Animal (part 7)

John’s horse rushes through the empty prairie. He squints into the sun and off into the land beyond. From ahead a large wooden structure emerges. A wooden monstrosity juts from the soft dirt and into the air. Shaped like a skinny pyramid, the oil well stands high above his head. John slows his horse to a trot as he makes his way through the small establishment. Workers mutter in broken English and their own language as he passes. Most of the workers are Asian. They stare up at John through black faces and pitiful eyes.

The workers are covered in black crude, drenched in the sticky substance known as the ‘black gold’. John pulls his horse to the side of the camp and dismounts. From the barracks a tall, barrel chested man emerges. A thick red mustache and beard obscures most of his face. He breaks out into a warm smile but his eyes remain as empty and desolate as the dens a coyote crawls from. John stops and watches the man approach. He walks in a jutting, wild fashion, erratic but sturdy. He stops in front of John and stretches out an oil covered hand. John glances down at it.

“Oh, pardon me.”

The man removes a silk handkerchief from his jacket and wipes the crude away. John grasps his hand tightly. The man shakes quickly and lingers a moment before breaking his grip. He smiles again.

“Welcome to my worksite, the finest oil pumping station in the entire south west!”
“It sure looks that way.”
“My name is Orson Caldwell, how do you do?”

The man tips his cap.

“My name is John, I’m sorry to intrude but-” John begins but the man waves his apology aside
“Oh my boy, no harm, no harm, you must be starving! Please, follow me. Let’s all get a nice meal.”

The man grabs John roughly by the shoulder and pulls John along. Puddles of oil bubble under his feet, rising like thick soup. As John passes the worker pit a young china man rushes forward, grabbing him by the shirt. His eyes are red, his face bruised and black. He speaks in cracked English.

“Please...you help us! They no good men! Please!”

Orson turns and strikes the man down. A set of red headed men take hold of the worker and drag him away. Blood pours from the gash in his head yet he quietly begs out to John all the while until the men disappear around the corner. John watches them leave. Orson taps his shoulder.

“Please, this way. Our workers are from far away, sometimes they lose a bit along the trip, you understand?”

John nods silently, watching the oil tower shake lightly. The men continue to work, no longer staring at him. John turns and enters the tent.

***

Prince stands high above the plains, staring down at the Cherokee tribe. He listens to their movements. Warriors stand on all sides. He feels the warmth fade. The sun is falling. He will have to wait until night. The bed of grass leaves him well covered, the Indians can not see him beyond the beds of corn. His horse is tied to a skinny tree behind him. He sits and hums a soft melody to himself, singing from the melody of his childhood.

“This little light of mine...I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine...I’m gonna let it shine...”

Prince sings quietly. He doesn’t hear the crunch of the child’s approaching footsteps, but he hears the child’s gasp. Prince turns. A Cherokee child stands in the clearing, shaking. He watches Prince with wide eyes. He takes a step back.

“No, no, no,” Prince whispers, “I won’t hurt you.”

The child utters a soft cry. Tears fall from his eyes.

“I won’t hurt you. Do you like that song? My mother sang it to me when I was a boy”

The child utters a few words in his own language. Prince smiles. He puts his hand behind his back and slowly draws the bowie knife from its sheath. He begins to sing, taking slow steps towards the boy, all the while keeping the knife hidden from view.

“This little light of mine...I’m gonna let it shine. This little light of mine...”

The child takes a step back, Prince stops.

“I’m gonna let it shine.”

Prince reaches out and grabs hold of the child's arm. The child thrashes against his hold. He pulls the boy to his chest and covers his mouth with his hands. The child’s screams are muffled. None of the warriors have moved. Prince raises the knife high into the air, above the child's head.

“Let it shine...Let it shine...Let it shine...”

Prince strikes.

***

John enters the makeshift tent. The room is cozily decorated. A tray of fresh fruit lies in the middle of a modest sized oak table. John glances from Orson to the food.

“By all means.”

John removes an apple and places it in his pocket. Orson smiles. He takes his seat in front of John. Two burly men stand on either side.

“You may leave us.”

The men nod and exit, one after another, neatly and quietly. Orson makes himself comfortable, shifting against his chair.

“Now what might I ask is a young man such as yourself doing out in this desolate place?”
“Just passing through.”
“Well surely you must be going somewhere!”
“I am. I’m meeting someone.”

