Katherine "Kissin' Kate" Barlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-10-26 02:48 pm
ikissdhimbck) wrote2012-10-26 02:48 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: And pray that the angels will shield thee from harm...
South of Kenedy
April 18th
It's the warmth and the sweat that attract the flies.
Beaut flicks her tail like an angry switch, coat glistering in the sun. It's humid, and steam is curling off the banks of the river she's installed herself in, gnats caught in the current like small cows in tiny twisters that never stop turning. Her hooves crunch in the coarse sand and smooth rock that make up the riverbed, water lapping against her hocks.
Kate's in the dust a few feet off, stretched out as comfortably as she can get on a rock by the river's edge, hat angled over her eyes to keep the worst of the sun obscured. It's a shock from the bar, where it's still the middle of January and the snow makes the torn meat in her left thigh ache. She's put off coming home, and for a while there were distractions; missions to other worlds, favors. She had promised someone she wouldn't come to Texas without them. But a wild horse can only stay still so long before it starts getting antsy, and Beaut was eager to stretch her legs, too.
They've been riding hard, today for pleasure and the need to work the soil into their skin, breathe Texas into their lungs and melt the shackles of winter from their joints. The new year makes Kate anxious, and, as for her mount, soon she'll have to break ice from her trough before she can drink again. Beaut snorts, sending a displeasured spray across the water, her tail striking her croup.
"You'd complain if you was hung with a new rope."
Not that now's the time or place to think about being hanged, but so the expression goes. The horse lifts her head, dripping water, looking disgruntled, and Kate smirks around a stalk of Big Bluestem. Folk are still looking for her, which is all right; she's still looking for folk. The next time they ride out them doors it'll be southward to get some work done. They might as well enjoy this while they can.
Chewing thoughtfully, sucking what moisture is left from the blade of grass, she takes a chance on closing her eyes, letting the late afternoon soak through damp linen and leather that smells like neatsfoot oil and hay. It isn't just the new year; Kate's been anxious since All Hallow's Eve, every unoccupied moment filled with thoughts from which she keeps failing to hide. While the bar emptied, folk returning to their worlds and their families, good cheer and nutmeg pregnant in the air, she kept to an unadorned room with her books for company, not thinking about the eighteen Christmases with her father; not thinking about the betrayal in his sea-colored eyes.
Her eyes snap open.
But she can't stop thinking about it. Every second she's alone, without something to occupy her time. Maybe she stayed through the holidays because she was afraid of coming home where there was nothing but wilderness and memory; maybe she's out here now because she thought she could run away. You're not Robin Hood, or Jesse James. How many pairs of stern, blue eyes burn into her recollection, deep voices saying they can help her, it's what they do, don't be stupid, they'll take care of it, if she'd just wait can they save her? On this path that she's laid, does she want to be saved?
Maybe she stayed through the holidays because she was hoping he'd come back. Because she was hoping someone would come back. It was two weeks shy of Christmas the day Samuel Barlow was shot, in the low marsh back behind their corn like a common stag.
She doesn't much care for the holidays anymore. There's not much point when you're alone.
Her attention flicks to the northern bank of the creek. A lizard scuttles through bramble before coming to an abrupt stop, looking for all intents and purposes like a sunbaked rock. No yellow spots.
She relaxes.
She wonders if folk in Kenedy are still chasing after her. How much time has moved here? How far has she gotten from the town? She hasn't seen any tells, not for horse or hunter, but that don't always mean something.
For the first time in years, she's questioning her choices. She can't get the sound of his voice out of her head. Had he come from death just to relay his disappointment? Was it part of a plan, part of God's grand message, to turn her around? Or was it just the magic of a heartless proprietor out for a lark? She's not afraid of being caught, or shot, or hanged, or hated; she's not afraid of running for the rest of her life. Letting her father down is the only thing she's ever feared.
(If she's being honest, in the most bitter chambers of her heart where lying to herself has become an art, that's why she hasn't been home. And in one month's time, when destruction is raining down on the home she's made of Milliways, and the world is coming out from under her feet, it will all seem so pointless.)
The desert sucks at her skin; she feels like needlepoint, while invisible fingers pull the water out of her like a long blue thread, making her pores ache. She discards the spent Big Bluestem, and squints at the sun. Are you up there, old man? Are you watching me? She could never leave Texas. It's in her bones. And despite her quavering confidence and the emptiness of her holiday heart she knows she made her own bed, and she did it in all soundness of mind and purpose and thought. She wasn't supposed to be better; she was supposed to be different. But her river forked, and she chose her course. She doesn't want to be saved.
On the wind, a million miles away, the bray of a donkey floats to her ears. Glasses tinkling. Pounding hooves. She looks out over the horizon for a telltale cloud of dust, straining to hear the thundering report. It fades, a voice long gone from this place.
"C'mon, Beauty. We best get a move on, an' start lookin' for a door back. S'gettin' late, an' it's jus' you an' me."
She splashes through the river, soaking her legs up to the knees. It's low this year. Real low. Each bank stretches inward eight feet, silty earth turned cracked and crumbling. She frowns, pulling herself up into the saddle.
