And I Heard the Mourner Say

By M.D. Eaton

Ezekiel Cottrell is a kindhearted young man with a desire to live a quiet life in his small rural mountain community. However, any expectations he has for his life are soon uprooted when he finds himself wrongfully accused of the murder of Thomas Kean. As Ezekiel tells the story of his life from then on, he offers insights into his greatest triumphs and defeats, delving into forgotten joys and griefs, all the while showing how the events of his life shaped and reshaped him time and time again.
"This book is about pain and loss and finding hope and purpose therein. It is about the irreverent decimation of goodness and the journey to find it again. The story of The Woodsman is a story about life; it has love and hate; pain and redemption; and the ever-patient, beckoning hand of the Good Lord." - M. D. Eaton

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781735850405

M.D. Eaton

Mark Eaton is a writer, filmmaker, artist, and poet with a love for all creative ventures. He can often be found wandering in the mountains without aim, whenever he's not writing, that is. And I Heard the Mourner Say is his debut novel featuring several of his hand-carved block print illustrations.

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And I Heard the Mourner Say

M. D. Eaton

Copyright © 2024 by M. D. Eaton

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used ficticiously and coincidentally. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

ISBN: 978-1-7358504-0-5

Book Cover by M. D. Eaton

Illustrations by M. D. Eaton

1st edition 2024

Contents

Book One: The Woodsman

Prologue: The Story of Trees

1.Who Killed Thomas Kean?

2.The Woman Whom I Love Greatly

3.The Woodsman's Lament

4.The Woodsman's Son

5.The Shot that Buried my Name

6.The Woman Who Loves Me Greatly

7.In the Meantime

8.A Trip into Town

9.The Fire I Grew in the Wood

10.All that is Gold

11.The Hazel Tree

Book Two: The Wasteland

Intermission I: Fifteen Years

12.The Explosion and the Death of Ol’ Groucho

13.The Blasted Tunnel

14.The Dry Storm

15.I Watched my Name Turn Char and Ash

16.The First Freeze

17.Uprooting

18.That which was Lost

19.Buried in the Snow

20.Spring

Book Three: Ezekiel's Gift

Intermission II: The Council of the Heartless

Intermission III: The Council of the Mob

21.Three-Hundred and Ninety Days of Winter

22.All Those Who Wander

23.Finding Iron

24.Salt in the Wind

25.The Viper’s Pit

26.Across the River Dian Cecht

27.The Gift in the Garden

Epilogue: The Old Man to Whom I Write

To the wanderers of the wilds

of wood and broken stone;

to my family;

and to the steady hand

of the Good Lord

who has stayed me in his grace.

Ezekiel 17:22–24

Book One: The Woodsman

Everything Sad Untrue

Everything Sad Untrue

Prologue: The Story of Trees

Every tree has a story,

And every story is worth telling.

Every tree speaks of glory,

Their glory unquelling.

Remember the old songs,

Of those whose roots grow deep;

Those whose hearts ever long;

Those whose eyes never sleep.

Old wood and old stone,

My iron buried low.

Old valley of dry bone,

May the four winds blow.

With your wind, I’ll sing a song,

An old and fading story.

Where roots grow vast and ever strong

Out of an old and covered quarry.

To tell the story of a tree

Is to salt the ocean vast;

Begin in the glory of the sea;

Deep in the story of the past.

~ E

one

Who Killed Thomas Kean?

Small towns are rarely used to news—especially a town such as my own, once home to 144 people tucked away in the mountains, several hundred miles west of the next nearest town. It should come as no surprise to you that when there is news to be shared, Mrs. Edinburough’s gossip was capable of traveling faster than the printing press could print, which explained the cobwebs and rust dusting the idle machine. In all honesty, I could not recall the last time the press was used for a genuine news story, but the death of Thomas Kean surprised everyone. 

Thomas Kean was about my age—twenty-three, so two years older than me at the time. He was a thin guy of modest height, however, very physically capable. Dark hair made up a ratty mullet, and dimples ran right the way up his cheeks. He was the son of whom I only knew to be Mr. and Mrs. Kean. Derek and Etna were their names. Derek was a dark-haired, short, gaunt man, but a gruff man, nonetheless. What he lacked in height, he made up for with sheer and sturdy toughness. He was among the strongest men I ever had the privilege of knowing.

Etna Kean was no giant, but she stood half a head taller than her husband. Part of what made up the height difference was her fiery orange curls, many of which stood upright as they had a way of doing as they pleased. She was the only person I had ever known to have such a wild conflagration for a head of hair. It was the uniqueness of her hair that made her beautiful.

