First Encounter with Ol’ Slewfoot

When I saw Julia, she looked up and sat attentively. The hair-raising (warning) howl. She had found her enemy – Ol’ Slewfoot – named after his one four-toed foot. Julia sprinted, leapt and retreated, and in her retreat was right back on him. Rip darted beside her. I was amazed when Ol’ Slewfoot slashed at him, pursuing his escape from the two dogs. Julia nipped at Slewfoot’s flank, but Pa couldn’t shoot, for fear of he’d shoot his own dog. I stood, paralyzed with fright. I was too scared, too scared to even shuffle my feet.

I watched with anticipation of Pa. Ol’ Slewfoot suddenly stood baffled, with an uncertain look, and began swaying back forth. He then started to whimper, alike to a whining child. Both Rip and Julia backed off from the strange occurrence. It was the perfect shot for Pa. He swung the gun upon his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened, unless you count the harmless popping noise. Pa cocked the hammer again, and pulled the trigger once more. You could see the sweat pour down his forehead. A black gunpowder cloud stormed from the gun. With frustration and trembling hands, Pa still tried cocking his gun while Slewfoot continued his vigorous approach on the dogs. Fearlessly, Julia again went to Slewfoot’s flank and Rip tried clutching his hairy throat. Pa tried once more to fire his gun. It backfired, creating a sizzling sound, flinging Pa onto his back. I frantically ran to Pa, but he was already upon his feet within the mere seconds. His face was painted black with the ammunition powder. During the commotion, Ol’ Slewfoot shook free of Rip, whirled around to Julia and caught her in the chest with his claws. Julia gave a yelp of pain. Rip hurled himself into Slewfoot’s back hide, burying his teeth in the mounds of fur. I had screamed, “He’s killin’ Julia!” Pa ran desperately after them. He jammed his gun-barrel in Ol’ Slewfoot’s rib cage. Even while in pain, Julia had gripped Slewfoot’s black throat above. Ol’ Slewfoot snarled and turned to plunge into the creek’s deep waters. Both dogs kept their hold on the menace while Slewfoot swam madly to try a getaway. Only Julia’s head was visible above the water while Rip continued to ride in the back, holding on just as well. Ol’ Slewfoot swam across the creek and climbed up the side, as he quickly tried to escape into the dense thicket. Julia loosened her hold and dropped like a ragdoll to the earth. For a moment, Rip hung tight on Slewfoot, but he became confused between capturing his prey and assisting his friend. He jumped off Slewfoot and ran over to Julia. Pa called for them to heel, but Rip refused and simply wagged his tail. Pa tried his hunting horn, and in the distance, I saw Julia lift her head and drop it back down. Pa swam across the creek and back, carrying Julia all the way home. It took two months for her to fully heal, but she was immediately back on the next hunt, tracking her prey in silence. I was overcome with relief, another day to hunt Ol’ Slewfoot, another day out with Pa.

Illness

I laid in bed--ill--most likely from secretly indulging myself in too many half-ripened brierberries. That might have had something to do with it. Ma said it was a fever; I knew better than to argue with her. Remedies for berries were treated harsher than a fever. Ma had observed my shaking, and had felt my forehead with the back of her hand.  She proclaimed I had the fever and chills, and directed me straight to my bed. I didn’t remark anything back to her.

She came back in a little later, with a steaming cup of something she mysteriously brewed. For two days she gave me lemon-leaf tea, a great satisfaction in smell and taste. I worried that she would figure out it had been a possible berry and give me tonics or a blood purifier made from Queen’s Delight; I couldn’t stand either. She complained, “If your Pa’d only plant me a root o’ fever grass, I could get both o’ you well o’ the fever in no time. ’Tain’t decent, not havin’ fever-grass in the yard.” “What you got in the cup, Ma?” I asked suspiciously. “None o’ your business. Open your mouth.” “I got the right to know,” I demanded, “Supposin’ you kilt me and I never knowed the what medicine you give me.” “Hit’s mullein tea, if you got to know. Hit come to me, could be you was comin’ down with measles.” I looked at her, she must have been the craziest person in the world. “’Tain’t measles, Ma.” “How do you know? You ain’t never had ‘em. Open your mouth. If ‘tain’t measles, this here won’t hurt you. If ’tis measles, hit’ll bring out the rash.” I thought bringing out the rash would be tempting, so I opened my mouth. My Ma pulled me by the hair and shoved half a cupful down my throat. I tried spitting and fighting. It didn’t end well, being hung by my hair and all. I told her I wouldn’t take anymore, and she threatened that I would die and the rash would never break out. I opened my mouth again, reluctantly, and drank the rest of the tea. It definitely wasn’t her worst concoction, even if it was bitter. I guess it was sorta funny. Ma going insane, trying to figure out what ailed me. Except, I felt bad for Pa, slaving the day away, doing my chores along with his own. Feeling overwhelmed with guilt, I felt that I should’ve told Ma. But I was happy I didn’t later because the truth would've incurred an even worse cure to swallow.

