Chapter 3

“Sin was brought into the world through one person and death came through sin. Death spread to everyone because everyone sinned.” -Romans 5:12

The blood dribbled from between her quivering legs.

“Come on, Laura! Push! Push, dammit!” It had been six hours since her labor had begun and the sweat and the stink of the room, the pressure of her hand vice-gripping mine, Doctor Mills' looks of confusion, uncertainty and finally despair, all culminated into a pulsing rage of frustration and waning hope.

Her scream ripped through the room and the cold dead glide that followed ended in a heart wrenching thud.

Doctor Mills lifted our lifeless child from the bed. Her small limp body gripped my soul and tore it out, leaving only hollow defeat in its wake.

Laura-Lee caught our broken expressions and screamed. Words cannot tell of the pain that sprang from her lips.

“NO,” I yelped as I struggled away from the nightmare. It had been eight years since we lost our child.

“Henry?”

Sweat wet my sheets. The cool rain outside seemed to percolate my skin sending chills throughout. “I'm alright, hon. Just a bad dream.”

She looked at me questioningly.

“Really. It's alright.” I kissed her on her nose. “Go back to sleep. I just need a glass of water.”

I spun out of bed and perfunctorily plodded out of the room, quivering from the shock.

I sat in the moonlit kitchen sipping my water. I was beginning to shed the sweat that had covered me before and breathed deeply, taking in the natural scent of wood that permeated my home. I sighed.

The boy had been living with us for two weeks now. Laura-Lee had taken to him immediately. I couldn't say it was terrible having him around. He was a good worker. He learned quickly, sometimes even beating me to the punch. The reservations I had had when the Sheriff first visited were beginning to fade.

“Henry, dammit. I don't have a place for this boy to go.” Sheriff Lane was a large man. He lived the sturdy predictable life of a small town sheriff. Settling disagreements between farmers and keeping the local young ones in line were his two fortes and he had made an art of them. A mysterious dead woman and an estranged boy were a bit removed from his qualifications.

“Sheriff, I don't like it. Where did he come from? Who was that woman? Why in the hell was she dead? What was he doin' out here in the middle of the night?!”

“What are you afraid of, Henry?! He's just a boy!” He sighed, his portly frame shrinking into geniality. He had a great deal of practice coming to compromise. “Listen, I'll look for a place. Just keep him around 'til I can find somebody else. You can use an extra hand around here and you got plenty to feed him. I gotta go about figurin' this mess out. Do it as a favor for me, Henry. Please?”

I sighed. “You owe me, sheriff,” I laughed. He laughed with me. “I don't like it, dammit.”

“Just 'til I can find somebody else.”

I knew what he was up to. He knew the wife and I had no children of our own. He knew Laura-Lee would grow to love the boy. He knew I'd be stuck with him once she did.

I gulped down the last of the icy water. I was fully recovered from the dream and I was beginning to again feel sleep upon me.

I took one last deep breath and stood to tiptoe back into bed.

I had twenty cattle, ten pigs, fifteen chickens and thirty-six acres of roaming hilled grassland. The rainy season was in full bloom and the land and everything on it was well fed. There was little work to be done with the land itself and I was content to labor away my days on the little things.

It was then that the winds of change crawled across my town. The soft growl of discontent began to ache in the blades of grass, the freshness of the air, and the eyes of the men and women in town.

They were not so lucky as I. As I said before, I felt like Noah upon my land. The bleak and hopeless gaze of those who raised grain coldly drew me up in its torrent of despair. I rode to town sparingly, to avoid those eyes.

It was two months after the boy had joined my wife and I in our home. I was in need of supplies and I invited the child along to assist in their transport.

As we approached the neglected shops and boarded windows, I could sense those eyes, as though peering at me from the horizon. The baked disillusionment spread from the town like a virus, gripping ever more tightly, those who trespassed closer and closer to its epicenter. It was a different world they lived in: the men and women of San Tierra.

I spoke little to the boy but here I urged his caution.

“There's little to be said to these folk. Keep your mind on our task.”

He did not acknowledge my plea but rather stared, entranced by the misery that ate away the beauty of this place.

When we arrived, I entered the shop and handed the man behind the counter my list. I had left the boy to keep watch over the horses. When I had paid the man, I went to retrieve the boy to help with the loading.

He was not there.

“Pom,” I called. It was short for Pomum, a name he told us his mother had given him. “Dammit.”

He could not have gone far. It was a small town.

I heard a crash from the butcher's shop. I ran to see that the boy had not started some sort of trouble.

As I came around the corner, I saw a middle-aged man fallen on his back. He was propped against the counter as though someone had struck him down. His eyes were mad with fear and pain and what I could only describe as jealousy. The cracked wrinkles that lined his face curled into insanity. His unwashed hair and dusted beard began to quiver. He wept.

Above him stood the boy.

The butcher stared on, dumbfounded at the sight.

I grabbed Pom's hand and dragged him away. I hurried with the loading of our supplies and rode away as quickly as was possible back to our land.

It was not unusual to feel a sense of freedom once I had reached a safe distance from the broken town. That day, I felt no freedom.

There was silence between the boy and I. I did not wish to question him about what he had seen. Better to let him think upon it alone, I thought. Better for him to put it away and eventually out of his mind forever. I vowed not to bring him to town again after that.

It was three days later when an unexpected visitor approached my land. It was the sheriff. He invited me to a discrete conversation away from my wife and the boy. We talked by his horse. I could not help but feel a sense of secrecy in his words.

His usual light-heartedness was gone and he stared gravely at me in silence for a few pondering moments. He had something on his mind. Unfortunate news, I assumed.

“Henry...” He sighed, debating with himself as to the approach of his topic. “The man at the shop...”

I nodded my understanding, curious what would bring him so far to tell me of a man I had never met.

“His name was Billy Landon. He's dead.” Coldy. Determined now. “Shot himself.”

I furrowed my brow in sympathy. The loss of human life should never be taken lightly.

He sighed again. There was something more to this tragic story. “Apparently he had found his wife in bed with another man. Shot her, the man and then himself.”

“Goddamn,” I murmured.

“I talked to Harry.” Harry was the butcher. “I talked to Harry and he says somethin' strange happened between your boy and Billy. The way Harry tells it, Billy was just shootin' the **** with him, careless as a bird, and then your boy walks in. Says your boy walked straight up to Billy and whispered somethin' to him. As soon as your boy had finished, Billy just fell down like a ton o' bricks, yellin' and cryin'. 'That bitch' he was sayin'. Over and over again. And then he stormed out of Harry's and...”

There was silence between us. The sheriff and I both were trying to make sense of the whole thing. He sighed again.

“You ever seen Billy before,” he asked, almost hopefully.

I looked up at him and gravely shook my head.

He paused. “What the hell does it mean, Henry?”

A pang of urgency edged around my cheeks, followed by an unsettling chill.