Golden

GOLDEN

Louie Battle

At one time, the farm was prosperous. Shoots of corn once populated the fields, rows of cabbage permeated the surrounding earth, and in the woodlands, there used to grow wild berries. The generosity of the sun and rain was great then, but now the land was dry, and the sun was now too great. Dry heat baked the vacant fields, and the hot tongue of the sun shriveled the wild berries in the forest. The farm was still operated, more or less, by an older man named Edmund. He lived with his granddaughter, Haley, who was a cripple from birth. When the farm had produced food, years ago, he was making money, almost enough to buy medicine for the girl, but then the dust hit, and the rain ceased. He was forced to sell his truck and half the house’s furniture just to put food in the girl’s mouth. And still, there came tax payments. There were times Edmund prayed. He was a devout Catholic, but rarely had he been a desperate one. At night he wept for rain, but the glare of the moonlight discouraged him. He prayed for work. There was none of it on the farm. He could put a blade into the ground all he wished to. Without rain, the farm was vain. He drew water from the well, but it too was growing scanty, and was needed to support him and Haley. The girl, he realized, was growing weaker.

“Edmund,” said Haley. She never called him Grandfather.

“Yes, child?” Edmund was cutting up a small trout that he had managed to catch from a thin stream. “Isn’t the tax payment coming up?” Haley hardly was a child. She was kind, but always spoke her thoughts. The mind that thought almost like Edmund’s. The old man hesitated. His knife was still for a moment.

“Very soon,” he replied softly.

“How soon?”

“Next week.” He shoveled the fillets of trout into a skillet and lit the oven. For a while, only the crescendo of crackling fish was heard in the room.

Haley’s eyes were pale blue. In the moonlight, they looked almost white. But in the dim light of the kitchen, they showed sadness. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak. Edmund took the burden from her.

“No, I can’t pay it,” he said, bowing his head. “If that’s what you wanted to find out.” The fish began to brown. For a moment Edmund didn’t care. His eyes were elsewhere, showing the clouded thoughts of his mind. 

“Edmund, the fish.”  Edmund started at the sound of her voice.

“Oh, yes.” The meager dinner was served, and although both were under the weight of despondency, they prayed. “We thank you for the bounty in which we are about to receive. Amen.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

A windswept village stood some miles from the farm, coated in poverty and dust. Hope came in spurts, but seemed to vanish with the roar of wind. “What is to become of us?” “Is death our lot?” “We might as well wallow in the dirt.” Laments of the people were growing more common. However hunger stricken people were, and how squeezed of hope they were, taxes were still demanded. There was a room in the village where five men met. One of them was the mayor of the village; one of them was the sheriff. The three others were chosen for councilmen. It was that day they were deciding who would serve the eviction notices.

“We have seven people who can’t pay it,” said the mayor, Mr. Witherspoon. He looked at the sheriff, who was sitting nervously in his chair. “I have decided,” he continued, “that if the person chosen fails to carry out his duty, he will be removed from his job.” Witherspoon’s eyes didn’t leave the sheriff’s averted ones.

“Who have you selected?” asked one of the councilmen.

“The sheriff.” The room was silent. Bruce Bixby, the chosen, rose silently from his chair. He almost knew he was going to be picked. Witherspoon’s hobby was bullying, and rarely had he pushed the young sheriff to his discomfort. Witherspoon had known Bixby to be a quiet man who drank too much. Therefore he was annoyed by his silence, but also had something to criticize him over. Everyone has problems. Witherspoon was one of the best at figuring them out in people.

“Where are those pieces of paper, mayor?” Bixby whispered. “I want to get this job over with.”

Witherspoon grinned. His fat fingers reached for the folded notices. Both looked like poison to the young sheriff.

“Not even going to object, eh, Bixby?” chuckled Witherspoon. “I thought you might be the man for the job.”

“Why?” said Bixby. “Am I merciless?” The notices were now in Witherspoon’s hand. Bixby took them slowly with eyes of anger.