When the sweat broke from the tea Ma gave me, she said I was fine. I started feeling better and went out to see Pa. I told him I didn’t think nothin’ was ailing me but a belly of under ripe brierberries. He said, “That’s about what I figgered. I never said nothin’ to your Ma, for she’s death on a belly-full of green brierberries.” Good thing I didn’t tell her then, huh?

Dancing Cranes

Once I felt better from the green brierberries, Pa took me to the creek where we had fought Ol’ Slewfoot to fish.  I caught a ten-pound bass and then a little small fry (which we threw back). I then heard Pa whistle, the same signal we used for squirrel hunting. I laid down my pole and walked to where Pa had requested me. He told me to follow him, that we would dare to get as close as possible–to the dancing cranes. I saw the magnificent white birds in the distance as we crouched on all fours and crawled closer. A few times we laid on our stomachs and pushed ourselves even closer. I made a count of the whooping cranes–there were sixteen in all. They were so close, I thought I’d be able to touch them with my long fishing rod. A crane pair stood apart, creating a song with cries and singing. Their rhythmic pattern was irregular. The other fourteen moved into a circle and began counter-clockwise and the musicians continued their music. The dancers raised their wings and their feet one by one, hopping from one foot to the other. The cranes had dipped their heads into their snowy breasts, lifted them high up again and sunk them back down. Wings fluttered about, rising and like long arms. Another outer circle shuffled around the smaller, inner circle. Suddenly, the dance and music ceased. I thought the dance had ended abruptly, or predators had invaded and had been found. Then the two musicians joined the circle, while two other cranes took their places in singing. The dance resumed, the marsh water imitating the birds' movements and steps in their reflections. Sixteen white shadows reflected their motions.

The evening breeze fluttered the creek saw-grass as the setting sun laid rosily on the cranes' snowy bodies. The grass swayed along with the cranes, and the shallow marsh waters, and the earth fluttered with them. With each breath I, too, felt my arms going up and down along with them. The earth was dancing, as well as the sun and the wind and sky, with the whooping cranes.

Oliver vs. Forresters

Without warning, Easy rushed in, panting, “Oliver’s fightin’ the Forresters. He took a crack at Lem outside the store and all them fightin’ Forresters come down on him. They’re killin’ him.” Pa ran for the store. I ran further behind him, unable to keep up at his pace. Easy trailed behind us, already winded from running to fetch us moments before. Pa called over his shoulder, “I hope we kin settle it afore Grandma gits into it with a gun.” I called back, “Pa, we fightin’ for Oliver?” “We’re fightin’ for whoever’s takin’ a lickin’ and that’s Oliver.” “Pa, you said ‘no man couldn’t live on Baxter’s Island without the Forresters was his friends.’” “I said so. But I ain’t goin’ to see Oliver hurt.” I couldn’t make it out, I felt compelled for both. The Forresters were friends, at the time, and I didn’t want to risk the friendship. And Oliver was kin, Grandma’s son, except Oliver had left them…for Twink Weatherby. He had gone away and left them. The choice seemed obvious. I called before I could make out the fighters. All of Volusia was there.

