We Must Cross!

By Noah Homola

A novella along with a collection of short stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noah Homola
• Release date: Nov 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465997173

Book preview

We Must Cross!

Published by Noahpologies

Smashwords Edition

Copywrite 2011 Noah Homola

Cover art by Lauren Brunk

Used with permission

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Part 1

We Must Cross

First Crossing

An Ocean with One Shore or The Beginnings in a Car

Part 2

Crossing the T

The Advantage of Providence

Curly Hair that Falls

Love Comet. Love

Part 1

We Must Cross

"We’ll raise our children in the peaceful way we can

It’s up to you and me brother

to try and try again."

-- The Allman Brothers Band

He watched her play among the rocks, picking them up and throwing them in the way only a child can. She climbed up boulders and jumped into the sand by the creek bed – only to tumble and dirty the once bright blue dress. She plunged her hand into the cold water and splashed unseen ghosts and some of the finer droplets stuck in the wind and carried all the way up and hit him in the face. She smiled but didn’t laugh and ran over to the edge to pick up Molly the Dolly propped up against the dirt ravine.

The man exhaled and dropped his cigarette and ground it into the moist earth with his toe of his boot. C’mon, he said. We need to get going. It will be dark soon.

She ran to the rim of the muddy ravine and he reached down and pulled her up. Her dress slid along the side and streaked her clothes even more. Daddy, the water is cold, she said.

Yes.

He hoisted the backpack onto his shoulders and grabbed her cold hand. There’s a place a few miles up we can set up camp.

They walked between tall trees that divided the bright-orange sunlight into smaller beams that could be traced by the dusty air. Dead leaves and twigs crunched beneath their feet. He lifted her over exposed roots and held up low-hanging branches so they wouldn’t scratch her face. There was no trail, only forest.

I think there’s a fence along here somewhere, he said. A farmer used to keep horses around here.

I like horses.

I know. They’re probably gone. It was a long time ago, when I was your age.

He adjusted the backpack slung over his left shoulder, and looked toward the horizon.

We’ll make camp, he said It will be dark soon.

Her hand tightened on his and he looked off at the filtered sun descending on the horizon through dried leaves too stubborn to fall off the tree. It could rain. He didn’t need to turn around to feel the dark clouds that hung low behind him. He could feel them dare him to keep going further into the woods, to a place that may not be there.

He unbuttoned the breast pocket of his shirt and took out a tarnished metal case. He removed a cigarette from it and struck a match against a rough edge of the case and inhaled. The smoke ascended and disappeared like a wraith though the naked branches.

They stood in an open area. A thirty-foot circle where no trees grew. A fallen trunk laid across a pile of leaves. In the past couple days they had not come across such a perfect site. But there was still an hour of sunlight and they were close. He needed to look at the map to see how close, but he felt it tugging like a fish nibbling on bait.

This would make a good camp, he said.

He inhaled the cigarette and surveyed the circle and looked down. The dirt was firm and just wet enough to build a fire on without catching the nearby brush on fire too. The ground would be soft enough for them to sleep well.

But they still had an hour of sun and only today had they begun to make good time. Real progress. If she weren’t with him, he wouldn’t think twice about going on. He’d sleep in a muddy trench if it meant getting a little farther. But he looked down at her and Molly the Dolly dangling from her hand.

You wouldn’t mind it if we set up here for the night? Seems like a good place to build a fire. Don’t want that fish to spoil either, he said.

Okay, she said.

He unshoulded the backpack and unbundled a tarpaulin and began smoothing it along the ground. He then rolled the sleeping bag on top. He thought about how lucky they were, and how the warm fall days they had spent walking never hinted at being cold. The low sun casting long shadows gave the woods an amber color. The shadows, the wind, and the unnatural warmness of the air made it feel like an eclipse.

He dropped the cigarette into the dirt and let it burn out. Think we can catch another fish? he said.

She smiled and nodded.

Think we’ve been walking with the creek. It should be over this hill, he said.

He untied the fishing pole from the backpack, which was no more than a three-foot reed with fishing line, and dug inside its pocket and pulled out a small jar of bait. He zipped up the bag and tossed it onto the spread out sleeping bag.

Sun’s up now, but we should get going. Are you bringing Molly?

She nodded.

When they reached the stream he had no confidence he could catch anything. The water was shallow and still, but a boulder poking up in the middle looked promising. There were dry rocks they could hop across to get to the boulder, but he didn’t trust her balance. He picked her up and cradled her in his right arm while she wrapped her arm around his neck, pressing Molly the Dolly under his chin. With the fishing pole in his left hand he steadied himself and stepped from one rock to the next. When they were close enough to the boulder, he leaned over and set her on it. Stay there, he said, then climbed up. From the top, the creek looked more promising to catch a fish. He baited the hook and dropped it into the water.

He looked down at the broken leather boots he wore. The rubber sole had begun pulling away, but it would make it. He looked at her muddy white tennis shoes. The Velcro buckles frizzed and the stitching had frayed, but they would last. It would only be another day or so. His boots would make it too. The rubber sole disconnecting from the broken leather boot would last until the end. In a couple days he could throw them away and buy a new pair. He would throw away these muddied and soiled jeans too. Get a new pair, maybe some Wranglers or 501s. Do they have those where we’re going? She would need a new outfit too. Maybe they could put their clothes in a pile and burn them. She would get a kick out of that.

He looked at the cloudy water and jerked up on the fishing pole twice.

You ever wanted to play piano? he said.

I don’t know, she said.

I was thinking when we’re done with this, you could take piano lessons. We could get you a nice dress and some shiny black shoes for your recitals.

What’s a recital?

It’s when you play in front of a group. You’d be up there in your dress, everyone listening to you.

Would Molly be there?

I bet she would. He reached with his free hand and grabbed Molly the Dolly by her cotton arm. "Yeah, she’d be there.

Me and your uncle used to play when we were your age. Had our recitals at church. We couldn’t play worth a darn. Our fingers were too big. Kept hitting extra notes. He extended his arm and opened his had to show the massive fingers, which were covered in dried mud and filth. A lightning-bolt scar ran through his palm. I bet you’d be good though. You’ve got soft fingers.

The pole began to tug and he jerked the rod upward. There was little fight. He grabbed the line with his right hand and pulled it out of the water until a fish no more than seven inches long thrashed back and forth on the hook. He grabbed the struggling fish and eyed it.

It’s too small to eat, he said.

It’s the perfect size for me, she said.

I guess it is.

He pressed the fish down on the dry boulder and reached for the knife clipped in his front pocket. He flipped open the blade and cut in front of the gills. The fish wiggled and then went limp.

Suppose we should gut it here, he said.

Daddy, she said, what does a fish feel like?

Feels slimy and cold.

Why are they cold?

So we can heat them up.

He descaled the fish and cut out two small filets and wrapped them in a sheet of waxed paper. He threw the carcass into the creek and then dunked his hands into the water