“Meeting dismissed,” said Witherspoon. The councilmen left the office quietly and swiftly; none of them approved of Witherspoon, nor wished to be in that room. But to where would they go? The little money that Witherspoon did give them was from his own greed, but it was their food, their home. They told themselves that God would provide. And God did, but under a man of injustice the councilmen could hardly be happy.

 The mayor and sheriff were alone in the bleak room. Witherspoon still sat in his chair, his fat chin drooping over the bulk of his neck. Bixby, a tall, strong man, darkened by the wind and the sun, stood as a silhouette against the white of the window. The seven notices were nearly crumpled in his hand.

“I don’t want you to serve all of them,” said Witherspoon. “For now, just one.” Witherspoon stood, with difficulty, and took the notices from Bixby. He searched through them until he found the one he was searching for.

“Let six of them be for another quarter,” he said. “Edmund Felt, who owns the farm, he’s much too overdo.” Bixby smiled grimly.

“So you’re going to let six slide and single out the old man and his crippled granddaughter. I knew you were all heart, Mr. Witherspoon.”

Witherspoon handed the papers back to Bixby. His face was bitter.

“Have fun ruining lives, Mr. Bixby.”

“You’ll have all the fun,” replied Bixby. “I promise.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Bixby stayed up late at his office, doing nothing, except idly drinking the last of a bottle of port. Even he was surprised he consumed all of it. It was rarer than water. But he was troubled. The six stalled notices were in his desk, but the one he was ordered to serve immediately was before him, folded in half as if to hide its ugly tidings. The yellow light of the room showed his face as sad. His wrinkles, which were not from age but from countless nights of hardship, were turned downward. He knew Edmund when the land was fruitful, when the rains came abundantly. However, their friendship dissolved just as soon as the first wall of dust and wind killed the crops. Edmund changed. He used to be happy and kind. Now he was sad and kind. Bixby stared at the notice, biting his lip until it drew a bead of blood. If he served the notice, how could be live with himself while he knew there was a girl in the dirt, unable to stand because of legs that were as thin as his thumb? He would watch Edmund starve, and see the pain in the girl’s eyes. If he didn’t serve the notice, his office would be put into the hands of another, and knowing the unworthiness of the village, the person would probably create havoc. Then he would be left in the dirt, with nothing but a shirt missing a badge. The empty bottle of port was dangling from his thumb and index finger. As his thoughts of the matter became cluttered, his heart became angry. Clutching the bottle tightly in his hand, he threw it on the ground, watching the shards of glass shoot across the floor and bounce against the ragged walls. A light was ignited across the street, followed quickly by a hysterical voice. “What’s going on? Bixby, are you drunk again, you dog?”

Bixby heard the words clearly. All they did was put a knot of despair in his heart. He let the tears fall blatantly on the floor; his head bowed until it met the desk, and from there, he sobbed openly.

::::::::::::::::::::

The next morning, Edmund arose early from his bed. He entered the dim parlor, reached under the couch, and took out a small leather pouch that was half full with coins. He emptied it on the floor, counted it, with no hope, but all the same wept when he saw the amount.

“She’ll die,” he said softly. “We’ll both die.” He stared out the window through tears, and spotted the orange sunrise creeping over the vast spans of nothingness. “You make the sun rise,” he whispered. “Make us rise now.”

STAVE TWO

Bruce Bixby awoke the next morning in the same position he had fallen to sleep: head on his desk, arms drooping, brushing his knees. The glass on the floor glinted in the morning light. He was dazed, but when he saw the piece of paper on the table his mind was grimly cleared. He had come to a decision, perhaps in his sleep. He would serve the notice.

His fingers felt the edge of the paper, but were reluctant to grasp it. His heart felt poisoned. At last, he picked up the paper and hurriedly shoved it into his pocket. He put on his hat, took a glance in the mirror. If he had finally made a decision, then why were his eyes still plaintive? He left the office swiftly and mounted his horse, which stood in the stable behind the building. As he rode from the village, he could feel the notice crackle in his pocket. He gulped.

Already the heat of the sun was bearing down upon the land of dust. Gaping cracks were exposed in the light, allowing Bixby to detect them and avoid them before his horse stepped in one. Seeing the scarred land put shivers in his heart. It was not a good feeling. Seeing the soil that had once produced seas of green that shone emerald in the warm light; it was all lost, and seemingly it would never return.