I saw Twink Weatherby, just outside the fighting ring. Everyone said she was pretty, but I wanted to rip all her soft yellow curls out, one by painful one. Her small, pointy face was white with fear on the side lines, with her wide blue eyes fixated on the fighters in the dirt covered road. She twisted her handkerchief around her fingers. Pa pushed his way through the crowd and I quickly entered behind him. It was true, Oliver was being killed. Oliver was fighting the Forresters three to one, Lem, Mill-wheel and Buck. Oliver reminded me of a large buck deer Pa and I had once seen, bloody and wounded, with the dogs threshing at the throat and shoulders. Blood and sand covered Oliver’s face. He was boxing with fatigue, trying to fight one Forrester at a time. Lem and Buck rushed on him together. I heard their heavy fists crack against Oliver’s bone. Oliver dropped into the sand while the crowd roared with excitement. I felt so confused. Oliver deserved it, for leaving the cottage for a girl. But three against one was never fair. Even when Pa’s dogs attacked a bear or panther, it seemed indifferent. Ma had said the Forresters were black-hearted and I had pondered if this was what she meant only because I never believed her. The Forresters sang and drank heavily and frolicked at their house—especially for parties and occasions. They fed me when I had stayed with Fodder-wing and also allowed me to play with him. I pondered if this was what she had meant by black-hearted for three to fight against one. Yet Mill-wheel and Buck were fighting for Lem, keeping his girl for him.  Wasn’t that good? Weren’t they being loyal to Lem?

Exhausted, Oliver staggered to his knees and then stumbled to his feet. He smiled eagerly through the dirt and blood, wanting to engage more in the fight—even if he was being killed. I could feel my stomach lurch inside my belly. I jumped on Lem’s back, clawing at his neck and pounding on his head. Lem shook me off and turned, sending me to tumble in the dirt. My face stung from the sudden impact of Lem’s large hand. My hip ached badly from the fall. Lem snapped, “You keep outen this, you leetle panther.” Pa called out to the sound filled commotion and bystanders, “Who’s judgin’ this fight?” “We’re judgin’ it.” Lem called back. Pa pushed his way closer in between Oliver and Lem. His voice loud against the continual shouting, “If it take three men to whop one, I say that one is the better man.” Lem advanced to Pa. He said, “I’m o’ no mind to kill you Penny Baxter. But I’ll smack you flat as a skeeter if you don’t git outen my way.” Pa talked back, “Fair is fair. If you aim to kill Oliver, shoot him honest and hang for murder. But be men.” Buck shuffled his feet in the sand, gaining his approach toward the two. He said, “We’d of fit him one at a time, but he lit right in.” Pa pressed closer and said, “Whose fight is it? Who done what to who?” Lem started, “He come back stealin’, that’s what he done.”Oliver wiped his sleeve across his bloodied face, “It’s Lem that tried to steal.” “Steal what?” Pa demanded, he pounded one hand inside the other, “Hounds, hogs, guns, or hosses?” Outside the fighting rim, Twink began sobbing. Oliver reassured in a low voice, “This is no place to tell it, Penny.” “Then be this the place to fight it out? Like a pack o’ dogs fightin’ in a road? You two fellers fight it out alone another day.” Oliver announced, “I’ll fight a man anywhere, that says what Lem said.” “And I’ll say it again.” They ran toward one another, Pa the only one keeping them from practically mugging another.  Pa seemed like a small pine tree, standing against a hurricane. The crowd cheered frantically, encouraging the fight to continue. Lem drew a fist and struck Oliver directly over Pa’s head. The sound was an echo to that of a fired rifle. Oliver flopped to the dirty earth once more like a ragdoll. He lay there in the sand, motionless. Pa brought up his knuckle, meeting it with Lem’s lower jaw as Lem simultaneously punched into Pa’s rib cage. I moved toward Lem, filled with anger and spite for him attacking Pa. I sunk my mouth onto Lem’s wrist while kicking at his bare shins. Lem turned—he had the same annoyed look of Ol’ Slewfoot being nipped at by the dogs. He knocked me clear off his body, striking me again in midair. Then I lay on the sanded earth. I saw Oliver sway dizzily to his feet and Pa continuing to fight. I heard the roar of the crowd circling the fight from all directions. The noise was deafening like an incoming train and then became distant. I felt as if was drifting off to sleep and welcomed the dreams that would come.

