Seamus smiled a hearty smile as he stood up, brushing out the grass from his clothing. He began running ahead this time in the direction of the oak tree, knowing the roles were reversing and it was his turn to be the stalker. About 200 feet forward of Tristan, Seamus disappeared.
And so The Game began again.
At the gap in the fence, Tristan sat and whittled a piece of pine his father had abandoned in the barn. Try as he might, the young boy was unable to turn it into the goose he imagined, even with the help of the pocket knife he filched from Bill over a week ago. As Seamus approached his older brother, still a little nervous after Elizabeth’s questioning, Tristan whittled the beak of the bird right off. It landed with a thud against the high grass near the fence post. The next moment, the blade was thrown point first into the dirt 5 feet from Seamus’ walking body.
"Dammit," the elder muttered.
"’Salright. You’ll get it." Seamus picked up the blade and closed it against his hand, the rosewood handle warm where his brother had been gripping it. As he pushed the knife back toward Tristan, he also took out of his pocket a mason’s jar of water, held it up and said, "Got this, too. Had the bottle. Stopped at the pump and got some water."
"That’s good. Really. Let’s go, huh?"
"Yeah."
Tristan hopped off the fence and began trotting into the field, loping until he was about 100 feet ahead. There, he dropped to all fours and disappeared from sight.
"Hey, no fair," Seamus yelled into the blue. "I thought we wouldn’t play until the oak tree." When he got no response, he picked up his pace until he came to where the wheat told him his brother had stopped. Here, he stopped, too. With his hands and his eyes, he read the secrets the field told him - where his brother had dropped to all fours, how fast he was moving, how he tried to flank Seamus without his knowledge. The point of the game was to take your opponent unawares, tackling him from behind and holding him to the ground in any position for three seconds. Granted, they weren’t real seconds, as the boys counted as fast as their mouths and minds would let them - and as loud, too - but the point was never lost. As a result of The Game, as it came to be called, each boy later became an exceptional tracker. Tristan, more than Seamus, went on to become a skilled hunter as well.
Seamus caught his breathing, knowing that it was giving him away. He kept low to the ground - not on all fours like his brother, but stooped over and on the balls of his feet, checking the newly rained soil for footprints that were barely visible. The tall grass grew in every direction, this being more grass and less wheat. Whatever wheat that grew before Mr. Hanover’s own fence was a direct result of shifting winds and crows dropping seeds where they didn’t belong. As a result, the field they young boys walked through and sought one another through, was a kaleidoscope of height and flexibility. Where the wheat would be stiff one moment, the grasses would be flexible and malleable the next, making it difficult to gauge distance or track accordingly. However, Seamus found that Tristan held to a few major plans and acted as though this were currently true.
He kept low, not moving very much and keeping his breath still. He pictured his older brother circling behind him, probably from his left, and closing in on him like a cat. Seamus took two sideways steps to the right, and paused, listening. Behind him, he heard Tristan slightly change direction. At his right hand, he palmed the broken branch of a mishandled oak and grasped it firmly. With a quick thrust, he threw it farther to his right, low to the ground, so that it crashed among the reeds. Again, he paused and listened. And again, he heard his brother misjudge the sound and move a step or two more to the right, just a touch off course. He backed his right leg up a bit, keeping his left foot planted and acting as a fulcrum. As he backed up the right leg, he turned ninety degrees, now looking to his right at about where his brother should be coming upon him. He waited with bated breath, heart pumping hard and beginning to get a little cold. Five minutes later, his brother came into sight, crawling like a cat a few feet away, intent on a mistaken shape where the branch fell. Seamus desperately waited for his moment and, just when Tristan had passed the point where Seamus might be seen in his peripheral vision, our hero whispered:
"I’m over here, brother."
With a quick turn of the head, Tristan saw what he had previously missed and cursed himself. Seamus leaned forward, smiling, and rushed his elder so that they went tumbling backwards into the grasses. No one could get the upper hand, but they became itchy and nearly cut by the blue grass and the wheat. After a few minutes, both were out of breath and laughing.
