TRAGEDY OF BLOOD

a novel by Gary Canup

Chapter 3

The Nicis had just finished lunch, and Andrew, Mark and Lucas still sat at the table, discussing matters of the farm. The door and windows were open to let in sunshine and the fragrant spring breezes. The Old One and Lavinia stood doing the dishes at a tub of well water on a nearby counter. When they were finished, Lavinia scampered off to her room to change into her "fishing clothes"; the girl was excited about going on an outing with her father. Quint and Marty had already returned to the fields. They were eager to finish their work early so that they would have time in the late afternoon to visit their sweethearts, the Thurlow girls, who lived a few miles away on this side of the river. Andrew looked up at the gun rack mounted on the wall beside the door. "I see Quint and Marty took their rifles with em agin to the fields," he said.

"Maybe they jist took em out a habit," Mark replied.

"Or maybe they don't believe the feud is really over yet?"

"Maybe," Mark acknowledged.

Andrew studied him. "Yeh look tard," he said. "Ain't yeh been sleepin good?"

"Not as good as I'd like," Mark admitted.

"What's the trouble?"

Mark hesitated, staring grimly out the window at the sunlit wilderness. "I been havin nightmares," he confessed.

"Nightmares? You?" Andrew did not know what was more surprising, that his brother would have nightmares or that he would admit to having them. "Nightmares bout what?" Andrew asked.

"Last night I dreamed the Groths was attackin Lavinia. It was terrible."

"It was jist a dream," Andrew pointed out.

"I reckon I know that," Mark growled.

"What then?"

His brother stared out the window. "It jist keeps me a-worryin we should a finished off them Groth bastards while we had the chance," he said.

Andrew sat back in his chair and sighed. "The Groths is outnumbered, unallied, and they ain't got no guns," he reminded his brother wearily, yet again. "They ain't a threat no more."

"I reckon it wouldn't be too hard fer em to git more guns," Mark said.

"How?" Andrew wondered. "I done passed the word throughout this here holler that us Nicis don't want the Groths to rearm. We're liked in these parts and the Groths ain't. I reckon the other families'll do what we want."

"Depends on how much the Groths offer em," Mark said. "They might give in to greed. Or the Groths could jist git more guns from the trader on his annual rounds. I reckon it won't be too hard fer em to git more guns."

"The trader always comes here fust and I'll jist tell him not to sell to the Groths, is all. I'll pay him if need be. Yer startin to fret too much, it ain't like yeh. I reckon Tamora Groth knows when she's licked."

"Yeh boys hesh up now," the Old One cautioned from the hearth.

Lavinia frolicked into the main room wearing patched and faded hand-me-downs from her brothers: a baggy shirt tucked into britches roped at the narrow waist and rolled up above her slender calves, the soles of her bare feet thick with callus. Her chestnut hair was tied back in a ponytail, her bangs long and unevenly scissored, as the Old One's hand was not as steady as it used to be. The girl's pallor was the unfortunate result of a lifetime of virtual indoor confinement which her father had enforced for her own protection. She ran around the room throwing her slender arms around the Old One and Mark and Lucas in turn, then scampered up to her father and tugged on his arm in an effort to hoist him to his feet. "Come on, Pa! Let's git goin!"

Andrew rose, chuckling. "Imagine a girl who ain't never been fishin afore."

She hauled the old man past the gun rack.

"Yeh goin unarmed?" Mark asked with concern.

"We're goin armed with them fishin poles out there," Andrew replied.

"Yeh ain't gonna take no rifle?"

"What fer?" Andrew said. "We're goin fishin, not huntin."

Mark and Lucas exchanged a look.

"At least take a pistol, Pa," Lucas urged. "You know, in case you run into a snake or somethin like that."

"Or in case we run into a Groth who don't know when he's licked?"

"We'd feel a lot better, Pa," Lucas admitted.

"A pistol don't weigh much, Andrew," Mark added.

"Oh, all right," Andrew relented. "I'll take a pistol." He removed one from the gun rack and stuck it into his belt.

"Yeh boys sure yeh don't wanna come along?" Lavinia asked with a cheerful smile.

"I reckon we got work to do round here," her uncle replied.

"Then goodbye, Uncle Mark; goodbye, Old One; thanks for diggin us up them worms, Luke. Come on, Pa, let's git a-goin!" and she hauled the old man out the door.