I woke at Grandma’s house. I suspected it all to be a dream. I thought it was morning, since the Volusia steamboat could be heard down the river. I believed I had a nightmare about Oliver coming home to fight the Forresters. I turned to peer at the coming steam engine. A sharp pain shot through my neck and shoulder. I could hardly move my neck, twisting it only part-way. Memory of the “battle” raced through my mind. It was true then. It was afternoon. The sun shone in the west far across the river. The pain ceased, but I laid there, faint and dizzy. A rocking chair creaked in the corner. I knew it was Grandma Hutto. “His eyes are open.” She proclaimed. I tried moving my head toward her soothing voice but I couldn’t, not without the aching pain piercing me. She came and leaned over my head. She spoke, not to me, but Pa, “He’s tough as you. He’s all right.” “Hey, Grandma,” I spoke softly. Pa appeared on the other side of the guest bed I laid upon. One of his eyes was black and blue, while his wrist was bandaged tightly. Even through his pain, Pa smiled at me. Grandma reached to the back of my head, searching for the pain. It was where I landed in the sand and dirt and in my jaw where Lem struck me to loosen my grip of his wrist. The pain slowly eased with the touch of her mature, wrinkly hands. She spoke, “Say somethin’, so I’ll know your brains ain’t jellied.” “I cain’t think o’ nothin’ to say.” I added, “Ain’t it past dinner-time?” Pa said, “The only serious hurt could come to him, is likely his belly.” I spoke back, “I ain’t hongry. I jest seed the sun and I was wonderin’. Where’s Oliver?” “In the bed,” Grandma claimed. “Is he bad hurted?” “Not bad enough to learn him sense.” I figured he needed some sense, especially after abandoning us and getting into a fight with the Forresters and Lem. I knew Grandma was right, again.

Rattlesnake

The sun hung near the horizon, cascading the sky in illustrious shades and vibrant colors. It glowed as we trotted through the woods—Pa, his dogs, and I—all out hunting. Cumulus clouds hung on a line overhead, dyed a light yellow and red, hovering the sunset. The smoky texture of the south was filled with darkness. The chilly air pounced sometimes, but it was almost unnoticeable. I shivered and was happily greeted with a burst of warm air. Pa pulled aside a wild grape vine from the trail. He said, “When there’s trouble waitin’ for you, you jest as good to go meet it.” Without warning, a rattlesnake struck Pa from under the brambles of the grape vine. I saw a flash, and Pa staggered back and fell under the impact. I heard him thunder to the ground as he cried out from the pain of the venomous bite. I felt like falling and due to burst with voices and cries, but I stood there, unable to even murmur. It had to be something else, just something other than a deadly rattler. Pa shouted for me to get back, grab the dogs before it could strike again. It was enough to brake me of the trance and take action. I held Julia and Rip by the scruff of their thick necks. They barked and wriggled, desperate to free Pa from the snake. Pa backed away cautiously and then fired with the rifle on his shoulder. I feared that he would miss, but he didn’t. Pa turned and stared into my eyes, “He got me.” He lifted his right arm out of the two puncture holes, a single drop of blood dripped slowly from each. I let go of Rip. He immediately ran toward the dead snake. He barked furiously, then finally pawed at the body to determine it was indeed dead. He then sat patiently for a command. Pa’s head lifted, turning quickly, beginning to free himself of the brambles of the vines. He started walking directly for home. He plowed through other vines and scrubs. I couldn’t see where we were going. I was terrified for Pa. Would he make it?

It was strange to walk in silence, it felt odd and unwelcoming. Then Pa stopped. Something stirred in the near brush. A doe leapt from the safety of the scrub and Pa held his breath. He lifted his gun and pointed right for her head. I thought he was insane. Hunting? At a time like this? We didn’t need meat that badly. Pa fired quickly, before it could get away. The female deer leaped in the air and but landed with an ungraceful thud. It twitched a bit, then it laid there, motionless. Pa kneeled over the fresh carcass. I watched in disbelief. What was he doing? Instead of slitting the throat, Pa cut overtop the liver. He changed his knife into his left hand and slit across his wound. Crimson blood oozed quickly and ran down his bicep. He applied the warm meat to his swollen arm and pressed hard. He took the meat away and stared. It was green with venom, he flipped the meat over and applied more pressure to the wound. He handed me the knife and told me to cut more chunks of venison from the area of the heart. He took it away and cut another slit, higher up where the swelling had progressed and blackened the color of the skin. Sweat streamed down his cheeks and face. Pa stood, fatigue and I watched helplessly. He told me to run for the Forresters—to tell them to give word to Doc Wilson. He then turned back to the trail and I followed. Over my shoulder, a rustle came from the scrub of the doe. A spotted fawn, young and trembling, stared at me. I shouted excitedly to Pa, “The doe’s got a fawn!” He only replied, “Sorry boy. I cain’t he’p it. Come on.” The fawn slowly wobbled to the carcass of its mother and bleated a plea for it to wake. I ran for the Forresters quickly, in case Pa were to fall dead in the road or passed out. For the moment, I placed the orphaned deer out of my mind.

