Rage

The Traveling

You didn’t know him as a man, you knew him as a boy, before he got broken and crushed. You were both children then, his voice not yet taken by the baritone of adolescence, and your form not yet molded into curves. Neither of you had the crossness of maturity, not even in the times that came to be, when your young days of chasing butterflies by the creek and savoring sweet mulberries before they were picked off by the birds became hard and long.

Tired as the two of you were, him working in fields that were more dust than crops, and you caring for more mouths than could be fed, in starlight you’d meet by the creek that was no longer, reminiscing of the butterflies that had moved on. You held hands in youthful hope and gave each other smiles which creased the dirt hard labor had embedded on your faces.

Life was easier when there was a soul who made you forget the misery but never the butterflies.

They arrived one particularly hot and dry day. The winds had so thoroughly cracked the Plains that torrential rains would need to fall for months on end to heal the calloused earth. And rain had been in short supply.

There was never any warning, though there were stories. But the stories had unknown origins, and they were stories not warnings, changed and retold for the benefit of the teller. Perhaps they brought more coin that way, or a bite of sup— both hard to come by in these times.

There had been no crops to pick that day, no fields to tend to, and so he’d taken a small reprieve at the place where the butterflies used to be. He imagined the grass was still as high as your shoulders, and you’d run as fast as your little legs could manage until you’d reach the creek. He always caught you, hauled you up and back into the grass. But one day you decided to be a little more clever. You out ran him and were already at the water’s edge when he saw you. You squealed and in an act of childlike boldness, jumped on a rock visible in the shallow clear depths. You didn’t know how slippery moss could be, or how much it would hurt to slice your hand on the edge of stone.

He’d waded in with no hesitation, soaking his only pair of britches, been there to wash the pain away and kick the rock for being the cause of your tears.

Your ma had not been happy.

“I ain’t got no time for injuries!” She’d screamed, bandaging you up in old rags, telling you to stop daydreaming with the boy next door and warning you not to come home if he gave you a growing belly.

In another life, she could’ve been a gentle woman, your ma, but in this life, at least the rags were clean.

The sun was hurting his eyes but he was too preoccupied laughing at the memory, wishing the grass grew tall so he could find you again and again, when the earth gave a shudder. They had said there was no warning but years later after piecing together the fragments of his memory, he would know that moment heralded it..

On instinct he jumped to his feet. After all, the Plains didn’t give much time to think things over if a storm was coming through. But there was nothing. Nothing but the stories. And the instinct that had been bred into him saw to it that his legs made haste back to the farm.

He’d screamed into the sky, the thick air muffling the sound, keeping it away from its intended targets. He arrived breathless, sweat dripping from under his cap that had somehow survived the sprint.

You came out wiping flour, a commodity as rare as gold, on your apron. You’d planned on sneaking him a slice of sugar pie later on. After months, your ma’s voucher had finally been good for it and some eggs and milk. It was just cause to celebrate.

Someone had spared him a drink, and between gulps and pants and a growing audience, his eyes met yours.

“Go,” he told them, but he was speaking only to you.

The two of you often talked under the stars about what you’d do if the stories turned out to be true. You’d said it might be an excuse to get out of dodge. He’d said it didn’t matter what happened as long as you were beside him. Maybe then was the first time your girlish lips felt his still-boyish ones, you weren’t sure, because the world faded away and there were only the stars and him, and maybe even a few butterflies.

Some believed him and scattered immediately to collect their paltry provisions. Most were on foot, letting their toddlers ride in carts dragged by the men while the women shouldered the ones too small to walk. Others lucky enough to have kept a horse or two alive hitched up their wagons to ride West with the rest. There were stories about the West too, but they were more like fairytales written by those two foreign brothers, not mysterious nightmares.

Yet these nightmares came from somewhere. Someone must have dreamt them.

It was hard to breathe with the frenzy of panic kicking up more dust that swirled and carried the dry heat.

Your shaky hands worked frantically. Together with your ma, you secured the cargo and corralled and soothed your frightened siblings. All the while you kept one eye out for him. To your dismay, on your last trip back to the house for supplies, you saw him with your pa, helping him tack Old Rosie, instead of gathering for himself what little he possessed.

He had no family, for years he’d been a wanderer. Always considered tall for his age, he sported a good pair of hands, and a strong back. He slept where he could and took whatever job he could get.

That’s what caught your pa’s eye. He saw an able body with a sharp mind and an eagerness to earn his keep, but soon enough what caught you was his heart.

Your pa was a good man, but the years had aged him far quicker than was fair. He was bent by the stress of heavy labor and even heavier thoughts.

