Song of Oestend (43 page)

SONG OF OESTEND

Marie Sexton

286

Daisy seemed to have finally come to her senses. She took the hand of the smallest boy, and she and Tama herded them out of the room. The rest of them—Deacon, Dante, Aren, Jeremiah and Jay—stood frozen in place. Once the women were gone, Jeremiah turned to

where Deacon still held Dante in the corner.

“Deacon.” Jeremiah’s voice was quiet, but with the unmistakable weight of authority.

“Let go of my son.”

Deacon did, but he didn’t do it gently. He slammed Dante backwards into the wall as

he let him go. “If those boys hadn’t been in the room, you’d be dead already, you son of a bitch.”

Dante held his hands up in front of him, his eyes still wide with fear and confusion.

“Deacon, I don’t know what—”

“
Don’t lie to me!
” Deacon yelled.

Dante winced, but he didn’t break. “Tell me what you think I did.”

“Were you trying to kill us both, or just get rid of Aren?” Deacon asked.

Dante glanced towards Aren and, for the first time, Aren saw a hint of panic in his eyes.

For the first time, he thought he saw comprehension. “Kill?” Dante asked, his voice shaky. “I never tried to
kill
anybody!”

“Are you telling me it wasn’t you?” Deacon asked. “Sneaking into the house during the day? Breaking things? Destroying Aren’s paintings? Are you trying to tell me that wasn’t you?”

Tama stumbled alone back into the room. She stopped short next to Aren, her hand

over her mouth and her eyes wide. Dante glanced at her. His cheeks started to turn red. He turned back to Dante. “All right,” he said. “Yes, that was me, but—”

“Bastard!” Deacon yelled. He lunged for Dante again, grabbing his lapels and slamming him against the wall. Jay and Jeremiah both moved closer, obviously unsure whether they should interfere or not. “Why did you do it?” Deacon asked.

Dante glanced towards Aren before answering. “I wanted to scare him,” he said.

“That’s all. I thought the house would scare him away, but when it didn’t…” His words trailed away, and he turned back to Deacon. “I only wanted him to leave the ranch,” he said, his voice quieter.

“And when he didn’t run, you decided to sabotage our generator instead?”

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Dante’s mouth fell open. He stared at Deacon, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He

looked shocked. And surprised. It was an expression that couldn’t be faked, and Aren felt the first hint of doubt in the back of his mind.

“Deacon,” Jeremiah said, moving closer. He was close enough he could have grabbed

Deacon and attempted to pull him away, but he didn’t try. “What is this?” he asked.

“He destroyed our generator! And he ruined the ward on the cellar door!”

“No!” Dante said. “No, I didn’t!”

“
Liar!
”

“Deacon, I would never do anything to put you in danger.”

“Then who was it?” Deacon yelled. “If not you, then who?”

“
It was me
.”

The voice came from behind Aren, and everybody in the room turned as one to look

towards it. Daisy stood in the doorway. Her cheeks were red, but her head was held high, her arms straight at her sides.

“Oh, no,” Tama moaned, backing up against the wall, her hands over her mouth.

“Daisy!” Dante said. “How could you?”

Deacon had relaxed his grip on Dante, although he still held him against the wall.

“Why?” he asked Daisy.

“Don’t stand there and pretend like you don’t know!” she said. “All these years, I’ve watched him pine for you. He’s
my
husband, but
you’re
the only one he ever wanted! Always watching you and waiting for you to notice. It was your name he’d say in his sleep. The few times he was drunk enough to find his way between my legs, I’d lie there knowing he was thinking of you as he did it!”

Dante’s cheeks were red with shame, and he pushed Deacon away. Deacon let him go.

Dante buried his face in his hands, and despite everything, Aren felt a sudden rush of pity for him.

Nobody else was looking at him, though. Everybody else was staring at Daisy. “You

think it’s
my
fault?” Deacon asked. “You think I ever asked for any of it?”

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” she said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have a real husband.

If it weren’t for you, we’d be leaving this Saints-blessed ranch and starting a family up north.

Instead, I’m stuck here, watching the man I love be in love with you!”

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“Daisy,” Jeremiah said, but Aren never learnt what Jeremiah planned to say.

