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Cindy laughed with Jamison at the antics of a
weeks-old broom-tailed colt. The sun had almost touched the horizon. An entire
day spent with the old man and she only barely marked the time. Berta would be
furious that young Ben missed his lunch and nap. The boy had eaten cold pone
and beans with them and begged for more, and Cindy saw no harm in the boy
having his first real taste of adult food.
“Where are you, you scamp?” she called, smiling.
The baby wasn't in sight. “Ben? Benjamin James McAllen?”
Jamison looked at Cindy in alarm. Moments ago the
infant had been here, clinging to the lowest rail of the pasture fence. He
glanced back at the barn. The westering sun shot clean through the barn,
marking every bump and straw in the aisle. But for that, it was empty. If the
boy had gotten in with those dogs- His mouth tightened, and not for the first
time regretted coming back to the McAllen farm. Since Miz McAllen had gotten
herself tangled with those stuck-up government folks, life was less tolerable,
tight. White men in dark suits in dark suits made him nervous, since the
neo-socialist attempt to take over the country after the L.A. riots late in
the last century. All the riots caused was a backlash of terrible proportions
that still harmed people today. Dammed nazis and their president-for-life.
White men in dark suits. Men who watched the place, watched the people who
worked here. They watched the child, took orders from his Miz McAllen.
Not worried, not yet, he studied the ground while
Cindy's voice grew louder and more shrill with fear.
What if the boy had gone to the kennels? Jezis.
Those rottweilers would tear his small body to shreds. My dear Lord.
In the dust he saw the marks of tiny hands and feet.
He saw the ones who did this at times, usually when a few sheets into the
wind. Tiny dark people, wearing leather and going bare foot in all but the
coldest of weather. Ani:tsi:ge:O, his mama to called them, and would
leave offerings of tobacco around the house and in the woods. Preferring
silence to the mockery of fools Jamison never told anyone.
If they were around, then it was good for everyone.
The Little People of the Forest loved kids and tried to protect them. They
did, though, have one bad habit. Playing jokes on people. Like the times he
couldn't find his pipe, for instance, or that bottle he kept, strictly for
medicinal purposes, of course. All in all, they were dammed fine people. Bent
at the waist, he followed the trail.
Cindy was growing frantic. What if the boy had been
taken? There was a strong, fanatical segment of the Project, one that adhered
to Grace Hylnn's ideals. They believed wholeheartedly that the children born
of the surrogate mothers should be raised in Children’s Homes and orphanages
as had Benny. Others, Cindy among them, preferred the children remain with
their mothers until older. In Ben's case, it would be until he was old enough
to attend college, strictly as a control, of course.
Whimpering to herself, Cindy prowled among the
stalls and tack rooms in the stables.
A low shout brought her back to the sunshine.
Jamison pointed at the herd of mares. He opened the gate and began to croon at
them.
“Oh-my-God,” she said in a faint whisper and
clutched the gate post to keep from falling. With an angry jolt, Cindy took
control of herself. Now was no time to play the role of an airhead southern
aristocrat. Ben was laughing and giggling at the velvet muzzles and making
grabs at the whiskers of her mares.
Jamison had seen this happen before. Years back a
child had gotten into the pasture. The mares, they liked babies of all kinds,
mares do. Just a flick of one unshod hoof killed that child. Just the merest
tap compared to what one horse gave another in play.
“Hussy? Hussy?” the boy called. He reached out
to touch one sorrel leg. The mare danced away and Jamison bit his tongue to
keep from crying out in alarm. There was a rumble, a half-angry snort from
that scrubby old mare Miz McAllen favored so.
The younger mares parted in a delicate wave and
Jamison was frozen in place. The old mare positioned herself over the child
and shook the mane out of her eyes. Her teeth bared at the taller, leggy
thoroughbred mares, a warning they were well acquainted with. Sarafina was
matriarch here. Tough as wang leather, she felt little more than contempt for
fools who's only though was racing around the pasture.
“Hussy.” Ben drooled and grinned. He
stared up, awed at the dark brown tiger striped pillars that now quartered his
world. He looked and saw his mother at the fence. Maybe this hadn't been such
a good idea after all. He started to crawl towards his mother. the old mare
thrust her muzzle down at him and Ben tumbled back.
The boy wailed, “Hussy,” and started to cry and
hiccup.
Sarafina groaned with frustration. It smelled like
Benny, the way Benny smelled when she was only a broom tail colt. Like sour
milk and urine and dusty powders. She sneezed. The wails rose in volume and
now came from two directions. Sarafina's upper lip curled in disdain. Anna,
Benny's mother, had never been afraid. When Anna got scared she got angry.
Then it was better to run away. When she got angry Anna smelled like a wolf.
Sarafina shifted and sneaked a glance around.