Waiting for them outside, leaning against the porch rail, were two cane fishing poles. The afternoon was bright and warm, especially in the deforested area that surrounded the house, but it was shady and cool on the path that led through the dense wilderness towards the river, and Andrew knew that it would be even cooler still by the stream. The old man carried the fishing poles and the bag of worms while Lavinia capered alongside, relishing her unaccustomed freedom away from the house, now and then her girlish curiosity compelling her to wander a ways from the footpath in order to investigate an unfamiliar flower or an unusual growth on the bark of a tree, asking an interminable string of questions which the old man did his best to answer. The river lay about a mile down the path and Lavinia was excited merely to hear, and then merely to see, the rushing stream that opened up ahead of them through the trees and she ran on ahead and stood on the shady bank gazing at the water. Here the river was not wide, maybe forty yards across, densely forested on both sides, densely forested as far as the eye could reach, which in either direction was a bend in the stream; but the river was just as beautiful here, clear and sparkling in the noonday sun, as Andrew had seen it everywhere else.

"Ain't it pretty, Pa? The river?"

"Shore is," the old man agreed.

"That the Groth side over yonder?"

"That's the Groth side."

"Might there be danger if they shoot at us across the river while we fish?"

"They won't do that, darlin. The feud's over, remember? Besides, we done took away their guns."

Andrew unwound the twine wrapped around each pole and laid the poles on the ground and knelt and knotted a steal hook to the end of each line. He cautioned the girl to be careful of the hooks. He showed her how to bait a hook and Lavinia winced.

"Ain't that a-hurtin it, Pa?"

"Naw. They don't feel a thing, Vinnie."

Nonetheless, she turned her head while her father baited the second hook. He handed the lighter pole to Lavinia who with a hopeful smile stepped up to the bank and dropped her baited hook into a shaded eddy. She fixed her gaze on the series of concentric ripples that radiated out from that point where her line disappeared into the water, as though expecting a whale to go for her bait at any moment. But nothing happened. Nothing happened for a good long time, and then still it didn't happen. Andrew explained, somewhat by way of apology, that perhaps the fish were not too hungry this afternoon. "I cain't say that I fault em none," Lavinia replied. "If all I had to eat was worms, I wouldn't be too hungry neither." Yet she continued to gaze with hopeful eyes into the water. Just in case she was doing anything wrong, she observed her father for pointers, but he was pretty much doing the same as she, just standing there on the bank watching his cork float on the water. So this was fishing, she thought. A dragonfly, both indolent and insolent, lit on her cork as if to emphasize the cork's utter refusal to bob in signal of a strike. Her father smiled at her, and the girl smiled back to show him that she was having a good time, but her disappointment was obvious and so was her mounting boredom. She had been looking forward to this outing for a good long time and now she probably wished that she were back at the house doing something, anything, else. And he had so wanted her to enjoy herself.

They fished for another thirty minutes without success. Finally, Lavinia, trying not to sound complaining, said: "Pa, this here pole's gittin kinda heavy. And these here bugs won't leave me be," she blew at the gnats circling her head and her silky bangs fluttered in the sudden gust of breath.

"I got a idee," Andrew said. "Let's stick the ends a these here fishin poles into the ground and prop em up with rocks and let em do the fishin fer us. That's the way real fishermen do it anyways."

They did this very thing; and then they went back and sat in the deep shade against the broad trunk of a tree and watched the river.

After a few minutes, Lavinia said: "Pa? Where does it go to, the river?"

"Don't rightly know fer sarten, Vinnie. I hear tell it winds its way down outen these here mountains to the flatlands, where it goes on fer hunnerds a miles till it passes a town. . . ."

"A town?" Lavinia said.

"That's what I hear tell."

"There many folks there, Pa?"

"Probly thousands, Vinnie."

"Thousands! All in one place?"

"I spect it's a whole heap a folks, all right."

"Yeh reckon it's the same town the old hermit came from?"

"I spect it might be," Andrew said.