She raised her right hand from behind her skirt. Jeremiah’s gun was in it. She pointed it straight at Deacon. “I hate you!” she said.

Aren had just enough time to grab for her hand, knocking her aim downwards before

she pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening in the small room. Tama screamed. Aren wrenched the gun

from her hand and it fell to the floor, clattering dully on the wooden planks. Deacon crossed the room in three fast strides and punched her in the face. It wasn’t quite a full punch. It was nothing like when he’d punched Red or Frances, but it was enough to knock her down onto the floor.

She held her hand over her bleeding lip and glared up at him. “Go ahead!” she said.

“Prove what a tough man you are by beating me up! That’s how you always do it, isn’t it?”

“Deacon!” Jay shouted. “Dad’s hit!”

They all turned back to the other end of the room. Jeremiah was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. Jay was next to him, pushing down hard on his leg. Blood welled up between his fingers. On Jeremiah’s other side, Dante looked up at Deacon. “Help him,” he said.

As always, in a moment of crisis it was Deacon they turned to to solve their problems.

And as always, Deacon did what needed to be done.

“Aren, help me,” Deacon said as he moved to Jeremiah’s side. Aren went to the man’s

other side, and between them, they helped Jeremiah to his feet, half-dragging and half-carrying him from the room.

“Dante, you and Jay take Daisy. Lock her up or tie her up or cut her fucking throat. I don’t care which. Just make sure she can’t do any more damage. Tama, do we have

morphine now?”

“Yes,” Tama said, her voice shaking. “We bought some after Miron.”

“Go get it. Tell Olsa whatever else she has, we’ll need it. Bring clean cloths and

bandages and some water. And any kind of strong alcohol you can find. A sharp knife. And whatever you’ll need to sew the wound when we’re done.”

Nobody argued. Everybody jumped to follow his orders.

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Aren and Deacon awkwardly manoeuvred Jeremiah down the hall. Their progress was

unbearably slow. “We’ll never get him up the stairs to his bedroom,” Deacon said. They took him instead to the living room, where they laid him on the couch. His face was white, his teeth clenched. “How you doing, old man?” Deacon asked.

“Hurts like all hell,” Jeremiah said.

Tama arrived with her arms full. She dumped most of her burden onto the table by the

door and held a cup out to Deacon. “Drink this,” Deacon said, and he helped hold Jeremiah up while he drained the cup.

“Aren,” Deacon said, “wash your hands as good as you can. Have Tama pour the

alcohol on them.”

“Why?” Aren asked as Tama came to him with a bottle of whisky, a bowl and some

towels.

“You have to get the bullet out of his thigh.”

“What?” Aren asked, as his heart began to pound. “I don’t know how to—”

“Aren, look!” Deacon grabbed Aren’s wrist. He held Aren’s hand up, and his own hand

palm to palm with it. With the heels of their hands touching, Aren’s fingers ended at the knuckle below Deacon’s fingertips. Next to Deacon’s thick, callused fingers, Aren’s hand looked small and dainty. Aren looked up into Deacon’s eyes. There was no mistaking the desperation he saw there. “It’ll hurt him a lot less if you do it,” Deacon said.

“All right.” Although he was still wasn’t sure he could. The thought of it made his heart race with fear.

Tama poured the whisky into a large bowl. Aren noticed her hands were shaking and

her face was ashen. “I’m not good with blood,” she told him. “I’ll have to leave the room while you do it.”

Aren washed his hands in the alcohol, and as he did, Deacon knelt down next to

Jeremiah’s bleeding leg. “This is bound to be awkward for us both,” he said, “but we’ve got to get those pants off.”

“I always knew you was that way,” Jeremiah said. Deacon laughed, and Aren supposed

it was a good sign that they could still joke.

Jeremiah unlaced his pants. Once the fly was open, Deacon grabbed them and ripped

them down the leg, exposing Jeremiah’s thigh.

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“You ready?” Deacon asked Jeremiah.

“Not yet,” Jeremiah said, and Aren breathed a mental sigh of relief. “Give the morphine a bit more time to kick in. Wait for my sons so they can help hold me down. You won’t be able to do it on your own.”

