TRAGEDY OF BLOOD

a novel by Gary Canup

Chapter 7

"How come Ma has us spyin on the Nicis all the time?" Myron complained. "It's startin to git kinda borin."

"Cause she wants us to find out bout em — if they carry guns, if they travel in packs, that sorta thing," Dimmy reminded him.

"I know that but why, is what I'm axin. What's she aim to do with them there knowins?"

"What the hell yeh bellyachin fer? Beats workin in the fields, don't it?"

"Shore. Shore it does. All I'm sayin is it's borin, is all. I mean, they never do nothin innerestin. They never fight nor fall outen the loft nor dibble their barnyard animals nor nothin. All they do is work on that damn raft."

"Cain't spect everyone to be as colorful as us," Dimmy replied.

They were hidden behind undergrowth in the wilderness across the river from the work site, Dimmy lazing behind the growth, Myron peering over the top. Each was armed with a hatchet and a knife.

"Least we got that there Lavinia to look at," Myron said, focusing on the girl.

"That ain't no lie, that there's the only innerestin thing bout spyin on em. What's she doin now?"

"Still jist a-squattin there, a-gazin at the raft."

"Lemme know when she gits up and walks around. I like to watch her move."

Myron stared at her, slowly licking his lips. "Yeh reckon she's a virgin?"

"Course she is. Jist like you."

"And you ain't?"

"Only with my own kind I am."

The two brothers snickered lewdly.

"Yeh reckon she ever gits all nekked like and takes a bath in the river?" Myron asked.

"Shore would like to watch her if she does — "

"Hey, she's a-gittin up!"

"Lemme see!" Dimmy scrambled to his feet and peered over the bushes alongside his brother. "She's a-walkin over to the raft!"

"She's a-bendin over it!!"

"Gawd, look at that there skinny tail!!!"

"She's a-pickin off a stick and chuckin it aside!!"

"She's a-goin back agin!"

"She's jist a-squattin down agin like afore."

"Hell."

"Damn."

After another minute they sat down dejectedly behind the bush and remained silent in their profound sexual frustration. Birds twittered, bees buzzed. Dimmy frustratedly rolled his leg.

"What yeh reckon they're a-buildin that there raft fer anyways?" Myron wondered.

"Who the hell gives a damn?"

"Jist makin tawk," Myron said, defensively.

"What I cain't figger out is Ma loadin up that nigger a ourn with all her money and all them barter goods and sendin him off on our bestest mule to fetch guns. That's the last we'll see a him."

"Don't reckon he's a-comin back, huh?"

"Why the hell should he? He's a rich nigger now. It's been well over a month and he still ain't returned. Probly a thousand miles away by now, spendin Ma's money and gloatin how he put one over on the dumb hillbilly woman. Ma was a half-baked yokum to trust him."

"If he don't come back, then at least somethin good's come of it. We'll be shet a him fer good."

"That ain't no lie, that there nigger had it in fer us from the start. Only one a us he ever took a shine to was Arbus. I'm right glad he's outen our hair."

"And outen our barn. Havin us spyin on the Nicis, sendin Aaron Moore off fer guns — what yeh reckon Ma's got on her mind?"

"No idee. She ain't never told us much, ain't never told none a us much, ceptin Arbus." There was an edge of bitterness in the way he pronounced his dead brother's name. "Probly still has some harebrained notions bout gittin revenge fer him."

"That's what I was afeared of. Well, she can count me out. I ain't gonna go riskin my life fer no dead guy. Arbus talked us into doin that fer Alan and it like to got us kilt." "Yeh said it, brother. If Ma wants revenge fer him, she can go git it on her own."

"Glad to hear we're a like mind," Myron said, much relieved.

Dimmy squinted up through the trees at the position of the sun. "Come on, let's git on home, it's nigh time fer lunch. We got to report back to Ma."

They slithered away from their hiding place and headed home through the wilderness. After a while Dimmy grabbed himself through his pants. "I needs me somethin to dibble," he griped. "Watchin that there Lavinia Nici all mornin's got me roused."

"She is a purdy little thing," Myron agreed.