"You got me this time," Tristan said. "I was surprised."
"You were scared, I saw it."
"No. Not scared. Surprised is all." But Tristan was very much afraid of his brother’s little whisper, of his gallant resolve, of his superior instincts. Were Tristan the one waiting for the ambush, he would have rushed his younger brother and pinned him there to the ground, yelping as he did so. Looking back, Tristan thought he might have even given himself away if he were in Seamus’ shoes, knowing that the boy three years his younger already had more patience on the trail than himself.
"Just surprised," he said again. Seamus smiled a hearty smile as he stood up, brushing out the grass from his clothing. He began running ahead this time in the direction of the oak tree, knowing the roles were reversing and it was his turn to be the stalker. About 200 feet forward of Tristan, Seamus disappeared.
And so The Game began again.
12.12.2008
Conversational Breakfast
He woke to the sound of feet on the hardwood as Elizabeth came in, her eyes shining in the sunlight. Tristan, when he got up, must have pulled the shades. She was a tall and lithe figure, already accustomed to the work of a woman around a farm though she was barely thirteen years old. Her hands had the marks of needles in her thumbs, her hands rough from scrubbing dishes and repairing clothes. She was as much a mother to young Seamus as Rachel – and had a heavier hand when the whoopings came, too. However, she was also quick to point out his grand performances, help him when necessary and, best in the eyes of our young hero, give him little chocolates when no one else was looking. To say that she was Seamus' favorite sibling would not have been an overstatement of terms, though he got along well enough with everyone else outside of Tristan’s orbit.
"Hey you," she said. "Why are you sleeping so late, and why on the floor?"
"Oh, um… I helped get the eggs this morning," Seamus said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. "No one woke me back up."
"And the floor?"
He looked at her with a sideways glance, quickly thinking of what to say. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Tristan wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed for a week if he let Liz know what happened that morning. So he lied, quickly.
"I like the floor."
"That’s a load of crap and you know it. I can feel the chill now. The floor’s cold, Shame. Too cold to be liked."
"No, really. I like the floor. I get to sleep by myself here." This part was not untrue, as Seamus enjoyed being able to stretch out when he wanted to, without the obstruction of another body in his way, or the thought of being the recipient to an elbow, punch or kick in the middle of the night without the ability to retaliate.
"OK, suit yourself, but it’s time to get up. Like, right now."
"Alright." The boy got up and pulled his jeans to his waist, wiped his hair out from his face and let the thermal top he had been wearing to bed double as his day-shirt. Upon rising, he noticed the smell of eggs and bacon -- the usual welcome party in the morning. "Any pancakes?," he asked.
"Nope. Not this morning. Maybe tomorrow. It is your seventh birthday tomorrow after all, so I might be able to make that happen."
"I hope so." He smiled at her and, when she smiled back, knew that pancakes were inevitable and just 24 short hours away.
At the kitchen table, he shoveled the food down his throat, drinking the orange juice and water Liz provided for him, all the while gearing up for the afternoon hike. Though only six years old, he loved to walk in the wheat fields of Mr. Hanover, the neighbor about a mile away. He and Tristan would play hide and seek, utilizing the deadened and decrepit black oak tree in the center of the field as a reference point and home base. So long as they were in by sundown, no one questioned their whereabouts. The family knew that, should the boys be visible and boisterous, the chances of their scheming were much greater than if they were out and about, playing at manhood and dreaming like thieves.
"Plans today?," Elizabeth asked.
"MM-MM-MM," he grumbled and shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know' fashion, a mouth full of bacon and potatoes.
"You lie, little brother. You always have plans." He swallowed the hot food, took a big sip of the orange juice and wiped his mouth.
"I don’t know, really," he said. "The wheat field, I think. I hope it warms up."
"It should, once the sun breaks the clouds. Shouldn’t be too bad. You and Tristan, I guess."
"Yep."