 After a while, Bixby’s eyes caught Edmund’s small but charming farm. The barn was still painted fresh red, while the color clashed with the house’s pale blue. He remembered when the farm was surrounded by armies of wheat and laughing stalks of corn that spoke its radiant green. He remembered seeing the golden wheat against sapphire clouds that were lit with sketches of lightning. He recalled its profound beauty that could speak to him. It wasn’t nostalgia he was feeling. He missed the past, but didn’t try to regain it. It was a memory that he hoped could turn into the future.

He knocked three times on the front door. Edmund answered it. His face was expressionless.

“Come in, Bruce,” he muttered. “I have some coffee, believe it or not.”

“Thank you, Edmund, but I’m fine.” They sat down in the parlor, but words didn’t come. The silence was the loudest Bixby had ever known. In his anxiety, he was biting his lip again. Edmund was fingering his silver hair and staring at the floor. His face was now had an expression. Bixby recognized it as fear.

“I know why you’re here,” said Edmund, “and I understand your duty.” He looked up and met Bixby’s eyes.

“I have to serve the notice,” said Bixby. “I’m sorry Edmund.” The sheriff took the paper from his pocket and laid it gently on the coffee table. Edmund stared at it. He didn’t hide his emotion.

“What about Haley?” he said, his lip trembling. “She’s getting weaker. She’ll die out there without a home.”

“If I don’t then I’ll lose my job, Ed,” replied Bixby. “And there seems to be no escaping—”

“She’ll lose her life!” Edmund screamed. “Can’t you see that your Witherspoon is soaking up all the money around here, or at least the scanty remains of it? Can’t your blind eyes tell you that a child’s life is at stake?” Bixby was terrified at the outburst.

“Times are hard,” he whispered, heart racing. “Pretty soon everyone will die.” Edmund stood, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, everyone. Everyone’s going to die, so why try and prevent it? If it’s all inevitable, then why bother?”

Bixby was shaking. He didn’t realize it would be this difficult. “You have to take it,” he said. “You have to leave.” Edmund began to shake his head so the tears were flung over the paper. “My child will die!” he sobbed. “She’ll die.”

Bixby’s heart was a torrent of decision. He clasped his hair, bit his lip until blood dripped, until at last he rose from the couch, took the notice in both hands, and tore it in half.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Witherspoon was in his office when Bixby entered it. The mayor glanced up and gave a fake smile that only made Bixby laugh. He threw the torn paper on Witherspoon’s desk without regret, and stood silently, waiting for a reply.

“Well,” said Witherspoon. “I’m glad to see some patriotism around here. So, did Edmund pull the ole heartstrings?”

“His granddaughter is dying already,” retorted Bixby. “Of course I know you’re interested in that.”

“Edmund hasn’t been able to pay up for the last four quarters,” said Witherspoon. “Now do you want to follow the law, which was made to straighten out failures like Edmund Felt, or do you want throw your dice in with him, where you’ll both be dead in the dust?”

“If the latter wasn’t a lie, then I’d take that ride,” said Bixby. “But to talk sense, Felt will have money enough for all his debts. Don’t ask me how, but he will.” As Bixby opened the door to leave, Witherspoon called, “Clean out your office, Bruce. I’ll see you begging in the streets one day.”

Bixby mounted his horse in the street, where he could see the edge of a blue horizon, and he began to ride toward it, quickly. He knew there was a larger town about sixty miles north that wasn’t steeped in poverty, or at least, not as bad as Witherspoon’s village. As he rode, dust was swept under his horse’s hooves and created a cloud of red golden. From a window, Edmund could see him speed across the flat and naked land. Haley was in his arms, but she was asleep.

“Where is he going?” muttered Edmund. Both positive and negative thoughts came to his mind, but one quality that oversaw both of them was hope. It came as a surprise, and somehow made Edmund smile.