"Ain't nuttin to dibble in these here goddamn mountains," Dimmy complained. "Nuttin a tall."

"Too bad the Batchfurt girls live so fur away. They're big and hairy, but they're the only girls in these mountains loose nuff to give it to us."

"Might as well dibble a bear," Dimmy scoffed.

"I hear they're a sight friendlier than a bear."

"My dibber's gittin straight. It's like pointin me the way to somethin!"

"Git out! What the hell yeh reckon that there dibber a yourn is, like a divinin rod pointin the way to water, like?"

"Don't yeh scoff at it, my dibber ain't failed me yet." After a while, Dimmy said: "Hey, looky there!"

"What? Nicis?" Myron grabbed his knife and gazed all around.

"No, clodpole. That there tree over yonder." They galloped up to the tree in question. "It's done got a hole in it, and durned if the hole ain't moss-lined."

"Yeh aim to dibble a tree?" Myron said in disbelief.

"Stand back! Oh, brother!" Dimmy exulted, eagerly undoing his trousers and pushing them down to his ankles. "There's a-gonna be a dibblin!"

"I don't believe this," Myron said.

Dimmy inserted himself into the hole and started banging away, hairy buttocks clenching. "Yee-hah!" he shouted. "Yee-hah!" he embraced the trunk

"It is a female tree," Myron observed, looking up at the pendulous fruit.

"Shore it is, I ain't no homo." Dimmy reached up and squeezed two globes of fruit as though they were breasts.

"How come yeh always git it fust?" Myron complained.

"Three reasons: cause I seen it fust, cause I'm older, and cause I'm a skillfuller dibbler than you. Hey, leave me alone, will yeh? I'm a-dibblin!"

Dimmy continued banging away for nearly a full minute until he gave one final thrust, his head arched back and his buttocks quivered, and he fell back heavily to the ground with a grunt and just lay there panting heavily in a state of completely satiated exhaustion. He gazed up at Myron through eyes that were drowsy and unfocused. "Yer turn," he muttered.

"I don't want it now!"

Gravity pulling his face into a comically fatigued mask, Dimmy slowly turned his head away and closed his eyes.

"Hey, you! Yeh fallin asleep? Come on, git up! We got to report to Ma!"

Myron hoisted his brother to his feet, and Dimmy staggered and struggled to pull up and fasten his trousers, staring at the tree as if drugged. "I got to remember the whereabouts a this here tree," he muttered.

They parted company with Dimmy's woodland mistress. They continued on through the wilderness, discussing what they had seen that day at the Nici work site. It wasn't long before Dimmy said "Damn!" and grabbed himself through his trousers again.

"Don't tell me yer a-gittin dibblish agin!"

"I cain't hep it! I was jist rememberin how we saw that Lavinia Nici."

"All bent over that raft?"

"With her sweet little tail in the air."

"A-reachin fer that there branch."

"Damn," Dimmy repeated, wincing uncomfortably.

Myron sighed. "So what yeh gonna dibble this time?"

"I don't rightly know. I'll jist have to let my dibber point the way."

Their approach through the underbrush frightened some small furry animal that scurried off down the safety of its burrow and Dimmy chased after it and dropped to his knees before the hole in the ground, frantically undoing and lowering his trousers.

"Yeh aim to dibble a hole in the ground?"

"I cain't hep it! That damn Lavinia Nici's got me roused!"

"Yer gonna git yer dibber bit off," Myron warned.

"That's the chance yeh take when yer dibblish," Dimmy replied philosophically.

Myron watched his older brother stretch himself out on the hole, and he shook his head in disbelief. Who but Dimmy Groth would dibble Mother Earth herself?

