Artist: Maria Fanning |
Bearded men cast cold eyes
upon lands our fathers left us.
“Now it is ours,” they
claim.
The beat of drums turns
angry.
Beaded flutes go shrill.
Stanza from the poem “Echoes
of the Flute” by Mark Wildyr
Prologue
Autumn 1831 along the Allegheny River
BUT FOR improvident fate,
angry, boiling clouds would have unleashed nature’s cold fury upon this Yankee
river valley the day he buried his ma and pa. Perversely a rose-hued dawn
washed the tall forests and granite bluffs in a warm autumn glow.
Prosperous Tory farmers, his
forebears rallied to Benedict Arnold’s American Legion during the Rebellion of
the American Colonies, participating in the raid on New London. Their lands
confiscated, their very lives at risk, the family joined the migration of a
hundred thousand Loyalists to Canada and the Mother Country upon the Crown’s
surrender to the victorious Continental rebels.
At the turn of the century,
his pa brought the little family south from Toronto to unsuccessfully petition
for the restoration of their prosperity, but old hatreds die lingering deaths,
and Tories were subjected anew to high prejudices with the burning of the
President’s House in the War of 1812. The Marquis de Lafayette’s return to
these shores in August 1824, and the old revolutionary’s warm reception by
James Monroe, the last American president to fight in the Rebellion, put the
barm on the brew, sentencing the family to hard labor merely to meet the cain
on farmland that once was their own.
Life doubly rocked the
slender young man with hair the color of sandy soil and hazel irises shot with
brown and green and gold when the tragic deaths of his parents in a farmhouse
fire followed hard on the heels of a doomed affair with the daughter of a
family of Patriots who had no use for Tories—real or reformed. The discovery of
a hundred carefully hoarded gold English pounds in the ashes of the family’s
cabin confirmed his determination to abandon this hateful land and retrace the
footsteps of his boyhood idol, Jedediah Strong Smith, the legendary trapper and
explorer of the Far West.
Chapter 1
Spring 1832 at the edge of the Little Island Mountains, the Dakota
country
FROM OUR place of
concealment, we silently watched the tribesman ease cautiously out of the draw
and press up a steep slope littered with broken boulders and sparse-leafed
mountain scrub, exposing himself to two warriors on sturdy Indian ponies
methodically working the rims of the coulee below. One threw up a long gun and
shattered a stone near the fleeing man’s shoulder. A third brave, nearer his
quarry, loosed a wild yell and wheeled his pony, raising a tomahawk as the
pinto churned awkwardly across the sharply pitched ground. His prey evaded the
hatchet and snagged its wicked head, bringing down both man and mount.
The two adversaries tumbled
in a dog-fall over the cruel, stony ground. Only one, the fugitive, staggered
to his feet, swiped a bloody knife on his slain foe’s leggings, and broke for
the scrambling pinto. A second shot roared. The pony screamed in pain and
flopped to the ground, sliding in the loose scree.
The runner dropped behind
the downed beast and clawed a weapon from beneath the heavy body. We watched
silently as he eased the barrel over the horse’s side and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. Abandoning the useless musket atop the dead horse, the brave
slithered on his belly to the sanctuary of a narrow fold of rock and began a
slow climb up the escarpment. The other two Indians, most likely believing
their prey now armed, dismounted and carefully approached the fallen pony.
Hidden
by a thin, serrated outcrop of granite crowning the ridge, we witnessed the
deadly drama unfold below us. The lone Indian, clad only in breechcloth and
moccasins, slipped through the thin cover of the slope, gaining significant
advantage over his cautious pursuers in this ghastly game of hide-and-seek with
human lives in the forfeit. I held strongly to the view red Indians are human,
even though this brought me into conflict with much of society. I had the same
opinion of black slaves. Neither conviction was oft voiced aloud.
Beyond
the promontory we occupied, the high plains stretched below puffy thunderheads
to the northern horizon broken only by a distant, barren mamelle. These broad, short-grass champains cut a swath through the country four hundred miles wide
from Canada to Tejas, interrupted by occasional ranges such as the Little
Islands at our backs and the Great Shining Mountains rising well to the west.
