Animal (part 6)

The desert sun beats down upon John. He swallows the last of his water and lets the canteen drop to the ground. He pushes his Stetson forward, protecting whatever he can from the sun’s rays. His lips are cracked and bleeding, his skin a shade of raw red. Ahead lies a lone cactus, John sinks to his knees and removes his hunting knife from its sheath. He drives the blade into the cactus, cutting away a hole. A slow trickle of juice pours out. John catches what he can in his hands and drinks. He finishes with a gasp, coughing and rubbing his blistered neck.

John continues on, following the rail line towards Garrison where the priest and the tall man are heading or any town at all. Above him a shadow appears. A vulture cries out, slowly circling John as he stumbles through the sand.

His supplies are empty; he left all his food to the nameless boy in Fairfield, the boy who the tall man orphaned. John stoops down and retrieves a smooth pebble from the sand, placing it under his tongue. His father told him once that sucking on a stone helps keep the mouth wet, that the saliva would keep flowing long enough for him to make it out of any jam. The rock tastes bitter, the taste of copper and dirt, but he keeps it under his tongue.

No wind blows in the barren land. The time John needs it most. He coughs once, gasping. John climbs his way up a winding hill of sand. As he reaches the top he peers across the valley of fire. No town lies in his eyesight. John groans and stumbles down the hill, making his way towards Garrison, despite the blistering sun that rages overhead.

***

Prince leads his horse across the town of Fairfield. He approaches the box where the elderly ticket salesman stands. He stands before the booth.

“Hello, Bill,” Prince whispers, staring at

The salesman swallows hard.

“Hello, Prince,” Bill replies nervously.
“Now tell me, the train left a while ago, am I correct?”
“Yes, sir. About an hour.”
“Almost two hours, Bill, don’t lie. I was here when it began to move.”

Bill shakes his head.

“Ok. Two hours.”
“And who was on it?”
“You know who.”
“Who bought a ticket from you, Bill?” Prince persists.
“No one.”

Prince sighs.

“I’d hoped we could do this kindly, Bill. But no. Don’t forget, I remember where you grandchildren live.”
“I don’t know-”
“I’ve seen where they sleep.”
“Please...”
“I will kill them all, rape them, cut them, burn them, and torch them in the dark of the night if you deny that he came here one more time!”

Tears drip from Bill’s nose. He wipes his eyes.

“Alright. Alright...”
“Where did he go?”
“He never said. He just bought a ticket and boarded the train.”
“He thinks he can beat us. Kill the riders. He is wrong.”

Prince turns and mounts his horse. He stares off into afternoon sun, his dead eyes leaking from the blazing light. A young boy makes his way across the street. The beggar boy. He carries one of Paul’s canteens upon his back. Prince can smell John’s scent upon the boy. Prince calls out to the boy.

“Boy!”

The child turns. His eyes open wide as he sees the black guns that hang from Prince’s waist.

“Do not think that he will live. Do not place false hope upon his soul. He will die, boy, and I will drag his lifeless corpse under your nose to prove that he changed nothing!”

The boy turns and sprints away.

Prince laughs, spittle flying from his mouth, and spurs his horse twice. He sets off, galloping into the sun, following the rail line’s path.

***

John reaches the top of another dune, still no towns lie ahead. John sinks to his knees and rolls to the bottom of the dune, staring up at the sky.

“I can not die here. Not like this. Not like this.”
“John.”

A voice echoes from beyond the sand. John sits up. Rose stands before him.

“No. Please leave me, not now.”
“John...today is not the end.”
“But why, why do I live?”
“It is not your choice to decide whether or not you die. I can do nothing.”

John reaches out and takes hold of Rose’s hands.

“I want you with me. I want you so badly.”

Rose smiles. Her body fades and John is left holding nothing but the blowing sand. John screams and beats his fists in the dirt.

“What do you want!? What do you want from me!?”

A whooping cry sounds over the dune, as if in reply to his tortured plea. From above the dunes emerge six men. They stoop atop white horses; their skin is dark and red. Paint lines their eyes and faces. Tomahawks hang from each of their belts. Three carry bows, knocked with arrows, the remaining half hold the weapons of a white man, rifles raised. The Indian closest to John raises its hand and shouts a foreign language into the desert path. The horses begin to move, slowly surrounding John, circling him. The Indians stop, eyes focused on the lone rider.