Soon after her sons had left the house to go spy on the Nicis that morning, Tamora had gone back to bed with a pounding headache. Now, lifting the damp cloth that covered her face, and seeing that it was well past noon, she knew that her sons would soon be home for lunch, and she had to get up and prepare a meal. After replacing the cloth and lying there a few minutes longer, she sat up on the edge of the bed and tossed the cloth on the floor. Her headache was somewhat lesser now, though it felt as though it might be lurking in ambush somewhere behind her eyes. She lifted herself delicately to her feet, pulled off her nightgown, and stepped naked before the cracked looking glass. Her skin did not fit as well as it once had, but she still looked pretty good, she decided — or perhaps so it merely appeared in the dim flattering light of the bedroom. Those full weighted breasts that had suckled so many wasted offspring she lifted up to where they had been when she had first gotten married twenty-eight years and uncountable stretch marks ago. She was not a bad-looking widow, she decided again; even after being widowed all these years, she still had the power to turn a head or two, perhaps — though she did not deceive herself into believing that her head-turning days were anything but numbered. She released her breasts, which dropped back to their original position. Her breasts were heading south for the winter.

She pulled on her faded brown dress made of linsey-woolsey and passed a brush apathetically through her hair. She left her bedroom, but inevitably paused before the door to the room that Arbus had shared with his little brother Alan. She cracked open the door and peeked timidly inside, as though expecting ghosts, even welcoming them, but all she saw was an empty gloomy interior. Tamora entered the room and gazed about forlornly through a film of tears. The room was just as he had left it the morning he and his brothers had gone out to get revenge for Alan. She had not altered a single detail and never would. She forbade entry to Dimmy and Myron. Only she could enter this shrine to her dead son's memory. The cover was still turned down on his bed, and she gently sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the pillow where his head had lain, sadly caressed the soft indentation there. With moist and mournful eyes and a sniffling nose she continued to scan the room until her gaze settled upon Alan's bed. Poor little Alan. He had always been a sickly dependent boy who had idolized Arbus and had followed him everywhere. And Arbus had loved the kid even though he had had to do everything for him and the last thing he had done for him had cost him his life. Andrew Nici, to his credit, had made peace with them two winters ago. And the peace had lasted a little over a year. But then something had happened early this spring, she was not sure what. The Nicis had claimed that Alan had murdered Robert and that they had killed Alan out of justice. But Arbus had never accepted that explanation. Alan had been a nonviolent boy who had never harmed anyone, who had never even been able to watch his brothers slaughter a hog, bloodshed had been so abhorrent to his nature. Even though she had made Arbus swear not to retaliate for the death of Alan, for the Nicis would only come over here and kill another one of them in turn, Arbus had recently turned twenty-one, he was supposed to be a man, but she supposed that he had not felt like a man until he had gotten justice for his little brother. So he had broken his promise to his ma and had secretly talked Dimmy and Myron into joining him on the retaliatory raid that had resulted in the death of Mute Nici and in Arbus's own brutal execution.

Tamora left the room and closed the door. She went on to the main room. She could barely concentrate on her duties these days. She was too depressed to carry them out. It took enormous will to push herself merely to complete the simplest tasks, and she had to force herself now to begin preparations for lunch. What made matters worse was the fact that Aaron Moore still had not returned with her guns, and it was beginning to appear now as though he never would. The farmhand had evidently deserted her. She had badly misjudged him, had thought him trustworthy and loyal. Now she was all alone, without friends, without allies, without help of any kind.

Just as she was cursing Aaron Moore for abandoning her and cursing herself even more for trusting him, she heard what sounded like the distant snort of a mule, and she peered out the window. A man was leading an overburdened mule out of the wilderness. The man was big and black, so it had to be Aaron Moore. So he had not deserted her after all. He was finally returning.

She removed her apron and hung it on a peg and sat at the table with her back to the window. Now the question was, had he succeeded in his mission? Was he bringing her the guns? After what seemed an hour she heard him lead the mule up to the porch and tether the weary animal to a porch pole, and she permitted herself a glance out the window. The sacks of barter goods appeared undiminished, and the woman saw nothing strapped to the mule that resembled a bundle of rifles. Perhaps the guns were hidden from view beneath a blanket or on the other side of the mule. She faced away again. She heard his boots on the porch. She heard his knock on the door.

"Enter," she said.

The door came open and he entered the room and removed his hat. She turned to him and was not especially encouraged by the look on his face.

"Well?" she prompted. "Didje bring me my guns?"

Aaron Moore shook his head in disappointment.