Splitlip
Rumquiller surveyed things with an expert eye on my far right. Wild Red Greavy
lay in the middle, taking in events through mere slits, and I anchored the
left, shivering with excitement and a modicum of fright.
The
runaway, making clever use of scant cover, was now close enough to distinguish
his features. He was tall, appearing to be over six English feet, and well
formed, putting me in mind of a statue called David I had once seen pictured in a book. The Indian, who was
probably no more than my own twenty-and-one years, glanced up suddenly. I
froze. To move was to invite discovery. In that brief moment, I was struck by
how likely he was. Comeliness was not something I equated with the natives I
encountered back east.
The
horsemen, remounted now, crisscrossed below him, secure in the knowledge that
he held no long-range weapon. The youth would have breached the ridge in a
clump of mountain mahogany twenty paces to our right had not one rider suddenly
urged his spotted pony straight up the slope, forcing his target into the
shelter of a small draw leading to where we lay hidden.
The
second brave reined his mustang left to box in their prey. Then both
deliberately worried their way up the slope, no more than two hundred yards
behind the man on foot. Within seconds, slight noises came from directly below
us; strong red-brown hands grasped the upright granite, and the brave vaulted
over the crest with his eyes scanning the slope behind him.
In
an instant Split was on him, tumbling the Indian onto his back in the dust. Red
vaulted atop the savage, leaving me to grab a flailing right arm. It was all I
could do to hold on. The fugitive tossed wildly before my weight gained the
advantage. Split grunted a few guttural words, and the Indian settled down.
Red, caught in the bloodlust of the moment, raised a knife high above his head.
Without thinking, I thrust myself between them.
“Whut
th—” Red was barely able to slow his killing stroke. I seized his wrist in both
hands. Even so, the blade drew blood from my left breast.
The
man beneath me stirred not a muscle, although I trembled with belated fear.
Sweat popped out on my forehead.
“Don’t
kill him!” I implored. Men slew one another, sometimes for no reason, but I did
not cotton to being a party to it.
“Billy,
you damned fool!” Red raged quietly. “That siwash’d lift your crown, he git
half a chance. Now git outa my way.”
Splitlip’s
quiet rumble brought us to our senses. “You don’t stop squabblin’, we’ll be in
for it right quick. Them other two’s gittin’ mighty close. Red, keep a eye on
this feller, but don’t do nothing rash.” Split beckoned me away from the ridge
and silently signed for me to hurl a stone off to the left and below the
horsemen. I gave it my best heave.
A
moment later we returned to where Red sat atop the fallen Indian with a knife
tip threatening the tribesman’s exposed throat. A quick look showed my
companion had not given in to a murderous impulse in our absence.
“They’s
taking the bait,” Split informed us in a whisper. Both he and Red spoke a form
of English that was almost foreign to me, although my ear was becoming
accustomed to it. “But it ain’t gonna fool them for long. They ain’t gonna be
able to bring the horses straight up, so they’ll look for another way to the
top. We’s hightailing it, and we’ll take this ’un with us. Ain’t gonna leave
him for them to find and git curious. Let’s move!”
“Ya
crazy old galoot!” Red grumped. Nonetheless he stowed the Indian’s knife in his
boodle and came up with a set of manacles. Where they came from, I didn’t know
and was afraid to ask. After securing the prisoner’s hands behind his back, Red
fixed a rope to the chain and handed me the fag end. “You favor him so much, you
kin nursemaid him.”
Mutely
accepting the chore, I followed our shackled captive as he trailed Red into the
pine forest on the high side of the ridge. Split tarried to erase our sign.
After a short distance, I stopped casting about for hostile Indians and studied
the one in front of me. Thick black hair, worn loose, tumbled over wide
shoulders and cascaded down a muscled back that tapered to a waist no bigger
than mine despite his larger frame. Firm buttocks, only half-covered by a
leather apron, flexed with each step. Suddenly embarrassed, I realized I was
studying a near-naked man the way I’d admired Abigail on the rare occasion she
deigned show a spit of flesh. That was a queer thought for a Christian-raised
gentleman, one I dismissed as excitement over my first proximity to a pure
quill Indian.