John laughs, burying his hands in the sand.

“Kill me.”

The Indians whisper quietly to one another, studying John as if he were a foreign creature, an alien animal wandering through their lands.

“Please. Kill me!”

The Indians continue to whisper. John raises his gun and shouts, firing once into the air.

“Kill me! Come on!”

The Indian’s horses buck but they remain steady, their bows knocked and rifles drawn. John’s vision slowly slides in and out of focus. He approaches the closest Indian, sinking to his knees and grabbing the barrel of his rifle and positioning under his heart.

“Kill me,” he whispers, “let me be with her.”

The Indian yanks the gun away and raises his head to the sky, uttering a piercing cry. John exhales and lets himself fall to the ground. He feels himself being plucked from the ground, dragged away to a hidden place, guided by spirits unknown.

***

Prince breaths John’s scent as he bursts across the railway, his stolen horse galloping across the landscape. Prince pulls his horse to a stop and dismounts. He falls to his knees and drags his hands through the rough dirt and sand. Splinters of wood lie scattered underneath his palms. He smiles. He can feel the imprint John left when he leapt from the black rail. Prince buries his hands in the dirt and pulls away, his hands filled with debris. He buries his face in the sand, tasting the pain and anger, smelling the sweat and fear his prey left behind. Prince stands and opens his canteen, spilling water across his face and hands. He is close. John continued on foot.

“I will soon be upon you,” Prince whispers.

Prince dusts off his hands and approaches his horse. The creature whines as he nears.

“Shh. We are one now. You and I. We are riders. And we ride. We hunt. We kill. All as one. Do not fail me, friend, for I place my life upon you.”

Prince lightly strokes the horse’s mane. The horse whining stops. Prince mounts the steed and breaths once more the desert air. He feels alive. Fresh. As though touched by the silent hand of death and given a second chance. He feels he is changing, becoming one with the sand and the fire and the earth. He is a titan, a crusher of the righteous and the damned. To him, a titan, a mere man such as John is nothing more than an ant. A pitiful creature begging to be spared from the heel of his boot.

“I will not waste such power on you, John. You are a wild one, yes, but you are still damned. You are still a broken man, left twisted in the dust. A titan, a bringer of death, such as myself, shall find nothing worth saving in you. So flee, John, flee into the darkest caverns of night, for I will find you and hunt you and kill all that remains of the riders past. A new age is dawning and I will be there for it.”

Prince spurs his horse, taking off into the blazing light, a bringer of death no longer a servant of the day.

***

John groans. He opens his eyes. A brown patchwork of leather hangs as a roof over him. He lies atop a bed of soft fur. He tries to sit up but a soft hand presses against his chest, pushing him back.

“You must rest.”

John turns his head to the sound of the voice. A young woman sits beside him, dabbing a wet rag in a bowl of water. She carefully dabs his face with the damp cloth. Water spills down John’s bare chest. John places his hand to his face, his lips are cracked and peeling, but they no longer sting underneath his touch. The woman raises a cup of water to his lips.

“Drink.”

John slowly drinks the liquid, coughing and sputtering in his haste.

“Careful. Not too much. Too much is bad for your condition,” the woman whispers.

John’s vision is blurred. He focuses on the woman. Her hair is deep black, gleaming in the light. It sweeps down to her shoulders, swaying with her movements. She is almost John’s age. Her skin is dark, a shade of reddish brown, even olive tinted. Her brown eyes are piercing, he feels that they can see into his mind and soul, but they hold a familiar warmth. She is thin but strong, her body built from days of work. John reaches out and grabs her hands; they are rough to the touch but comforting.

“Who are you?” John whispers.
“My name is Sonya Proud Foot.”
“Proud foot?”
“It is the name given to me by my elders.”
“Your elders?”
“I am a member of the Cherokee tribe.”
“Cherokee...an Indian.”
“Yes.”

John glances around the room. Pottery of immense beauty lies scattered across the wall. A small spic with the remains of a long ago eaten animal sits across from him. Furs and cloth hangs from a cloths line. In the right corner a quiver sits against the leather side. A white flurry of arrow tails emerge from its depths. A bow of soft redwood rests beside it, strung with grace and beauty, decorated with symbols of the Indian tribe. The walls curve to a point up top. He’s in a teepee. As a boy John read about these structures, seen pictures of them in western cowboy novels. He had read that they were savages. John stares into the piercing eyes of Sonya. He sees no savagery, no rage or anger, he sees affection and concern. He feels safe.

