XIV

The flash of pain washed from Matthew’s neck. He groaned, and twisted it, trying to knead out the knot that had formed. He dug his palm in where his neck met his shoulder and rolled his back, aware that the air in front of him had grown blurry with fog.

“Let’s go!” his father called. Of course he did. Orders. Always orders. He was always ordering Matthew around. Go clean the horse shit. Go till the fields. Help me dispose of the body. For a man so devoted to God, he sure liked to act like one.

And for a man so resigned to die in his barn, he was sure in a hurry.

Matthew trudged through the mud, keeping his rifle pointed up and his head at an angle. It was duller now, less like a needle being thrust into his bone and more like he had cracked his neck a little too hard. And in his palm he could feel skin peeling from muscle.

“Where’d she go?” he heard his father say. The voice was distant, echoing over hills and through the valleys of western Virginia. Matthew walked on, with one foot in front of the other. As he did, his head seemed to clear, and she grew more beautiful with each passing moment.

“Matthew?” The father laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. She could feel it through him. It was a broken hand, and old. She remembered the boy’s teeth sinking into those blue lumps that coursed with his blood. His heart pumped hard, his back twitched sporadically, and his eyes scanned for her even as his attention turned toward his son. She allowed the boy his moment.

“Sorry, what?” Matthew responded.

“Did you see where she went?”

Matthew shook his head. The barrel of his rifle dropped to the ground as a hand came up to rub his eyes. “Pa, I can hardly think straight.”

“Did you see what she did? I swear to the Almighty I put one right between her eyes. Did you see the way her neck snapped? We’ve almost got her. If we can hurt her we can kill her.”

“Pa, I don’t think you hurt her.”

“Sure we did. C’mon, son. We’ve got some prey to track.”

“I don’t think—”

“It’s just another hunt, son. Raise that rifle.”

They continued to move through the fog. The moon was high and shone across the sky, its light streaking off the clouds that littered the Earth’s floor. Matthew looked down, searching for tracks, and found that where Emmett’s boots kicked and forced the mist aside, it separated for him. He passed with ease.

His mind scrambled, searching for answers to questions he did not yet have. He thought back to his brother. The young boy they had been chasing. Were they hunting him? No, that didn’t make sense. The man next to him—his father—shot the woman. Why? Why did he shoot the woman? Why not the man?

The man… who was he? The man atop the horse, with the boy. He recognized them both. Yes, his brother. His brother was the younger, the lighter. He wore a bright white shirt where the man wore a black one. Right? No, he was shirtless. He wasn’t allowed a night shirt. He wasn’t allowed many things, or wasn’t given many things. Was that right?

A twig snapped to his left and Matthew pointed his rifle.

“Whoa! Easy there,” Emmett whispered. He pushed Matthew’s barrel away from his face and ducked underneath it. “Good reaction, just don’t shoot me.”

Matthew nodded. He turned forward once again. Where were they? Almost there, he supposed. Back into the woods, following the unmarked trail.

The shirtless man, he said something once. A long time ago. When his black skin was less wrinkled and his back less shredded. He had said something to Matthew, specifically to him, in hushed tones around the cows and his father’s horse. Away from a little girl—his sister—and his father. He was the only black one on the farm, and the only one not blood.

He had rules. Rules for the farm, Matthew thought at the time. Rules for taking care of the animals and rules for taking care of the fields.

Rules for living.

They were close now, the man and the boy. She could feel them. Right there, right between the trees and down the hill. They would have to climb, and the old man would tire. She made it easier than she’d intended.

But the rules, the rules weren’t for the animals. No, they were for him. Not just for him, but the man had given them to him in private. What was his name? The man without the shirt. The markings, was he clawed? Matthew did it. He did it intentionally. He did it maliciously, he knew the man and he knew what he did. He told them rules but not the reason.

Hosea. That was his name. Hosea the negro. Hosea, the one that got away. Hosea, the one she had missed so nearly, had been so perfect. She had wondered where he went when the savages took him. For years she wondered, and for years she searched. He had grown old, too old for her, but his charge was just as sturdy.

BANG!

Matthew jumped. Smoke filled the fog as his eyes began to burn and a hand clutched his arm. He could hear yelling in the recesses of his mind as pain bit at his ear.