"Be mindful of him, you hear?"
"What do you mean? He's my brother."
"Well, he’s trouble, that boy, and you know it. I’ll tan your hide the color of night if you get in trouble and you know that, too -- but I won’t want to. I know that boy makes you do things -- like the eggs this morning."
"I got no idea what you’re talking about. I gotta get. Thanks for breakfast, Lizzie. See you later." He dropped the napkin onto the table, pulled his jacket on in a flurry and was out the door. The screen banged behind him and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the little kitchen, a look of angry confirmation on her face.
"Hey you," she said. "Why are you sleeping so late, and why on the floor?"
"Oh, um… I helped get the eggs this morning," Seamus said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. "No one woke me back up."
"And the floor?"
He looked at her with a sideways glance, quickly thinking of what to say. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Tristan wouldn’t let him sleep in the bed for a week if he let Liz know what happened that morning. So he lied, quickly.
"I like the floor."
"That’s a load of crap and you know it. I can feel the chill now. The floor’s cold, Shame. Too cold to be liked."
"No, really. I like the floor. I get to sleep by myself here." This part was not untrue, as Seamus enjoyed being able to stretch out when he wanted to, without the obstruction of another body in his way, or the thought of being the recipient to an elbow, punch or kick in the middle of the night without the ability to retaliate.
"OK, suit yourself, but it’s time to get up. Like, right now."
"Alright." The boy got up and pulled his jeans to his waist, wiped his hair out from his face and let the thermal top he had been wearing to bed double as his day-shirt. Upon rising, he noticed the smell of eggs and bacon -- the usual welcome party in the morning. "Any pancakes?," he asked.
"Nope. Not this morning. Maybe tomorrow. It is your seventh birthday tomorrow after all, so I might be able to make that happen."
"I hope so." He smiled at her and, when she smiled back, knew that pancakes were inevitable and just 24 short hours away.
At the kitchen table, he shoveled the food down his throat, drinking the orange juice and water Liz provided for him, all the while gearing up for the afternoon hike. Though only six years old, he loved to walk in the wheat fields of Mr. Hanover, the neighbor about a mile away. He and Tristan would play hide and seek, utilizing the deadened and decrepit black oak tree in the center of the field as a reference point and home base. So long as they were in by sundown, no one questioned their whereabouts. The family knew that, should the boys be visible and boisterous, the chances of their scheming were much greater than if they were out and about, playing at manhood and dreaming like thieves.
"Plans today?," Elizabeth asked.
"MM-MM-MM," he grumbled and shrugged his shoulders in an 'I don't know' fashion, a mouth full of bacon and potatoes.
"You lie, little brother. You always have plans." He swallowed the hot food, took a big sip of the orange juice and wiped his mouth.
"I don’t know, really," he said. "The wheat field, I think. I hope it warms up."
"It should, once the sun breaks the clouds. Shouldn’t be too bad. You and Tristan, I guess."
"Yep."
"Be mindful of him, you hear?"
"What do you mean? He's my brother."
"Well, he’s trouble, that boy, and you know it. I’ll tan your hide the color of night if you get in trouble and you know that, too -- but I won’t want to. I know that boy makes you do things -- like the eggs this morning."
"I got no idea what you’re talking about. I gotta get. Thanks for breakfast, Lizzie. See you later." He dropped the napkin onto the table, pulled his jacket on in a flurry and was out the door. The screen banged behind him and Elizabeth was left standing alone in the little kitchen, a look of angry confirmation on her face.
12.05.2008
Pink Fingers
When Seamus was a young boy, he thought the world darker and more dangerous than it actually was. This was mostly due to his elder siblings in general -- specifically, Tristan’s continuous and steadfast hazing made life bearable only in that Seamus, after turning seven years old, found that he would be able to wipe the wagon-rutted roads with Tristan’s face after enlisting the help of a neighborhood branch, stone or even a handful of dirt. Tristan, he realized, was a bit of a coward when weapons were involved. Before that point, however, our boy Seamus had an uncanny ability for drawing the short straw.