"All right, Beaut. Leave some river for the kaiyotes. We all gotta drink. Don't give me that look."
The look in question is dour suspicion. Beaut's not ready to head back for the cold. She stands still, hooves planted stubbornly where they are, water dripping off her muzzle. Kate rolls her eyes.
"Don't you worry none. We've got trails t'blaze real soon. Remember what they said? Mineral City. Yeah, that's right. I'm still carryin' on about that. But, hey — we get through this job, an' you're gonna have a nice long holiday in New Orleans. How's that sound? Jus' you an' me."
Dutifully, Beaut makes for the southern bank, whickering reluctantly. Kate grins. It's going to be all moanin' and groanin' all the way back to the bar. That's all right, Kate don't blame her. But it's time they headed home.
Back home to where people are waiting for them.
"Jus' you an' me."
She flicks Beaut's reins and they're off, kicking up rock and dust, leaving their mark on the deep blue sky.
April 18th
It's the warmth and the sweat that attract the flies.
Beaut flicks her tail like an angry switch, coat glistering in the sun. It's humid, and steam is curling off the banks of the river she's installed herself in, gnats caught in the current like small cows in tiny twisters that never stop turning. Her hooves crunch in the coarse sand and smooth rock that make up the riverbed, water lapping against her hocks.
Kate's in the dust a few feet off, stretched out as comfortably as she can get on a rock by the river's edge, hat angled over her eyes to keep the worst of the sun obscured. It's a shock from the bar, where it's still the middle of January and the snow makes the torn meat in her left thigh ache. She's put off coming home, and for a while there were distractions; missions to other worlds, favors. She had promised someone she wouldn't come to Texas without them. But a wild horse can only stay still so long before it starts getting antsy, and Beaut was eager to stretch her legs, too.
They've been riding hard, today for pleasure and the need to work the soil into their skin, breathe Texas into their lungs and melt the shackles of winter from their joints. The new year makes Kate anxious, and, as for her mount, soon she'll have to break ice from her trough before she can drink again. Beaut snorts, sending a displeasured spray across the water, her tail striking her croup.
"You'd complain if you was hung with a new rope."
Not that now's the time or place to think about being hanged, but so the expression goes. The horse lifts her head, dripping water, looking disgruntled, and Kate smirks around a stalk of Big Bluestem. Folk are still looking for her, which is all right; she's still looking for folk. The next time they ride out them doors it'll be southward to get some work done. They might as well enjoy this while they can.
Chewing thoughtfully, sucking what moisture is left from the blade of grass, she takes a chance on closing her eyes, letting the late afternoon soak through damp linen and leather that smells like neatsfoot oil and hay. It isn't just the new year; Kate's been anxious since All Hallow's Eve, every unoccupied moment filled with thoughts from which she keeps failing to hide. While the bar emptied, folk returning to their worlds and their families, good cheer and nutmeg pregnant in the air, she kept to an unadorned room with her books for company, not thinking about the eighteen Christmases with her father; not thinking about the betrayal in his sea-colored eyes.
"Get yer head out of the clouds, Katherine
You're a criminal, not Robin Hood or Jesse James
You were s'posed to be ... better."
Her eyes snap open.
But she can't stop thinking about it. Every second she's alone, without something to occupy her time. Maybe she stayed through the holidays because she was afraid of coming home where there was nothing but wilderness and memory; maybe she's out here now because she thought she could run away. You're not Robin Hood, or Jesse James. How many pairs of stern, blue eyes burn into her recollection, deep voices saying they can help her, it's what they do, don't be stupid, they'll take care of it, if she'd just wait can they save her? On this path that she's laid, does she want to be saved?
Maybe she stayed through the holidays because she was hoping he'd come back. Because she was hoping someone would come back. It was two weeks shy of Christmas the day Samuel Barlow was shot, in the low marsh back behind their corn like a common stag.
She doesn't much care for the holidays anymore. There's not much point when you're alone.
"I think y'have the wrong person."
She'd only asked for a warm cider and some chicken and biscuits. It's been quiet around the bar, but she don't mind that. This time of year is always quiet, folks gone to some holiday celebration or another. She does her own kind of celebrating, with a bottle of bourbon and an unadorned room. She's staring at a stack of gifts balanced in front of her, when a mysterious, petulant wind flips the festooned cards open, displaying her name in festive scrawl.
"You're sure, then?"
Miss Bar seems positively affronted at the insinuation her delivery services may in some way be faulty, so Kate doesn't press any further. She thanks her, and beams quietly, sorting the gifts into a stack that will be easier to carry. ‘Albus Potter’, reads one card; ‘Dixie Cousins’; ‘Guppy Sandhu’; ‘Scorpius Malfoy’; ‘William Evans’. She doesn't know what to do with them all, and it makes her think of her undecorated room and the fireplace in the parlor of her childhood home in the same breath (sugared almonds and tissue paper, stockings, crackers, her father's voice).
Pausing, she glances back at the Bar.
"Miss? I'm gonna need some candles, too. If it ain't too much trouble."
Her attention flicks to the northern bank of the creek. A lizard scuttles through bramble before coming to an abrupt stop, looking for all intents and purposes like a sunbaked rock. No yellow spots.
