This Tender Land (38 page)

“It begins this way,” I said.

The four Vagabonds had traveled far since their battle with the witch’s snake army, and they were tired and decided to make camp beside a river. In the distance rose the towers of a castle.

“The castle of the witch?” Emmy asked. “Where the children are trapped in the dungeon?”

“No, this a different castle. Just listen.”

The Vagabonds weren’t sure about the castle, and with good reason. The whole land was under the shadow of the Black Witch, and the Vagabonds knew it was dangerous to trust anyone. They drew straws to see who would approach the castle to take its measure. The imp drew the short straw. He bid goodbye to his companions and made his way alone up the river, where the castle rose on the far side. He came to a bridge long ago abandoned and overgrown with vines. When he crossed, he found the road on the other side in bad shape. The land all around was a jungle that grew right up against the walls of the castle. The castle gate was wide open and there weren’t any guards, and the imp cautiously entered.

Inside, he found people walking like the dead, no life in their eyes, their bodies thin as Popsicle sticks. They were starving, but there was more to their horrible situation than hunger. The Black Witch had stolen their souls. They were living but they had no life. The imp tried to speak to them, but it was like talking to the stone of the castle walls. They didn’t have the will, or maybe even the strength, to speak. They walked in a terrible silence, and because they didn’t have the gumption to leave the castle, they went round and round in useless circles.

The imp had a magic harmonica, given him long ago by the great imp who was his father.

“Just like your harmonica,” Emmy said.

“Not like mine,” I said. “A magic harmonica.”

“It’s like magic when you play, Odie.”

“Hush,” I said. “Let me finish the story.”

He drew out his harmonica, wanting to bring a song of hope to that dreary
place. As he played, a beautiful voice joined him, singing from the tallest castle tower. It seemed magic, in the same way his harmonica was. He followed the sound up a long, winding staircase and came at last to a room, where he found the loveliest princess imaginable.

“What was her name?”

“Maybeth,” I said. “Maybeth Schofield.”

“Maybeth Schofield? That’s not a princess’s name. It should be something like—like Esmeralda. That’s a princess’s name.”

“Who’s telling this story?”

“All right. Maybeth Schofield.” But she made a face as if she’d just tasted liver.

He asked the princess what had happened, and she told him about the spell the Black Witch had cast over the people. In the same way she ate children’s hearts, the Black Witch had taken the souls from all those in the castle to feed on them.

“But not yours?” he said.

“She left mine in order to torture me. Watching my people grow thin and weak and hopeless hurts me,” she told the imp. “But when I heard the music from your harmonica, it made me want to sing. When I looked out the window, I saw a change in my people. I saw life returning to their faces. I saw fire in their eyes again. I think if you keep playing and I keep singing, we might save them.”

And that’s what they did. He played his magic harmonica and she sang in her beautiful voice, which came from her deep love for her people, and slowly everyone in the castle, everyone who’d lost their souls, woke up, and new souls grew in them and they were whole and happy again.

“Did the imp marry the princess? And did they live happily ever after? And what about the other Vagabonds?”

Before I could answer her questions, Albert came into camp, his hands black with oil and grease.

“Did you fix the truck?” I asked.

“Yeah, but what good is a truck with an empty gas tank? They’re still going nowhere.”

He took a soap bar from the pillowcase and headed down to the river to wash up. While he was there, Forrest returned, but without Mose.

“Where is he?” Emmy asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” the Indian said with a careless shrug.

“You don’t know?”

“If a man needs to be alone, he finds the best place for that by himself. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“You don’t care,” I said.

“I don’t worry,” he replied. Then he smiled a little. “You were gone awhile, too, Buck. But here you are. Have faith in your friend.”

We had a cold evening meal and settled down without a fire. It was early July, and the night was hot. I lay on my blanket, unable to sleep, thinking about Mose, who seemed lost to us in more ways than one. And thinking about Maybeth and the plight of her family. And wondering how the story of the princess and the imp might end.

In the night, I got up, took the flashlight and the last of the money Sister Eve had given us, and left camp while the others slept.