"Seamus," Tristan said one morning near the crack of dawn, as they both lay down in the same bed. Seamus’ back was to his brother and he felt the bed creak under Tristan’s weight as he propped himself up on one elbow. He initially made no reply, hoping to feign sleep until the boy got bored and pulled out of bed. "Seamus," he hissed. "Seamus, wake up." The elder shook the younger by the shoulder and there was nothing Seamus could do but to respond.
"Yep."
"Pull the eggs this morning." Seamus could feel his brother’s hot breath on the back of his neck and he clenched his six year old hands into fists beneath the covers, tensing at the request.
"No, Tristan. Pa set that job for you to do."
"Just as I am setting it for you. Go pull the eggs, Seamus." Tristan’s voice lowered and became gritty with a demand. "I’m not asking you, should you’ve forgotten."
"I said ‘No,’ Tris. I’m tired. S’your turn." Just then a fist found the back of Seamus’ head and he tumbled forward in the bed, nearing the edge. He was thumped again and stifled a shudder as the blows began to rain down on him, heartily and yet quietly.
"You will do it, and you’ll tell Pa I’m not feeling well and you are volunteering for the job.” Being only nine years old, Tristan picked up the word “volunteer” from his father just the week before, when the patriarch asked his elder sons – Mack and William – for volunteers to help repair the fencing around their little farm. Tristan was both proud of his ability to coax his brother into the work reserved for himself and at his own intelligence.
"No," Seamus managed to squeak out before being kicked from the bed and landing on the hardwood. Just then, Mack came into the room, flashlight in hand, a look of angry bewilderment on his red-cheeked face.
"Be quiet, Runt. What’s the noise for?"
"Nothing. Tristan kicked me out of bed."
"I didn’t kick him," Tristan protested. "Seamus volunteered to take the eggs this morning. I’m not feeling well." Here, the culprit coughed weezingly, pulling the covers up to his nose so as to hide the smile forming below it.
"Well, that’s nice of you, Seamus," Mack allowed. "Better get dressed. I just come in to get my scarf. It’s cold as a witch’s teet out there."
"Thanks again, Seamus," Tristan said. "I’m glad I don’t have to go out into that freeze. These covers are so warm." The two younger boys exchanged a look of complete hatred and Seamus knew that, if he allowed this to continue, things would only become worse. Even as a six year old, he knew that this was not the way the world was supposed to operate. Given enough time, he thought, he would make Tris pay for all of the hard knocks he suffered.
He crept out of the house after having dressed, feeling the wind bite into his cheeks and poke its way in between the slits in his eyes, drying out the tear ducts and causing him to place his hands up against his face, already covered in a scarf and wrapped tight and layered with the upturned collar of his jacket. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that the doors were already open, Mack shoveling hay into the horse stall. After every third or fourth rake, the tall blonde would lean the instrument against the wall and pump his arms against his body, trying to keep the heat down in his fingers.
"I can’t feel my hands at all," he said. "Too damn cold."
"Yep," came the little reply. Seamus went through the barn and into the henhouse on the opposite side. There, he opened the pens and picked up all the new eggs -- 42 in all, placing each one neatly into a woven basket his mother had made. When he was first shown how to pick the eggs, William told him not to wear gloves, as he needed to be able to feel the egg, lest he break them and get a hide tanning he would not soon forget. By the time he got back to the cabin, his fingers were numb and a pink the color of a blanket he used as a babe -- his mother said it used to belong to his sister, Elizabeth, though the rest of the children said she had been hoping for a girl.
He got back into the dark bedroom as the sun was beginning to light against the windows, shades drawn tight for just such an event. When his father had built the place, he made it a point to keep the windows of the bedroom facing East so that his children would be able to get up with the sunlight and get to bed in utter darkness. All appendages on his little body were frigidly cold, his breath coming in bursts from his tiny mouth. He undressed quickly and hopped back into bed, much to Tristan’s alarm.
