IX

Matthew sat on the bench, the reins of his wagon stuck in his grip. They decided to take the southern road out of town. His father wanted to avoid any more army checkpoints if he could. Though Matthew thought it was less about slowing them down and more about keeping him in the cart instead of on a battlefield.

He’d remained silent as they left. A deliberate choice. His father and the hand had taken up a conversation on where they might find their next milk cow, but to Matthew it was obvious. Simply take back what was rightfully theirs from Drew Thompson. It was a daft trade to begin with—a milk cow for a horse—and Matthew had protested late last year anyhow. It wouldn’t be hard, simply walk onto the farm at night, tie a rope around Geraldine (Eveline had given her that name), and walk off. If Drew happened to wake during the ordeal, Matthew had become a better shot with that pistol from—

He shook his head, and blinked twice. He looked down at his hip, where he wore Hardy Fletcher’s pistol. It sang to him, in a low hum. He’d practiced with it nearly every day since taking it. Practicing shooting straight, from his hip, with one hand, and with two. He’d practiced against a set of trees that sat on the river, but what he wouldn’t give for a live target. He’d been waiting for that chance. Waiting…

“How about it, Matthew?” his father asked. “Fancy a trip to Richmond?”

“What?” Matthew asked.

“What about it? Go down to Richmond, see if we can’t get a couple dogs with the cow? Just you and me, son, make a couple of days out of it. Money is tight, but—”

“Richmond is starving.”

Emmett looked back to his hand, and Matthew heard his confusion.

“Richmond is having riots. Haven’t you heard? Over bread of all things, no chance they’ll have a cow for sale. And I’d bet you they’ve eaten all the dogs.”

His father nodded. Slowly. “Seems we’ll be in for rationed milk, then.” He lifted his arms above his head and let out a sigh. “Hosea, switch with me. I need to lay out my back.”

Emmett and Hosea stood, carefully stepping over the barrier that divided the driver from the cart, and Matthew had half a mind to run them off the road. How joyous it would feel to throw them both from the cart, watch them sprawled in the mud and disappear behind a racing wagon.

“Too much time in the barn sitting on that stool of yours,” Matthew said instead, as Hosea settled next to him, folding his hands across his lap. Emmett grunted loudly as he positioned himself, rolling from side to side as the wheels bumped across uneven ground.

“Sir, it took us until midday to arrive, and we took the shorter route. Perhaps we should find an inn or a church?”

“Most are destroyed, Hosea. It’s best if we continue straight through,” Emmett called.

“And I want to hurry home anyway,” Matthew added.

“Of course, sir.”

They rode in silence for several hours after that. The periodic grunt from Emmett could be heard over the creaking of the spokes. Matthew held his grip against the reins, where Opal offered occasional resistance to his commands. As they traveled west there were few riders. The sporadic soldier passed by, and twice a squad stopped them. Once a company passed by without incident. Matthew thought of himself amongst their ranks, wearing a single-breasted gray jacket, holding a Springfield over his shoulder, marching in line with the rest of his country.

The sun was out, and Matthew could feel the heat against his skin. He felt the occasional whip of a spark flash against his cheek before the clouds pulled him out of battle, remembering he was just a farm boy. The wind blew warm air against his wool jacket, and eventually he decided to shed it. The underside had gone humid.

He looked back to check on his father and found him asleep. He noticed the green patches behind him had become more vibrant than the ones ahead. Dead, yellowed winter grass came alive as they passed, and the trees had begun to bud along the side of the road. The earth smelled damp, even with the heat, and it had not yet gotten rid of the puddles that lined their path. The further west they moved, the more alive the world became.

They passed through Chancellorsville as the afternoon progressed into evening. Matthew could feel himself beginning to doze as the light shifted and the shadows grew longer. Up until the point when he saw her, he thought he was going to fall asleep at the reins.

But there she was, and he snapped back into himself. One moment he was struggling to keep his eyes open, and the next he jolted. His body reacted the way it would react to a sting from a bee, or the slice of a knife. His head swiveled to watch her, and his eyes remained on her black figure. It wasn’t until Hosea had taken the reins from him that he realized he had been driving them off the road.