Split
joined us shortly before the light failed and picked a thick copse of locust
for our camp. Nights were chilly at this altitude, but it was colder in the
grave, so we dared not risk a fire—not with two armed and mounted warriors in
the vicinity. If the flames failed to give us away, the smoke most certainly
would. More than one immigrant party had been betrayed to hostiles by such
carelessness. We took a cut of a meal, jerky and hard tack, me sharing mine
with the Indian.
After
we ate, Split sat cross-legged in front of our prisoner and talked gibberish
for a while. Splitlip Rumquiller, who took his byname from an old hatchet
wound, had pre-eminence among us by dint of superior experience. Nearing fifty,
he spoke several dialects and knew the tribes to avoid and those who would do
business with the white man. He had walked this particular route north of the
Santa Fe Trail twice before. The Indians called him Splitrum.
At
last the battered old frontiersman turned to us. “Name’s Cut Hand, because a
that scar.” Split indicated a long-healed wound on the youth’s left hand.
“Tribe’s sorta a cousin to the Sioux. The argot’s near the same. Understands me
good enough, though some words is different. Calls his band the People of the
Yanube. That’s a river off to the north. Pappy’s the misco, the headman. Cut
Hand was off in another camp visiting a gal. Musta been good poontang, ’cause
them others flat-out jumped him on the way back home. They kilt his pony, but
he hightailed it for the hill country.” Split hawked and spat even though he’d
used up his chewing tobacco a week past. “Been trying to shake them for half a
day.”
Split
turned to Red. “So’s you’ll rest easier, he’s gonna stay with us till we put
some distance twixt him and his village. Won’t give us no bother less’n you
have another go at him. When we’s satisfied, he’ll take his knife back and head
home.”
Red
was a small, grum man of rusty hair and crazy green eyes, who tended to rise at
a feather. A shanty Irishman from somewhere around Boston, he reputedly had a
wife and five carrottopped fry. No one knew why he had taken to the willows and
appeared on the Santa Fe Trail five years back, although the set of iron
ruffles that now confined our prisoner’s wrists might provide a clue.
“I
say we just kill him,” Red proposed. “Ain’t no use taking chances. Then we’s
free to worry about them others. Shoulda give them two a lead ball twixt the
eyes when we had the chance. Now they knows about us, it’s bound to be harder.”
“Ain’t
my way to kill without no need,” Split growled in a low voice.
Red
gave in sourly. “Just don’t let him git in my way. And them irons stays where
they is.” He shot a thumb at me. “You’re gonna have to watch him. You don’t git
no sleep, that’s your plight.” He turned back to Split. “I’d feel better we git
some water twixt us and his people. They a river anywheres close?”
“One
south a us. Said to be another trail to Fort Wheeler that a way.”
Red
spoke to me again. “I ain’t sleeping with him. Find yourself a place off in the
woods and chain him to a tree. If them other los come, they’ll take your
topknot and leave mine where it be.” I took “los” to be a scurrilous name for
red men.
“Ain’t
a bad idee,” Split mused. “Them others found our sign by now. If you got
chores, best git on them. I’ll find a spot for you to bed down.”
“Chores?”
Then understanding dawned. “Oh! Come on, Cut Hand.” I got to my feet. The big
youth rose effortlessly, listened to Split for a minute, and then strode off,
dragging me along by my rope.
We
walked half a league before he found a spot he considered satisfactory. I
shrugged. It appeared no different from a dozen others we passed without
pausing. The Indian ignored my eyeballing his nakedness as he stepped out of
his breechclout, but he spat staccato sounds until I stood on the other side of
the bush as he went about his private business. I tied my end of the rope to a
sturdy branch to perform my own, fully realizing this was a useless effort as
he could easily escape by merely jerking it free.