"What are you doing, Shame? You’re too cold to be in bed. Lay on the floor."
"No," came the quick and quiet reply. "I’m tired and cold."
"Don’t care."
"Me neither." They exchanged the hateful look again and Seamus put his cold, little feet against the legs of his elder brother. The kicking ensued and Tristan shuddered at the temperature change, forcefully removing Seamus from the bed again. He also kicked down a blanket on top of him for good measure.
"Sleep there, little brother. You don’t have much time before Lizzy comes and wakes us anyway." Seamus, feeling utterly defeated, curled into a fetal position and sobbed, warming himself with each sad exhalation until he fell asleep.
"Seamus," Tristan said one morning near the crack of dawn, as they both lay down in the same bed. Seamus’ back was to his brother and he felt the bed creak under Tristan’s weight as he propped himself up on one elbow. He initially made no reply, hoping to feign sleep until the boy got bored and pulled out of bed. "Seamus," he hissed. "Seamus, wake up." The elder shook the younger by the shoulder and there was nothing Seamus could do but to respond.
"Yep."
"Pull the eggs this morning." Seamus could feel his brother’s hot breath on the back of his neck and he clenched his six year old hands into fists beneath the covers, tensing at the request.
"No, Tristan. Pa set that job for you to do."
"Just as I am setting it for you. Go pull the eggs, Seamus." Tristan’s voice lowered and became gritty with a demand. "I’m not asking you, should you’ve forgotten."
"I said ‘No,’ Tris. I’m tired. S’your turn." Just then a fist found the back of Seamus’ head and he tumbled forward in the bed, nearing the edge. He was thumped again and stifled a shudder as the blows began to rain down on him, heartily and yet quietly.
"You will do it, and you’ll tell Pa I’m not feeling well and you are volunteering for the job.” Being only nine years old, Tristan picked up the word “volunteer” from his father just the week before, when the patriarch asked his elder sons – Mack and William – for volunteers to help repair the fencing around their little farm. Tristan was both proud of his ability to coax his brother into the work reserved for himself and at his own intelligence.
"No," Seamus managed to squeak out before being kicked from the bed and landing on the hardwood. Just then, Mack came into the room, flashlight in hand, a look of angry bewilderment on his red-cheeked face.
"Be quiet, Runt. What’s the noise for?"
"Nothing. Tristan kicked me out of bed."
"I didn’t kick him," Tristan protested. "Seamus volunteered to take the eggs this morning. I’m not feeling well." Here, the culprit coughed weezingly, pulling the covers up to his nose so as to hide the smile forming below it.
"Well, that’s nice of you, Seamus," Mack allowed. "Better get dressed. I just come in to get my scarf. It’s cold as a witch’s teet out there."
"Thanks again, Seamus," Tristan said. "I’m glad I don’t have to go out into that freeze. These covers are so warm." The two younger boys exchanged a look of complete hatred and Seamus knew that, if he allowed this to continue, things would only become worse. Even as a six year old, he knew that this was not the way the world was supposed to operate. Given enough time, he thought, he would make Tris pay for all of the hard knocks he suffered.
He crept out of the house after having dressed, feeling the wind bite into his cheeks and poke its way in between the slits in his eyes, drying out the tear ducts and causing him to place his hands up against his face, already covered in a scarf and wrapped tight and layered with the upturned collar of his jacket. When he got to the farmhouse, he saw that the doors were already open, Mack shoveling hay into the horse stall. After every third or fourth rake, the tall blonde would lean the instrument against the wall and pump his arms against his body, trying to keep the heat down in his fingers.
"I can’t feel my hands at all," he said. "Too damn cold."
"Yep," came the little reply. Seamus went through the barn and into the henhouse on the opposite side. There, he opened the pens and picked up all the new eggs -- 42 in all, placing each one neatly into a woven basket his mother had made. When he was first shown how to pick the eggs, William told him not to wear gloves, as he needed to be able to feel the egg, lest he break them and get a hide tanning he would not soon forget. By the time he got back to the cabin, his fingers were numb and a pink the color of a blanket he used as a babe -- his mother said it used to belong to his sister, Elizabeth, though the rest of the children said she had been hoping for a girl.