Orson laughs, scratching his bushy beard.

“Who might that be?”
“A person of interest.”

Orson eyes flash. His voice rises slightly.

“Who are you meeting, son?”

John falters. Orson stops. He brushes himself off and smiles.

“Well surely you are tired, perhaps you may need a good night’s sleep.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I insist,” Orson whispers

Orson’s eyes are glazed. He speaks softly.

“It’s been sometime since we had a guest.”
“Well I appreciate the hospitality.”
“My pleasure...John, is it?” Orson asks, his eyebrow raised.
“It is.”

Orson approaches a small fire pit and retrieves a kettle. He places two cups down.

“Would you care for some tea, my boy?”
“No thank you, you’ve done far too much.”

Orson pours his tea and sets the kettle aside.

“Don’t be so distant, boy. It’s not as if I’m trying to poison you.”

Orson raises the cup to his lips and drinks, laughing. John manages a crooked smile. Orson sets the tea down and stands.

“Well, that’s good. Now, let us find you a place to sleep for the night.”

Together Orson and John exit the tent. A young Chinese boy approaches John at a brisk stride and bumps into him. The boy stumbles and quickly jumps to his feet. John stops. He reaches into his pocket but his billfold is gone.

“Hey!” John calls out to the kid.
“What’s the problem?”
“The kid stole my billfold.”

Orson reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver whistle. He blows twice. High above them atop a guard tower a man stands, rifle in hand. He takes aim and fires once. The boy drops into the dust. John’s eyes open wide, he glances from the guard to Orson’s smiling face and sprints to where the boy lies.

The child lies in a small puddle of blood, screaming, clutching his left hand. Three stumps stand in place of where his fingers had once been. John stoops beside the child. The child shrieks and tries to pull away.

“Shh...Quiet. I won’t hurt you.”

Orson approaches and stands behind John, watching as he removes his bandana and ties it around the boy's bleeding hand.

“He’ll never work well again.”

John takes the boy in his arms.

“Where is your medical station?”
“Medical station?” Orson asks, his head cocked quizzically.
“Where’s your damn doctor!?”
“We have one, but he can’t be troubled for the likes of this.”

John stands and stares into Orson’s grinning eyes.

“You listen to me, get me medical supplies. I will help him.”
“Very well,” Orson replies, “first let me take you to your tent.”

John follows Orson as he casually makes his way down the camp. They stop beside a small tent. John enters after the oil trader.

“The doctor will be around soon,” Orson says, and exits the tent.

John quickly removes the bandana from the boy’s hand and pulls out a set of matches. He strikes the match and holds the boy’s shaking hand under the flame. The bleeding stumps slowly brown under the fire. The boy screams until he is unconscious. John finishes and sits alone, holding the unconscious child to his chest, whispering words of comfort in his ear.

***

The boy wakes in a fever, thrashing in John’s arm. Sweat pours down his face. He is drenched. John dips a rag in a small basin filled with water. He dabs the child’s face with the rag, spilling the cool water across his face.

“Wh-who are y-you?” the boy stutters, shaking.
“My name is John, you mustn’t speak.”

The boy begins to quietly cry.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t be.”
“I just wanted a way out of here. The guards, you can pay them. They let you go for the right price. Or favor.”
“Favor?”
“They’re lonely men.”

John grimaces in disgust.

“But I don’t do favors, I pay my way out,” the boy says.
“That’s an honorable thing.”

The boy’s body is pale and thin. His ribs stick out from under his chest. He shakes lightly atop the bed. His cheeks are flushed. His hair is short and dirty, mud staining its color. His cheeks are also splashed with oil and grime. John washes away his face with the rag. The boy lies quiet for several minutes. He finally speaks.

“I’m dying. Aren’t I?”

John is silent for some time. He smiles.

“Let me tell you a story.”
“A story?”
“Shh. Yes. There was a man. He was a happy man. He had all that life had to offer. But one day what he loved was taken from him, and the man was left with nothing but his grief and pain. For many weeks the man toiled in anguish, begging to die. He grew to hate God.”

John stops and swallows hard, the boy watches him with wide eyes.