As
we washed in a cold, clear freshet, I was unable to keep my eyes off him. A
tight black bush crowned his long, thick manhood. If he noticed my observation,
he gave no sign. When we were finished, he was unable to tie his flap one-handed,
so I did it for him. As I performed the awkward chore, my hand—necessarily, I
thought—pressed against his thigh. My reaction took me by such surprise that I
fumbled. I grew excited so abruptly, had I not already passed water, it would
have been impossible to do so. My fingers lost their grip, dropping the leather
apron to the ground. I bent to retrieve it and found my eyes on a level with
his genitals. Purposeful or not, I lost my balance and grasped his thigh to
regain my equilibrium. My thumb invaded his freshly washed pubic hair. I
scrambled to my feet and aggressively went about fastening his drawstring
without daring to meet his eyes.
That
task finally done, I cast about for the way back to camp. Cut Hand gave a
subdued snort and immediately set off in the wrong direction… leading us
straight back to the others.
In
our absence Split had scouted a spot fifty yards down the hill, well protected
by a grove of hemlock and scrub. I laid out my bedroll while the old man and
Cut Hand grunted at one another. Before he left, Split put the prisoner on a
blanket with his back to a small, sturdy tree and ran the chain around the
bole.
After
slaking my thirst from a canteen, I tipped the container to Cut Hand’s lips. He
finished drinking and nodded his thanks. I thoughtlessly wiped a dribble of
water from his chest. As I touched him above the left nipple, I was lightning
struck. My finger caressed his dark aureole independent of my will. My nerve
ends jangled. The hair on my arms bristled.
Jerking
back, I sat cross-legged in the gathering darkness faintly broken by moonlight
filtering through the forest canopy. “I didn’t mean to do that. I don’t know
why I did. Never met a real Indian before! That’s stupid!” I gabbled. He
comprehended none of my protestations. To get off a treacherous subject, I put
a finger to my own chest. “I’m Billy.” I touched him on the sternum, burning my
digit. “You’re Cut Hand. I’m Billy!” I droned.
Sucked
into a mysterious vortex, I flattened my palm against his breast, feeling the thud
of a strong heartbeat and experiencing the power of his chest muscles. I
swallowed hard and moved my fingers along his ribs and across his belly.
Light-headed, giddy, and lacking the strength to resist, I dropped my hand to
his groin, an act so heinous my muscles froze. Suddenly, he cocked his head.
“You
fellers all right in there?” came Split’s raspy voice.
“Y-yes.”
I snatched my hand away.
Split
entered our little clearing. “Jest wanna make sure I kin git here in a hurry if
needs be. They likely won’t come till first light, but that ain’t something you
kin count on.”
“You
think they’ll come?”
“Never
kin tell ’bout Injuns.”
Cut
Hand spoke in a low voice. My ears flamed in the belief my shameful actions
were revealed.
“He
says they’ll come,” Split explained. “They’s Pipe Stem warriors, long-time
enemies. They knows who his pappy be. Be big medicine to count coup on the
headman’s son. And he kilt one a them, don’t fergit. Asks you to chain him
kinda loose, give him room to move. Do what you’re easy with,” he added, taking
his departure.
As
I nodded my thanks for not betraying me, Cut Hand lay back on the blanket with
his arms confined above his head. I loosened my clothing and settled on the
bedroll. My other coverlet went over the top of us. I boldly edged up so the
whole of my backside rested against his thigh. Fighting a mysterious list for
this strangely erotic plainsman and denying a lewd urge to mold myself to his
long frame, I lay listening to the night sounds long after he slept. Too
confused for keener introspection, I considered the events that brought me to
this strange land.
MY
NAME is William Joseph Strobaw, and I have earned no sobriquet except for
Billy. Despite my pa’s firm conviction I aspired beyond my station, I managed
graduation from a small but excellent college back east. I coveted Harvard, but
we could ill afford the three hundred dollars it cost. Moorehouse College was
hardship aplenty at half the price.