To her relief all she saw was a flock of those noisy
and troublesome ravens.
There, far away on the breeze . . . wolf-stink.
Sara shivered.
With a sigh she lowered her head and nickered at the
boy in an effort to attract his attention. The wails cut off and a hand shot
out to grasp the long chin whiskers.
This was more fun. For Ben.
Ben pulled himself up and waddled to the great,
wedge shaped head. He stared into the brown eyes and learned of visions of
better days. Wise old eyes. In a desperate longing for cold winds and freedom
Sarafina remained unblinking until the old man crept up and snatched the baby,
her baby! from her.
She reacted with a scream of outrage. The man spun
and she struck with long ivory teeth. Jamison cried out and Cindy took the
baby from his outstretched arms.
Sarafina threw the old man to the ground. On nibble
hoofs she darted after Cindy. The gate slammed in her face. Sara threw herself
against it with a cry of denial and a rending crash.
Cured oaken planks creaked, groaning from the
determined weight of the mare. They held, but only just.
Holding his injured shoulder, Jamison crawled up.
One of the grooms ran from the stable, a 30.06. held 'at arms.' The old mare
turned and snorted a warning at Jamison. He backed away, eyes glancing from
Cindy to the mare. He spotted the rifle and his voice raised in alarm.
“No.”
“She tried to kill you, Mr. Jamison,” the man
called back. The rifle snapped to his shoulder. Cool, at perfect ease, he
stared down the sights. An easy take. No pain for the animal, nobody in danger
from the shot.
“Don't shoot. She was only trying to protect the
baby.”
Like the ravens? Cindy shot a gaze filled with alarm
at the flock of birds that infested the woods behind the house. “Kill her
before she hurts him,” Cindy shouted and clutched the screaming child to her
breasts. “Do it.”
“Please, Ms McAllen. Don't do this.” He stared
at her for a moment and said in a quiet voice, “She never will hurt me. Not
near as much as you did, your first vacation home from Switzerland, and you
hit me with that quirt.” He touched the place on his cheek. “Please?”
He watched Cindy flush. A look of indecision crossed
the woman's face. She looked at the ravens, spiraling upwards, calling to each
other as they became more and more agitated.
“Put her down.”
Jamison stared forward with an inarticulate cry of
outrage. One raven hissed and the entire flock exploded in a shrill black
storm. The rifle cracked and the agent started with a visible fear. Dammed
ravens . . . the place was haunted by them . . . and other, less pleasant,
things.
The bullet sang its song of death and rose. Sarafina
ducked. She never could get used to the sound of gunfire, which was one of the
reasons Charlie Waya had had to get her out of his herd. No hunter could ride
her. The piece of lead creased her shoulder and she bared her teeth at the
rifle.
The ravens croaked and fluttered back to their trees
to see what happened now.
Silence ruled.
The agent stood in shock. He closed his eyes and
shook his head. The last time he had missed a shot had been years before, the
distance over a mile, not thirty yards. Maybe playing stable hand was getting
to him. Maybe he needed a break from all this superstitious crap and time off.
McVey Memorial Park in Oklahoma was as good a place as any, one-hundred
thirty-five thousand acres of rolling hills and convicts scratching a meager
living, waiting until someone with a license came hunting one.
Then Jamison was between him and the mare. The old
man's face contorted with fear for Sara and rage at Cindy.
Voice cracked, but granite, he told the agent in
terms that widened the other's eyes just what would happen if he fired again.
“Gosh, Mr. Jamison, I-” He glanced at Cindy. She
motioned him back to the stables. Confused that one old hired hand should have
so much influence over 'Brillo Panties' VanTur, he withdrew to the safety of
the stables.
Jamison rounded in on Cindy, his eyes flashing black
fire and promises of retribution like an aging Patriarch Moses. “And you,
Missy. Shame on you, child. This here old mare's better 'n all them rottweilers
you got penned up out back, the way she loves that boy of yours. You want,
I'll find her a new home. But to kill as fine an animal as this jus' because
you got a burr up your-”
“All right.” Cindy's hand went up to forestall
anymore comments. Too many ears listened at every conceivable place. “I
thought you disliked her, since she wasn't what you called a pure blooded
stock. Never mind, Jamison.” She sagged, wearied to the bone by the shock of
Ben so close to death, and the attack by Sarafina. “Do what you want with
her. She's yours from now on. Just keep her away from my son.”
In the stables the agent grinned. That was one tough
old dude. Personally, he'd rather take his chances in a tank full of rattlers
than mess with VanTur's kid.
Jamison chuckled and stroked Sara's velvet nose.
“Only thing I want to know, baby,” he said to Sara's eyes, “is how we
going to keep the boy from coming to see you 'gain?” He grinned and watched
Cindy stalk back towards the house.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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