“Where am I?” John asks.
“This is my hut, where I live.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
“My name is John.”
“Hello, John.”
“I want to thank you-”

Sonya places her finger to his lips.

“Do not thank me. It is the will of the tribe that you live, I have no say. You are a white man, John, and I am surprised my tribe let you live. I spoke with the hunters who found you. They said you were begging to die. A man in such pain has no place to die; he must conquer his suffering, not embrace it. Why do you embrace death so freely? Why are you in such pain?”
“I have lost much,” John whispers.
“Loss is but a part of destiny. Those you lose await you in the afterlife. Their spirits guide you in death as they did in life. Have faith, John, though those you love are not here in body, they forever watch over you in spirit. They miss you as you miss them, but they wait for you to return to them with patience.”

John stares off into her deep, winding eyes.

“Do you believe in God?”

Sonya smiles.

“My God and yours are one in the same, though we embrace different beliefs, we both hold are place in his kingdom,” Sonya replies.
“There is no God.”

Sonya shakes her head and places her hand upon his cheek.

“You do not truly believe that, John. You are filled with rage and anger with your God, you may even hate him, but you cannot deny that he is here, watching us, watching all of man.”

Sonya rubs her hand across John’s stomach.

“You have many scars, John. I wonder, do you feel the pain? Or are you as dulled as the flattest blade? I do not believe it to be so. You feel, John. You hurt. You cry. Now sleep, John, sleep and rest your weary soul. For tonight you will believe again.”

Sonya smiles and stands, brushing back her hair. She slowly makes her way to the front, pausing at the entrance to her home. She turns back.

“Have faith, John.”

Then she leaves. John turns his head and stares up through the hole where the three wooden beams meet, watching as the clouds slowly drift above and wondering if the clouds watch him in turn.

***

John awakens, his head is groggy but his vision is no longer blurred. He sits up. The room is empty. Night has fallen. Outside rays of red light shift and change. A feverous drum beats wildly from outside. Chants echo through the tent. John stands, his feet and chest bare, and makes his way through the entrance.

A frenzy of movement meets John. A large bon fire sits crackling in the center of the small band. Teepees painted shades of beautiful colors are illuminated all around by the flames. The Cherokee dance and shout around the fire, their hands raised up in feverous rhythm. John makes his way through the celebration. As he approaches the Cherokee pay him no attention. Their language and chants burn through his mind, the harsh beat of the drums sounding in his ears. He feels his heart swell, feels his blood race with the burning passion the tribal dance exudes.

John makes his way through the crowd to the center. The elders sit and smoke while the medicine man dances to the rhythm, his staff shaking wildly. He stares up at John, his face painted fierce shades of red. His blue eyes darken as he dances, his eyes locked upon John, the outsider. All around the crowd begins to stop and surround the fire. The medicine man stomps once more to the beat and ceases his dance. The drums slow to a halt, still echoing through the plains.

Sonya emerges from the crowd beside a painted man. He walks beside her, staring at John. Sloping lines of blue and green cross across his chest forming the picture of a shrieking eagle, its talons raised in fury. His hair is long and tangled, his eyes the same piercing quality as Sonya’s. John turns around. The entire tribe is focused on him.

The chief stands, his head cloaked in a veil of black feathers which spread down to his back. All around, members of the Cherokee tribe whisper to one another. The chief raises his hand and the tribe falls silent. He stares at John with sad eyes. His skin is twisted and old, his body bent but he stands and speaks with a voice of a leader, strong and empowering.

“Sonya tells me your name is John.”
“It is.”

The chief nods.

“Tell me, John. Do you dream?”
“We all do.”
“Do you see those who you have lost in your dreams?”
“I do,” John replies.
“Then you do not dream, you see. You see the visions. You are a special man, John.”
“I am nothing more than a lost soul.”
“So you believe.”

The chief turns and motions for John to follow. The medicine man along with Sonya and the man who walks beside her follow. John slowly walks. The chief calls out in his native tongue and the Cherokee once again start to dance.

John makes his way to Sonya as they continue out towards a small campfire.

“Where are we going?”
“The chief wants to test you,” Sonya replies.
“Test?”

The man beside Tonya speaks.

“A vision guide. We will see if you are what we think.”

Sonya motions to the man.