“Sir, keep us on track,” Hosea said.

“I know. Get your hands off me.”

Hosea relented, folding them neatly in his lap once again. Matthew looked back, but saw nothing. He tried to remember what she looked like, questioning himself and what he might have seen. It was all blurred in his mind, simply a black figure standing beneath a tree on the side of the road, nothing more. It might as well have been a shadow.

“You’re right, sir. Just keep your eyes on up ahead,” Hosea said, drawing Matthew back once again. His chest tightened, and his fists clenched, but he did as the hand suggested.

He watched the road move beneath Opal in front of him, spurring the horse on a little faster. Opal agreed, swishing his tail and twitching his ears, though Matthew paid him no mind. His focus was ahead—far ahead—focused on a little black dot beneath another tree.

“Do you see that?” he asked.

“No, sir, I do not,” Hosea replied. His eyes were on his hands, and Matthew noticed where the negro usually held a hunch in his back, it was straight. He felt a swell in his body that the punishment he doled out maintained its effect even after all this time.

Though when he turned his attention back to the road, the shadow had only gotten closer. They approached, Opal flicking his tail back and forth, beginning to veer off the road. Matthew had to pull him back.

And the shadow got closer still. Closer with each trot. Matthew’s attention turned, and he hardly noticed when Hosea took the reins this time. He was inspecting the shadow.

It was a woman, just as he thought. Her hair was tangled in front of her face, her dress was black, and where her skin had peeked through it was pale. Paler than pale. Just as Eveline had told him. The woman on the rock had whispered something to her and she remembered nothing. Nothing except the way she looked, and the flowers on her breath.

Matthew watched her as they passed, his head twisting around on his neck. She watched him back, her head turning to match his. They watched each other until Hosea poked Matthew in the ribs hard enough for him to blink, and then she was gone.

He stood, nearly losing his balance, and searched wildly.

“Matthew!” Hosea shouted.

“What?” Matthew shot back.

“Sit down, boy, before you lose your goddamn head.” There was a coldness to his voice that Matthew had never heard Hosea dare use. The wagon hit a bump and he was launched from his feet, but Hosea grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back, setting him along the bench.

“Boy, you best listen to me or I swear—”

“If you call me ‘boy’ again I’ll rip out your tongue.”

Hosea turned to the young man, diverting his eyes from the horse or his hands for the first time since entering Chancellorsville. “Fine. Sir, I need you to listen to me, perhaps for the first time in your life. Do not look at the woman.”

“So you see her too?”

“‘Course I see her. She’s right there, right on the side of the road in her black dress and her bushy hair. You can’t not see her. But don’t watch her. Don’t watch her, or she’ll get you.”

“Get me?”

“The way she got Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Barnes and I think the way she got your granddaddy. Matthew, do not engage with the woman.” He handed the reins back. “Your daddy is asleep, and we’re going to keep him that way. You just focus on driving us home.”

Matthew took charge of the wagon, and kept his head straight. He refused to look left or right, and as the woman’s shadow became longer against the setting sun, so too did Matthew’s willpower drain. He began to long for her. He longed to see her. He longed to view her face, to hear her voice. He longed to touch her skin and feel her hands gliding along his. He felt the anger he had been pushing down release from his body, and he felt at peace as her shadow crept over the wagon, inching its way toward him in the driver's seat.

Hosea’s warning echoed in his mind. It grew faint. In the far reaches of his awareness, he understood what the black man was saying. Though, he was only a hand, and the hands made up stories of their own with an incessant need to hold a culture of their own. A freedom. A belonging. Right across an imaginary line. The truth was God had created them as servants, and nothing more. God had created him for a higher purpose, and God had created the woman for a higher one still.

They continued west, and Matthew’s grip loosened. He let Opal drive them. He watched the woods for any sign of his woman. She appeared to him between the trees. A wagon passed, and he saw her in the back, and smiled. When he tried to turn around, she was gone. Slowly, she crept closer. As the minutes passed she neared the wagon. Never moving anything except her head, but always edging her way in. He was tired of waiting for her.

Hosea’s voice rang between his ears. Matthew could tell the old man was calling out to him, but he didn’t much care. He remembered the rules he was told. Never go out alone. Never approach something that called your name. She didn’t call his name, she just called to him.

