There's a house, sort of, made of rough planks that look like they've been split off of rough logs with wedge and ax, the bark still clinging to the edges. There is mud and clay crammed into the spaces between. There are two wooden steps up to a door. The roof is made of rough shakes, like shingles split off a short log.
There's a barn, with a door barely hanging on its leather hinges, and Jim goes to take the horses there, as we know we will spend the night here, but Katy says, "Let 'em graze out here for a while, Jim, as they ain't gonna find no hay nor oats in there now, that's fer sure."
Jim nods, then takes the packs and the saddles off the horses. He puts a rope hobble around each horse's front ankles so's they can't run off, but the horses don't seem to mind. No, they heave great horsey sighs of relief at having us off their poor backs and they settle into pulling at and chewing the abundant grasses.
Katy doesn't go right into the house. No, instead she walks over to the side of the yard, her arms crossed on her chest. She stops and stares down and I walk over next to her. I see that she is gazing down at three graves. There's a wooden slab at the head of each, but there ain't no writing on them. I don't say anything.
"That's Father over there, 'cause he went first. Then Mama. Then him." Saying that she kicks over her uncle's marker and sends it flying into the weeds. "I wisht I could dig him up and feed what's left of him to the pigs. But I guess there ain't no good in that."
She turns and goes back toward the house. "Just don't like the idea of him layin' close to Mama and Father, is all." She goes up the few steps and pushes the door open all the way. She goes in and I follow. Jim starts to come with us, but I see Higgins's gentle restraint on his arm and he stops, and they both remain outside. Though Katy shows not the slightest bit of emotion, Higgins knows that this is hard on her.
She walks through the front room, a simple room with a table and some chairs made from black birch saplings. It looks like small animals have been here—and maybe some large animals as well, because there seems to be nothing of value left in the place. There is a cloth strung across a doorway, and she pulls it to the side and looks in. I see that it is a small room with only enough space for a bed, a bed that still has its mattress.
"I was born in that bed. My father died in that bed. My mama died in that bed..."
"And you and I shall sleep in that same bed tonight, Katy Deere, and take comfort in each other's presence," says I, grabbing her by her shoulders and turning her around to face me. "What do you mean to do here, Katy?"
She looks away. "I dunno. It's early enough to get a crop in. Prolly ask some neighbors for help. Maybe find the best man I can around here and marry up with him so I can get some constant help. Prolly—"
"Is that what you want, Katy, in your heart? Is that what you really want?" I have to stand on my tippy-toes to look into her eyes. Still she shies away and looks down.
"No, I reckon I don't," she says quietly. "Ain't nothin' fer me here, neither, ain't nothin' fer me."
"Then come with us, Katy, and see what lies ahead. Will you do that? I need you, as I ain't got no notion of this great land, and you can help." I give her shoulders a shake.
She stands deep in thought for a while. Then she straightens up and shakes off my hands, and says, "Yeah, I reckon I'll go with you. See what's out there, anyways."
"Good girl," I say, leaning up and putting a kiss on her forehead. "Now let's get settled for the night. Higgins. Jim. Come on in. Tomorrow, the river!"
Chapter 12
Jaimy Fletcher
Brought low
Somewhere in godforsaken America
Dear Jacky,
The girl Clementine got me unsteadily to my feet, saying, "We've got to get you away from here. They might come back to finish you off."
I reeled and staggered my way out of that clearing next to the stream, leaning on the thin shoulders of that young girl, the one who had found me and who had, probably, saved my life. I was still confused, with my thoughts running about my head like wild things. With each upright step, though, my mind cleared some, and soon I was able to take stock of my situation: I was stark nak*d, with not a thing to my name—no money, no horse, no clothes, no personal belongings, not even a ribbon to bind back my hair, which fell lankly about my face as I struggled on. Those brigands even took the ribbon from my hair, I thought, vowing eternal revenge. I'll get you, you bastards, and you'll regret the day you ever thought to get the best of Jaimy Fletcher, by God, but then my head starts to spin and I sag against a tree. Even I know that to be an idle threat. I am such an utter fool....
"Here. Come on, a little farther and you'll be safe. There. Sit down. Rest now." She propped me against a tree trunk and lifted the cool, wet cloth of her skirt once again to my forehead.
"Looks like they tried to shoot you, boy," she said, dabbing away at the wound on my head, "but they missed. The bullet went alongside your head but not in it, thank goodness. Here, lean against me till you feel better," and her arms encircled me as she pressed my head against her breast, and I did feel better for it. So much so that when I relaxed and started to slip from consciousness once again, I thought I heard her say, "Thank you, God, for answering my prayers. He's just what I wanted. Thank you, thank you. Amen."
When I awoke, she was again pulling me to my feet. "Come on, boy, we've got to get you back to our place 'fore dark 'cause you gonna get mighty cold out here, considerin' you ain't got no clothes on you. Here, give me your hand."
