Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
THE SIN
The earth wobbled like a dizzy child. I sat atop Scarcity, my only companion for these long eons.
We walked slowly against the planet’s spin barely noticing the devastation around us.
She’d watched the same kinds of crops fail.
Together, we’d witnessed the same sorts of humans tremble with fear for more centuries than could be counted.
We’d heard stomachs growl, felt animals falter and fall, walked through the dust of broken dreams. The song of loss played through us. It was us.
I rode up a small swell of barren earth barely noticing the blanket of ruin around us.
Instead, I listened for the defiant seeds beneath, hunted down the resistance of roots reaching desperately beneath Scarcity’s hooves.
The maddening spark of life the Father had planted in this world was difficult to stamp out, but these humans had done much of my job for me.
They’d removed the prairie grasses which had held the soil in place.
They’d dug their fingers too greedily into the fruitful land.
The song of desolation hummed through us both.
The woes of the animals, the weakening of human hearts, and surrounding it all, the resounding chord of death—my brother’s burden.
Our songs often intertwined. My work was in the land, in insufficiency, in meagerness, drought, and clawing hunger.
His work was of the flesh. But our scales weighed the same sins and virtues.
At present, Brother Death was wandering on the night side of the planet with our other two siblings.
We were the ceaseless riders, the Four Horsemen, the harbingers of the blessed end.
We were wanderers, watching, warning, sowing misfortune until the rapture finally came for us.
It was a loneliness only we four could carry.
But lately, the isolation pressed like the point of a blade.
There was something different in this quiet land, a secret I’d brushed against many times.
It sharpened the solitude inside me until it gleamed.
I moved toward a recalcitrant patch of crops fighting the suffocating sand drifting around it and heard the song inside me trip. Notes so pure in their poverty tumbled from my mind. The rhythm unwound around me.
It was Her.
The beautiful secret.
I looked up from my work to see where I had wandered.
No matter where I started in this wide land, I always ended up here among the bones.
Sifting through the same swell of relentless stalks.
And there, across the dry riverbed, sitting atop a sagging roof close enough to gaze upon, but far enough to feel the uncrossable space between us—the same delicate figure surveyed the emptiness.
Her ruby hair glowed in a brief halo of sunlight.
I’d seen her there so many times before, perched like an angel at the edge of oblivion.
“Mercy.”
Scarcity bobbed her midnight head and pulled at the reins in my hands.
“No,” I whispered and smoothed a bony hand along her long, fluttering mane. That human was an ember of life that could not be stamped out. There’d been others like her. Possessors of the magic of subsistence. Fighters destined for the higher realms of heaven when their time on Earth was done.
But Mercy was different.
Even when she was out of our sight, she still danced at the edge of our perception, toiling with her brethren, offering comfort to the weary, dreaming her secret dreams of abundance, of escape. But never reaching for it.
“Not today.”
Scarcity stamped a hoof and snorted at the dust crusting her muzzle.
I’d hold out as long as I could for both of us.
Maybe we’d make it until nightfall when sweet Mercy slept and we could give ourselves over to the whirlwinds of destruction roaming the empty plains.
She wasn’t for us. Her playful curls and sunlight smile were for someone else.
Scarcity and I were lucky—we had each other. There would never be another for us. The blade of loneliness jabbed at my ribs seeking to cut out even that bit of cold comfort.
We turned and wandered back over the dry bones and bent stalks. Back to the senseless spinning of the planet. Back to the bittersweet song of sorrow.
There were only two things that brought the good citizens of Charity, Oklahoma to the downtown now that most of the stores were shuttered—relief check day and market day.
I rushed over to an extra table propped up next to Milner’s Dairy truck and plunked my baskets down.
The wind tugged at the rickety table like an angry child.
I tucked the skirt of my dress between my legs and rested a thigh on the corner to weigh it down.
Even with a stomach that growled half the day, my legs were strong.
I was lucky to have the muscle I did, plus a little extra to fill out the dresses I’d inherited from Momma.
The prideful thought slipped from my mind as I looked around at the other women walking the market stalls.
