“I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass.” (1)
Story I:
“Jimmie!”
“Noel,” said Walter, “I’m going into town after a few things with your brother and your Mother is going to the Campbell’s with Robbie and your sisters. In the meantime you’re in charge.” All the while Walter held his son’s gaze with seriousness. And then, after a pause, he concluded, “Look after Freddie and Jimmie. And don’t forget about the cows.”
As Walter and Mary made their way towards the front door, Mary kissed Noel and Freddie on tops of their heads before pausing and kneeling down in front of little Jimmie. She gently gathered his small, warm hands into her own as she gazed deeply into his young eyes. “Jimmie, Mother needs you to stay close to your brothers while she is away and mind what they have say.” Mary’s words were delivered with loving firmness. “Do you hear me? Be a good boy and listen to your brothers. Mother loves you,” she added, before kissing Jimmie upon his tiny forehead, just above his right eye. “Yes mama,” Jimmie replied. Walter and Mary went through the door and on their way.
The soft, warm evening breeze of summer blew gently over the vast prairie and, shortly after five o’clock, three brothers - hand in hand in hand - approached a cornfield on their way to bring in the cows.
CRACK!!!!
The sanctity and innocence of the summer evening was pierced by the sound of a single lead shot fired from the barrel of a pistol. The cracking pop became the very first note of a brand new composition. A perfectly tuned dirge, a weeping pain that echoed throughout the surrounding plains and into the hearts of the ancestors. Into generations to come.
“Jimmie!”
The scream ripped from the throat of a frightened boy and traveled on the breeze like the sharply projected call of the mighty Caxšep in flight. The first spark of an inter-generational pain, carried along by the summer breeze, traveled the sacred circle, spinning into a singular crimson thread connecting the past, present and future. The red blood was pouring from a single gunshot wound located about an inch above the right eye of little five year old Jimmie. Noel, himself a child of only twelve, scooped his mortally wounded brother into youthful arms made capable with the strength of the generations behind him.
“Come on Freddie! Let’s go!” shouted Noel to his other brother who, at just seven years old himself, was the only other witness to the tragedy. “We have to get Jimmie back home. Run!”
When the boys arrived back at the house Jimmie was still firmly cradled in brother Noel’s arms. Freddie took the lead and opened the door for them. Upon opening the door he called out for his mother and father, having forgotten that no one was at home. The boys were frightened. Riddled with surging anxiety. Traumatized.
Noel, somehow frantic yet loving at the same time, placed Jimmie across some chairs. At the same time, and at Noel’s command, Freddie ran to the kitchen to fetch water and a cloth to clean up the ugly mess. They covered Jimmie with their mother’s apron, then washed the blood from their little brother’s forehead. Living blood. Alive with the spirits of many generations. The blood had followed them back to the house like the bread crumbs Hansel and Gretel placed to mark a path. But rather then leading home - or being pecked up by birds as Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs were - Jimmie’s bloody trail led out, to the place where everything wonderful ended and everything horrible began. It stained the doorway into the house and trailed along the floor boards to where the two boys stood, in front of the chairs where Jimmie rested, covered with Ma’s apron. There was blood on the brothers’ clothing. On their hands and their faces. The familiar scent of pain and distress known to so many of their ancestors was now imprinted upon their own souls. Singed onto their spirits.
After Noel and Freddie had done all that they could for Jimmie, they ran for their mother who was at the Campbell’s. Mary Benjamin knew it was bad when she saw Freddie and Noel without Jimmie.
“Ma! Ma!” the panting boys exclaimed as they approached the house.
“Noel? Freddie? What’s the matter boys?” Mary’s gut wrenched. She knew but she refused to know.
“Jimmie! Its Jimmie Mama! Some fellas killed him!” The boys wept broken hearted sobs as they told their mother how Jimmie had been shot. Noel collapsed with exhaustion into his mother’s arms. Freddie stood, his damp little face pointed up at his mother, seeking some kind of comfort.
“What? Where is he now? asked Mary.
“He’s back at the house Mama.” Freddie exclaimed as a fresh chorus of tears poured down his cheeks. “He’s ever so quiet and, and, and he’s DEAD!”
Mary pushed away her urge to sit down next to Freddie and join his desperate weeping. Her tone changed. “Come here Freddie, come here,” she pulled him firmly under one arm as she sternly ordered Noel to go for her husband. “Get your Pa! Hurry! And bring the doctor,”
“Yes, ma’am.” Noel replied, somewhat reassured by the firmness of an adult being in charge.
As Noel ran towards town, Mary, with Freddie in tow, headed back towards their home. Mary wanted to allow herself to believe that it was all just a big misunderstanding. That the young boy’s imaginations had gotten ahead of them in their fright. The Campbell and Benjamin sisters had already gone ahead and were at the little house when Mary and Freddie arrived. Jimmie was, indeed, dead. A pan of bloody water and a rag sat nearby and Mary’s sadness carved out new depths inside of her as she realized how Noel and Freddie must have tried to clean their poor dead little brother.
“Jimmie! Oh, my Lord. Jimmie! Can you hear me Jimmie? It’s me. Mama. Mama’s here now,” and with that, Mary allowed herself to collapse at her little boy’s feet and give in to her despair. Freddie slid in next to her, quietly putting his tiny hand in hers. They cried together until the daughters brought Mary a cup of hot coffee and helped them to dry their eyes.
And then Mary and the girls set about doing all of the things that women and girls of the community do when someone dies. After all, the cows still had to be brought in.
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