blood.
Mother, I heard her,
felt her in the kitchen, still chopping away. My blood. And I let the
silence in.
I heard a dead tree
branch snap and my teeth felt the cold. I heard Father, then Aart, my
blood.
“I’m tired of
scraping by,” Aart’s voice said. “The game grows thinner every
year.”
“Your family has done
well Aart. I know the winter is tough—” Father breathed heavily;
it had been some time since he traveled into the woods.
“They have done well
by contracting our land out for timber, but that well has run dry.
And the earnings from the booth are meager at best.”
Father sighed. “What
are you proposing boy?”
“With the railroad
running a straight line from town to Buffalo, I could take a factory
or construction job in the city, easily double our income. I want to
give Angeni a house and children,” He laughed. “Some
grandchildren for you.”
Father had always been accepting of
the changes and opportunities imposed by the white men; the Quakers
set up a school in Salamanca, when I was just a child, and Father
entrusted them to teach me. “It is an admirable gesture. I know my
wife and Angeni would be happy to hear of your hopes for the future.
But remember every new pathway bears new peril.”
The silence bore its
weight on my mind, until I withdrew back into the ordinary channels.
And the morning light woke me from bed. Aart lay next to me,
breathing raggedly, asleep. He must’ve tucked me in after the hunt.
I stepped out to Mother
and Grandmother grinding corn meal. Grandmother smacked her toothless
gums, making her face compress unto itself. She startled me by
cackling abruptly at something Mother said. I offered to help them,
but they looked at me like I was crazy. “Not in that brand new
dress,” Mother said.
Inside our bed room,
Aart still slept and snored. I sat in my chair, waiting for him to
awake. The rhythm of his breathing soothed me; how his energy waxed
and waned. Simplicity interwoven with the complexities of my new
husband: a passionate man with good intentions, but there lay a
nascent darkness within that passion, especially when he angered.
Looking up the pine trees outside, my mind gravitated to the silence
between his breaths. Nature wanted me to look through its lens.
Up the pine, a family of grey
squirrels prepared for the depths of winter. They gathered twigs and
needles to fortify their drey. My vision drifted outward: out the
window, up the tree. Amongst the squirrels, atop the great pine, I
could see the trading outpost, the markets and train station below. I
needed the squirrels to stay, to keep my mind from meandering into
the sky.
Reaching out to
animal life can be terrifying. I’ll never forget that skinny stray
dog Father used to leave scraps for. When I was coming to terms with
my gift, my mind had locked onto the dog. He did nothing resist my
intrusion. I felt the sickness in its guts, felt the worms writhe and
wriggle. A sick pang of hunger made me aware that I was eating for
many. That hunger consumed me, so much that I lacked the facilities
to break out of the dog’s mind. I wandered, looking for scraps,
lost on my own reservation, unsuccessful in satiating the wild
hunger. In the forest, the dog’s body began to shut down. Inside
the blackness of death the hunger faded away. I awoke in my bed, in
my own skin, the next morning.
The squirrels of the
great pine were proud of their home and the view. I kept my distance
and quietly observed through their eyes, like a looking glass, taking
in the panoramic view of the outpost.
The Trading Outpost was
all hustle and bustle as usual: money traded hands from laid over
passengers, awaiting their train on the Erie Rail, to booth
proprietors for local crops and tax free tobacco. Red’s Tobacco
stand had a line of customers that backed up into the produce carts
of the Marketplace. Shoppers with baskets in hand squeezed squash and
smelled sweet corn. Businessmen in their early winter top
Mother, I heard her,
felt her in the kitchen, still chopping away. My blood. And I let the
silence in.
I heard a dead tree
branch snap and my teeth felt the cold. I heard Father, then Aart, my
blood.
“I’m tired of
scraping by,” Aart’s voice said. “The game grows thinner every
year.”
“Your family has done
well Aart. I know the winter is tough—” Father breathed heavily;
it had been some time since he traveled into the woods.
“They have done well
by contracting our land out for timber, but that well has run dry.
And the earnings from the booth are meager at best.”
Father sighed. “What
are you proposing boy?”
“With the railroad
running a straight line from town to Buffalo, I could take a factory
or construction job in the city, easily double our income. I want to
give Angeni a house and children,” He laughed. “Some
grandchildren for you.”
Father had always been accepting of
the changes and opportunities imposed by the white men; the Quakers
set up a school in Salamanca, when I was just a child, and Father
entrusted them to teach me. “It is an admirable gesture. I know my
wife and Angeni would be happy to hear of your hopes for the future.
But remember every new pathway bears new peril.”
The silence bore its
weight on my mind, until I withdrew back into the ordinary channels.
And the morning light woke me from bed. Aart lay next to me,
breathing raggedly, asleep. He must’ve tucked me in after the hunt.
I stepped out to Mother
and Grandmother grinding corn meal. Grandmother smacked her toothless
gums, making her face compress unto itself. She startled me by
cackling abruptly at something Mother said. I offered to help them,
but they looked at me like I was crazy. “Not in that brand new
dress,” Mother said.
Inside our bed room,
Aart still slept and snored. I sat in my chair, waiting for him to
awake. The rhythm of his breathing soothed me; how his energy waxed
and waned. Simplicity interwoven with the complexities of my new
husband: a passionate man with good intentions, but there lay a
nascent darkness within that passion, especially when he angered.
Looking up the pine trees outside, my mind gravitated to the silence
between his breaths. Nature wanted me to look through its lens.
Up the pine, a family of grey
squirrels prepared for the depths of winter. They gathered twigs and
needles to fortify their drey. My vision drifted outward: out the
window, up the tree. Amongst the squirrels, atop the great pine, I
could see the trading outpost, the markets and train station below. I
needed the squirrels to stay, to keep my mind from meandering into
the sky.
Reaching out to
animal life can be terrifying. I’ll never forget that skinny stray
dog Father used to leave scraps for. When I was coming to terms with
my gift, my mind had locked onto the dog. He did nothing resist my
intrusion. I felt the sickness in its guts, felt the worms writhe and
wriggle. A sick pang of hunger made me aware that I was eating for
many. That hunger consumed me, so much that I lacked the facilities
to break out of the dog’s mind. I wandered, looking for scraps,
lost on my own reservation, unsuccessful in satiating the wild
hunger. In the forest, the dog’s body began to shut down. Inside
the blackness of death the hunger faded away. I awoke in my bed, in
my own skin, the next morning.
The squirrels of the
great pine were proud of their home and the view. I kept my distance
and quietly observed through their eyes, like a looking glass, taking
in the panoramic view of the outpost.
The Trading Outpost was
all hustle and bustle as usual: money traded hands from laid over
passengers, awaiting their train on the Erie Rail, to booth
proprietors for local crops and tax free tobacco. Red’s Tobacco
stand had a line of customers that backed up into the produce carts
of the Marketplace. Shoppers with baskets in hand squeezed squash and
smelled sweet corn. Businessmen in their early winter top
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