She relaxes.
She wonders if folk in Kenedy are still chasing after her. How much time has moved here? How far has she gotten from the town? She hasn't seen any tells, not for horse or hunter, but that don't always mean something.
For the first time in years, she's questioning her choices. She can't get the sound of his voice out of her head. Had he come from death just to relay his disappointment? Was it part of a plan, part of God's grand message, to turn her around? Or was it just the magic of a heartless proprietor out for a lark? She's not afraid of being caught, or shot, or hanged, or hated; she's not afraid of running for the rest of her life. Letting her father down is the only thing she's ever feared.
(If she's being honest, in the most bitter chambers of her heart where lying to herself has become an art, that's why she hasn't been home. And in one month's time, when destruction is raining down on the home she's made of Milliways, and the world is coming out from under her feet, it will all seem so pointless.)
The desert sucks at her skin; she feels like needlepoint, while invisible fingers pull the water out of her like a long blue thread, making her pores ache. She discards the spent Big Bluestem, and squints at the sun. Are you up there, old man? Are you watching me? She could never leave Texas. It's in her bones. And despite her quavering confidence and the emptiness of her holiday heart she knows she made her own bed, and she did it in all soundness of mind and purpose and thought. She wasn't supposed to be better; she was supposed to be different. But her river forked, and she chose her course. She doesn't want to be saved.
On the wind, a million miles away, the bray of a donkey floats to her ears. Glasses tinkling. Pounding hooves. She looks out over the horizon for a telltale cloud of dust, straining to hear the thundering report. It fades, a voice long gone from this place.
Onions! Get your onions! Right here, folks!
"C'mon, Beauty. We best get a move on, an' start lookin' for a door back. S'gettin' late, an' it's jus' you an' me."
The old farmhouse used to gleam on Christmas Eve, just like a starlit sky. It was tradition; the fine wax candles she'd pinch her pennies for all year would go in the windows, and she'd go from room to room lighting them all while he played I Saw Three Ships on the violin, and danced in the parlor. And they would laugh, and sing songs together in front of the fireplace. She'd wear her Sunday best while he read poetry, and they'd fight over the figs and nuts and holiday sweets until their cheeks were rosy with laughter. It's been six years, give or take the way time don't much follow any set of rules in this place. Six years since he died. Six years since she lit the candles.
The gifts are placed on the small table in the corner of her room, and one by one she lines up the candles in the windows and strikes a match. It burns to her fingers.
The traditions and celebrations around the bar during this time of year have always been bemusing. There's always a fine tree, like the Germans place in their homes. Lights, and music. The holiday has grown, and changed, and adopted new facets — most of which she don't understand. But the gifts are a familiar, fond surprise.
The effulging second match lights her three Christmas candles. She snuffs all other lights in the room, recalling the way her childhood home used to shine half the night from every side. It's a meager facsimile. There are no sugared almonds. No crackling fire. The room is quiet. She sits on the floor, her back to the chest at the foot of her bed, and watches the firelight dance off of the pretty wrapping paper.
"Slumber, my darling, thy mother is near / Guarding thy dreams from all terror and fear / Sunlight has pass'd and the twilight has gone / Slumber, my darling, the night's coming on..."
Under the treble of her whispered soprano, she can just make out the sweet strains of a violin if she closes her eyes. The room seems warmer.
"Sweet visions attend thy sleep / Fondest, dearest to me..."
Faith ain't something she has an abundance of these days. Her feelings for God are complicated. There wasn't a reason to celebrate the holidays, when all her family is gone and she has no home to travel back to. But, despite hiding away every year, there's still a stack of gifts on her table. Why does everything have to be an unhappy anniversary?
"Slumber, my darling, till morn's blushing ray / Brings to the world the glad tidings of day; / Fill the dark void with thy dreamy delight-- / Slumber, thy mother will guard thee tonight..."
Yes. She can hear the violin now.
Her lips curl into a smile.
"Thou, thou are the world to me / In thine innocent charms."
She splashes through the river, soaking her legs up to the knees. It's low this year. Real low. Each bank stretches inward eight feet, silty earth turned cracked and crumbling. She frowns, pulling herself up into the saddle.
"All right, Beaut. Leave some river for the kaiyotes. We all gotta drink. Don't give me that look."
The look in question is dour suspicion. Beaut's not ready to head back for the cold. She stands still, hooves planted stubbornly where they are, water dripping off her muzzle. Kate rolls her eyes.
"Don't you worry none. We've got trails t'blaze real soon. Remember what they said? Mineral City. Yeah, that's right. I'm still carryin' on about that. But, hey — we get through this job, an' you're gonna have a nice long holiday in New Orleans. How's that sound? Jus' you an' me."
Dutifully, Beaut makes for the southern bank, whickering reluctantly. Kate grins. It's going to be all moanin' and groanin' all the way back to the bar. That's all right, Kate don't blame her. But it's time they headed home.
Back home to where people are waiting for them.
"Jus' you an' me."
She flicks Beaut's reins and they're off, kicking up rock and dust, leaving their mark on the deep blue sky.