“Where? Where is she?” Emmett yelled. He balanced the rifle on his shoulder while his other hand flicked Matthew’s ear. “Did you see her? Where’d she go?”

“I—I don’t know,” Matthew responded.

“But did you see her?”

“I think so. She was just up there, on the hill. See there? Between the trees I think. She ran back through them and around the other side. We should go up there.”

“Reload first. Follow after.”

Emmett began the climb. He grasped the stock and pulled the butt into his shoulder. One foot after another he ascended the incline, and Matthew thought back to Fredericksburg.

If only he had been just a day later. They had almost made it in time, they were too early. That cold December morning tasted blood, and Matthew had missed his chance to push back the Yankees. His father had been glad, his father who had always chosen retreat. Even now as he was pretending to soldier on in the darkness, if the moon were to disappear Matthew knew that his father would run them home, tail between his legs. Just as he did on the wagon.

Matthew finished reloading and he began to climb. He watched himself through her eyes. His smooth skin reflecting the stars. The gleam of his rifle brushing back and forth across the stalks that rooted themselves deep. His limp slowed him down as she trailed them, ever so slightly. She would stalk them along the forest floor. She would climb into the branches and watch them from the canopy. She would sway in the trees, back and forth, stifling her own laughter.

Just a couple hours later, he thought. She could read him. Not even a day. If it had only been a few hours he might have picked up a musket and taken life in service of his country. He might have shed blood in service of his family.

The prey and his protector squelched through the mud far below. If they would only look up, she thought. He could hear her. Her thoughts ran through his mind, but he kept his eyes straight. Her black dress caught a branch, and as she jumped, it snapped off. Emmett turned his attention skyward, his rifle primed and his finger on the trigger. The limb came crashing down and landed beside them, but there was no movement from above.

Matthew watched through the clumps of black hair his father lower his weapon. He could hear him, distant.

“You see anything?”

Matthew forced himself to look up. His body jerked as he tried to orient himself. His left foot was his right, and his right on the left. He took a step forward and raised the head that was far below. The blue in his eyes peered through the black and met hers.

“No, I don’t.”

Emmett lowered his rifle. “Let’s keep moving. You said she was ahead?”

“Yes.” The word came out in a slither.

She forced Matthew to step first. Emmett fell in line behind him slowly, clearly forcing his legs and back to keep up, as she knew he would. They walked together up the hill. Matthew was fluid, taking in the scenery one last time while Emmett moved stiffly, watching his son. Twice he passed the barrel of his rifle over his offspring, and both times she moved Matthew out of the way swiftly.

They crested the hill and looked out over the landscape. The valley wove itself toward the mountains, and the trees swayed as the moon passed overhead.

“She could be anywhere,” Emmett said.

“She could be.”

“But you know where. Don’t you, son?”

Matthew turned around. She forced a smile across his face, as clearly as she could. She opened his eyes wide and pushed his teeth forward, bringing his top lip to his nose and curving his bottom down. She saw through the boy’s eyes his father’s hesitation, and felt Matthew pull back.

She pushed him forward, raising the rifle to his shoulder in a flash and pulling the trigger hard. Pain flashed in her shoulder and she fell from her perch, landing behind where Emmett had fallen over. He groaned, and twisted his spine to watch her.

Matthew felt the ache in his head from where the woman had hit hers. He looked to his father, writhing on the ground from the bullet that had taken him in the belly. His rifle was lying in the dirt just out of arm’s reach, and for a moment Matthew felt drawn to it.

She felt him slipping. He wanted the rifle, and she forced herself into his mind and made him reach for the pistol on his hip. She could feel him fight, pleading with her to let him go. She could feel his fear, and she soaked in it.

“Matthew…” Emmett whispered. His voice crumbled as he pressured his wound. His head swiveled back and forth, trying to watch his son and the woman. She watched from both sides, and felt Matthew’s grip loosen.

She clamored to her feet, feeling the new rip in her dress widen. Her hair wrapped itself around her neck as she closed her hand into a fist and lifted her arm. Matthew did the same, and this time she prepared herself.

She squeezed the trigger.

The shot bounced off the hills and smoke filled Matthew’s lungs. She coughed, and Emmett lay still on the forest floor.

Matthew dropped his pistol, and stood motionless ahead of her.