She was in the middle of the road now. Right next to the wagon. He reached out for her, and she finally lifted an arm. He could touch her if he wanted, and he wanted.

Hosea gripped him tight, and they passed her by. Opal began to gallop, and Matthew jumped from the wagon. Needles ran through his leg as his ankle bent underneath him, and he began to limp toward his woman.

He heard Hosea stop the wagon and yell for his father. He heard the commotion, distantly, as they ran from the cart. He felt their hands on him, holding him down, pulling him back. He heard her telling him to come. He heard her voice, as if it were right next to him, telling him that she needed him.

Then the shot rang out, and she screamed.

“Get him back to the cart,” Hosea hissed. “Nail him down if you have to. Cover his eyes. Blind him if you must.”

Matthew looked up to find his father holding Hardy Fletcher’s pistol. He felt his hip to be sure, and it was gone. His father stood there, barrel pointed down the road, smoke surrounding his face. He looked toward the rising moon, and found the woman collapsed.

“Emmett!” Hosea called. “We need to go, now!”

The two of them grabbed Matthew under his arms. They dragged him back to the wagon and hoisted him to the bed. Matthew didn’t fight. He was too tired to fight. He felt the tears coming, the pit in his stomach growing, and was utterly alone.

He heard his father reloading the pistol and watched as he aimed it down the road again. The wagon rocked, and the steady clucking of Opal’s hooves in the mud resumed.

“Keep his eyes down, Emmett,” Hosea said.

“I’m trying.” Matthew watched as Emmett looked down at him, and back to the road. He felt his father’s hand pushing against his forehead, and tried to sit up. His father pushed him back down. He wriggled, tossing back and forth, determined to be free.

“He’s fighting!”

“Just hold him down!”

The wheels began to catch speed. The wood creaked harder, and Matthew rocked back and forth across the panels. He could feel the tenderness returning to his fingers, though he hadn’t realized it ever left.

“She’s up again! How is she up again?”

Matthew strained his neck. Even with his father pushing him down, he managed a look eastward. The woman—his woman—had pushed herself from the road. She was bounding after them. At first on her two feet. Her beautifully pale feet, caked in mud in her desperation for him.

He felt her desire. She couldn’t lose him, or maybe he couldn’t lose her. She folded, and her arms stretched from her dress and on all fours she dug into the ground. She raced after them. Like a dog she kept her head low, dark hair flying behind her, speckled with the mud coming from her hands in front. Her dress flapped wildly in the wind and Matthew fought back. He pushed against his father, pounding against his arm, begging the old man to let him go.

Emmett raised the pistol. Against the lurching of the cart, he took his time to aim. Matthew saw him close one eye, and sit a little taller. He threw up his leg and kicked at the pistol.

He missed, and felt a searing tear through his foot. He screamed, and tore Emmett’s hand down from his forehead, bringing it to his mouth. He bit down, feeling bone crunch in his mouth. He tasted the metallic liquid that flowed from his skin and pushed his father away. With a bent knee and a twisted ankle he looked at his foot, and found a hole oozing red in his boot.

His father continued to reload through the break in his hand, and before Matthew could stop him, Emmett fired one more round at the woman on all fours. She stumbled over herself, her legs flying in the air over her head, and lay in the middle of the road.

“Don’t slow down!” Emmett called, before turning to Matthew and hitting him over the head with the butt of the pistol.

The pain came flooding in at once. It soared through his body, trying to escape. The fog in his mind cleared as the memories of getting off the cart came back. The desire for the woman was replaced with a revulsion he hadn’t felt for anything, and Matthew leaned over the side of the wagon, vomiting.

“We’ve gotta get you home, son,” Hosea called.

“He’s not your son,” Emmett said.

“Of course not, sir. We’ve gotta get him home, though.”

Hosea drove Opal hard. His father had said they were still near an hour from home, but when Matthew was being guided inside there was still light out. The sun was dipping low behind the rolling hills, and the trees were settling into their nightly routine. Matthew laid a hand on his horse as he was pulled along, but Opal flicked away from him.