When the Earth shuddered again, they all felt it. Those who had made good time packing and leaving and were already on their way picked up their pace. But others showed that good people facing a crisis find the desperate evil within.

His hands found the shotgun your pa had packed. An old Remington with exactly three rounds to her name. Your heart beat wildly, thinking of what may come. You were lifted at the waist one handed and just as easily as he’d plucked the shotgun from her place, he tucked you in it.

Pa already held the reins and was having a time of it coaxing Old Rosie to move. Glass breaking jolted you and your siblings to duck down. In the corner of your eye you saw the shattered window of your old homestead and the man tumbling out of its frame while another climbed through, having no care for the shards that tore his hands.

They stopped their sacking long enough to notice the full wagon, the frightened children, and the lack of men.

He was between the men and the wagon in no time at all, the Remington mounted proper and one finger on the trigger. Your pa taught him how to shoot, you knew he wouldn’t miss. But you didn’t want it to come to bloodshed, you needed him here in the back with you, tucked into the safe nook of his lap, getting out of dodge like you always planned.

A wail tore through the air, one of despair and fear. The quake that it seemed to trigger came from all directions, above and below, left and right. It had no origin, like the stories, yet it was everywhere. A wall of churning, angry belligerent dust began to form, seeking to become a circle. It rose, aiming to block out the sun, and over the roar of dirt and fury you heard your pa begging Old Rosie to fly. Your siblings were beside themselves and your ma pressed and needled your pa to do something more.

Crack went a hard slap made by the heel of the gun, as he beat Old Rosie’s right flank. The poor horse, not accustomed to such chaos and abuse, reared once, uttered a neigh and flew, leaving him behind.

The wall was closing in on itself faster than Rosie’s gallop. She overtook those on foot, their haste and headstart all for naught. You climbed over your brothers and sisters, and used a sack of flour for leverage. Your hair came free when the wind stole the handkerchief that kept the wild spray of dark curls moderately tamed.

Dark curls he loved so much. They held their softness in these tough times, just as you had. He couldn’t hear your screams over the thunder of dust, but he saw your lips moving and your arm extended beyond the wagon, pleading to take his. He ran with all his might, caked in the dirt the old rusted wheels of the wagon kicked in their wake.

Your eyes met for one glorious second when your outstretched fingertips almost met his and you had the nerve to feel hope that they may have found purchase. But Rosie chose that moment to find the courage to dive into that ever-closing gap between dust and damnation.

The wagon gave a great creak of grinding, rusty spokes, and rough hands pulled you back into a huddle of arms and shivers and chattering teeth. They held you down amidst your cries and your ma, somehow finding gentleness in the eye of chaos, smoothed your hair and said a prayer for the boy you never thought you would see again.

Before you succumbed to the pull of sleep brought on by a broken heart, you dared a glance behind, but there was nothing there but the vast Plains of grief. In front lay salvation granted by too big a sacrifice and in your palm which had almost held his you clutched a handful of that damned dust instead.

And off you rode to the West.

He didn’t know what to call the force that pulled him back from you, but he knew he’d managed a smile as it knocked him off his feet. He landed hard, scraping his elbows into the earth dried of any give.

He never took his eyes off you or the wagon disappearing beyond the waves that became his prison and that’s why he smiled.

He was not alone. There were others, non-believers who regretted their choices, and those who had had none, who had remained stuck because of unfortunate circumstance. They trudged together to form a circle within the one that confined them, and only then did he notice that he still held the Remington in his hand.

The wind picked up, dirt and dust heaved and bellowed, forcing eyes to close and ears to be covered. There was no sun, it was like a twilight made of smoke and fog had descended upon the land, and then.

It stopped.

The dust…fell.

Not like gentle fluttering of snow or the light patter of rain. No. It just…dropped, dense like lead or the heavy pull of a weighted curtain.

And beyond the curtain of settled dust lay the impossible.

The circus had come to town.

Either here because desperation and sadness had willed it to come. Or the storm had picked its destination blindly, the stories didn’t say, but yet here it was. As large and imposing as the dust bowl it had traveled in on.

No one moved.

The sky gleamed clear like the first dawn after cleansing rains, and sunshine made the white of the spired tents too bright for tired eyes.

The faint lull of the mandolin–or was it the banjo?–drifted through stands flowing with more food than could be right. Chocolate sweeties, drumsticks with drippings oozing down their sides, trays piled with fruit, some too exotic for the simple folk bearing these sights. A child’s laugh came from somewhere and between the red and white, bobbing along were mountains of balloons, spun cotton sugar, and lollipops, palm-sized in colors which put a rainbow to shame. Stages, though silent, held the promise of music and entertainment.