I felt I was like on a hamster wheel, going around and around, seeing the same trees and scrubs as before. I was afraid—not only for Pa, but of the Forresters. It hadn’t been long since the encounter with Lem and Oliver. I wasn’t sure at the time they would help, for we had supported Oliver, not Lem. I made it to the door of the wooden house and yelled for Fodder-wing. Curls of smoke arose from the chimney. I continued calling for Fodder-wing until the door swung open. I stopped short inside, all eyes on me. Lem confronted me, “You leetle varmint. What are you after here?” It was too much, I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him the entire story, excluding that we left a fawn to die miserably in the woods. Buck offered to pick up Pa and make sure he got home safely. Mill-wheel fled for Doc Wilson. I was overcome with relief. I walked alone in the rain all the way home. Candles were lit all in the house. I walked in soaked, and straight into Pa’s bedroom. Doc said that he could make it, but there was still a chance of not. Pa had spoken the first time he had been home, telling me I’d catch a cold. It was a bitter-sweet relationship, Even when Pa lay there, possibly dying, he was still concerned about me. I left to help Ma, but she was in denial. I tried to comfort her but she really wanted to be alone. I put dry, clean clothes on that Ma had given me and went to bed. Except, all I could think about was the lone fawn in the woods. Wet, scared, and bleating for its mother.

Finding the Fawn Again

After the incident, Mill-wheel took me around the place where the rattler had bitten Pa and where the fawn was seen in the bushes. I didn’t want him to see it, I wanted it all for myself. I made the excuse that the brambles would be too thick for the horse we were riding on to go through and that I could trudge on myself. Mill-wheel reluctantly left, impatient to help his mother and father with the ill Fodder-wing. As I tip-toed through the scrub, I realized just how far Pa and I had gone into the woods. I began to underestimate myself, wondering if we really came all this way. Then a buzzard approached, noisily flapping its tiny wings. It flew over to the carcass of the mother doe, covered by the black scavengers. I threw my bough at them, they dispersed. I went over to the scrub where the doe jumped at us. No fawn to be seen. Sulking, I walked further down to where the fawn had appeared before Pa and me. I crouched, laying on my belly and peering through the scrub. The fawn looked back at me with its wide black eyes. “It’s me,” I called lowly. I slowly inched my way, closer and closer to it, until I sat next to it, petting its lusciously soft fur. I was so afraid I would scare it, or it would gallop away on its wobbly hooves. I wrapped my arms around its torso, letting the legs limply hang as I stood. I walked toward the dead carcass. I stopped myself, thinking the fawn would bleat and kick at the sight or smell of its mother. I turned around, bracing myself for the thicket of twisted, entangling brambles. Every few times they would wrap themselves around the fawn’s dangling legs and I tried to carefully remove them without injuring my precious fawn. After what felt like hours of trudging through the thicket and brushes, we reached a trail that was clear of the prickly vines. I continued trotting on the trail, the fawn bouncing in my thin arms. If it weren’t for the weight of the fawn, I’d hold it all day long. But when we came to an intersection in the road, I settled the fawn on its hooves and keeled over for breath. I was so tired. I sat back up, still breathing heavily from the long stride. As I stood back up, I noticed all the pearl spots on its back were in a line. I had me a male deer! I excitedly stood up, dreaming we were at home, romping and playing together, laying under the stars on cool July nights. Maybe my dreams were coming true! The fawn bleated, irritated from being put down. I stared into his black eyes angrily. I just needed a breath. Then I remembered Pa saying that a fawn will follow anyone who picks it up. I treaded a little ways, and the fawn began to slowly tremble toward me. I hurriedly walked back so he wouldn’t fall and hurt himself. I picked him back up and finished on home, wet with sweat but cool from a refreshing breeze. I immediately went inside and showed Pa. He looked amazed that I had found the fawn, it almost seemed he was proud! Ma came in, and Pa spoke sternly to her about not grudging with the fawn. Her mouth opened to speak, but she remained silent. I anticipated what she was going to say, but she closed her mouth and left the room. I was surprised at Pa—he was always there for me, wrong or right, but this was different. I had never seen him talk that way, especially to Ma. It was a pleasure, seeing everyone almost comfortable with the fawn. I was really excited now! A new journey and my first pet, what would be next?

