Madder Carmine Read online

  madder carmine

  Madder Carmine

  or

  A Thrilling Account of Gun Battles, Romance, Harrowing Escapes, Unshaven Villains, a Snakebite, a Dubious Circus, a Mysterious Girl with a Palette of Paints and a Young Man’s Epic Journey to Find Her

  Tyler Enfield

  Copyright ©2015 Tyler Enfield

  Enfield & Wizenty

  (an imprint of Great Plains Publications)

  233 Garfield Street

  Winnipeg, MB R3G 2M1

  www.greatplains.mb.ca

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or in any means, or stored in a database and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of Great Plains Publications, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, M5E 1E5.

  Great Plains Publications gratefully acknowledges the financial support provided for its publishing program by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund; the Canada Council for the Arts; the Province of Manitoba through the Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Book Publisher Marketing Assistance Program; and the Manitoba Arts Council.

  Design & Typography by Relish New Brand Experience

  Printed in Canada by Friesens

  Ebook conversion by Human Powered Design

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Enfield, Tyler, author

  Madder Carmine / Tyler Enfield.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-927855-30-0 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-927855-31-7 (epub).--

  ISBN 978-1-927855-32-4 (mobi)

  I. Title.

  PS8609.N4M34 2015 jC813'.6 C2015-903704-2

  C2015-903705-0

  R

  “My guide and I entered that hidden tunnel to make our way back up to the shining world… We climbed, he first and I behind, until through a small round opening ahead of us I saw the lovely things the heavens hold, and we came out to see once more the stars.”

  —Dante Alighieri, Inferno

  Part I

  Strange Folk

  It is an invincible fact: When a man finds himself outdoors without a pair of britches to his name, his whole world can be reduced to this lack. He has one thought only, like a giant magnet in his mind, forever tugging the iron of his will back to it. That thought is britches. And how can I get me some.

  I myself can speak to this phenomenon for I have walked fifty-four miles through the Blue Honey Mountains, from Hickamaw to Nuckton without the benefit of a solitary sock. And let me tell you, until you feel the ice of wind across your hinterparts, you just don’t know how lonesome a body can grow for a patch of cloth.

  Need can be emboldening, and so can be the cold, so when I strode into my hometown that hapless day in late September of 1849 I did not slow my pace. A wagon driver saw me and whoa-whoa’d his horse. The sounds of hammering faltered. A mother shushed her child. A fella pulled the pipe from his mouth and followed me up the road with his eyes, but what can you do? You either got pants or you don’t. The Lawsons’ general store was near enough the edge of town and I bore the mixed hope that after six years gone they’d still remember me there, after which they’d summarily forget. I stamped up the porch and went directly in.

  “Low there,” I says, tipping what would have been my hat to the girl at the counter. She over-poured corn from the sack she was weighing, one side of the brass scale clanking against the counter and little kernels skittering across the floor like beads. The look on her face I found difficult to read, but I began to relax some, for it appeared nobody was going to reach for a rifle.

  What’s more, I believed I knew that clerk. It was Rachel Lawson, the storeman’s daughter, standing there in her blue lace apron, looking sort of froze-like, staring, hands at her ears to hold back her curtain of locks. Rachel had one of those faces so pale, her eyelashes were practically invisible. That’s Rachel Lawson. And quite a nice girl if I recall.

  “How come you ain’t got no britches on?”

  None too delicate in her observations, though.

  “Long story. Look here, how about setting me up with a pair of them overalls you got on the shelf back there.” We’d never spoken that I could recall, but I knew of her good. Good old Rachel Lawson. “And while you’re at it, might as well take down a couple of them licorice ropes for yourself. It’s on me.”

  She let her hair fall back into her eyes. “And how you plan to pay for it all?”

  Looking around, it seemed folks in the store were starting to take some notice of my situation.

  “Pay?”

  “Yeah. Pay.”

  “Welp,” says I. “That is the thing of it. As I don’t seem to got much on me right now.”

  “Now that’s a fact.”

  Shrewd too, that girl. Though she failed to fathom that between money and britches, money was by far the lesser of my two predicaments. “Listen,” I says. I tell her, “Listen here, I’m trusting you to see these are extra-ordinary circumstances. A fella does not choose to go thus clad, and on account of this fact you might be willing to forego all your little fancy conventions and allow me to—”

  “My little—my—wait, what do I got?”

  I tried to clarify with a vague wave of my hand. “Payment,” I says. “You know, payment. Let me work for them denims. I ain’t asking for charity, just a set of overalls and the labor to pay for it.”

  She just looked at me a while. A long while she looked. She seemed to be debating the seriousness of the affair, batting it around in her mind like she was watching someone in a clown suit trying to touch off a stick of dynamite. And I can tell you, there are a good deal more than sixty seconds to a minute when you’re standing around, counting them naked.

  By and by, old Rachel, she clucked her tongue in recognition. “Wait, I remember you! You’re one of them Lereaux, aren’t you! From up Blackwater Hollow? You’re that Dannon one, that Dannon Lereaux.”

  It was the truth she spoke, and I told her so.

