Ben Sizemore - The Home Place

1) 1848

T imothy walks in the night. It is difficult, as Aunty has tied a stone to his ankle, but he does, dragging it behind him, his body lifting and pulling from the hip the thing that tries to anchor him to the world.

He is on the porch, and there is thunder. It follows him off the porch and into the lane as the stone grinds along behind. He stands, swaying from one foot to the other in a kind of slow dance until lightning strikes, a brief illuminating of the universe, followed by another clapping boom, and he moves again.

He walks away from the cookhouse, down to the road and steps off of the path to cross a field full of dead weeds, rattling and dropping autumn seeds from gaping pods. He turns, his half lidded eyes glassy in the moonlight and steps down into the ditch. It is filled with squashy, cold mud and the roots of plants he moves aside with his toes, searching for the point he no longer sinks, and can step again. It is difficult to climb out once you are so far down. There are things in the deep down that seem lonely, and wanting for company. They will keep you, and profit from you, pulling at you like a stone tied to your steps. He hauls at his feet, stuck ankle deep. They make strange slow squelching sounds like a sleepy voice in the air.

Timothy. Lay down. Lay down, boy.

He looks about with his half lidded eyes and stares at the face. Some woman, bent at the waist, peering into his face. She frowns, and smacks his face lightly, and then harder, making a popping sound as her hand strikes his open mouth. The resulting clap shocks him awake for a moment, and Timothy kneels down into the dark half sleep, feeling his way onto the grasses, curling into the shape of a shell, and returns from whence he came.

He stirs, then, and raises his head from the floor. Where my mam?

Go sleep.

Where? He persists.

Aint here. Go sleep Timothy.

He is silent, and she expects him to fall off now, as is his habit.

His walking disturbs those around him sometimes. They are either wakened by his stone scraping passage, or agitated that his absence will be on their heads from one of the Aunties, and bring down punishment on them one and all.

Sweet Timothy. Large for his age. An investment soon to be employed in the fields. Let him sleep, she says, and keep him from walking, but he is done walking now.

Where my Pap?

You gonna sleep or else. The woman says, now fully awake. Her tone is sharp.

Brought me here. You say look like him. Heard. His face is featureless in the night as she looks at him.

Go sleep, Timothy.

Aint Timothy. He says, his tongue thick and clumsy as he drifts backwards into the dream.

He dreams he is walking as quietly as he can, like a mouse, along the riverbank. His footsteps make the occasional squelch as he loses his balance and sways to one side or the other. His hand sinks deep into the bank and comes away thick with mud, something hard and glimmering clutched in his fingers. He bends over and washes it in the brackish water. The mud and algae sloughs away, and he is left with a glittering white stone the size of a robins egg. Perhaps this is how moons are hatched? The borrowed light catches every reflective chip in the surface of the stone. A treasure. He smiles, and that too, is illuminated in the dark like lightning, and the gun makes a coughing sound like thunder as he is shot, clutching his throat. It is quick, and despite not being able to catch his breath, there is no pain.

Someone shoves him with a foot. Stop.

He stirs and rolls over, sinking back down into the river water of sleep with one hand pressed to his throat, as down the lane, Timothys deep footprints in the ditch swell with dream water.

2) 1898

S heriff Taylor Grable supposed it was going to have to happen. Sometimes, things needed a little shove in the right direction. If the correction was needed and someone didnt step-to, well, you could end up in a right mess.

He thought about the general store, and the lynch pin it was for his town, and it was his town. He scoffed if it was brought up in earnest, but there was a reason they called him Silver, and he was proud of that.

Now, this wasnt all that bad, but it needed something. It wasnt like the Green boys. They , had needed correcting. Their parents had been fine. They had remembered how things were and kept their place, instead of trying to grab at everything in sight all at once. Sheer gimme gimme. How did they think things were going to turn out?

Taylor sighed, and shook his head. Lord, Lord.

Everything alright, Sheriff?

Taylor looked up from his thoughts.

Yes, Mrs. Sullivan. How are you?

Sheila Sullivan was a widow. Her first husband had fought and given all in the war, and he respected that, despite the fact Davis had let them all down. Her second had fallen to the fever, and left her with two healthy boys who needed reigning in occasionally, but good healthy boys none the less.

Right as rain. She said, and smiled at him. She would have been handsome, he thought, were it not for that sharp look she carried. Fishing for number three.

Yes, Maam. He said, and cast an appraising look over her, and she smiled as she continued down the street. She was strong. It was women like that who needed their protection, and he would make sure they got it. It was only right.

There was another war on now, too. The sneaky little Spaniards had attacked the USS Maine without provocation, and they would soon learn what a mistake that had been. Remember the Maine , he said to himself.

He shook his head again and grunted in disapproval. The whole of the country was engaged against the enemy, though, and that much was good, even if the darkies had joined up in droves, as though it were a line for the fair. Free food, clothes, and someone to tell them what to do. Maybe that wasnt so bad. Let them fight, he would say, but to arm them and just let them walk about all uppity? Somehow that seemed like begging for trouble.

Sheriff Silver Grable, scuffed his boots in the dirt as he strode, kicking up dust that swirled about in his passage before settling back down. Sometimes you had to stir things up.