The Bee Tree

Buck and I went to the bee tree, carrying a small handful of towels Ma had given us, an axe and a lard pail. I had just reluctantly put my fawn into the shed where I had placed his bed. I didn’t want him to miss retrieving honey from the tree, but I didn’t want him getting stung either. I hated being separated from my young fawn, even for honey-hunting. Then it felt lonely. Pa had his eyes on the comb all spring, waiting for the proper time to allow the honeybees to gather nectar from the all the flowers. I just didn’t feel right, leaving him cooped up in a bed while we were doing what he waited all spring to do.

The bee tree was a dead pine up near the sink-hole where Pa and I would fetch water for Ma. We climbed up another tree to gather green Spanish moss. At the base of the pine was a pile of dry grass and bundles of feathers. Buck explained it was probably wood-ducks that had tried to nest in the cavity of the bees. The bees drove them out with sharp stings. I felt chills roll down my spine, I had never been stung before, according to Ma, but her grandfather was in bed for a fortnight when he got stung. I wouldn’t stand a day without my fawn, and two weeks would be a nightmare of teas and concoctions from Ma herself. Buck began to chop the dead tree. Further up where the cavity hung, buzzing turned into humming of irritation with the hack of the axe, and the humming transformed into a roar of angry bees. Buck directed me to start a fire on the cloth with flint and steel in his bag. I was in a panic. The bees would be out any minute, and even though I had seen Pa start a fire with his tinder-horn, I had never successfully done it myself!! I tried, smacking the two rock-like pieces toward the cloth, but every spark would die when I blew too violently for them to spark into a flame. Buck left the axe in the tree and hurled himself next to me, grabbing the supplies from my clutch. He pounded the rocks as vigorously as I had, but he blew much softer. The cloth burned and Buck scrambled for a piece of moss. He placed it on top of the scorching cloth, and removed it. My eyes felt they had been tricked somehow, because the moss didn’t burn, it only smoked. He ran back to the tree and hacked the final splint on the tree off, causing it to topple down and rush the bees to fly out in a swarm. Buck threw the moss into the bee cavity in one forceful throw. He turned and ran, slapping his shoulders and stomach. I laughed so hard, Buck looked like a cowardly bear, feeling the true pain of the multiple stings. I stopped when a thin, stabbing pine needle like feeling stung me on the back of my neck. Buck screamed and shouted for me to scramble my way down to the sink-hole, so I ran my way down the steep hill to the water. The water wasn’t deep enough to cover us completely, so Buck began caking me with gooey mud from head to toe. It got all entangled in my hair and face; this was probably as close to a mud bath as I was ever going to get myself in. Yuck!!!! The bees quieted and zoomed back to their knocked bee hive, while Buck and I headed to the south side of the sink hole to wash ourselves and clothes in the wash-troughs. We submerged our clothes in one trough and ourselves in another. Buck had half a dozen stings, while I had escaped with only two. We, again, approached the tree with care. Luckily, Buck had thrown the moss in the right place in the cavity—all the bees were drugged with the smoke of the moss. I stood apprehensive and excited behind Buck. I didn’t want to be running for the low water of the sink-hole again or be stung trying to get there, but I really wanted some honey in my grumbling belly, really badly. Buck took his knife and cut away splinters and the edges of the cavity. He stuck his hand right in and turned to stare at me with amazement. He took out his hand and it rained syrupy golden honey from his fingers. We extracted more of it, and took turns carrying the lard pail back to the house. When we returned, Ma gave us a cypress tub to retrieve the rest that was still in the cavity. When we came back the second time, the tub, too, was full of the golden deliciousness. Buck said it was the largest amount he had ever seen from a bee tree. I was glad. Hanging around with Buck was like with having an older brother! And dinner tasted sweet that night.