My
parents’ death in a fire and a failed love affair with Abigail, whose Patriot
family would hold no truck with the descendent of traitorous Tories, combined
to determine me upon foreign adventure. Financing my poorly planned scheme with
my dead parents’ life savings, I abandoned the familiar world of intolerance,
slavery, and black uprisings for the opportunity of the frontier, a promising
place of new beginnings where a man’s reputation was what he painted upon
himself by his own actions. Another considerable influence on my rash decision
was my hero, Jedediah Strong Smith, rumored to have been killed recently by the
fierce Comanche along the Santa Fe Trail.
So
it was that I made my way over the long winter to Independence, Missouri where
I met Splitlip and Wild Red in an ordinary two months back and learned they
were headed to the Dakota country to trap and trade. During a round of drinks,
it was somehow propounded that I accompany them to Fort Wheeler rather than
undertake the eight-hundred-mile Santa Fe Trail along which my hero died. My
rash admission to twenty dollars for the poke was likely the reason for the
invitation. In truth I secreted other such pieces in my wallet.
The
adventure almost came unraveled before it was firmly knit. Wild Red went on a
drunken tear with a sleazy doxy and appeared the following morning still under
the influence of strong drink and reeking of sated lust. I managed to overlook
his jadish deportment, but when Splitlip went over the edge, ranting like the
Marquis de Sade over fascinating and horrifying creatures no one else could
fathom, I began to reconsider. Red, once he recovered his own senses, assured
me Splitlip Rumquiller was a solid fellow except when he got his hands on a
button. It took some inquiry to discern the button in question was
hallucinogenic peyote trundled up from the Spanish Territory of Nuevo Mejico by some enterprising
trader.
As
the old frontiersman appeared entirely sane and sound the next day, and since I
did not wish to be cozened out of my twenty dollars, I pursued the enterprise,
although I confess to some disquiet because we walked. I am certain my gold
piece was sufficient to provide adequate mounts for the trek.
RED
WAS no less hostile the next day, nor did Cut Hand rest any easier around him.
Nonetheless we made good time, with Split or Red occasionally dropping back to
check our rear. Discovering the warriors were on our trail, Split sent us
wading down a mountain brook while he turned north, muddying the water and
leaving careless prints. Red took us out over a broad stretch of flat rock
after a league in the frigid water. Split rejoined us at nightfall.
Cut
Hand and I camped seventy yards from the others that night. My willpower was
insufficient to prevent me from touching him as he lay shackled to a tree. I
stroked his heavy chest and flat belly, feeling his accelerated heartbeat.
Anger? Excitement? Like his breast, his stomach was hairless. Loosening his
garment, I timidly caressed his bare flesh. His skin was taut, smooth.
Inflamed
beyond restraint, I put my tongue to him. He smelled fresh and masculine.
Grasping him, I stroked in vain to bring him to excitement. Disbelieving what I
was doing, I lowered my head and accepted him orally. Working over him
awkwardly and inexpertly, I grew astounded by the pleasant sensation this
occasioned in my own groin. At length the stomach muscles beneath me tightened,
and I shared the excitement of his orgasm. As I lay gasping from the exhilaration
of this matchless experience, he remained still and silent except for panting
slightly.
Afterward—ashamed
yet wildly ecstatic—I contemplated the youth I had debauched. The enormity of
my actions struck me. I had corrupted a man. A shiver played down my spine. I
was a monstrous hydra, no better than the pathetic creature we called Faggot
John back home. Even as I shuddered to recollect the disgust we accorded that
abomination, I callously laid aside my apprehension. The morrow might bring
regrets, retribution, even damnation, but my only concern at the moment was my
own need.
Lying
across his strong legs, I tore free of my britches and beat a frantic rhythm
until giving myself release, the excitement of the act immeasurably heightened
by the fathomless black eyes watching my every move by the weak moonlight.
Shaken by powerful, conflicting emotions, I rose, cleaned us both, and restored
our clothing. Then I took my life in my hands and removed the iron bracelet
from his right wrist to snap it around the bole of the sapling, giving him the
length of the chain to maneuver and the full use of one hand, should our
stalkers appear. Thereafter I covered us with a blanket and slept.