“And this man, so full of hate and pain, began to search for some hope of atonement. He began to travel on a quest for vengeance. But something happened. Along his path the man met many people, people who touched him deep within his heart. And the man, the man who had been so enraged and pitiful, started to believe. He began to see that what had happened was not his will. Not his fault. He realized that wherever those he had loved had went, he would one day be there too. The man was finally at peace.”

The boy smiles. His shaking stops. He closes his eyes.

“And did he dream?” the boy whispers, letting sleep take him over.

John smiles.

“Oh yes. He dreamt.”
“Good.”

***

“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”

John sits across from the boy. The boy’s fingers are blackened at the stumps. Outside the night has fallen, swallowing their tent save for the kerosene lamp that burns in the corner.

“I was brought here as an infant, my mother died in childbirth and my father was killed in a well collapse. I was never given a name. People just call me ‘kid’.”

“Your English is excellent.”
“You learn to speak it. The boss makes you.”
“So you have no name...”

The child shakes his head.

“No.”
“Well then I’ll give you one.”

The child smiles.

“What?” the child asks
“I’ll give you a name.”
“What name?”
“Samuel.”

The boy frowns, as if thinking.

“Samuel...I like it.”
“I thought you would.”

John lies back.

“Now try and sleep.”
“Ok.”

John blows out lamp and is plunged into darkness.

***

“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“I heard a noise.”
“Are you sure?”

The two Cherokee stand before the corn fields. The field sways in the dark. A crack of brush issues from beyond. The two guards raise their bows. The first guard slowly approaches the corn, scanning the area. Prince watches from behind the thick brush. He draws his knife silently, its blood stained blade shines in the moonlight. He leaps out into the clearing.

“What-?!” the Cherokee shouts just before Prince drives the blade up into his throat.

Blood sprays furiously forth as Prince wrenches the blade out of the guard’s throat. He pushes the choking guard forward as the second Cherokee lets loose an arrow which pierces the dying Cherokee’s back. Prince lets the man drop and kicks off into the dirt, slashing once across the warrior’s gut. The man sinks slowly to his knees, grasping his open belly and falls face down into the dirt.
Prince wipes his bloodstained blade off and proceeds through the quiet camp. He pulls from his waist a bottle of whiskey stuffed with a white rag. He strikes a match and places it under the rag, hurling the makeshift explosive into the corn fields. The blaze ignites, spreading quickly through the camp.

Prince draws his revolvers and begins firing as warriors scramble wildly. A warrior flies forth into the burning grass, set aflame, caught by his bullet. A rifle shot cracks in the distance, missing Prince by inches. He feels the wind of the bullet rush by. Prince raises his weapon in the direction of the sound and pulls the trigger. The Cherokee drops into the dirt.

Ahead lies the sacred fire. The medicine man and chief stand before it. Prince raises his weapon and quickly drops the medicine man with a shot through the head. The chief watches his medicine man fall and turns to face Prince. Prince glances over the chief’s shoulder in the direction of the cries behind. The women and children stand huddled against one another, close to the heat of the sacred flames.

“I knew you’d come,” the chief whispers.
“How?”
“John...he had a vision. He saw you approach.”

Prince laughs.

“More of this spiritual trash.”
“This trash is a power far greater than anything you’ve ever seen, white man,” the chief spits.

Prince pulls the chief to him and places his
revolver against his left breast, pumping out three rounds in quick succession. The bloodied Cherokee falls dead to the ground.

“No!”

From behind the flames Sonya emerges, weeping for her village elder.

“You bastard!”

She beats against Prince’s chest but he hurls her away. Sonya lies sobbing in the dirt, her hands raised in hopeless defense.

“Kill me instead, spare the rest. Just take me.”
“I will not kill you,” Prince whispers.
“What?”
“I am not a monster. I do not slaughter the women and children unless I have no choice. You are free, but know this, John will not be so lucky. I know you housed him here. He will not be safe. He is weak”
“He has strength enough for you,” Sonya replies.

Prince turns.

“I recognize that voice. I killed your brother in the desert. He died like a pig, on all fours, weeping.”
“You liar,” Sonya says, shaking with rage.

Prince laughs.

“All that matters is I live on.”

He turns and walks away, leaving Sonya and the survivors alone beside the burning tribe.

***

John awakens to the harsh rumble of the earth and the screams of unknown men outside. He sits up. Samuel stands in the corner, his eyes wide. John draws one of his silver revolvers and peaks out the tent flaps. All around workers rush and shout. Across the field John can see Orson and his guards crowded around the oil rig. The rig shakes furiously, steam bubbling from its pipes.