Yet there wasn’t a soul in sight, as if all of this appeared only to taunt and disappear upon the first sign of movement.

The people were spent and wretched and scared. They didn’t want to trick their hearts and minds and stomachs into believing what simply could not be true. A mirage in these times would be cruel, and folks didn’t have the constitution for such things anymore.

From within the huddle, someone took a step forward, unable to curb curiosity or temptation. While the rest held their collective breath, his stupidity–or bravery– seemed to break the spell.

Merry men on stilts appeared from behind the cover of the tents. The lull of music turned to orchestral tunes played by musicians on stages no longer empty of performers. Booths with happy attendants and their beguiling smiles waved at the children, entreating them to come play their games. Prizes hung proudly in the back. Bears and lions for the boys and sweet, pink dollies for the little girls. The first smile in years broke upon a child’s face and parents, saddled with worry for bringing babies into these trying times, didn’t allow much begging before they followed their ecstatic sons and daughters into the jubilee.

All the while, he stood there in awe. His heart remained heavy with guilt and concern. He had sent you away. He thought he was so wise, making sure of your escape. He had been so certain it was the right thing to do, to see to it that you weren’t part of the stories that were told.

He stared at the abundance that surrounded him and almost cried, in anger, in sadness, that he should be the one standing here while he had driven you from it.

The stories had lied. How could he live with himself, sending you out into the unknown when paradise was in front of him? Upon the liveliness that had sprung up, the grouping had broken, and dragging his feet, he decided to explore.

Attractions popped up at every turn, friendly smiles that never wavered. Everything was to the heart’s content. A man with a painted smile appeared before him, and bowed in his oversized shoes and bright dress, presenting a goblet of milky drink. He didn’t have to take it to know it was chilled, and suddenly seeing the drink, he realized how parched he had been, and for so long. How refreshing the first gulp would be.

But what he’d done to deprive you made him hesitate. Why would the stories tell such untruths? He had vague memories of his childhood, and in it the same stories had been told to him nearly every night.

Run. Because The Traveling will bring nothing but sorrow. It will bring drought and famine. Rip children from their mother’s bosoms.

Here it was and it was nothing like the stories. He saw children in their parent’s arms, with bright smiles and full bellies. Some had painted faces much like the man still in front of him, patiently waiting for him to take his offering. It was too much, and so he shook his head at the refreshment, and meant to go on his way.

He stopped as pain from something dull and searing invaded his body. It robbed him of breath, blurred his vision until it left him sightless. In the dark he slowly lost command of his body as well. First it was his arms which fell to his sides, the Remington slipping from his fingers. He struggled to keep control but felt himself falling to his knees and tried to moan, but his voice was stolen as well.

His arms were brought over his head and gripped together and he was dragged for what had to be miles because pain could not last that long otherwise. The ground burned his skin and scraped it off slowly in bits. He wore his teeth into his lip to silence himself even though he had no voice to scream. For a moment, he abetted as he grew airborne..

The air stung his wounds, but the ground hurt more as he was dumped on what felt to be a wooden platform. Without his sight, he could simply guess. The air felt cooler here, and held a touch of damp. Even barely breathing, he could smell the rancidness, like rotten meat and curdled milk, and his stomach heaved.

There was no time to be sick because he heard the steps, not those of one by their lonesome, and not the two by two of dual companions. No this was an odd beat, and in the travails of nausea and fear, he could not for the life of him make it out.

Liquid splashed on his face, restoring his sight. He winced in the light and he wished he’d remained blind.

He’d heard the circus had freaks, but this was not worth a few pennies to throw on the stage and laugh at their misfortune. He’d empty his purse if it meant he could scour out his eyes.

A woman, or some semblance of, as big as three, waggled forth. She wore but her own skin, which hung upon her in layers like tallow from beef. Her face had no shape, neck and shoulders and chin melded together into one form, and on each step, veins barely contained under overstretched skin, threatened to burst and drown the whole world in blood.

He mustered the energy for a cough and a gasp and then a silent cry when what he had thought was this thing’s own flesh moved on either side of her chest. It was not one but two heads like the twins he’d heard about from the Orient. Each had their own malformed nose and a mouth of crooked chipped teeth; and onto their chins ran a line of drool he recognized as a familiar milky drink.

At this realization he became most violently ill. These things had been nursing.

Three sets of sunken eyes peered at him, and perhaps in the worst twist of all, the mouths stretched into simultaneous smiles. Haggard, they were. Creatures that would make monsters resign the designation and live out the rest of their days spreading the gospel instead. They had come for him first, knowing he was the one because he’d declined the offered libation at his worst state of thirst.