"Damn!" she erupted, slapping the table, jumping up and pacing the room.

"I went to every neutral family in this valley," he told her, "offered them very good deals in both cash payment and barter arrangements. Not one of them would deal with us."

"Damn," she repeated under her breath, continuing to pace.

"I avoided those families we know to be sympathetic to the Nicis — the Thompsons, the Rikers, the Thurlows. I made special generous offers to those who have been somewhat helpful to us in the past. They all said pretty much the same thing, that they're sick of the feud and don't want to do anything that might start it up again."

"Damn em all to hell!" Tamora seethed. "Didje try the Christophers? The Frymans?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I went to them first — "

"Didje tell em we needed the guns fer huntin, fer pertection agin wild animals?"

"Yes — "

"And not even they would hep us?"

"They just smiled and shook their heads to every offer I made, even outrageous

ones in their favor. They knew what we wanted the guns for. A few even rather self-righteously claimed that they'd be helping us far more by not dealing us guns."

"The bastards!" Tamora fumed. "Then we're all alone. That's fine, to hell with em, I don't need em nohow. Let em keep their rusty guns. I'll think a somethin else." She continued to pace, brow furrowed in furious thought.

Aaron watched her, tired, dusty, and crestfallen. "I'm sorry it took me so long, madam. When I didn't return in a couple of weeks as planned, you probably thought I 'd run away with your possessions. Such a suspicion would have been understandable. But when I had no success getting guns here in the valley, I ventured up into the mountains a ways, where I encountered more rejection and even downright hostility on account of my race. One of the families actually fired on me."

He watched her pacing and muttering under her breath, and Aaron could not have felt more like an abject failure.

"I want you to know I did the best I could, madam. You placed your trust in me and I let you down. I am deeply sorry that I failed you."

She stopped and looked at him. He still stood there in the doorway, wretched and fatigued and holding his dusty hat.

"No, Aaron, I'm the one who's sorry. I done fergot my manners. Set down, please. Yeh must be plumb wore out from yer journey. Lemme fetch yeh a cool drank a water."

Aaron reluctantly went over and seated himself at the table and miserably hung his hat on his knee. He did not feel that failure merited any kind of reward, not even a humble cup of water. He dug into his pocket and produced the undiminished bag of coins which he laid on the table. "Here, madam. Here's your money. It's all there, right down to the last coin." He wretchedly pushed his large hand through his dusty hair.

Tamora ladled cool water from the cedar bucket into a wooden mug. "I don't fault yeh none," she told him. "I know yeh done the bestest yeh could. I'm downright beholden to yeh." She handed him the mug. She offered him a few of the coins for his trouble but he stubbornly declined any form of payment.

"Thanks for the water, madam. It's more than I deserve."

Tamora wandered dejectedly over to the fireplace and, standing with her back to him and with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, stared at and sorrowfully caressed the figurine of the rearing stallion.

After taking a lengthy draught, Aaron dragged the back of his hand across his lips and gazed at her, his eyes roaming down her body and up again. He had so missed the mere sight of her. She was the prize he had lost with his failure. He had not even been tempted to run off with her money and her barter goods, knowing fully well that the only treasure worth having was the woman herself. "If you don't mind me asking, madam . . . what'll we do now?"

She pondered the question a long time, staring at the figurine. Then slowly she shook her head. "I don't know, Aaron. Honest to God I don't. Without them guns, I don't know how I'll even start to git justice fer my boy."

Aaron studied the contents of his mug profoundly. All her friends may have deserted her but he for one never would, he would remain true to her to the end, even if that end were his own violent death. He would find some way to redeem himself, would find some way to win her love in return. He was determined not to fail her again.

Resolutely he drained off the contents of his mug which he placed on the table. He put on his hat and rose to his feet, his chair scraping back. "I'd better go see to the mule now, madam. She's had a long journey herself and she's been carrying a lot of load." He stared at her. "Is there any way I can be of further service?"

"Not lessen yeh can bring me the heads a Quint and Marty Nici," she muttered abstractedly.

Aaron nodded and pressed his lips together. He left the house and went off to tend to the mule.