“Stay here,” John whispers.
“No.”
“I need you to stay.”

Samuel's eyes well. He shakes at the legs. John places his hand upon his shoulder.

“You’re too sick. I’ll come back for you. Trust me.”
“You won’t leave me?” Samuel asks.
“Never.”

Samuel nods. John pushes the flap aside and runs into the fray. The workers furiously twist and pull the valves upon the shaking structure. John stares down at the unstable ground. Oil leaks slowly to the top. John takes off at a sprit.

“Get away from there! Get away!”

The rig blows. Chunks of wood and metal shower the workers. The twisted frame plummets to the black earth below. A gusher of oil bursts from the ground, rushing high into the air. Black gold rains from the sky as John’s clothes quickly change to muddy black. A worker shrieks into the night. A spark ignites. The oil geyser bursts into flame, spraying high across the sky. Flames drift into the night, setting the wooden rig ablaze. Thick smoke drifts above the earth while the fire illuminates the camp. John stoops to grab a worker and drags him out of the pit. He glances across the field where Orson stands.

Orson stares high into the sky, his eyes ablaze. The fire reflects in his smooth black eyes. His mouth is open wide in a twisted grin. His red hair sparkles under the black crude. He laughs into the night. His face is covered with oil but his eyes shine brightly across the camp. John pulls away the worker and sprints across the field to where Orsan and his guards stand.

“What do we do!?” John shouts.
“Nothing to do, boy,” Orson replies, laughing, “the fire will die out, but my, what a sight.”
“But the workers-”
“We’ll get more.”
“You’re sick.”

Orson cackles. Spittle flies from his lips.

“My, what a sight! This sight makes you believe in all the wrath of God! All the beauty of his destruction! Do you feel the rush, boy? Do you feel it, John!?” Orson shrieks.
“What happened to 'boy'?”

“You’re a man, John. A sight like this. A sight like this will make any boy a man.”

The two guards stand silently on either side. Their faces are blank. They question nothing.

“These men, they need doctors.”
“Do you know how much a doctor costs? I’ll make more just killing them and dumping them somewhere. I can have more shipped. The oil is all that matters.”

John turns and makes his way back to the tent.

“Samuel, get the medical bag-” he begins, lifting the flaps.

The tent is vacant. The bag lies in the middle of the floor. The bed is messed and stained. Samuel is gone. John turns and begins to shout into the night, calling for the child.

“Samuel!”

***

John pushes his way through the crowd of workers. A young man lies with his legs broken, his arm stretched out in pleading agony. John steps over him, focused only on the boy he promised to save.

“Samuel!”

Orson approaches from the rig, his broad grin still plastered across his face.

“Give it up, John. The boy is gone. He crawled off to die. Crawled off to join the other lousy pickpockets.”
“Shut up,” John whispers.
“He’s dead, John.”
“Shut up!”

John draws his revolver. The two guards tense, their bodies straight. Their hands tighten around their rifles. Orson’s grin fades. He watches John. High above dark clouds litter the sky. Lightning flashes but no rain falls. The land is illuminated briefly.

“Are you sure you want to do that, John?”

John shakes and holsters his weapon, turning away. He sprints off into the darkness. Men and women push their way past him; some lie dead in the mud, some shot. One worker struggles with a guard, grabbing the man’s rifle. Two cracks issue and the worker and the guard both drop to the ground. John turns. Orson stands with his revolver raised.

“That’s enough, John. The boy’s dead.”
“No.”
“John! Stop.”

Lightning cracks and John gasps. Samuel lies half buried in a hole. John rushes up, scooping the child up in his arms. Samuel lies limp. A trail of blood trickles from the bullet wound in his chest. John shakes and glances down into the pit. Bodies upon bodies lie heaped in a pile, half rotten and bloated.

“This is where you bury them,” John whispers, turning to Orson.

Orson smiles.

“It’s all about the profit, John.”
“You bastard.”

Samuel opens his eyes and gasps. He sputters and shakes, crying.

“John...”
“Samuel. Samuel, don’t worry. You’ll be fine.”
“I’m scared, John,” Samuel whispers.
“Don’t be, you’re gonna be ok.”