Hot wind beat Bixby’s face. His eyes began to water. He drew his bandana over his mouth and nose and pulled his hat over his forehead, but even so, his eyes could feel the heat of the air. He met red hills that were enveloped in a sheet of whipped up sand; like billows of fiery waves they rose and fell. His sense of direction was growing vague, but undaunted he pressed on as the wind met its zenith and howled madly within his ears.

Once the red hills abated, seas of grey plains appeared, speckled with grazing buffalo and prairie dog towns. Bixby was careful to avoid both. As the hours melted into the purple evening, Bixby’s powerful horse began to snort and gasp in weariness. Bixby slowed to a stop, and the stillness, the silence of the earth, shocked him. The wind’s breath no longer screamed in his ears; rather, it swirled through the grass silently, like some sort of dancer. He dismounted. The muscles that had been strained constantly that day pained him, but his worn brain and body overthrew the discomfort, demanding sleep. The horse, after its saddle was off, knelt to the coarse floor of the earth and closed its eyes. It had been an intense day for both of them.

Bixby managed to build a fire; fortunately he was carrying matches. He cooked some bacon, ate it almost unconsciously, then also succumbed to the nagging of weariness. The plains were silent. The two bodies slept.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

After Bixby left his office earlier that afternoon, Witherspoon laughed. He thought the sheriff had panicked, run off, in his situation. “He always was a coward,” he chuckled. “I could see it in his eyes.” He called a councilman into his office, Jared Frond, and told him about Bixby’s abrupt “escape.”

“I want you to be the next sheriff,” finished Witherspoon. This was said after he was through elaborating Bixby’s “pure cowardice and fear”.

“Are you certain he’s run off?” asked Frond. “He didn’t even visit his house before he left.”

“You don’t want to be sheriff?” Witherspoon assumed stupidly. Frond found it impossible to reason with the mayor. He too was a quiet man, and wasn’t accustomed to quarreling.

“I do, sir. Thank you.”

“Very well. You know blasted well that Bixby won’t come back. So help yourself to that drunk’s office, clean it up, or rebuild it.” Frond fingered his hat, eyes downcast.

“You……you wanted him to leave,” he said. Witherspoon paused in his seat for a moment, searching for words, but when he found none, he nodded. “I never liked Bixby,” he said.

Frond was bold. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because he’s soft,” replied Witherspoon, blatantly. “I’ve said this about any muddy dog that’s fought in a war. He’s seen death, poverty, and it’s made him passionate on other people. It interferes with the law, mercy does.” Witherspoon stood and stared out the window. “I knew making him serving the notices would tear him apart. Now he’s gone.” Witherspoon turned, grinning. “And Bixby was right. I had fun doing it.”

STAVE THE LAST

The sun pressed her fingers against the glass wall of dark morning air, until at last the glass broke, allowing laughing warmth to flood the frigid plain. Orange tongues of light, carried upon legs of wind, raced through the grass and gently touched Bixby. His eyes opened. His horse was already up, grazing the nearby grass that was coated in dew. The ground was cold, but thawing. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and stood. His horse came to him instantly, nuzzling his cheek with a soft nose of velvet. “I’m sorry, boy,” whispered Bixby. “But there’s a girl who needs your help. I have to give you up. I have to.” The horse’s eyes stared into his, and somehow, they were sad. With both hands, Bixby rubbed the horse’s mane, pressing his head to the soft, innocent nose.

I am fighting for a human life. I have to do this. Once the saddle set on the horse’s back, and Bixby prepared himself for the journey ahead, they rode north, while the sun grew in affection, the air in laughter, and the spirit in endurance.

The town appeared as an exhausted Bixby led the horse over one last hill that looked to be an eye, closing, as the light waned and shadow fled over it. The town was indeed large, and was illuminated with the lights of houses, stores, and some restaurants. Bixby deemed it easy to sell the horse there. Though depression was killing this town also, there had to be more money. Where there are people, at least in a large town, there is money. Bixby led the horse through the street, where he saw crippled houses sagging under the weight of the falling darkness. Small girls, half naked and emaciated, crouched in alleyways, searching the black ground for food, while violent arguments sounded from within various houses. Financial ruin was leading to insanity between humans. It was cudgeling the knees of the soul because of its lack of perseverance. Foolishly Bixby had thought he would have escaped the sadness of the times, but instead he had gone to a place where it could be more easily embraced. The street grew thin; therefore the houses appeared taller and much more ominous. The horse whinnied in fright and slightly thrashed its head.