He got back into the dark bedroom as the sun was beginning to light against the windows, shades drawn tight for just such an event. When his father had built the place, he made it a point to keep the windows of the bedroom facing East so that his children would be able to get up with the sunlight and get to bed in utter darkness. All appendages on his little body were frigidly cold, his breath coming in bursts from his tiny mouth. He undressed quickly and hopped back into bed, much to Tristan’s alarm.
"What are you doing, Shame? You’re too cold to be in bed. Lay on the floor."
"No," came the quick and quiet reply. "I’m tired and cold."
"Don’t care."
"Me neither." They exchanged the hateful look again and Seamus put his cold, little feet against the legs of his elder brother. The kicking ensued and Tristan shuddered at the temperature change, forcefully removing Seamus from the bed again. He also kicked down a blanket on top of him for good measure.
"Sleep there, little brother. You don’t have much time before Lizzy comes and wakes us anyway." Seamus, feeling utterly defeated, curled into a fetal position and sobbed, warming himself with each sad exhalation until he fell asleep.
12.04.2008
Monster
As the little ship, captained by the lone McTavish, was being dragged into the current of the edge of the world, ready to be hurled over the ridge and cast into nothingness, the monster came upon its flank. McTavish was sitting cross-legged in the Nest, looking over the void and watching the water spill into the abyss below. He could see a terribly long way down, but the water never ceased falling. He thought of the man that went over Niagara in a barrel and shivered. His ship, as perfect for him as she was, would not offer such protection. Gripping the rigging, he stood up and resigned himself to ruin.
The she-monster, at that very moment, had taken an interest in the man. Her shadow came out of the water and rested on the deck, her bluish-green hide towering into the air, salt water dripping from it. McTavish shot a look her way and could almost believe what he saw -- after all, he was about to drop off the edge of the flat map. She pulled a tentacle up and wrapped it around the main sail, just high enough that McTavish could walk its length. He understood that is what she wanted, and he complied. With a flip of the appendage, she shot the captain to her shoulder and they watched as the ship went over the edge, lost for all eternity.
The she-monster, at that very moment, had taken an interest in the man. Her shadow came out of the water and rested on the deck, her bluish-green hide towering into the air, salt water dripping from it. McTavish shot a look her way and could almost believe what he saw -- after all, he was about to drop off the edge of the flat map. She pulled a tentacle up and wrapped it around the main sail, just high enough that McTavish could walk its length. He understood that is what she wanted, and he complied. With a flip of the appendage, she shot the captain to her shoulder and they watched as the ship went over the edge, lost for all eternity.
12.01.2008
The Birth of Seamus
Seamus was born on the side of a dusty road in the back of a rickety coach during the worst drought in 100 years. His father, Agnius McGillicus O’Leary, was out of work and out of sorts. He was a small man with not much to show for all his bloodshed and cursing, typically making his living as a ranch-hand for the wealthiest man in the county. With a small log cabin built by his own earth-stained hands, Agnius depended on the goodwill of others to keep his family well-fed, well-cared for and well educated. The latter, as came to light, was really of little consequence so long as Aggy was lubricated with the brown bourbon his own father taught him to make. Seamus’ mother, Lord bless her, was a gentle woman of a half-tonned girth, happily sweating the day away as she birthed babies and raised folks to be proud, Western Americans. She loved to cook, sew and, above all, eat. Though her name is of very little consequence and she will make no more appearances in this work after the birth of our protagonist, it was Rachel Loveless O’Leary.
“Aggy,” she said as the wagon-wheels found every hole in the road, every bump, every loose rock. “Aggy,” she wheezed, sweat coming down her brow though it was shaded against the 2 in the afternoon summer-sun, “I think it’s time.”