Samuel smiles. Blood trickles from the side of his mouth. He raises his hand to his mouth and coughs, a ragged, choked cough. His hand comes away wet with blood. He lets his hand fall back. Samuel stares into John’s eyes.

“John. Do you dream?”
“I do,” John whispers, his body shuddering
“Then I will be here.”

Samuel breathes out one last time. His bright green eyes dull.

“Samuel. Samuel!?”

John sinks to his knees, Samuel in his arms, and cries. He holds the boy’s body to his chest and rocks, tears spilling from his cheeks. Orson cocks the hammer on his revolver. John glances up.

“You’ve seen enough, John. Time to be heading on.”
“You bastard.”

John glances around the field. The other guards are gone or dead. Only Orson and his two men remain. His guards step up on either side, their rifles raised level with his throat. John’s hand drifts to his revolver.

“Ah. Stop, John. We both know you won’t reach it in time. Just walk away.”
“I can’t,” John replies.
“Just walk away, John. Just walk away."

A crowd of workers surround them, watching with anxious eyes. John scans their blackened, tortured faces. His eyes rest upon Samuel’s lifeless body.

“I can’t.”

John sinks to his knees, below the barrel of the guard’s rifles and draws his revolvers. He fires twice, once into each of the guard’s stomachs. The guards sink slowly to the ground, moaning. John shoots them both again. Orson stands with his revolver raised. His eyes wide. John swings the guns back and fires again. Two of Orson’s fingers disappear in a thick spray of blood. He drops his gun, screaming. John puts another round in his left knee. He sinks to the ground, holding himself up with his good hand. John shoots him a third time in the right leg. Orson falls back, howling in agony.

“John! Oh John, what have you done!?” he shrieks, rolling on the ground.
“I’ve freed these people.”

John watches Orson struggle to sit up. He stares at John, his face smeared, his body convulsing.

“Kill me,” he begs.
“No.”

John holsters his weapons and picks Samuel up, holding him close in his arms. He approaches a young woman and hands her the dead boy.

“Give him a proper burial. Give him the freedom he has earned.”

The woman swallows and nods, watching John turn. He makes his way past Orson and towards his horse. The crowd parts to let him pass. A voice calls out to him.

“And what do we do with the boss?”

John turns and answers, his face placid, his voice hoarse.

“Whatever you want.”

***

John pulls his horse to a stop, the sky is bright and the sun slowly rises. He makes his way to a large group of trees and dismounts. A soft voice, a child’s voice, reaches out to him, singing a soft tune.

"Child of Mine.
I call you in the water
And put my name on you."

He pushes his way through the leaves, his body still covered in dried oil and blood. Ahead lies a small pond. A line of horses stands beside the pond. A small group of men and women turn to watch him. They are cloaked in a brilliant shade of pure white. Two small children, a boy and a girl, stand beside their parents. A man with blazing blonde hair stands in the middle of the pond. The water reaches up to his waist. He smiles and beckons John forth.

John slowly makes his way through to the pond. The men and women stand watching him, their faces calm and serene. He steps into the pond and touches the water with his hand. He wipes his face which comes away dark with blood and oil. His clothes are ragged and torn but the worshipers say nothing. He slowly pushes his way through the water. A trail of black follows him, surfaces shortly but soon vanishing along the clear surface. He smiles and stands beside the man.

The blonde man holds no bible in his hands. No rosemary hangs from his neck. He quickly makes the motion of the cross and presses his hand to John’s chest, his other hand resting behind John’s head.

“Do you accept him?” the man asks.

John stares off into the sun and watches a blue bird fly over the trees. He lets his limbs go lose. He breathes deeply and quietly.

“I do.”

The man pushes John back. For the briefest of moments, obscured by the ripples of the water, John understands why he still pushes on, why the fates of the innocent rest in his hands. Then the man pulls him back up and he gasps for breath, sucking in the clear morning air. His clothes are soaked and his body drenched. The oil and blood slowly slides away from his skin. He stands, breathing deeply, the men and women still watching him. He turns to the blonde man.

“Thank you," John whispers, embracing the man.

John turns and makes his way out of the pond, drenched and wet, feeling the soft rays of the morning sun warming his skin. He steps into the clearing, glancing back once and watching the worshipers continue their ceremony. He turns back and exits, the soft voices of the children following him as he goes.

Copyright 2008 Michael Carr