His hair was grabbed hard at the roots and his head bent back. Above him he glanced at a painted mouth. The odd beat resumed until the heat from the thing and the odor it produced were closer than before. He gagged as a finger entered his mouth to pry his jaw apart. He bit down on the foreign appendage but it was too late.

Hot milk was poured into his throat, thickly, languidly, ensuring he could taste the vile creamy sweetness coating his tastebuds. The painted man laughed til he cried while the liquid burned and bubbled on its way down.

“This one will grow up to be useful,” they said, the Grim Mother and Her Children and let him keep his wits but only as dreams. They were once daughters and in her need for control, The Mother had sewn them into herself and kept them alive with the poison she created. They squeezed her breasts dry and made certain he drank every drop until there was no more. On the final swallow his brain scrambled, memories became distant, but even then his thoughts were of nothing but you.

Many years later…

You stood at the borders of what used to be, a wilderness of skeletons, some tangible, some bones of the past. It wouldn’t be recognizable if you hadn’t held onto the memories and never let yourself forget.

You knew the empty shell of your homestead the second you saw it. Though the wood was but dry rot and the gabled roof pitched and sagged so low and sad to the ground, it would make anyone else mourn what was once there. Not you, the anger festered, feeding on the years that passed. You weren’t bitter, you were starved. You didn’t know for what but that deep hunger never left your spirit, never let you rest.

In those memories of hardship swam ones of cold spring waters in the creek and the boy that ran into them to avenge you from the rock that drew your blood.

You hadn’t married. Your heart closed the same day your fist had around nothing but dust. Dust you wore around your neck, bottled so you could never forget.

Your ma begged you to let go of him on her deathbed, your pa before her. They saw how you tortured yourself. What they thought was just puppy love was ripping you apart. But you couldn’t let go, not without one day coming back and pouring the damned dust onto that accursed land and giving him a proper goodbye.

And so here you were, standing where it began and ended. You weren’t scared, not that you’d admit. The stories said it never came to the same place twice, like lightning. But being here again with that hunger rumbling inside you, making your bones shake, how you wished it would strike a second time.

Every step you took around what was your old life cast you into a deeper gloom. Rumors plagued you throughout your new life of a lone family who escaped. They reached your ears but no one suspected. They didn’t want to believe it could be true. Loss was easier to handle if there was no other choice.

You walked and walked, seeing more relics of houses, trees and farms that skillful hands had built and planted.. A few cornstalks had been spared. They stood upright, dry and shriveled, no moisture in their veins to allow them to bend. One gentle breeze and they’d be, what else–dust.

The stillness sat heavy, and while your childhood had been hard, there had still been life . This was death, captured and preserved in a moment in time.

With the sun setting, you circled back. You might have hesitated, but then you picked yourself up and ascended the old rotted stairs of the porch and into your home. Everything was almost as you’d left it, save a few possessions, remnants of a ransack. You’d planned to explore but stopped short at the kitchen entrance, the old coal oven catching your eye. The iron was still black as obsidian; rust had not found its place there. But the door hung open and slightly askew, and in it you saw the spoiled remains of that sweet sugar pie.

And you screamed.

Screamed and screamed and screamed.

You tore at your hair and tugged at your dress. It wasn’t insanity. It was fire, rage, and despair. You screamed yourself hoarse, then cried some more, grabbed at the bottle around your neck, and with all your might smashed it to the ground.

Though no bigger than a thimble, glass sprayed everywhere, the dust spread, and didn’t stop. It flowed like clouds on a breezy day, spreading throughout the four corners of your home, and spilling outside. You lay there momentarily stunned, watching the hazy mist move as though alive.

Calling you to it.

When you didn’t move, it shook the earth as persuasion. And you knew what was to come. This time though, you wouldn’t fly, you wouldn’t run. You would stay and see if the stories were true.

There was no great circle of dust keeping you prisoner. It seemed to know you’d stay. A faint note of music caught your ear, a jeering tone of horns and the deep vibrato of tubas, peaking with a calliope that thrummed the walls and forced you to your feet.

Night had fallen upon the homestead. You studied how the pitch black darkness made the fire of torches more garish, their dance sinister. You hadn’t taken a breath, forgotten to. How could you think of breathing when your wish had come true–lightning had indeed struck again.

It stretched as far as you could see, to where the night swallowed the torchlight. You took a step then another, shivering from a mix of excitement that blended into fear.

Rows upon rows of decadence enticed you, trays of succulent meats and fruits, stands with their lines full and spiraling of people waiting to swap coin to play. A whip snapped in the distance, followed by a creature's roar, garnering the loudest applause.