As we stumbled along, my head began to clear, and it cleared enough for me to realize that I was walking through deep woods with a girl whilst stark nak*d.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Gonna try to get you to our barn 'fore Pap sees you, so's you can rest up and get better. Don't worry, I'm gon take real good care o' you ... What's your name?"
"James ... Jaimy Fletcher."
"Jaimy ... that's a real nice name. Y'know, Jaimy," she said, trying out my name, rolling it around on her tongue as if savoring the sound of it, "I prayed to God for Him to send me a boy to love and for Him to take me away and take care of me, and He sent me you. It's amazin'...that He delivered you nak*d and all, just like a newborn babe, sent from Heaven above."
"Well, actually I came from across the ocean, from England, uh, Clementine, is it?" I said, somewhat doubtfully.
She turned her head and smiled at me, and amidst my pain and humiliation, I saw that, despite her flimsy dress, once-white apron, and bare feet, she really was quite pretty—straight hair the color of corn silk, good straight teeth, slim frame, and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. She looked to be about fifteen or sixteen.
"Uh-huh," she said, squeezing my hand. "I gotta admit I used to doubt things about God, seein' as how He put me on this earth in a miserable place, without a mama, just mean ol' Pap to kick me around, but He's made ever'thin' right now, that's for sure."
"Um," I said, feeling somewhat less than Heaven-sent, "Clementine, if you could see your way clear to give me the loan of your apron, I would feel much more comfortable."
We stopped walking and she put her hands behind herself to loosen the apron strings. She dipped her head and took off the garment. "You sure do talk funny, don't you?" she said, grinning. I do not believe she has stopped grinning since I arrived on the scene. "I like you just fine the way you are, but, here, turn around."
I did so and she reached around my waist and tied the apron strings, at my back. I could feel her fingers working back there, and it seemed to take longer than really necessary. She was good in that she did not put the neck thing over my head, which would have made me look even more foolish, but instead folded the apron over so that it performed its function of covering my manhood without making me look like I wore part of a dress.
"There," she said, "now you look jest like a real pale Injun."
A flush went to my cheeks as she lightly patted my buttocks when she finished the job, then whispered, "Oh, thank you, God," yet again.
We continued on through what I considered a trackless wilderness, but Clementine seemed to know where she was going, so I followed meekly behind.
"So far from your home," I asked during our trek, "what were you doing by that stream?"
"I go there sometimes to ... well, to get away ... to dream and hope about things. Maybe you could call it prayin', I don' know..."
Eventually, we came to a cleared bit of land and she bade me crouch down and be quiet.
"If we have any luck, Pap'll already have passed out from the drink and we'll be able to git you into the barn for the night."
I looked out across the clearing and made out what looked like a large rough lean-to. A barn, hardly, but what did I know of this barbarous land? I kept my mouth shut, putting my trust in my guide.
"Shush, now," she said, rising up. "Looks good. Come on. Quick!"
I rose up, too, and together we ran across the open space to the door of the barn. Clementine lifted the bar and the door swung open.
"In here! Quick! We'll get you into the loft and I'll be back later. I'll bring you some food. I'll—"
"Yew'll what?" growled a low voice behind me. "Yew'll what? What the hell's goin' on here? And jus' who the hell are yew, anyway?"
I turned around to discover that I was looking down the barrel of a very long rifle. Behind the rifle stood a very large and very dirty-looking man, unshaven and clad only in a pair of stained overalls, with one broken shoulder strap dangling from a hairy shoulder. His unkempt lank hair hung in his eyes. It was plain that he had been drinking, as he was unsteady on his feet and weaved about as he spoke.
"Please, Pap," said Clementine. She wrung her hands piteously. "He's a boy what God give to me and I mean to keep him. Can I, Pap, please?"
"I asked who the hell are yew?" said this creature to me, his deep-set eyes drilling into mine, the gun's barrel not wavering an inch from a spot between my eyes, in spite of its owner's drunken condition.
"My name is James Emerson Fletcher and I am—"
"Yew am in a ton of trouble, boy! Clemmie! Yew been out there in the wood ruttin' with this boy? Answer me true now."
"No, Pap, I ain't, I...," she wailed.
"Lift up yer dress, let me see yer drawers. Let me smell yew, so's I know what yew been doin', to see if'n his stink is on you, 'fore I kills this boy!"
In spite of looking down the barrel of that gun, I gradually gathered my courage and found my voice. "Sir, I assure you that nothing of that sort has transpired. Your daughter did nothing but help a poor waylaid traveler in distress!"
"That so?" He looked at me and lowered the barrel. He poked me in the shoulder with it. "Turn around, boy." I sensed the barrel being brought up to the back of my head and I did it.
"Why, this boy is butt-nekkid! Yew tellin' me yew ain't been up to somethin' nasty, Clemmie? Shame on yew!"
With that, he took a hand from his rifle and backhanded his daughter across her face, and she went down, sprawled in the dirt. Still keeping the gun trained on me, he pulled up her skirt and peered under. Then, apparently finding nothing damning about the condition of her undergarments, he pulled the dress back down and said, "Both of you'uns. Get inside. C'mon, pretty boy, move it!"