Markwildyr.com,
Post #209
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This week, we have a guest post from my fellow Oklahoman, Donald T. Morgan, the author of the novel The Eagle’s Claw. I didn’t even know Don wrote short stories until we were talking one day. The following is the result. Enjoy.
SPIRIT WOLF
By Donald T. Morgan
The big wolf slipping through the trees a hundred feet to
my right unsettled me. I wasn’t worried about the beast, but he spooked my
horse. A wolf’s howl – real or dreamt – punctuating the same dream three nights
in a row had started me on this trip. I considered shooting the thing, but Ma’am’s
got Ojibway blood, and she looked on wolves as medicine animals.
My sir had wanted me to wait until after planting before
taking off for Waususa ten miles to the west. And I’d agreed, until those vague,
formless dreams about Tillie, each punctuated by the call of a wolf, riled me
up.
Matilda Thorgensen was my best friend until her widowed pa
pulled up stakes for Waususa. The day she left a year ago this coming April had
been magical. We’d snuck off to say goodbye, and until casting eyes on her exposed
bosom, I hadn’t known I lusted after her. I entered that pine grove an
eighteen-year-old boy and left it a man. Then, after that magnificent awakening,
she was gone.
Other than claiming I was mopey and likely needed a tonic,
Sir was blind to my discovery. Ma’am saw right through me. She might even suspect
I’d had a taste of the carnal.
So I set off for Waususa before a proper spring arrived. Heavy,
dark clouds pressed the sky down on me. The air smelled like rain. Trees
struggling to bud dripped water. Mushy ground made the going slow. Old Red, our
riding horse, splashed through springs and brooks—all running high from snow
melt—without any trouble, but Beaver Creek looked more like a river. With my
heart down in my boots, I stared at the tumbling water. I’d have to turn back.
Suddenly, Red jumped sideways, almost dumping me. I got
him under control and saw the timber wolf had snuck up on us. I made
threatening noises, but he kept coming. So I let the horse retreat down the bank.
The lobo halted in his tracks when I came to a spot where the
creek fractured into three shallow branches the horse could wade without dumping
us both. Fifty yards on down the trail, I saw the wolf was still with me.
I started looking for Tillie as soon as I reached Waususa late
that afternoon. People mostly avoided me, but someone finally steered me to a
burned down house. Neighbors turned shy, so I ended up on Main Street in front
of the Silver Spur. The saloon was too wild and noisy, but that’s where the
people were, except for God-fearing folk home having supper. I went to every
table in the honky-tonk asking about Tillie and her pa without learning nothing.
Just as I gave up, I came up on a woman like I’d never
seen before but heard about all my life. Little bitty skirt. Bare legs showing
through black stockings made like a fishnet. I’d never seen a woman’s legs
before, except for Tillie’s that one time. Naked shoulders. Bad women, my ma’am
called them without explaining. But I knew. They drank whiskey with men and did
other things with them too. Remembering I’d done that same act with Tillie last
spring put a blush on my face.
She rested a small hand with fingernails painted bright
red on a sprung hip. “Hello, handsome. Buy a lady a drink?”
“Excuse me, ma’am, but I don’t have no money.”
“I hear you asking after Tillie Thorgensen?”
It felt like I turned redder. “Yes‘um.”
“Your name ain’t Luke, is it?”
I glanced up. Her eyes were blue. Like Tillie’s. “Yes‘um.
Luke Streller.”
“Tell you what, Luke. You mosey on out the door over there
and meet me round back.”
“Ummm, like I said, ma’am, I don’t have no money—”
I’d heard about bawdy laughs but didn’t know what they
were. I figured I was hearing one right now.
“Honey, I might take a cutie like you on for free, but
that ain’t it. Go on now.”
My face musta matched her fingernails as I scooted for the
door. But as I walked the shadows between the saloon and the building next
door, I went squirrelly. What if she set one of the big bouncers on me? The
alley at the rear of the saloon was even darker. I paused and wrestled with my doubts.
“Luke!”
I made her out beneath a stairway leading up to the second
floor. A lace shawl covered her shoulders. That red dress splashed with shiny
spangles looked black in the night. The alleyway smelled like cat piss as I
approached her.
“Tillie talked about you. That’s how I knew it was you,”
she said.
“Where is she? Her house is all burned down. What
happened?”
“They think Old Man Thurgensen fell asleep while he was
smoking one of his cigars. He’d been drinking a lot ever since the baby came.”
I thought she’d hit me in the head with a club. I got
swoony. “Baby? What baby?”
“Your baby.”
“My baby?” my mouth asked without any help from me. Hell,
we’d only done it once. A fellow couldn’t make a baby on the first try, could
he?
“A little boy. She named him Lucas, after you.”
“Where are they?” My voice sounded like I was at the
bottom of a well.
“Oh, honey, Tillie and her daddy died in the fire.”
She might as well have slugged me in the belly. My legs
went wobbly. I think I woulda fallen over if she hadn’t reached out and grabbed
my arm. Some sort of God-awful sound came outa me.
“Why wouldn’t nobody tell me?” I managed to ask.
“The whole town treated them awful. You know, her without
no husband, and all. But the baby’s alive. Tillie threw him out a little window
at the back, but she couldn’t get through it herself.”
“Where… where is he?”
She led me down the dark, rank alley to the back door of a
small house. She knocked once and entered with me right behind her. A fleshy
black woman with short, graying hair rose from a chair with a small bundle in
her arms.
“Mazie, this here’s Luke. Big Luke.”
“Yes’um, Miss Lupe. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Is that….”
“That’s Little Luke. Your son,” Lupe said.
I don’t remember reaching for him, but somehow, he was in
my arms staring up at me through Tillie’s eyes. He was littler than I thought a
human could ever be. When I pulled him up for a closer look, his tiny fist
grabbed my lower lip… and yanked my heart right out of my chest.
As I set out for home with Little Luke in my arms, I was a
believer. Wolves were medicine animals … at least this one was. And somehow, I
had to let him see I’d got his message.
I ought not have worried. I hadn’t gone a mile before I saw
a gray shadow in the tree line. A little later, a long, lonesome howl sent
shivers up my spine, but Little Luke just snuggled deeper in my arms.
* * * *
Hope you liked
Donald’s short story. I enjoyed reading it. Let me know how you liked it so I
can pass it on to him.
Website and blog: markwildyr.com
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See you later.
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