“Easy,” coaxed Bixby. “It’s going to be all right. This is a bad part of town.”

They passed the slum where they were introduced to a sort of downtown. Carts and cars buzzed up and down vaguely populated streets. Men browsed the stores in vain hope of work, women tore wood from abandoned shacks for housing fuel, and homeless children ran wild through the alleys and swarmed over the sidewalks. Bixby veered to the side where he avoided the traffic, his eyes searching for a place, or even a wandering person, who would want to buy the animal. He was expecting to stumble upon someone, but instead, a fancily dressed man tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Selling her, or just showing her off to these poor wenches and chaps roaming the streets? I’d hope the nobler one. That’s the former, by the way.”

“I was hoping to sell her,” replied Bixby. “Are you interested?”

“I’m headed to El Paso,” said the man, fingering his curled mustache. “Which means I need a horse.” The stranger stroked the animal’s haunches and healthy neck until he declared, “She’s worth a thousand dollars if the stock market wasn’t in Mariana’s Trench right now. How much are you asking for her?” Bixby figured the payment, over four quarters, would amount to about 150 dollars. He told the stranger the amount.

“A genuine price, officer,” said the man. He reached into his pocket, extracted several bills, and put the perfect total into Bixby’s hand. “There you are,” he said. “Does it come with the saddle?” He meant it to be a joke, but Bixby knew he wouldn’t need it.

“It does.”

“Well then, you are a generous dealer in these difficult times.” The stranger tipped his hat with courtesy, and led the horse away until he was obscured behind a corner. And Bixby was alone, with only his feet to move. The bills wavered slightly in his hand as a stale breeze whispered to him. He wouldn’t be able to get another steed. Not without money. He would have to walk sixty miles, and at the most, in three days. Bixby was no fool. He knew Witherspoon would appoint another sheriff instantly, persist ruthlessly with the eviction, and send the new man to carry out the duty. It wouldn’t be long before Edmund and Haley were devoid of a home.

With the little money he had brought himself, Bixby bought a loaf of bread and filled his canteen with water. The loaf was small, but it was all he could afford. He set out that night, wishing to capture as much time as possible. The moonlight was almost as convenient as the sun, and showed the ground clearly. He was very tired, and for the first mile, only determination spurred his sluggish feet. On the second mile, his eyelids seemed to be made of lead, and when the third began, his face felt the flesh of the earth. Sleep, it seemed, was inevitable.

::::::::::::::::::::

Jared Frond sat in the sheriff’s office, trying to organize his thoughts, compose himself. A reprinted eviction notice concerning Edmund Felt was clutched in his hand. In his mind he doubted Witherspoon’s words. He knew Bruce Bixby. Bruce Bixby was not a coward. Before he was sheriff, the village was known as a robber’s nest. When Bixby arrived, however, it seemed that all commotion was removed. Gunfire wasn’t all of it. It included courage as well.

 Frond wanted to wait, but Witherspoon’s impatience was bearing down like an iron gate. He didn’t want to lose the job the minute he had gotten it. It was morning now, five days since Bixby had gone. Frond spoke his thoughts: “If he would just come back and solve the mystery he’s created…..” Frond wasn’t keenly interested in finances, but he was intelligent enough to realize that these eviction notices would cost Edmund Felt and his crippled granddaughter their lives. With all his heart Frond wanted to see Bixby come back on his horse and solve everything. But the belches of dust within the vacant street, created by breaths of wind, left his heart empty of hope.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Night fell, and Frond was growing nervous. He could feel something dark clouding in his heart, like an omen. For a while he tried to ignore it, but soon it seemed to be shouting in his ears. He bit his lip, much like Bixby, and began to absently twitter with his thumbs. At last he could bear it no longer. He sped out the door and into the street, where he began to run toward the northern side of town. He thought he was foolish, as if he was running to nothing, but he could see a dark shape against the sand. The figure was crawling on all fours slowly, and to Frond it looked like it was in pain. He was ten feet away from the figure until he realized it was Bruce Bixby, breathing in rasps and begging for water.