You stepped through the crowds and gasped as you recognized those you thought lost. The neighbor’s young daughter, wearing her yellow gingham she loved so much, not having aged a day. Her father right behind her, in overalls and his old leather hat. You raised a hand in greeting and began to approach with a hurried pace, forgetting all formalities as the question you wanted most to ask was about to spill from your lips when both father and daughter passed through you in an icy whiplash of chill.

Stumbling back in shock, numbed by the encounter, you took a closer look around. Shadowy shapes surrounded you. They moved without acknowledging your presence, they themselves there but not there, frozen in time.

Your hand absentmindedly went to the chain broken around your neck and you wondered, had you called this back? Had you done this? And if so, had it come to claim you too?

You tried to retrace your steps, but there was no way out. There was no childhood homestead leading you back to reality, only the circus and its shadows every which way you looked.

You pressed your clammy palms into your skirt, and jumped at another round of applause, louder than the last. But it was the voice that quieted the crowd that stomped your fear and sent you running past and through the blurry shapes that paid you no mind.

It was older, yet spoken with the same cadence that you knew so well, but you wouldn’t believe what you couldn’t actually see.

He kept speaking, taunting the audience while you ran. The place was a maze and though the beings weren’t corporeal, the structures, awnings, flags and the like obstructed your view. It wasn’t until you arrived at the great clearing, expecting a throng and seeing nothing and no one there but him standing on the stage with a painted smile.

The trap had been set, and you were the mouse.

His eyes appeared cloudy but blazing.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The sound ground itself in your ears as tears streamed down your face, for the boy who looked just as you remembered him, but had been made into something you knew not.

Your eyes grew wide at the shotgun he used instead of a circus master’s whip, before the torches went out all at once and everything became black. There was no denying your fear now as you heard him draw closer, dragging it behind him. The clang of metal ominous in the darkness.

You trembled in a world gone cold, when a lit match danced before you. The comforting scritch brought a second of relief until you saw the lifeless eyes and artificial smile it illuminated. And before you could scream, the wooden heel of that familiar gun smashed into your mouth.

Blood spurted from your face and you fell back. Laughter, mocking and evil, echoed in the night, bouncing across the shadows. He stood over you, taking you in, then bent a knee to hover near your injured face. He rocked his head back and forth as if to shake something, and for one moment the cloudiness disappeared and he spoke in a tired voice.

“I’ve dreamt of you before.”

The cloudiness returned and with it your rage.

You fought back as he held you down and forced open your mouth. Scratched and clawed as an odor so foul frightened the shadows and advanced. But mostly you fought to awaken the boy that was taken from you and reduced to this. You grabbed at his wrists and ripped at the fabric of his shirt and just then did you realize you were holding on to something real.

Fabric and flesh.

And you doubled your efforts despite the pain in your jaw and the knee that kept your back firmly planted on the ground.

The revolting smell grew and your stomach lurched at the monsters that loomed above your head. Three faces, three mouths, and pounds of flesh, the Grim Mother and her Daughters needed a fresh soul.

Through muffled words you begged him to remember, choking on the taste of milk that hit your tongue.

In a husky breathless voice the Mother commanded silence and he lay down the match and gun to use both hands to keep you still.

Milk dripped across your face and the offending flavor further instigated your fight. Within each drop was a memory, of lives taken, of spirits broken, of souls trapped to serve Mother and Child.

You wheezed as the liquid went down the wrong pipe, flailing as one arm broke free and settled around the very tangible heel of your father’s old gun.

In one movement you swung, landing a blow directly to the side of his head, knocking him aside. The Mother screeched at him to get up, but blood streamed out the side of his head and he lay still.

You turned slowly, the world fading in and out. Everything was spinning. Three heads became six, then nine.

But your grip on the gun kept you focused.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

You weighed it in your hand. Three times for good measure. Three times for three shots.

Your pa had taught him how to shoot, and he’d decided to teach you too.

The first landed squarely in the left daughter’s head, which twitched slumped forward, another right through the skull, bits of it landing and scratching The Mother’s eyes, the last you saved for the crone herself. Not a kill shot, no. She’d sit with her dead for a while before she bled out. So you aimed for the chamber directly above her heart.

You watched blood ooze from the dead and the dying. The first drop hit the fire still burning from the match and ignited.

He groaned and your heart leapt, first in happiness then in fright. Your steps were cautious and you knelt, the old Remington still in hand.

Behind you, The Mother twitched, engulfed in flames, embers of flesh flying into the night. He stared ever so curiously, watching them burn and fly.

“What are you thinking of?” you asked, keeping your distance.

His clear eyes made contact with yours and he smiled and replied,

“Butterflies.”