“Oh, you poor goat,” said Aggy, “you wouldn’t know another birth of a babe from a casual growling of the stomach. We both know they feel the same to ya. Not to worry, lass, we’ll make it to market and back before the wee one’s out.”
“No, no, I don’t think so, Aggy. I don’t think so at all. Matter of fact, my god this hurts like the devil and if I were to lay blame, I’d lay it on you and the Lord himself for the terrible pain, matter of fact, I think the wee one’s coming on a might strong and will be here on this good earth momentarily.”
“It’s just heartburn, Love.”
“Heartburn, nothing Agnius. I say I’m having a baby and by God, I am. Pull this buggy over and let the thing happen, will ya!” Agnius pulled the horses to a trot, coming along the gulley and stopping under some dogwood trees. The girl’s water broke and she stifled a gasp. The three children already in the back of the flat got out, dusted themselves off properly and walked over to the dying stream to wash their faces and rinse the backs of their necks. The grit came on something fierce when the wind kicked up the golden-brown dirt along the roadside. Only little Tristan stayed behind as he was the youngest and knew no better. He was all wide-eyed with his bangs in his face, wiping them away with a flick of his tiny wrist every now and again, brushing them out of his eyes with a quick burst of his breath between pursed lips. He grabbed a hold of Rachel’s skirt tail and held on for dear life.
“Everything’s ok, mama?,” he asked. “Mama, what’s happening?”
“Looks like your little brother is making a scene and coming along a little early.”
“Well, I don’t want him anyway. If you want, we can drown him in the gulley.”
He said this without thinking and with little relish for the act. However, being the youngest, he was prone to getting his way and thought this the grandest idea as it would keep the universe in working order. Rachel had little thought for it and let the back of her hand tell him so. She swiped him, knuckles first, across his face with such force that he fell from the wagon into the mashed and withered grass beneath the tree.
The horses whinnied in the shade as she pronounced, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that Tristan Michael O’Leary. Now go wash your face and dust off your backside.” The boy walked away ashamed and a little frightened of his gigantic maternal figure. More than his father, Tristan feared the wrath of his mother. After all, she was always home, always watching him like a hawk, while his father, though he meant well, was but a shadow in the mind of the young boy.
The children continued in their parts as silent playmates while Rachel heaved to and fro, causing the buggy to shake and creak under her enormous weight. Agnius unhitched the horses and pegged them to the dry soil, wiping his brow in the heat. They grazed on the scraps about here and there, gritting and grinding their teeth through the soil, getting to the little nourishment left in the earth. The crows settled on the branches of the dogwood again, only rustling at the sounds of her discomfort.
"Dammit boy, come on now. We’re nearly there, aren’t we? Aren’t we, dear lad?" Her eyes glistened even in the shade and her dress was soaked through. “Come on, Aggy, come on now, mate.” Agnius walked to her angry heels and peered under her skirt, tentative and quiet. The blood and water mixed into a stomach-churning visage and the man wretched there in the grass, unhappily sulking. Pulling himself together, he pulled out a kerchief from his back pocket and massaged the sick out of the corners of his mouth.
“Sorry there, love. It’s a usual occurrence. I’m ready for him, now. Happens every time, I swear to the Lord Almighty.”
“They’ll be none of that, now. Not in this heat, this drought. You know He’ll punish us. You know it.”
“Alright then. Forget I mentioned the Lord Almighty, dear love. Just push when you’re ready.” She grit her teeth, closed her eyes and pushed, screaming like a banshee abandoned. The small boy came out quickly enough, crying readily and healthy. With a swipe of the pocket knife, the cord was cut and his body was wiped clean with the same cloth from Agnius’ back pocket.
“Welcome home, Seamus Christopher O’Leary. Welcome home, dear boy.”
In the background, Tristan wept while his siblings played tag around the dogwood trees.