THE COALS FROM
the Schofields’ campfire still glowed red. Although I’d thought everyone might be in bed, Mr. Schofield sat near the dying fire, hunched over, looking like a man who’d lost his soul.

“Hey there, Buck.”

“Evening, Mr. Schofield. Is Maybeth around?”

“Gone to bed a while ago. Sound asleep, I imagine.”

I had no real plan, but of all the folks I might encounter, Mr. Schofield was the last I wanted to talk to, so I stood there awkwardly. He stared up at me, waiting for me to leave, I reckoned, or to give a good reason for staying.

“Have yourself a seat, Buck,” he finally said.

He threw a couple of sticks onto the coals, and flames leapt up immediately. A fire is a welcoming proposition on its own and, coupled with Mr. Schofield’s sad but sincere invitation, was impossible to turn down. I sat on one of the overturned crates.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Me, neither. I want to thank you for sending your brother over to fix my truck. He’s a wizard, that one.”

“The smartest guy I know.”

“Where are you two headed?”

“Saint Louis.”

“What’s in Saint Louis?”

“An aunt.”

“Family, huh? That’s important.” His eyes shot toward the tepee. “Most important thing in the world. Believe me, Buck, if you have family, you can lose everything and still count yourself a rich man.”

We sat for a while in a silence that was uncomfortable to me but didn’t seem to bother Mr. Schofield. He simply gazed into the fire, lost in his thoughts.

“They figure it was the drink,” he said out of nowhere. “But it wasn’t.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Why we lost the farm. It wasn’t the drink. You ever farmed, Buck?”

“No, sir, not really.”

“Hardest life there is. Everything’s out of your hands. Got no control over the rain or the sun or the heat or the cold or the grasshoppers or the wilt or root rot or smut or blight. You pray to God for what you need—rain in dry spells, blue skies when the fields are flooded. You pray the frost won’t come too late in the spring or too early in the fall. You pray hail won’t break every young cornstalk. You pray and pray and pray. And when your prayers aren’t answered, and let me tell you, Buck, they seldom are, you got nothing left but to scream at God and maybe turn to drink for a little comfort.”

“Tornado God,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“God is a tornado.”

“That he is.”

“That’s what I used to believe,” I said.

“Still worth believing, Buck. I swear I don’t know another God.”

“The one who gave you Maybeth. And Mrs. Schofield. And Lester and Lydia. And Mother Beal, too, though she’s kinda rough on you. You just said a man can lose everything and still think of himself as rich.”

“I did now, didn’t I?” He gave a little laugh. “And you know what else? There’s you and your brother. You’ve brought a little sunshine to us Schofields, and I want you to know I’m grateful.”

He clapped me on the back, in the way of a true comrade.

“It’s nice having another man around to talk to, Buck. That’s a rare pleasure for me. I live in a henhouse.”

When I’d left the others sleeping on the far side of the river, I
didn’t have a clear idea of what I was going to do when I got to the Schofields’ camp. I’d hoped Maybeth might still be awake, but now that I was sitting with her father and we were talking like two men, I made a decision.

“Mr. Schofield, do you have any idea how you’re going to get everyone to Chicago?”

He slumped again. “Just the thought of that makes me want to have a drink.”

“I have something for you, sir.”

I reached into my pocket, drew out the money I’d taken from the pillowcase, and held the bills toward Maybeth’s father. His eyes grew as big and alive as two coals from the fire.

“What the hell?”

“It’s just over forty dollars. I want you to have it, to get your family to Chicago.”

“Where did you get forty dollars?”

“I didn’t steal it,” I said. “I swear.”

“I can’t take your money, Buck.”

“Please, sir. You and your family need it more than I do.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll take it. And promise that you’ll use it, all of it, to get to Chicago.”

He looked up from the proffered money and swore solemnly, “I promise.”

He took the bills and slid them into his pocket. In the gleam of the firelight, a tear crawled down his cheek and then another. It was hard watching a grown man cry, and I looked away into the dark of Hopersville, where other campfires burned, and around them sat souls who were still lost, and I thought that giving Mr. Schofield that money had felt so good, so intoxicating, that if I’d had enough, I would have done my best to save them all.