  “You been gone long enough,” she says. “So where you been?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  “Huh,” she says, laying her forearm on the counter and sweeping the corn back onto an open newspaper, then leaning forward on both hands all contemplative-like. “Dannon Lereaux. Isn’t that something. So what are you, like eighteen now? So what you been up to? You’re doing well?”

  “Oh, well, you know,” I says. Then recalling my manners, I added, “So how’s your daddy been?”

  “You know Daddy? Oh, what am I saying, course you do. Yeah, he’s doing good.”

  “Good. That’s good,” I says. “Yeah, and your mama? She’s doing fine?”

  “Mama? Oh she’s doing good. Yeah. Yeah she’s doing real good.”

  “Good,” I says. “That’s real good. Listen, about them denims—”

  “But wait! I just thought of a thing! Didn’t you used to be the water-witch or something around here?”

  “Dannon the Lereaux boy?” says an old fella in suspenders, one of the several onlookers now forming a crescent at my back. “He was a dowser all right. That you boy? You member me?”

  I saw right off it was old man Willard. Old Willard Lee that’s got the game eye from a horse-kick to the side of the head. Cocking his thumb at me, he says to Rachel, “I swear to you, this boy could locate a rain puddle in China. And if you had a drill could dig deep enough, I’d prove it to you, yes I would. He’s the one that dowsed me my nigra well, and I ain’t never seen nothing like it.”

  “Well I knew it!” cried Rachel, who’s now all fired up. “Cause I remember good now! They used to say you dowse scientific-like. Like you never miss a well. That so?”

  “More than less,” I tell her, and then to expedite the matter I laid out how I needed willow switches to do it. A pair of them, and had to be willow. It had been a while, but I suspected I could still locate a spring of good water within ten feet of precision. Good water, mind you. “All goes fine, I can tell you how many gallons per minute you’ll be getting too,” I added, and old man Willard confirmed this with a ‘Hyup’ and a nod, that game eye of his rolling round in his head.

  Now dowsing’s one of those things I’ve been doing so long I can’t remember if I was ever taught proper or just figured it out on my own during my days as a lonely youngin in the Blue Honeys. Either way, I was born to it I suppose. I have a skill in the matter, and as this girl tells me her daddy’s looking to dig a second well prior to winter I agreed to the transaction. New clothing for water suited me fine.

  Thing is, as she turned around to fetch me my overalls from the shelf, I saw the hem of her dress was tucked up into the back of her underdrawers, which gave me quite a sight of her backside. Course she didn’t know this and I could have told her, but something about the irony of a pretty girl in such a sorry state can help a man, who is standing dumb and naked in the middle of a gawking crowd, to salvage the smallest fragment of dignity from what would otherwise be everlasting ruination.

  R

  My Pa, he says when I was born I was big as a prize bass, and about as ugly too. His opinion of me never changed much either. I was the middle child of nine, and the only one st
ill alive when Pa declared it wasn’t all the loss that stole his faith in God, but our Lord choosing me for the living.

  That’s Phineas Lereaux for you. Good old Phinny, about as fixed in his path as the Shallewapre River and a heart the color of her mud. His back, too, was slouched as her undercut banks, and I could not walk that river without recalling my old man, hunched in his chestnut rocker, getting cornliquordrunk and ornery.

  But I cannot complain, for the man was good enough to kill himself off early on in my days. I was approximately twelve the night his favorite hound dog got killed. By another hound, no less, and old Phinny, he was a fourth generation coon-hunting man who rightly believed God’s sole plan, from Adam on down, was expressed in a man and his hound dog running varmints up a tree. Well old Phineas drank himself a fifth of whiskey in his grief and took a long walk down a short path to the river.

  Mama said, “Tis’ to our good fortune,” and complained only that old Phinny never buried a dime. But if my pa said one word of truth in his life it was on this very topic, that of fortune, the ruthlessly benevolent nature of which this story is really all about.

  The day he drowned himself, old Phineas, he tied up all the hounds in the feedshed till the echoes of their baying came back off the mountains. Shoulders humped, he came back out carrying a bucket of corn slop, for reasons no one would ever divine, and chucked the whole of it against the south wall of our cabin. In shape, the spill took the likeness of a turkey, wattles and all, as it spangled the timbers of our log-built and my pa stared at it for the longest while as it dripped slowly to the earth. He was like a madman gazing at himself in the mirror. I could only guess what he saw.

  “Fortune.”

  Then he spat. But even when he didn’t spit he had a way of speaking made you think of it. “For-tune!” he says again and then sniffed back something big. I was scattering a pan of corn to the yard chickens, my eyes fixed on Pa, never once thinking to turn away. Somehow I knew, beyond the innocence of my young years, that I would never again encounter a man more generously disgusted with life than my pa was right then. “Mind yourself, Dannon,” he says to me then, though his gaze never left the slop on the wall. “Mind yourself boy, because fortune’ll abandon you. Like death and certain mules it knows no master, you hear? Death and mules.” He turned and chucked the empty pail into the heap of chickens that scattered and arced across our muddy yard. “Even if a man should grab hold of fortune for a time and believe he tugs upon the reins, he is a fool for thinking it.”