Lavinia pulled from her shirt pocket a small book through which she fondly leafed, pausing now and then to read a sentence or two. Such a sight was rare in the mountains, where books were all but nonexistent, and where virtually no one knew how to read or write. But Andrew's youngest children had been taught by an old hermit who said he had once been a schoolteacher down in the flatlands. Actually the old hermit had been a writer who had produced a couple of novels and a few short stories but had never published a single word. He had taught school part-time to support his wife and daughter in squalid conditions. When his daughter had died of consumption, after which tragedy his wife had left him to go live with her folks back east, he had withdrawn into the solitude of these mountains to work on a big novel. He had soon found it impossible, left to his own resources, to survive for long in the wild, so the Nicis had taken him under wing, had built him a hut and had kept him in food and clothing in exchange for the only service he had had to offer: a basic education for any of the Nici youngsters who had wished to avail themselves of the opportunity. Lavinia, along with Lucas and their brothers Mute and Robert, had chosen to take advantage of the offer, and though Lucas had quickly proven himself the old hermit's best student, Lavinia had been his favorite, perhaps because she had reminded him so hauntingly of his daughter — so much so that, upon his death in a feverish delirium, he had bequeathed to her all his meager possessions, including his pencils, a ream of unused paper, the rough-hewn desk which stood in her room, and a trunk full of books, all of which she willingly shared with her brothers. The old hermit's unpublished manuscripts, together with the unfinished manuscript of his big novel, had been stored away in the Nici loft, where they were edited by the nibbles of mice, bound by cobwebs, and covered with dust.

Of all the books the old hermit had left them, Lavinia's favorite by far was the one through which she was leafing now. It was a romance for teenaged girls entitled Sally of the Frontier. The book had belonged to the old hermit's daughter. The novel related the exciting adventures of a beautiful young woman named Sally who taught school in a small frontier town and was courted by the handsome town sheriff. Lavinia thought the book a wonderland of fascinating scenes. She had read it so many times that she virtually had it memorized. Favorite pages were dog-eared and beloved passages underscored in pencil. Sally was her heroine, her substitute role model. Her actual role model, her ma, had been killed when Lavinia was not yet one year of age. The girl had no first-hand memories of the woman who had given her life. So a fictional character had stepped into her mother's shoes. Lavinia longed to become a woman just like Sally. She admired Sally's qualities of courage, self-sacrifice, and dedication to her students. She wanted to become a teacher like Sally and the old hermit. That was her ambition, that was her dream.

Sitting against the rough bark of the hickory with the book propped against her bony knees and casually waving away a nuisance of gnats, Lavinia gazed at the faded cover, on which Sally, with wind-swept blond tresses, peered nobly out over the frontier, the handsome young sheriff in her background staring at her with dark brooding eyes. Lavinia touched at her hair. She had once tried to fix her hair like Sally's. She wished that she were blond, she wished that she were beautiful, she longed to wear a dress as lovely as the one depicted in the cover illustration.

"Pa, yeh reckon Sally lives in that town down yonder?"

Andrew looked at her. He was not sure whether the girl understood that Sally was a fictional creation. To her, perhaps Sally was real, and he was not about to disillusion her. "I reckon she lives in some town — whuther that one or not," he let his voice trail off and stared at the river.

"Am I a little bit pretty, Pa?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the book cover.

"Yer the purdiest daughter I got."

"Oh, Pa. That don't tell me nothin. I'm the only daughter yeh got."

"I think yer powerful purdy," Andrew assured her.

"Really?"

"Course," he said.

His daughter's smile was surprised and pleased. "Was Ma pretty?"

The river at which he stared became a time continuum flowing into the past: she was hanging laundry on the line out front; he heard the gunshots and ran to the window, saw Groth boys with rifles fleeing into the wilderness; he looked at his wife, who fell heavily into a freshly hung sheet and dragged the sheet down with her to the ground, the sheet bedraping her head; he ran out and knelt beside her and beheld the widening circle of red on the sheet. . . .

"Pa?"

"Yes?"

"Was Ma pretty?"

"I thought yer ma the beautifulest woman I ever did see in these here mountains," he told her truthfully.

"More beautiful than Sally?" She held the book up for her father to see.

"Yes, I thought so."

Lavinia returned her gaze to the cover, awestruck over the degree of beauty her mother must have possessed. The girl fell silent. Eventually he looked at her again.

"What's wrong, Vin?"

"Nothin, Pa."

"Aw, come on, now. Tell yer old man what's a-gnawin at yeh."

"It's just a silly little thing."

"Let's hear it. Maybe I can hep."

"It's just that . . . I was kinda wonderin . . . well, if I'm a little bit pretty, Pa, like yeh say, then how come I ain't got no suitors?"

"Is that what's a-troublin yeh?"

"I warned yeh it was silly."

"Not silly a tall."

"It's just that the Old One told me that when she was my age she had a whole heap a suitors and was wedded by the time she was sixteen."

"Yes, I recall Auntie was a downright beauty in her day."

"Is it because I'm actually homely, Pa, but no one in my family wants to tell me?"

"No, Vinnie. That ain't it a tall. If yeh ain't got no suitors, it ain't on account a you, it's on account a the feud. Folks ain't bout to 'low their sons to court no girl whose kin's knee deep in a feud; that's a good way to lose yer son right quick. But now that the feud's over, I reckon yeh'll be havin a whole flood a suitors."