“John, this is my brother. Charles Eagle Heart.”
“Charles?” John asks.
“I was named after the missionary who wed my mother. He taught us English and cared for us,” Eagle Heart replies.
“A white man?”
“He was as much a member of my tribe as I.”

Ahead the Chief fans the flames, placing pieces of wicker into the burning fire. Sonya, Eagle Heart, and John make their way around the circle, taking their seats. The medicine man hands the chief a small bowl which he fills with a brown liquid. The chief sits in front of John and places the bowl into his hands.

“Drink.”

John stares into the swirling liquid.

“What is it?”
“A herbal drink. It’s safe.”

John turns to Sonya. She nods. He raises the liquid to his throat. It feels ice cold, chilling his throat. The medicine man begins to sway, muttering a soft chant. He raises his arms up to the sky. John drains the bowl and hands it back to the chief. John’s head feels light, his eyes are clear, his breaths are deep. He feels strong. The fire shifts beneath the blowing winds. The medicine man’s voice intensifies.

“Stare into the fire, John,” the chief whispers.

The fire cracks in bursts of orange and yellow. John stares through to the other side of the circle, through the burning flames. The medicine man shakes and thrashes, crying out into the sky. John gasps. Rose stands in the middle of the fire, holding his child. She smiles and fades. The tall man stands over the body of his father. The fire cracks again. A man with dead eyes rides towards the camp, burning the tribe, slaughtering the women and children. He laughs in horrid delight. Then the vision is gone.

John leaps to his feet and turns away, stumbling through the grass. Sonya stands, but Eagle Heart holds her back, rushing after John. He calls out to John.

“John, what did you see?”
“What have you done to me? What curse is this!?” John screams.
“It’s not a curse, John, it’s something you are born with.”
“I am a white man, I am not you!”
“Wrong, John! Only a seer could have witnessed the vision through the fire.”

John draws his pistol and trains it on Eagle Heart.

“You stay away!” John shrieks.
“John, I’m trying to help you.”
“Stay away!”

John sinks to the ground, sobbing.

“What have you done? What have you done?” he whispers.

Eagle Heart kneels before him. He places his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezes. John looks up into the piercing eyes. John stops.

“Your eyes...”
“Yes, John?”
“Your eyes...Sonya’s eyes...they are the eyes of the tall man...”
“The tall man?” Eagle Heart asks, confused.
“Anton...”

Eagle Heart goes rigid. He stands, looking down at John.

“How do you know my father?”

***

John and the others sit at the fire. Sonya and Eagle Heart watch John with wide eyes. The chief speaks. His voice is quiet, solemn. His shoulder’s sag with an invisible weight.

“We raised him. Many years ago. He left our tribe as a boy, only sixteen. But he returned twelve years later a new man. He was always a man with vengeance in his heart. He was something else. He’d changed. He killed a man who stayed with us, a runaway, burned our tribe. He was so blinded by hate that he didn’t even recognize us. He traveled with three other men.”
“My father,” John whispers.
“Your father was a rider?” the chief asks.

John nods.

“He left less than half of us to live,” the chief says.
“He slaughtered us. He raped my mother,” Sonya whispers, shaking.

Eagle Heart takes hold of his sister, holding her close. He speaks to John.

“And now you hunt him?”

John nods again.

“Then good luck.”
“What did you see?” the chief asks.

John turns away from Eagle Heart and Sonya.

“I saw my family. The tall man. And a rider with dead eyes. He was torching this tribe. He’s coming.”

The chief stands.

“Then we must prepare.”

***

John stands beside a new horse, the saddle bags packed and filled. He turns to Sonya and Eagle Heart.

“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us,” Sonya whispers, “it is your fate.”

John smiles. He hands out his hand, Eagle Heart grasps it.

“Be careful.”
“And you the same.”

Eagle Heart turns and makes his way to his horse. He mounts the steed and takes off alongside two other Cherokee warriors. John looks at Sonya.

“You will be hiding?” he asks.
“All the women and children and elders. The men will face him if he comes. If Eagle Heart fails to stop him.”

John nods, he embraces Sonya. Sonya whispers in his ear.

“Kill him. Kill the man who burned our tribe, who raped my mother, who killed your family. Kill my father.”

John turns and mounts the horse. Sonya watches as John, the last rider, the son of a good man, races off across the plains to take the life of her father and tormenter, the tall man.