  Slowly, deep in thought-like, he scraped the bottom of one bare foot clean and then the other against the sagging steps of our porch, leaving little crests of mud to dry with the others. “Death and mules…”

  That night old Phinny found death all right. As to the mules part of it all, I wouldn’t learn till later. For it wasn’t long after Pa died they sent me away.

  R

  Old Rachel, the storeman’s pale-face daughter, she was good as her word. She set me up with the overalls and a decent hat, and a plug of black tobacco near big as my fist. She gave me a new hankie for my pocket too, a nice pocket hankie, only it was red, which I cannot see on account my color blindness. Daltonism, they call it. Mixing up my reds and greens. They say it probably has to do with all the haywire in my head and would straighten itself out if I could only stop talking so crazy all the while.

  Anyhow, while Rachel restocked the shelves and portioned up a barrel-shipment of glue into quart jars, I waited around on the porch of her daddy’s store, just chawing and spitting and watching folks go by. It had been more than six years since I’d been back. Three at the one place, then the three more soldiering. That’s a powerful long stretch to be gone from a place and it made me feel half a stranger.

  Across the road I saw some McCotts with their youngins, who I recognized by their mama’s straw-hair. Then some of those Dowleys, you know those folks that cluster their cabins like frogs’ eggs around the base of Little Partridge, never conversing to nobody but kin? Saw a couple of them. They were trying to sell those speckled eggs they were always toting about in baskets, even when I was a youngin. I would have bought one myself, fresh speckled egg, just snap it right open and drink it down, but I was still considerably bald with respect to finances. So I made do watching a couple those Turner boys shoe a horse for an old fella with a wagon full of lumber. I knew they were Turners right off because every Turner you ever saw has legs bowed as a pair of sickles and little black eyes on either side of his head. Mama used to say that’s because those folks live on the backside of Little Partridge where visitors were too few and church too far, which is a shame and blight respectively. But that was just Mama’s way of saying every Turner in Nuckton was related thrice over.

  Well Rachel, she took her leisure with that glue. By the time she locked up shop I was a good way through the plug she’d given me. Her daddy’s land lay two or three miles north up Lazy Boy Hollow, hollows being what we call those little dells that go back deep into a mountain. So the Lawsons’ place was a big place at the end of the hollow, and we walked it fairly fast so there would be light enough for me to see by and dowse a good well, or so my thinking went. But as I stated, I knew of Rachel. Good old Rachel Lawson. Even before I’d left Nuckton or so much as chipped my chin on a razor her name was known to me. She’s what we boys used to call ‘deciduous’ in her habits, shedding garments like leaves for anyone who would give her a good shake.

  More than once Rachel Lawson suggested we depart from the road and step down to the creek for a peek how high the rain might of brought it. By and by, I agreed. The creek wasn’t much higher than I remember, though quick as gypsies, and the cottonwoods were beginning to turn. Yellow leaves were collecting all along the bank and you could smell the mulch of it. More than anything it was this smell that made me realize I was back. I was home. The horrors I had left behind were left behind.

  I pointed out the lights. White and blue. I saw them swinging about, just under the water but Rachel Lawson professed not to see. I figured she saw all right, and knew what it meant too, only she didn’t care much for the meaning.

  Besides, she was taken up with a powerful notion about then. Deciduous as ever, she made to get plenty friendly down there in the shady seclusions of the creek. This time she lifted that dress with a purpose.

  Now some’ll say a womanfolk’s beauty, her everlasting charm, is inversely proportional to her scruples. I’m of a different camp. I’m no saint, mind you, and will gladly thump the man that slanders me so. But my heart just doesn’t work like that. Old Rachel Lawson, I wasn’t mean to her, but I told her how it is.

  “I love another,” I says, plain and simple, and to this statement her little forehead wrinkled up, incredulous-like. She barked a quick laugh, cut it off sharp with a look of seriousness, eyebrows drawn, lips all pouty, then burst into laughter again. “Dannon Lereaux, I ain’t asking for your love! Just a quick tumble down here by the creek!” She laughed, not with me, as the saying goes, and you might of thought I was a fool by the way she kept smirking at me sideways as she shimmied out those skirts. “Now come on and get them overalls back off you. We don’t got a world of time.”

  Thing is, I did love another. Only the time wasn’t yet right for us to be together. There would come a day, howsoever, of this I bore no doubt. There would come a time when I would lay with my love and leave her heavy with kisses and shelter in the bonds between us.

  Except I wasn’t thinking about that right then, for Rachel Lawson, what with that pale little face, was making good headway in the transposition of her garb and it took most all my strength to keep that girl clad. So I picked her skirts back up from the leaves and pressed them into her arms. “My apologies,” I says. “I just don’t work like that.”

  It took powerful encouragement, but we made our way back to the road. The sun was just dipping behind Henry’s Backbone, but there was light yet, mountain light, which is different from the stuff you see elsewhere. The west slope stayed bright with the last rays of the sun while the east slope came alive with crickets. And I listened. I walked and I listened till I faded away, just disappeared, with nothing left but a bunch of crickets all singing this mind.