Blood Red Road
Page 6Skinny as Pa is, he’s a grown man. Too heavy to lift fer a scrappy lit le girl an me. We hafta heave him, inch by inch. Em slips an slides.
She don’t stop cryin. Pret y soon she’s covered head to toe in red mud.
At last we git him on the cart. Pa’s tal , so only the top half of him fits in. His legs trail out behind.
Where’s Lugh? Emmi sobs. I want Lugh.
He ain’t here, I says.
Wh-wh-where is he?
Gone, I says. Some men took him.
He’s dead, she says. You jest don’t wanna tel me. He’s dead! Lugh’s dead! He’s-dead-he’s-dead-he’s-dead-he’s-dead-he’s—
Shut up! I says.
She starts to scream. She gasps an sobs an screams an screams an screams.
Emmi! I yel . Stop it!
But she cain’t. She’s gone. Out a control.
So I slap her.
An she stops.
She gasps with shock. Takes in great shudderin breaths til she calms down. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. Looks at me. There’s a red mark on her cheek. I shouldn’t of done that. I know I shouldn’t. Lugh wouldn’t of. She’s too lit le to take a hit.
I’m sorry, I says. But you shouldn’t of said that. Lugh ain’t dead. Don’t ever say he is. Now hold Pa’s feet out a the mud. Use his bootlaces.
It’l be easier.
She does it.
Em’s hopeless like always. She keeps fal in over, but every time she does I stop an help her up an we keep goin. At least she ain’t cryin no more. We reach the shanty. We shove an pul the cart with Pa on it inside.
The shanty wal s is made from tires.
The home Pa built with his own hands is gonna be his funeral pyre. I bet he didn’t ever think of that.
Emmi helps me turn our big old wooden table upside down an we drag Pa of a the cart an lay him on the table.
I go to the chest where we keep what clothes we got, which ain’t much. When I lift the lid, the smel of dried sage rises up. I pul out Pa’s thick winter tunic an toss it to Emmi.
Tear it into strips, I says.
I lift out Lugh’s winter tunic. I bury my face in it an breathe in deep. But we put it away clean. It smel s of clean cloth an sage. It don’t
I lift out Lugh’s winter tunic. I bury my face in it an breathe in deep. But we put it away clean. It smel s of clean cloth an sage. It don’t smel of him.
I git on with tearin it into strips.
Once we’re done, there’s a good-size pile. I dig out the jug of rootmash whisky. Pa brewed it when times was bet er. We soak al the cloth strips in it. Then I set Em to stuf in ’em into the wal s, into the cracks between the tires. I put the rest around Pa’s body.
I start fil in my barksack with necessaries. Red gizmo knife, flint, medicine herbs, spare shirt.
The same men that kil ed Pa took Lugh, I says. I’m goin after ’em. I dunno where they took him. It might be a long ways from here. It might take me a while to find him. But I wil . I’m gonna bring him back.
I put in a waterskin, net lecord rope, an enough sourberry seed jerky an dried rootcakes to last us a few days. If we run out, I’l jest hafta hunt.
They got a head start an they’re on four legs, not two, I says. I’m gonna hafta travel fast.
I col ect Emmi’s waterskin, her tunic an her dogskin cloak. I don’t look at her when I says, I’m leavin you with Mercy by Crosscreek.
No, says Emmi.
I put her stu in another barksack. Pa an Lugh told me to keep you safe, I says, an you’l be safe there. Mercy an Ma was friends. She helped when me an Lugh was born. She came when you was born too.
What we both know but don’t say is that Mercy came too late. Emmi came early, Ma died an Mercy might as wel of spared herself the trouble of a three day walk.
Mercy’s a good woman, I says. Pa always said that if anythin was to ever happen to him, we should go to her. He told me an Lugh the way to Crosscreek. She might even have a kid fer you to play with.
I don’t care, says Emmi. I’m comin with you.
You cain’t, I says. I dunno where I’m goin or how long it’l take me. Besides, yer too lit le. You’l only hold me back.
Emmi crosses her arms an sets her chin in that stubborn way she’s got. Lugh’s my brother too! she says. I got a right to look fer him, jest the same as you.
Don’t give me no trouble, Emmi. I pick up the lit le peg dol Pa made her an throw it in the sack. It’s fer the best. Once I nd Lugh, I promise we’l come back an git you.
No you won’t, she says. You hate me. You love Lugh an you hate me. I wish they’d took you instead!
Wel they didn’t, I says. Pa an Lugh left me in charge of you an I say yer goin to Mercy’s. Let that be a end to it.
I shove Lugh’s slingshot into my belt. Tuck Pa’s knife into a sheath inside my boot. Sling my quiver an pistol crossbow on my back.
Hazy red light trickles through the smal window. It lands across Pa’s face.
I kneel beside him, take his hand in mine. Emmi kneels across from me an takes his other hand. He’s stil warm, she whispers.
After a lit le bit she says, You need to say the words now.
She’s right. You always say special words to send a dead person on their way.
Pa said some fer Ma, before he lit her funeral pyre al them years ago, but I cain’t remember what they was. Guess I was too young to take proper notice. Now it’s his turn to have words said an I cain’t think of nuthin.
Go on, says Emmi.
Then, Sorry, Pa, I says.
I didn’t mean to say that, but my mouth moved an those’re the words that come out. But I realize I am sorry. Truly.
I’m goin after Lugh, I says. I’m gonna git him back, Pa. I won’t rest til I find him. I promise.
I look at Em. D’you wanna … kiss him g’bye? I says.
She kisses him on the cheek, then I strike my flint an light the spil s around his body.
Wil em by Silverlake, I says, I set yer spirit free to return to its home among the stars.
The flames start to lick at the table.
G’bye, Pa, Emmi whispers. I’m gonna miss you.
We stand. I hand her the barksacks.
Go on outside, I says.
I light the spil s set into the wal s. I wait til the tires catch fire, til the flames start to run along the wal s.
G’bye, Pa, I says.
I close the door behind me as I go.
The rain stops. A hot southerly starts to blow. The afternoon sun blazes down.
Nero hangs in the air above us, ridin the thermals in lazy spirals. Jest like Lugh said he would, he ed the storm an saved hisself. If only we could of done the same.
It looks like any other day. It could be yesterday, last week, a month ago. But it ain’t. This ain’t any other day.
I never knew. Didn’t know everythin could be ne one moment an then the next moment so bad that it ’ud be like the time before that moment was al a dream.