"Really, Pa?"

"Wouldn't surprise me a tall."

"Even as many as the Old One had?"

"Maybe even moren her."

The girl stared at the image of the handsome sheriff. "Thanks, Pa. But I don't need me a whole flood. Just one. Just one real good boy. Pa? Is the feud the reason why Quint and Marty ain't yet wedded to the Thurlow girls?"

"That's exactly it, Vinnie. Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow ain't bout to give their consent till they're shore the feud's over fer good, and I cain't say I fault em none."

Lavinia stuffed the book back into her pocket and sprang to her feet. "I'm gonna go check the lines, Pa, see if we caught anything yet!"

Andrew watched her scamper over to the fishing poles where she squatted and tried to peer through the water at the ends of the lines. She was a pale, thin, fragile girl whom her father thought of as being a few years younger than her actual age of fifteen, maybe eleven or twelve. It was difficult to believe she was growing up, the youngest of his children. As he watched her kneel to ensure that the poles were properly braced with stones, Andrew knew that his daughter did not belong here. The rugged mountain life was suitable for sturdy strong-backed types like himself and his sons and his brother but it was not good enough for frail little Vinnie. The mountains were no place for such a delicate child. He knew that more than anything in the world his daughter wanted to become a teacher. Perhaps when she was older, about twenty or so, they could build her a schoolhouse and she could teach young children from all over the valley — perhaps, someday, even Groths. Andrew vowed to do everything in his power to help his daughter accomplish her dream.

"Nothin yet," she said standing and glancing into the wilderness. She stared into the wilderness awhile. Then she stole up to her father, eyes still on the bush. "Pa, I think someone's watchin us from behind that bush up yonder," she confided. "When I looked up there a moment ago, I saw someone yank his head down behind the bush."

Andrew smiled. "Yeah, I know. I saw him, too. It's yer Uncle Mark. He follered us down here."

"How come, Pa?"

"I reckon he thinks he's pertectin us, Vinnie."

"Pertectin us? From what?"

"From the Groths, I spect."

"I don't git it, Pa. I thought the feud was over."

"It is. It is over, Vinnie. Yer uncle and yer brothers jist ain't got it through their thick mountain skulls yet. I betcha Lucas wanted to come down here with him but yer uncle probly made him stay behind to guard the Old One and the house."

Lavinia slapped herself on the forehead. "Did I git him, Pa?"

Andrew carefully picked the remains of the mosquito out of the girl's silky bangs. "Got him," he said. He examined the mosquito, which was freshly gorged on Lavinia's blood, and he flicked the insect aside with disdain and used his kerchief to clean the bloody remains from his daughter's bangs. "We best be gittin on home," he told her. "These here bugs is eatin yeh alive."

Andrew got to his feet and they went over to the fishing poles. The old man pulled his line out of the water and unhooked the soggy worm and tossed it into the stream. When he lifted Lavinia's pole he was surprised to feel a faint countertug, and he hoisted the line out of the river to find a rather sizeable trout dangling from the end of it.

"Well, I'll be durned," he said.

"Yeh mean we caught a fish!"

"You caught it, Vinnie. It was on yer line."

The girl put her hands on her hips and beamed with pride.

"He's a beaut, ain't he?"

"He sure is, Pa! It looks like he swum through a rainbow!" Then all at once her pride plunged into pity. "Oh, look, Pa, the hook went right through his lip!"

"Well, shore, darlin, that's how yeh ketch a fish. He shore is gonna look good in the fryin pan, ain't he?"

"No, Pa! Let's let him go!"

"How come, darlin?"

"Cause I feel sorry for him now."

"Well, now, honey, yeh've et fish afore."

"But never one that I met first. Please let's let him go, Pa? Please?"

Andrew smiled at his daughter's softheartedness. "Whatever yeh say, Vin."

He carefully unhooked the trout, which for Lavinia was an ordeal too painful to watch. He knelt at the bank and lowered the fish into the water and Lavinia smiled and nodded with approval as the trout swam serenely away. She looked up at her father, who was sucking on a finger.

"What happened, Pa?"

"I reckon he finned me, Vin."

"Does it hurt?"

"Naw, not much."

They liberated the rest of the worms on the river bank then set out for home with the fishing poles, and both were amused to catch occasional glimpses of Uncle Mark trotting on ahead of them with his rifle in an effort to beat them home so that they would never know that he had been watching over them.