The mountain wind is never really coherent, especially when you want it to be, but he listened intently anyway, as if it might tell him something he didn’t already know about himself, about the way the world works. He stood just past tree line on Fenister’s pasture, the grass still low and winter brown, muddy in a few spots, some birds scrapping across the field looking for cold worms, finding none, then flying off eventually to that line of oaks shadowing the northern edge of Fenister’s land. Beyond the oak line the forest was nearly unbroken, save for a forest service road swirling invisible into the foothills, then on into the main Unaka range, way up to rime level, where the wind babbled even more violent and chaotic, wrapped now in gray towels of cloud, the peaks hidden from view.
He walked on through the pasture toward the rust colored barn, bales of hay arcing the entrance like giant paleolithic tusks. He could hear the snorting of a couple of cows inside. The gambrel roof rose stark and uneven against the gray sky, but still the building looked as sturdy as it did when it was built by his great-grandfather in the 1930s. Maybe it was just something in his mood today, something dark in his bones. Coming home was never easy.
Walking down the long graveled drive towards the sprawling white house, his blood went cold. He started shivering and hitched up his jacket. Perhaps it was the wind kicking up, but more likely it was the thought of seeing him after all these years. It wouldn’t be the questions asked, but the questions not asked, the blank expressions, the unwelcoming glint in his father’s eyes. And maybe all that was justified, but it made him cold and jittery all the same. Why was he even here? Just a primal instinct to return to his boyhood home, even though he only came back to Rainford’s Gully for another, far different, reason. It wasn’t like he was coming home for good. Only a short week. There was no point in seeing his father at all.
Standing on the oblong screened porch before the front door, he wondered if Jaz was still around. Nah, he was in his sixties when he was still a teenager living here. After knocking several times, and waiting for what must have been a full five minutes, the door crept open. Door had that same ominous creak. And then a tall, gaunt and stooping old black man regarded him out of the depths of the inside dark. It was Jaz alright, wearing that same black frayed stetson, with maybe a few more holes than when he had previously seen it. The man refused to be called a 'butler’, demanded to be referred to as a 'Majordomo’. His father allowed Jaz to thrash him and his siblings if they ever spoke offhanded towards Jaz, and especially if they called him, 'butler’ which was an insult resulting in inquisition-type draconian punishments.
“Well now, if it isn’t Master Raymond. Returned from whereabouts unknown...” A slow smirk resolved over his dark wrinkled face.
“Majordomo. I’m happy you’re still with us.” Came across as flat and condescending, but how else could it have come across?
“Ah yes sir. Your sister came by not 2 months ago, with little ones in tow. Have you had the pleasure? Delightful scoundrels. Reminds me a bit of you two in your prime...” Yet still blocking the way into the domicile with force of an eight year old man’s nearly preternatural presence.
Raymond, winced, as if pierced by a sun mirage, “My father...” But that was all he could get out. A dry heave when a glut of predigested material seemed more appropriate.
“Your pop is out back, at the stables. His old horse has been suffering from the strangles.. Whipping her ain’t going to do no good. She old. You should go see the old man. I assume you is here for that and not to set your eyes on my pearly whites again. The man has regrets, you know.”
“Thank you Jaz. I’m glad you’re still around anyway. Maybe I’ll stop back by on my way out. You’re a good man.”
“I am at that.” And then the door creaked closed again. Solid as any Christian man’s denial.
He went out behind the house towards the stables. Underneath a cockeyed hickory tree his old man was beside a black quarterhorse laying on its side, a whip in hand. The black horse looked slick with sweat but otherwise didn’t move. His old man’s face was flush with anger, tears, and regret. He sat down on a tree stump and dropped with whip into the December dust. Overhead it was just another gray Tennessee December sky.
He stood beside a small rock pond, no doubt built by his father, the burbling of cool water keeping his presence unnoticed. Or so he thought.. Not looking up from the horse, the old man spoke, “You picked a good day for this.” The words were laced with a flavor of spite he knew well. Raymond didn’t say anything, but walked a few steps closer. He watched the horse for a reaction rather than his father. The horse didn’t move, not even flinch. It wasn’t sleeping, that’s for sure.
“This here is Sky Tripping. She’s won her fair share of barrel races. She’s only fifteen. Poor girl, too young to go.”
Then suddenly the horse heaved and stirred up a bit of dust, remaining still once more. The horse was not quite dead yet. The heavy eyes leaked a purulent discharge so she probably couldn’t see much. But the poor thing’s ears flickered a bit, as if seeking out a promise. His father sighed and turned to reach for his rifle, which was leaning up against the stable door. “This isn’t going to be pretty. You might want to turn your head.”
“Nothing you can do?”
“Nothing.”
Snow was now falling over the high terrain. You could see the light gray threads, different from rain, fanning down out of the clouds. The wind picked up. Front moving through apparently. There would be several inches lain down by morning on the highest ground, maybe a dusting down here in the narrow valleys. Won’t be the kind that clings to trees, too dry, he thought. He didn’t turn away, but kept his eyes on a pendulum between his father raising the rifle and the horse shimmering in the cold light. Declan aimed at the top of the head, beyond the nasal cavity, to make sure the bullet hit all brain. He’d put down his first horse when he was 12, and tried to get his own son to put one down around the same age, but Raymond couldn’t stomach it. Some boys were like that. But Ray had been his only boy. His daughter Judith had no issue, and put her first sick one down before she hit fourteen. Maybe that’s where their rift had started. Raymond still loved the horses, wanted to ride, be around them, groom them, but Declan made it a matter of principle to keep him away. That became Judith’s job.