I
woke with dawn tinting the sky above the trees, although no light yet
penetrated the glade. Cut Hand’s lips brushed my cheek as he uttered something
unintelligible. Seizing my hand, he turned it to the north. I understood. Then
he pointed across his body, letting me know one came from that direction. As he
did so, his chain rattled. Grasping my ten-pound 1817 common rifle, I rolled
silently out of the blankets to the far side of the small clearing where I
gained my feet and froze.
Nothing happened except the
coming sun built its golden light slowly. Then my peripheral vision detected
movement. The brave had almost reached the tree where Cut Hand lay shackled
before I was certain. I threw up the gun and fired, dropping the warrior as he
pounced. He lay still.
Suddenly a second figure
vaulted from the trees with a screech, bringing his hatchet down on Cut Hand.
But my prisoner rolled into his attacker’s legs, sending him tumbling into me.
I lost the grip on my rifle along with the ability to use it as a club. The
buck came up fast, but I clung to him, grappling for control of that deadly
tomahawk. Silently we struggled, thrashing around in the grass, crashing
against trees. I saw stars. My eyesight blurred, but I stubbornly fought for
the weapon. Suddenly he released my right hand to force my left free of the
axe. Snatching my knife from its sheath, I rammed it into his side. He
continued struggling, and I feared the warrior had shrugged my thrust aside.
But gradually he lost strength until he slumped over and sagged against my
legs. Badly shaken I looked up to find three figures staring at me through the
new dawn. Cut Hand strained against his chain while Red and Split held weapons
at the ready.
“You done good, boy.” Split
nodded approval. “We best go scare them up.”
“Scare up who?” I gasped,
holding my blood-imbrued shirt away from me. Suddenly revolted I snatched it
off and stood shivering in the cold morning breeze.
“Horses, boy,” Red answered.
“Them two rode horses.”
I had almost finished
soaking the blood and its stink from my shirt when Split and Red returned with
the ponies, a sturdy mustang and an Indian calico, which whites tend to
disdain, although Split assured me they were good horseflesh. We distributed
the loot among us. The Pipe Stem braves carried Indian trade rifles and forged
tomahawks. One toted a spiked axe; the other, a Missouri war hatchet.
Unaccountably uneasy I bade
my companions keep an eye on our prisoner while I wandered off as if on
personal business. Out of sight of the others, I grasped a tree limb and stood
with head bowed. In the clear light of the dawning day, the beastliness of what
I had done descended upon me. I forced a man to submit to my depraved desires.
He was shackled, pursued by enemies bent on slaying him. I was his gaoler. He
was under my authority. Yet I abused him in an unspeakably disgusting manner.
Dropping to my knees, the Christian part of me begged my God’s forgiveness.
Somehow Cut Hand must be made to understand my repentance.
About as transparent as my
Aunt Felicity’s bobbin lace, I was no sooner back than Split cast an eye on me.
“You feeling bad ’bout what happened?” he demanded. Startled and confused and
ashamed, I stared like a pole-axed ox. “Damnation, boy!” he swore. “Them two
bucks was trying to kill you.”
Relief made my knees go
watery. Amazed my prayer held no confession of guilt for the taking of two
human lives, I ran my hand over my face.
Red grinned at me. “Them the
first?”
“And the last, I pray.”
“Son,” Split said, his tone
sad, “if them’s the last, then you’re a dead man. Sure as we’s standin’ here
watching God’s sun rise in the east, you’re gonna have to kill agin afore this
trek’s done. And Cut Hand here says to thank you.”
We resumed our journey
riding two to a pony with my perversion still hidden from the world. Cut Hand’s
arms remained shackled, so I rode in front to control the pinto.
That evening we camped where
the trail forked. Our planned route ran to the northwest. The southern trace
led to the river and a rumored second trail to Fort Wheeler. I promptly forgot
my covenant with the Lord and proposed a split camp, laying it at the door of
Red’s hostility.
The redhead laughed. “Fine
by me. I ain’t anxious to sleep with him. But you ever stop to consider things
is different now?”
“What do you mean?” I
demanded.