Goodbye, Fodder-wing

As June turned into July, I hoed many rows of sweet potatoes and my effort had started to show. Even though I took pride in my success, I was disappointed that it seemed I still had miles and miles of hoeing to do. By the sun, I was stressed at the thought it was ten o’ clock, and all I could think about was Fodder-wing. Pa promised if I had finished by noon, I could go with my fawn to his house to get his thought on naming him. Lost in my thoughts, I hurriedly hoed my way through more rows. The twisted vines on the plants rose higher and higher, like the ground was burning them, not the simmering July sun. I enjoyed working with my fawn near, I felt a comfort that I hadn’t experienced in the company of the hoe. I whistled tunelessly while the number of rows fell as I work.

I’ve thought of names for my rambunctious fawn, but none seemed to fit. I tried names of dogs like Joe and Grab, Rover and Rob. I went all the way down the line, calling them to the fawn, but I didn’t prefer any of them. Pa had said he was “tippy-toed,” so I thought Twinkle-toes and then Twink for short, but that only spoiled the name of Twink Weatherby. I immediately removed Tip from the list because Pa had a vicious bulldog by the same name. I knew Fodder-wing would help me. He had been so good about naming his own pets, I knew he wouldn’t fail me.

I did well since Buck had gone home two weeks ago. I was happy that Pa was doing better and getting back on his feet, but I was concerned when he would feel faint or dizzy and climb back into bed. I tried to continue my work but I was distracted with the thought of seeing Fodder-wing. Pa came out and made me a deal, because he understood that I had done a lot of work but he promised Ma that he wouldn’t release me of my “contract.” So Pa told me to tread up to the sink-hole to fetch water for Ma and then I could leave. I came back with full water buckets and was thrilled he let me go. I brought the fawn with me, because I enjoyed for the sake of his company. Walking down the cross roads, I imagined Fodder-wings face lit up with excitement for the fawn. My desire to see Fodder-wing and to get a name for the fawn was overwhelming, so I began to run with my beloved fawn at my side. I reached their door and began pounding and calling for Fodder-wing. Buck answered the door, depressed and sad. I explained that I came to show Fodder-wing my fawn so he could help choose a name. Buck stared at me and said, “He’s dead,” and, “One minute he was breathin’. The next minute he jest wasn’t. Like as if you blowed out a candle.” I felt confused, not sorrowful or sad. It felt like Fodder-wing was here and just out of sight, but he wasn’t, he was nowhere. Buck allowed me to come and see him, letting myself through the open door with the fawn at my heels. I felt incredibly confused. Buck said Fodder-wing was gone, like a blown out candle, but then he said he was here. None of what he said made sense to me. He led me to a large bedroom and I entered. On the bed was a motionless Fodder-wing draped up to his chin in a sheet. His arms were placed outside the sheet, folded limply across his chest. His eyes were closed while he lay still in the large bed; he seemed so small. “Hey,” I called, finally speaking after entering the Forrester’s home. My paralysis broke talking to the motionless stranger. Fodder-wing’s silence was unbearable and upsetting to me, and probably to the rest of his family. Now I understood Buck—this was death, the deafening silence of a person. My friend would never speak to me again. I hurled myself into Buck’s chest, burying my face. His large arms wrapped around me, and we hung like that for quite some time. I knew I was upsetting everyone, so I left the house and solemnly walked out to where Fodder-wing kept his pets. His five-month-old bear cub was chained to a stake. It had walked around and around in a dusty circle, causing the chain to entangle around the stake and keep it at hugging distance of the stake. When the cub caught sight of me, it rolled onto its back and cried. Squeak the squirrel ran inside its cage, its bowl and food box both empty. I noticed the possum was asleep, but I couldn’t find the raccoon. Preacher the red-bird hobbled on its only good foot, pecking at the bare floor of its cage. I fed the smaller animals and then progressed further to the larger ones. I knew where Fodder-wing kept peanuts and corn for them; his older brothers built and filled a feedbox for him. When I finished, I sorrowfully wondered what would happen because their master would no longer give them comfort and tend to their needs. As I walked sadly back inside, I helped Ma Forrester cook and waited on her. I ate dinner with them, leaving the milk and biscuit for my fawn. She wondered why and I told her, and her face was then draped with tears. She said Fodder-wing had wanted to see the fawn, always saying I had gotten a brother. I sat in silence, then explained why I was here—for Fodder-wing to name my beloved buck. “Why,” she said, “he named it. Last time he talked about it, he give it a name. He said, ‘A fawn carries its flag so merry. A fawn’s tail’s a leetle white merry flag. If I had me a fawn, I’d name him ‘Flag.’ ‘Flag the fawn,’ is what I’d call him.” I felt near of bursting, I was filled with grief of a friend and happiness for a new one. Fodder-wing had talked about me and my fawn. I excused myself to go feed Flag.