“Bruce?” Frond knelt next to Bixby’s heaving side and cradled the former sheriff in his arms. Bixby struggled to reach inside his pocket, finally extracting a roll of crumpled bills.

“Give it to Edmund Felt,” he croaked. “Not a minute late. It’s enough for all his payments.” Frond took the money, trying to understand what Bixby was saying. Finally he realized that Bixby had sold his beloved horse for the Felt farm.

“There’s a little girl who’s dying,” said Bixby. “Go now.”

“I have to get you inside,” said Frond. “Give me your shoulder.” But as Jared Frond tried to pick Bixby from the ground, the weak body went limp. The breath shuddered, the head bowed, and a chilling silence fell as if from the heavens.

Frond put his mouth to Bixby’s ear and whispered to him. There was no answer. Bruce Bixby was dead, but he had accomplished his mission. The money was in the hands of a good man, a man he would have known to resist Witherspoon’s manipulation, and most of all, fight for the lives of people.

Although the new sheriff hadn’t known Bixby well, he wept. The tears speckled the dark sand and rose into the sky, where the stars accepted the mourning and sent them on to the vast heavens, where all nature and its Creator heard the story of Bruce Bixby and his fight for life. It was not money; it was love for a crippled girl that would save Haley Felt. 

That very night the 150 dollars were placed into Edmund Felt’s hand. Frond took off his hat when Haley arrived in a spindly wheel chair and smiled, taking her pale hand in his.

“But, who?” asked Edmund, dumbfounded.

“Bruce Bixby,” replied Frond. “He sold his horse in Oklahoma City, at least I suppose, and came back on foot with the money.” At first Edmund’s lips stretched in smile, but it presently vanished. “He…..walked?”

“He did.” The silence that permeated the air soon created tears in Edmund’s eyes.

“Then Bixby is dead.” Frond didn’t have to respond. They didn’t speak until several moments, when Edmund no longer felt just sadness, but also anger. “It’s all Witherspoon,” he said between his teeth. “It’s all Witherspoon. Stay here with Haley, Mr. Frond.” Edmund wisped past Frond like a shadow and began to head toward the village.

“Where are you going?” called Frond.

“To settle a debt!” replied Edmund.

Witherspoon was preparing to leave his office when he met Edmund at the door. The mayor yelped in surprise but quickly recovered.

“Well, how do you do, Mr. Felt?” he said, not at all genuinely. “I didn’t expect to see you at this….” He glanced at his watch. “…..untimely hour.” Edmund said nothing. His eyes were red from weeping, and still there remained tears on his weathered cheeks.

“I have the money,” he said in between breaths. “Enough to cover everything.” Edmund pressed the money into the mayor’s hand and waited for a response. Witherspoon counted it within seconds, then smiled.

“I’d be proud to know how you did this,” chuckled Witherspoon. “I doubt a farm boy like you can’t rustle up this much grub in just five days.” Witherspoon decided to show his personality, and sneered.

“There’s a man dead in the streets who died for this,” said Edmund, his mouth trembling. The tears fell again, quickly and without hesitation. “Bruce Bixby died for my daughter.” Witherspoon backed up a step in surprise, but in his heart he was the farthest thing away from sadness.

“And you may think that you’ve won,” continued Edmund. “You’ve ridded this town of another good man, and they are few in this barren wasteland. But I will tell you this. Justice will reign. It’s fools like you that pollute this earth more than hot air, and its fools like you who will meet the true mayor, the true governor of the rights of people.” Witherspoon was shocked and at a loss for words. He was unable to make any type of retort, any type of slyness that would combat Edmund’s words, and as an end to their conversation, the office door slammed; the dirty glass shattered. Through the aperture, Witherspoon watched Edmund Felt disappear into darkness, but afterwards he watched the darkness disappear in a sheet of blinding white rain.

THE END