***

Prince bursts across the desert land, he stops and dismounts. John fell here, he surrendered to the sun. He traces the tracks with his hands, blindly feeling the ground. He was carried away. Prince stands. Over the desert wind he can hear the sounds of approaching horses, the whooping war cries of the Cherokee warriors. He stands his ground. Over the desert dune comes Eagle Heart and his two warriors. Prince turns away from them. The three horses stop behind him.

“Who are you?” Eagle Heart asks.
“Just a traveler. A hunter. A seer, you might say.”
“This is our land, white man, you are not welcome.”

Prince chuckles.

“That’s funny because I could’ve sworn your tribe didn’t make the same offer to John.”
“No man has passed these lands,” Eagle Heart replies.

Prince voice deepens. He listens to the thundering beat of the warrior’s hearts.

“Do not lie. I smell his scent, mixed with the stench of you half breeds.”

Eagle Heart raises his bow, drawing and arrow and knocking it. The two warriors mimic his movements. His voice cracks with anger.

“You dare insult our tribe, white man. I give you one chance, turn around and face me or head back the way you came.”

Prince smiles and turns, his pistol drawn. Eagle Heart lets his arrow lose. Prince fires three shots in quick succession, each trained on the men’s hearts. The two warriors fall dead. Eagle Heart tumbles back off his horse into the dust. Prince reaches down and yanks the arrow from his calf. Blood pours from his wound. He removes a needle and thread and a bottle of bourbon from his saddle bag, sitting beside the choking Eagle Heart. Prince slowly cleans his wound and watches as Eagle Heart struggles to pull himself up.

“You could have left him here to die, boy. But instead you chose to doom everyone you’ve ever loved,” Prince whispers, sprinkling the remaining bourbon over the dying man’s head.
“You wouldn’t know about love,” Eagle Heart whispers.

Prince scoffs, threading the needle and pushing it into his skin.

“Love is a weakness,” Prince replies.
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Love gives us strength. Loves gives men like me and John the strength to defeat men like you and Anton.”

Price kicks Eagle Heart with his spur, leaving a gash across his eye.

“You don’t deserve to call him that. Not even I have that honor.”
“You’re wrong. I have that honor. As his son, I have the honor.”

Prince stops, his heart jumps a beat.

“You’ve killed your master’s son. Let that live in your conscience for as long as you serve him.”

Prince finishes the sewing and stands, turning from Eagle Heart and mounting his horse.

“You’re tribe’s gonna burn.”
“They’re ready for you,” Eagle Heart whispers.
“No. Not for me. For a man, yes. But not for me.”

Prince rides off, leaving Eagle Heart alone in the sand. Eagle Heart rolls over and stares into the blinding sun.

“Sonya...” he whispers, then dies.

***

The black rail pulls into Garrison, screeching to a stop. The priest makes his way down the compartment, stepping over the dead guard. He exits the ramp and stands on the edge of the train. The tall man hands him the picture of the runaway and his child.

“Good luck, Peter.”
“I will not fail you, sir,” the priest replies.
“See to it that you don’t.”

The priest nods and stops, as if thinking, he glances up at the tall man.

“Sir, are you ok?”
“I feel like I’ve lost something. Something very dear to me. Something I never knew I had or never knew what it was worth.”
“It’ll pass,” the priest replies.

The tall man glances down at the photograph in the priest’s hands.

“When he comes, Peter, make sure the boy dies as well.”
“Yes, sir.”

The priest turns and steps off the train, marching down Garrison’s main road toward the towering steeple beyond. The tall man watches as the train pulls away, leaving Garrison behind. The tall man steps over the guard’s corpse and takes his seat. He sits and stares off into the plains, watching the earth fly by. Then, to his surprise, a tear spills down his cheek. The tall man sits and quietly weeps, not knowing why, only knowing that a terrible sadness has gripped him, taking him by his heart.

“God’s do not cry...” he whispers and begins to laugh through the sadness, trying to throw off the crushing sense of loss.

***

Sonya stands alone, watching the corn sway quietly in the wind. She holds a basket in her arms, chucking the corn in rows, placing the cobs within it. A soft gust blows through the field, shaking the green sea of crops. A whisper dances along the wind.

“Sonya...”

Sonya stops and drops her basket. She glances around for some sign of her brother, knowing that he is already gone, that his spirit now watches over her.