Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge
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She couldn’t make it to the Partridges. She was also very thirsty. She knew she shouldn’t sleep without drinking. Then she remembered: this was the River Road. To her left she saw that the bush was thin and intermittent, smallish pines in a sandy soil that glittered in the starlight. She listened, forcing her breath in. Though the night was still, her River poured its restless energy onward. What a wonderful sound, Lily said aloud. Slowly but with more certainty than she had felt all day, Lily eased her way through the pine grove towards the beckoning music of the great waterway. There would be some breeze there, and open space: she could sleep undisturbed in the sandy bank. In the morning everything would be all right. Papa would be proud of her.
Just as the muted roar of the River was beginning to build in her ears, Lily came to a tiny feeder stream. Bending, she scooped the fresh, chill water to her face, drinking and cleansing simultaneously. The breeze off the water ahead was cool on her cheeks. She could see the moon plainly through the last trees between her and her goal. She was about to step out onto the sandy bank when she froze. The first warning she had of danger was the waver of firelight above the shoreline; then came the smell of burnt meat; then the voices and their unmistakable accents.
In the shimmering glow around her, Lily saw that she was standing, still hidden by the pines, slightly above a cove where the stream entered the River, a gravelly indent that formed a beach four or five feet below the main line of the bank. A pit-fire was in full bloom; two figures were seated on stumps, roasting something that might have been rabbit. A longish bundle lay rumpled in the shadows behind them. On the point formed by the cove, tied to a boulder, a row-boat rocked and complained.
“Goddammit, I figure we oughta haul his black arse across while the gettin’s good.”
“I’m hungry. So are you.”
“Hungry for two thousand dollars, I am.”
“Besides, I don’t like that moon. It’s gonna cloud over afore midnight. Eat.”
“This shit’s all burnt.”
“Suits you then, don’t it.”
Lily backed off so that she was fully shielded by a tall pine. Neither man was looking in her direction; they faced the south-west where the moon sat, unclouded. Something icy and alien gripped her. She could not flee; she could not even close her eyes. Hence, she was the first to see the rumpled bundle flinch, stretch, and assemble itself. Solomon was sitting up, his hands bound behind him with rope. Another rope dangled loosely from an ankle. Somehow he had worked his legs free. Without taking his eyes off the backs of his captors, he rose to his full height without the slightest sound and edged towards the boat fifteen feet away.
“Sometimes, Sherm, you talk to me as if I was no better’n that nigger.”
Sherm let the opportunity pass.
“Matter-of-fact, think I’ll feed some of this here charcoal to him right now. Can’t have him lookin’ too lean, can we?” Beau turned. “Christ! He’s after the boat.”
Both men leapt toward the boat, but Solomon was already there. He placed one foot over the gunwale, the other on the rock next to the painter, and gave a tremendous shove. The painter rope popped free and the boat shot out into the swift current. Solomon fell face-down into the aft section with a clatter of wood and bone. Unruddered, the boat spun slowly, caught in a momentary eddy.
“What the fuck you doin’, you stupid nigger! You can’t row that thing with your hands tied up. Come on back here!”
“We’ll get him downstream,” Sherm said, already heading back for his gun. “If not, he’ll end up on the other side. They always do.”
But Beau wasn’t listening. “Jesus!” he screamed as if his soul had been seared. “He’s goin’ over!”
Solomon was standing upright, his powerful six-foot frame black against the pre-harvest moon behind him. He was standing on one of the thwarts staring down into the current that was just catching the boat and swinging it, it seemed, southward to safety, and freedom. But Solomon jumped high and northward, as if his fugitive eye lay still upon the gourd of the North Star. His body, abandoned by the boat, arced across the horizon and entered the water face-first. The eddy of bubbles, which was all that marked his exit, was soon swept away.
“I never seen the like o’ that, never. Did ya see the stupid fucker, Sherm? Jumps right in there an’ takes our two thousand bucks with him.”
Sherm was throwing water on the fire and gathering their things together. “We better get lookin’ for another boat. This ain’t exactly friendly territory, you know.”
Beau continued to stare out over the foaming torrent, reluctant to leave.
“Maybe we can get the body,” Sherm said.
Long after the bounty-hunters had left – their fire doused, the sky clouded over and menacing, the wind rushing to keep up with the river’s urgency – Lily stood where she was and wrestled with the dark angels of her imagination. Once again she saw Solomon hunted through the unending nights, fleeing further and further into the forest.
Or did he welcome those River waters, she wondered, the tender descent, the soft bottom-sands sifted and cleansed by centuries of seeking, the icy currents that would carry his bones seaward over time.
She must get to Corunna as soon as possible; the night wind was up; the sky, threatening. How long had she been staring at the River? She was shivering with fright or worse, fever. There was no feeling in her feet as she turned north, stumbling in the dark on debris and branches. Then the rain came, lashing and cold.
She fell and rolled onto her side, partly screened by some underbrush. Too numbed to rise, she could only peer curiously at the silver imbedded in her right hand. No dream forestalled her slow falling away.
Even though she had not yet opened her eyes, Lily was awake. She was warm, a wooly shawl curled around her shoulders, and her shivering had subsided. Someone had found her and brought her to a safe place. Nearby a dampened fire radiated heat and welcome. Papa?She opened her eyes and looked to the crouched figure across from her.
“Ah, the little one wakes up.”
“Where is Papa?” she asked, faintly, in Pottawatomie.
Southener, his kindly eyes scrutinizing her, said: “I made you drink the tamarack tea; I am sorry if I frightened you. You were shaking with swamp fever.”
Lily felt too weak to move, but Southener noted her anxious glances about the campsite, which was deep in one of the pine groves.
“Your possessions are safe, little one,” he smiled, his skin as rough as hickory bark, his sable hair flecked with gray and tied back with a leather thong. “I found them when I picked you up, soaking and hot, on that pitiful roadway.” He reached down and produced Lily’s drenched pack and the beaded pouch. “Thank you,” Lily whispered. “You’re young and very strong,” he said, stirring the fire a little to give more light to their conversation. “Already the fever is gone. By morning you’ll be ready to go north.”
Did he know?
“When I started to dry out your things, I found this map,” he said unfolding for her Papa’s unread note. “It will tell you where to go.”
So Papa had not left her a letter after all. Lily tried to think what that meant, but she could not think at all, she was drifting into sleep again. After another short rest, she took some of the tea Southener has prepared and allowed him wash the cuts on her legs and treat them with tiny leaves. The stinging was not unpleasant.
“As soon as the sun comes up, I must leave you. There’s meat in your pack; eat it if you can. You’re safe here. When you feel like walking, the road is directly east of us; the morning sun over the tree-line will take you right there.”
“I remember you, Southener,” Lily said.
“You were the best dancer,” Southener said. “I watched you all day. You let the spirits loose in your legs. Now your tongue tells the