All good and kind friends who’d looked after me and Granma in the months it took Momma to fade.
Whose own dresses hung loose on their sunken frames.
Their feet picked a slower pace than before.
I made a plan right then to bake some loaves and bring them around town next week. A Thank You for their kindness.
To my relief, a few of my customers were still shopping. I filled their baskets with colorful eggs and slipped their dimes into my pocket.
President Franklin Roosevelt had told us to hang on so that was what we did, cashing our meager checks and pushing the money around on market day to keep us all afloat.
No one was trying to get rich. We were all just trying to stay fed another week as our cows got thinner for lack of grass and our chickens suffocated—their lungs filling with dust. It was an unspoken agreement—neighbors took care of neighbors in Charity. Always had. Always will.
Everyone was in silent agreement about that except for one…Raymond Stanley. I saw his gaudy red tie flapping in the wind from halfway down the street. Who wears a tie to market day? Only a person who’s flaunting his station and his money.
Ever since Raymond Stanley took over his father’s granary, you’d think he’d inherited a throne.
His clothes got fancier. His accent disappeared.
And his nose got too high for him to see he wasn’t fooling anyone.
With all the money he’d shorted farmers on their grain deliveries, Raymond could keep the downtown thriving.
Instead, he strutted along the sidewalk passing boarded up doors and blown out windows, not seeming to notice. Not seeming to care.
He had all he needed. All he wanted. Except me.
“Late to the party, I see.” Raymond sauntered up and leaned on my table with not even a glance at my eggs.
I slipped off the corner to reduce the weight on the table.
All I needed was for the flimsy legs to buckle and my eggs to crash to the ground.
I’d only made four dimes so far. Four dimes wasn’t enough to buy feed for the chickens, much less anything for Granma and me.
Things were cheaper now with Momma gone to heaven, but the two of us were just getting by.
I quietly scolded myself. If I’d been on time, I’d be walking home soon with nine, maybe ten, dimes in my pocket.
I opened up a can of patience and asked, “Would you like some fresh eggs, Raymond?”
He followed my gaze down to my baskets, then took the slow way back up to my face. I pulled my coat tighter over my fluttering dress.
“It doesn’t look like you’ve sold much today.” He grinned, showing that one bluish tooth in the front of his mouth.
“Not yet. But the market’s not over.”
I gave a forced cheerful look around. These days, there were fewer and fewer people walking the downtown on a Saturday afternoon.
Unless we were counting the migrant families making their slow journey west along the train tracks at the end of the street.
And they weren’t the people we charged for food.
Another strong gust blew one of my customers straight to my table.
“Hello, Mrs. Sanders. I’ve got some big eggs this time. Perfect for baking.”
I pretended that Raymond was made of glass. From the look on his face, he wasn’t too pleased.
“You take care, Mercy.” Raymond leaned in close enough for his foul breath to reach me.
It lingered between us for a moment then a fresh gust of grit scrubbed it from the air.
Was it chance that Raymond chose that moment to lift his hands?
The rush of wind caught the table and flipped it with an awful fury.
My baskets toppled. Eggs crunched. The table skidded upside down into the Milner’s truck. Milk bottles clinked sharply.
Gasps rose from the nearby tables. Yolk ran like orange lava from beneath the overturned baskets.
Every vendor in eyeshot froze as we gaped at the food wasted.
Precious money lost. My mouth hung open as I looked from my ruined eggs to Raymond as he strolled back up the street.
Had he done that on purpose? Had he really not seen what had just happened?
Granma would turn me out. Let the whirlwinds have me.
“Oh, Mercy. I’m so sorry.” She knelt and lifted one of the baskets. “Let’s see if any are still whole.”
Shock finally stepped aside so anger could get my hands working again.
I knelt and picked through the runny, muddy mess.
Between us, Mrs. Sanders and I found ten intact eggs covered in dirt and slime.
She took them and gave me a dime even though she was short two eggs. I tried to refuse, but she insisted.
There would be less food on her table. Her children’s stomachs were already thin enough.
“Thank you.” I waited for her to turn away before I let the tears fall.