“What he means to say,”
Split interjected, “is that there ain’t two redskins on Cut Hand’s bum. He
needed you last sundown. Now he don’t.”
I glanced at the big youth
attempting to chew a piece of jerky while his hands were loosely pinioned
behind him. There was nothing to keep him from exacting his revenge. “We’ll
sleep up in that grove where the stream bends.” I indicated the place with a
nod of the head. Cut Hand’s gaze flickered to the spot.
The others had hobbled the
horses so they could forage and were making ready for the blankets when we
returned from our chores. Cut Hand engaged Split in a short discussion, and
once again my ears reddened as I imagined being exposed as a pariah.
“He says to tell you he’ll
behave hisself,” Split translated. “I figger he’s beholden for them two bucks.
But he wants to know when we gonna let him go.”
“Not yet,” Red said. “I want
that river ’tween us, Split.”
“You gotta understand. He
coulda left any time he wanted after Billy took care a them two fellers.”
Cut Hand waited patiently in
our own grove as I spread our blankets and snapped his manacles around a tree.
I recited prayers for half an hour, begging for strength before reaching for
him. Such was the sway of this primeval Adonis that the moral shield of my
Christian upbringing crumbled, exposing the raging beast of carnal lust. Aware
he was free to raise an alarm, I was still powerless to protect either of us
from my passion.
“Damnation, Cut Hand, you’ve
put some kind of spell over me. What is it you call it? Medicine? You took away
my self-control. I’m helpless around you. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it
was love….”
Astounded by my conclusion,
I bit my tongue!
Abandoning talk, I placed my
hand across that broad chest. He did not flinch or call out. I touched his
cheek, astonished at the purity of the skin. His face was virtually free of a
beard. Gradually—as slowly as my failing self-discipline allowed—I explored every
inch of his fascinating body before giving both of us relief. And such sweet
relief it was. At least for me. I could not discern his feelings on the matter.
Awed and excited, I sought
confirmation this was something other than involuntary muscular contractions. I
pressed my lips against his. He failed to respond. I peered at him so closely
our noses touched. I kissed his eyes, moved back to his lips, and had my
answer. He felt nothing. Disappointed, I muttered apologies and begged
forgiveness, though whether from a disapproving God or this reluctant lover, I
could not say.
Sleepless,
I put aside questions of morality and searched for the perversion that drew me
to this man. I had known many comely youths, but the idea of lewd intimacies
with them stirred me to illness. With a profound shock, I realized the truth.
My heart was lost to an enterprise as hopeless as the pursuit of Abigail
Carnes.
My
childhood provided no clue to my folly. A loving mother and a perpetually
exhausted father raised me on prunes and proverbs. Curiosity about the fairer
gender never obsessed me. I was eighteen before I had a leap with a girl, which
turned into no more than a pleasant flourish that ruined a budding friendship
when I showed no further interest.
There
was no undue curiosity about my own kind beyond a shy comparing of yards, as
youngsters are wont to do. When I was twelve, an older boy from a farm down the
road and I went skinny-dipping in the local crick. I remember him initiating
talk—dirty talk—about a girl we both knew. When I refused to participate in
such unseemly gossip, he groped my naked flesh. I protested but was not unduly
offended until he tried to stick his roger up my bum. I ran away, but in the
safety of the woods, I noticed my thing had stopped being a penis and become a
cock… it was stiff as a rod.
That was the sum of my
animalistic experiences, save for occasional self-gratification. Now I had
twice acted the deviant with this comely savage.
I read Cut Hand last year and it completely changed me, I love this book so much! Last night I was watching Spirit and I remembered the world of Billy and Cut Hand and Otter and Butterfly and everyone else. I just had to come by and let you know your books means so much to me. I'm going to dip into Cut Hand again today! ^^
ReplyDeleteBunny, thanks so much for your comments. In my heart of hearts, Cut Hand remains the favorite of my works. I also enjoyed writing River Otter, Echoes of the Flute, and Medicine Hair, but none gave me the emotional satisfaction as Cut Hand. Stay safe and keep reading.
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