“Aggy,” she said as the wagon-wheels found every hole in the road, every bump, every loose rock. “Aggy,” she wheezed, sweat coming down her brow though it was shaded against the 2 in the afternoon summer-sun, “I think it’s time.”
“Oh, you poor goat,” said Aggy, “you wouldn’t know another birth of a babe from a casual growling of the stomach. We both know they feel the same to ya. Not to worry, lass, we’ll make it to market and back before the wee one’s out.”
“No, no, I don’t think so, Aggy. I don’t think so at all. Matter of fact, my god this hurts like the devil and if I were to lay blame, I’d lay it on you and the Lord himself for the terrible pain, matter of fact, I think the wee one’s coming on a might strong and will be here on this good earth momentarily.”
“It’s just heartburn, Love.”
“Heartburn, nothing Agnius. I say I’m having a baby and by God, I am. Pull this buggy over and let the thing happen, will ya!” Agnius pulled the horses to a trot, coming along the gulley and stopping under some dogwood trees. The girl’s water broke and she stifled a gasp. The three children already in the back of the flat got out, dusted themselves off properly and walked over to the dying stream to wash their faces and rinse the backs of their necks. The grit came on something fierce when the wind kicked up the golden-brown dirt along the roadside. Only little Tristan stayed behind as he was the youngest and knew no better. He was all wide-eyed with his bangs in his face, wiping them away with a flick of his tiny wrist every now and again, brushing them out of his eyes with a quick burst of his breath between pursed lips. He grabbed a hold of Rachel’s skirt tail and held on for dear life.
“Everything’s ok, mama?,” he asked. “Mama, what’s happening?”
“Looks like your little brother is making a scene and coming along a little early.”
“Well, I don’t want him anyway. If you want, we can drown him in the gulley.”
He said this without thinking and with little relish for the act. However, being the youngest, he was prone to getting his way and thought this the grandest idea as it would keep the universe in working order. Rachel had little thought for it and let the back of her hand tell him so. She swiped him, knuckles first, across his face with such force that he fell from the wagon into the mashed and withered grass beneath the tree.
The horses whinnied in the shade as she pronounced, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that Tristan Michael O’Leary. Now go wash your face and dust off your backside.” The boy walked away ashamed and a little frightened of his gigantic maternal figure. More than his father, Tristan feared the wrath of his mother. After all, she was always home, always watching him like a hawk, while his father, though he meant well, was but a shadow in the mind of the young boy.
The children continued in their parts as silent playmates while Rachel heaved to and fro, causing the buggy to shake and creak under her enormous weight. Agnius unhitched the horses and pegged them to the dry soil, wiping his brow in the heat. They grazed on the scraps about here and there, gritting and grinding their teeth through the soil, getting to the little nourishment left in the earth. The crows settled on the branches of the dogwood again, only rustling at the sounds of her discomfort.
"Dammit boy, come on now. We’re nearly there, aren’t we? Aren’t we, dear lad?" Her eyes glistened even in the shade and her dress was soaked through. “Come on, Aggy, come on now, mate.” Agnius walked to her angry heels and peered under her skirt, tentative and quiet. The blood and water mixed into a stomach-churning visage and the man wretched there in the grass, unhappily sulking. Pulling himself together, he pulled out a kerchief from his back pocket and massaged the sick out of the corners of his mouth.
“Sorry there, love. It’s a usual occurrence. I’m ready for him, now. Happens every time, I swear to the Lord Almighty.”
“They’ll be none of that, now. Not in this heat, this drought. You know He’ll punish us. You know it.”
“Alright then. Forget I mentioned the Lord Almighty, dear love. Just push when you’re ready.” She grit her teeth, closed her eyes and pushed, screaming like a banshee abandoned. The small boy came out quickly enough, crying readily and healthy. With a swipe of the pocket knife, the cord was cut and his body was wiped clean with the same cloth from Agnius’ back pocket.
“Welcome home, Seamus Christopher O’Leary. Welcome home, dear boy.”
In the background, Tristan wept while his siblings played tag around the dogwood trees.
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