The next morning, Pa came over on horseback to see why I hadn’t come home. He thought the worst and understood. I had fallen asleep on the foot of Fodder-wing’s death bed and woke up startled to find he was gone. Flag and I sleepily walked outside with the Forrester family and Pa. Fodder-wing’s body was wrapped in cloth and placed in a wooden box, just large enough to hold him. Pa offered to carry the tomb with Buck, but he lifted the entire box onto his shoulder. We walked a short ways over to the live oak where Fodder-wing had a grape vine swing and a hammock. Pa Forrester and Gabby were there, standing beside a large ditch and shovel. Buck placed the box in the hole and Pa Forrester took the shovel and scooped a clump of dirt, dumping it into the hole and passed it around. Finally, the shovel was put n my hand. I felt confused again, they really were asking me to finish the process. Only a small amount of dirt was left, they wanted me to do it? I lifted the last of the dirt and began to tremble, dumping it in, I went numb, my best friend…was really gone.

The Flood

The skies turned so black, the chickens went to roost. Pa had said something wasn’t natural, and it came. He told me to go fetch eggs from the chickens and to hurry, otherwise I’d be caught. I retrieved five eggs but I hadn’t felt the hurry that had infected my father. I took alarm when I heard a roaring in the distance, it sounded like all the bears grouping in the scrub or by the river. It was the wind. I heard it approaching from the northeast, brushing treetops in its passing. The pines whistled as it passed over me with rustle like the wings of many high-flying geese. The rain quickly followed.

The wind roared overhead while the rain was a solid wall from the sky to earth. I made sure not to drop any of eggs as I ran for Flag. Inside the shed, he quivered and shook, Flag was wet from a leak somewhere, so he stood there shivering and cold. Looking into his milky black eyes, I understood he was scared. Flag ran behind me, looking for shelter of the storm, while I was trying to bolt for the back door of the house. The door was latched, which started me to pound loudly on the door. I at first thought that no one heard me, that Flag and I would be stuck in the storm until it was over. Then Pa opened the latch and the two of us ran inside. I wiped drops off my eyes, and Ma scolded me for bringing Flag in. I went to go change my soaked clothes and reentered to where Ma and Pa were sitting to eat dinner.

The next three days, Pa would go out and milk our old cow Trixie, feed the chickens and his horse Caesar, then come back in to remove all his clothes and put on fresh ones. Pa then thought the sun would emerge, but it didn’t. In the evening, I began doing the chores to feed the outside animals. I would step out and not know where I was, like I was walking on water. When I finished, I turned back to the house, with rain blurring my way through the unfriendly atmosphere. I returned into the house, glad to be welcomed by friendly faces. The yard and harvest were all floating atop the water, crushed and lifeless. More days passed, leaving a flood of water that killed animals and plants. Pa and I would try to go out and collect cow-peas, which were flattened. More days passed as the rain became a regular event of the day. Pa and I started digging for sweet potatoes, which had started to rot from so much rain. Dinner became lavish, even Flag was suffering from malnourishment. His ribs were easily spotted through his fur, and his bumpy backbone showed as well. On the eighth day of pure rain and wind, the rain finally stopped. There was still water everywhere, but the ruckus of the falling drops ceased.

Two days later, Buck and Mill-wheel came by, asking for assistance in roaming the land, seeing what the storm had brought havoc to. Dead land creatures died and floated down the river, including snakes that were most likely to have been stuck in the holes in the ground. It was shocking for me personally to see a dead fawn drifting down the river. I gulped with anxiety. If I hadn’t gone back to save Flag, he might of ended the same way.

We camped that night under the stars. Then we returned home our separate ways. A few days later, Pa and I had gone back out for hunting to bring in game for a better dinner. We found a plague going through big cats and large bucks. I felt worrisome for Flag, if he caught the black tongued plague, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Luckily he didn’t or else I wouldn’t know what to do after that. Many animals died that year of the flood.