“WHERE’VE YOU BEEN?”
Albert sat up. In the beam of the flashlight, his eyes were squinty and accusing.

“Nowhere.” The lie didn’t sit well on my conscience, so I eased down next to my brother. “I gave away our money.”

“What?”

“I gave away our money.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“To who?”

“Mr. Schofield. He needs it to get his family to Chicago.”

“And we need it to get to Saint Louis.”

“We’ll get to Saint Louis.”

“Do you ever think before you do something stupid?”

“Sister Eve gave it to us hoping it would do some good. I did the same thing.”

My brother drew his knees up and hugged them and shook his head hopelessly. “He’ll just drink it up, Odie. Mark my words. Good money after bad. Hell, I got no idea how we’re going to make it to Saint Louis now.”

I didn’t sleep much that night, as usual. I worried that maybe Albert was right and that all I’d done was make the Schofields’ situation worse. I thought about Maybeth, and I ached inside, love and concern braided into a rope of thorns around my heart.

Forrest rolled out of his blanket at first light, built a little fire, and threw together oatmeal in a big tin can, which, according to its label, once held peaches. The others were still sleeping, but I got up and joined him at the fire.

“Quite a bet you made last night,” he said, stirring the oatmeal. “Forty dollars’ worth.”

“You heard?”

“Quiet night,” he said. “Good ears.”

“What do you mean ‘bet’?”

“That a leopard’ll change its spots. Drink’s a tough devil to face
down. I seen it lay lots of good men low. But, Buck, here’s the thing. If you never make that kind of bet, you’ll never see the good that might come from it.”

“You think it wasn’t a bad idea?”

“Like your brother said, could turn out you’re throwing good money after bad. But me, I admire your leap of faith.”

Albert, when he woke, kept giving me the evil eye and ate his oatmeal behind a wall of silence. I could have told him about the two five-dollar bills, which I’d hidden in my boot weeks ago and were still there, but I thought, The hell with him.

When I’d finished my breakfast, I stood up. “I’m going to see the Schofields. Want me to empty my pockets?” I said to my brother. “Make sure I didn’t steal anything else?”

I could see he was trying to compose himself. “We still have a long way to go. I’m just doing my best to keep us all safe.”

Which I understood, and although I was damned if I would tell him so at that moment, I was grateful for it.

HOPERSVILLE WAS SLOWLY
coming to life. As I strolled through the little makeshift village, folks were starting cook fires, men smoking their first cigarettes of the day, everyone stretching out their kinks and wiping sleep from their eyes. A few who knew me now, by sight if not by name, gave me amiable greetings.

When I reached the Schofields’ tepee, Mother Beal was sitting on an overturned crate, stirring something in the big cook pot that hung above the fire.

“Cream of Wheat, Buck,” she said when she saw me. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I already ate,” I said. “But thanks.”

Mrs. Schofield came from the tepee, ushering the twins ahead of her. The kids made straight for the river, which looked like molten gold now in the slant of the rising sun. Their mother came to the fireside, and although she smiled at me, the gesture was cursory.

“Any sign of them?” she asked Mother Beal.

“Not yet.”

“Maybeth?” I asked.

“Went to fetch her father,” Mother Beal said.

“Where is he?” I asked, a dark fear taking shape on my horizon.

The women didn’t reply, but the looks on their faces nailed the sad truth to my understanding. Good money after bad.

“God only knows what he took to pay for his drink,” Mother Beal said. “He’s already sold off everything dear.”

“Maybe we’re wrong, Mama,” Mrs. Schofield said.

This was a plea rather than a statement, and it broke my heart
to know the part I’d played in this recent and bitterly disappointing undoing of her husband.

Mother Beal made no reply but simply went on stirring the pot of hot cereal.

“Here she comes,” Mrs. Schofield said.

That Maybeth was alone was telling enough, but her whole demeanor—her head down, her shoulders slumped, her walk slow—was also a clear broadcast of failure.