Aren dried his hands, willing them to stop shaking. Tama handed him a knife. Her face had gone from grey to slightly green. It was clear she wasn’t going to last much longer in the room with them. “The sharpest we have,” she said. “I already washed it.”

“What do I need it for?” he asked, feeling that he should know, but unable to make his brain work.

Tama didn’t answer. She clamped her hand over her mouth and ran for the door.

“You’ll have to cut his leg,” Deacon said as he came to stand in front of Aren. “Bullet just makes a tiny hole. Even with your small fingers, you’ll have to make the opening wider.”

Aren looked down at the knife in horror. He felt his bile rise. He was sure he was going to be sick. He heard Jay and Dante come into the room behind him. Couldn’t one of them do it?

“Aren,” Deacon said, taking Aren’s face in his hands, forcing Aren to look into his eyes.

“The rest of us will have to hold him down. It has to be you. You can do this. I know you can.”

“I’m scared,” Aren said.

“So am I.”

Those three tiny words hit Aren hard. Deacon was scared, too. Of course he was.

Jeremiah was the only father he’d ever known, no matter that he wasn’t actually his father at all. Aren looked around the room and realised that every person there was scared, Jeremiah himself probably most of all. Somehow, the knowledge calmed him.

“All right,” he said, looking back at Deacon. “I’m ready.”

They moved Jeremiah to the floor so they could more easily hold him down. Aren knelt

next to his leg. It was a mess of blood. He could barely tell where the entrance was at all. He used a clean rag and some whisky to wipe away the blood until he found its source.

Deacon had been right. The hole was surprisingly small. Aren was able to slide his

finger down into it. He had to push hard to reach the bullet. Jeremiah screamed, and the men holding him strained to keep him from moving. Aren pushed deeper and was able to feel the SONG OF OESTEND

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metal against the tip of his finger. There was no way to grab it though, or to manoeuvre it back up the opening it had made.

He pulled his finger back out and picked up the knife, debating the best way to

proceed.

“The muscles go up and down,” Deacon said. “Probably best to cut that direction,

rather than across them.”

Aren had no idea if that actually mattered or not, but he had no reason to argue with it either.

He was never sure afterwards how he’d done it. Somehow, he made the cut. He slid his

fingers into Jeremiah’s open thigh, and as the man screamed, fighting against the men who held him down, Aren pulled the bullet out of his flesh.

“Who’s going to sew it?” he asked, looking up at the others.

They all looked at each other, apparently having not thought that far ahead.

“Shay always did it,” Jay said, but of course Shay was dead.

“Can’t trust Daisy,” Dante said. “And Tama can’t stand the blood.”

They all looked at Aren, and he was about to say he’d never sewn anything in his life when Tama came into the room. She was positively green, and she kept her eyes averted as she inched into the room, holding a small bowl out to them. “Olsa says don’t sew it. She says better if it can drain. She says pack this in and bandage it. She says…”

Jay jumped up and managed to grab the bowl from her before she ran from the room,

retching. Jay shook his head. “You’d think after all these years, she’d be used to it.”

“Go clean up,” Deacon said to Aren, gently pushing him out of the way. “Jay and I can do the rest.”

Aren sat back, sighing in relief. Deacon smiled over at him. “You did good,” he said

quietly, and Aren couldn’t help but smile back at him. At least, he smiled until he saw Dante watching them, grief and jealousy etched on his face.

Aren went to the kitchen. The hands had been sent outside. Aren could hear them

buzzing in the courtyard, no doubt wondering what had happened. He was extremely

relieved to not have to face them.

Olsa worked the pump for him as he washed the blood from his hands.

“Did he sing the nai’i?” she asked.

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Aren didn’t know if that was the song Deacon had sung or not. He pulled the collar of his shirt aside. He took her hand and placed it on the mark on his chest.

“Symbols have power,” he said.

She looked up at him with her sightless eyes and smiled. “Such a smart boy.”

When his hands were clean, Aren went back down the hall towards the living room.

The door was still closed. Only Dante had emerged. He sat in a chair against the wall, his head in his hands. He glanced up at Aren, and Aren saw that his eyes were red. His cheeks were wet with tears.