Thomas and I were never close. As young boys, we did not get along much, and a hint of that antipathy grew up with us. He seemed courteous enough the few times we talked, but it was only ever small talk about the weather or the game. We were both the town’s Huntsmen. Thomas sought big game—bear, elk, moose—while I would hunt fowl. Regardless of what I could or could not tell you about Thomas, I could certainly never think of a reason why someone would have killed him.

The paper made the death out to be a hunting accident, but Mrs. Edinburough had assured the townsfolk that the boy was found dead in the woods with a bullet in his back—and not one from his own gun. The news itself was shocking, to be sure, but nothing shook me quite like the news that Mrs. Edinburough accused me of the murder.

One thing that should be noted about Mrs. Edinburough is that her gossip was regarded as truth. Though behind Mrs. Edinburough’s back, most people disapproved of her gossip, her words were never questioned, and her stature dared anyone to doubt her. She was a large woman with sagging cheeks, two flaps of loose flesh wringing her neck, and breasts that sat atop her stomach like two melted cantaloupes on a desk. She also happened to be the mayor’s mother, deeming her indisputable.

As a child in the musty church Sunday school room, she once threatened to sit on me if I misbehaved. The Good Lord knows I sat up straight and listened to her every instruction from then on. But now was the time for her to sit on me—her word was against mine, sitting upon my chest like the woman herself. The stress of the situation smothered me. I would gasp for air but receive little to no relief. When Mrs. Edinburough says something is so, it is so. 

Mayor Simmons Edinburough, who is the son of our ‘beloved’ town gossip, along with my mother, Elle Brink, Pastor Connally, and Doc Ryor, as well as two or three of my mother’s friends, were the few people who could truly comprehend that it was against my character to murder someone. Nonetheless, I stood trial for a crime I did not commit. The only thing going in my favor was the fact that Mayor Simmons doubled as the honorable judge for our town, and he was a very good friend of mine. My trial would essentially be Simmons and me against our town and its occupants.

The time came, and with Mrs. Edinburough’s string-like fingers puppeteering the minds and wills of the jury, the evidence was brought forth. A small stack of papers was placed at Simmons’s desk. 

This is it? Simmons asked. No one answered. What is this? Simmons questioned again. This time, a voice spoke up. It was his mother. 

It consists of the eyewitness testimonies of those who know Ezekiel Cottrell killed Thomas Kean. Simmons glanced towards my mother and me with a look of reassurance. 

Why can’t those to whom these testimonies belong speak for themselves? the frustrated judge asked. 

The prosecutors would like to remain anonymous, Mrs. Edinburough responded with a pompous tone in her speech. Simmons' eyes fell upward and around the room in frustration.

The room fell still as the judge picked up the papers and began reading. It was during this long, silent, and anxious period that I noticed how small the courtroom was. The room could comfortably fit about eighty people, but it certainly appeared that the entire town had shown up, and few were ready to let me leave without a guilty sentence.

With a single silence-shattering crack, Simmons realigned the stack of papers against his desk. After taking a moment to scrutinize everyone in the room with silent yet boisterous disapproval, Simmons spoke. 

These have got to be the sorriest excuses for eyewitness testimonies I have ever read. I felt a heaviness in my heart lift off me and fall upon everyone who stood against me. Fervent, Simmons expanded, Most of these testimonies begin with ‘Mrs. Edinburough told me’ or ‘I heard from Mrs. Edinburough that.’ So, apart from the words of Etna Kean and my own mother—whose own testimony isn’t even among these, thank God—in fact, he cut himself off, none of you have even claimed to have seen Ezekiel Cottrell on the day of Thomas’s murder.

The tempered judge attempted a moment to compose himself but was interrupted by Mrs. Edinburough, who stood, requesting to give her own testimony publicly. This was either a means of defending her own reputation or a greedy grab at more time in the spotlight. I saw it to be a mix of the two. Simmons, knowing the underhanded persuasiveness of his own mother, resentfully permitted her to speak. The old wooden chair groaned as Mrs. Edinburough took a seat at the witness stand. She began as a showman.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will now bring forth my eyewitness evidence that Ezekiel Jedadiah Cottrell is responsible for the murder of Thomas Elijah Kean, and with this evidence, justice can be had. I could almost taste the honey from all her sweet-talking. After an extensive time of compliments directed toward the jury, Mrs. Edinburough got to the point, saying, The day Thomas Kean went hunting and did not return, I was with Etna, and we saw Ezekiel, who was also going hunting. The old woman was smug, but it went mostly unnoticed as her smile sagged downward with the rest of her flesh. The sagging caused a slight lisp in her speech as well as a reliable piece of spit that took flight upon her pronunciation of the letters ‘S’ and ‘F.’ She continued, Now, I know Ezekiel and Thomas to both be huntsmen for our town, so it was not that unusual, but then Etna Kean made a remark that Ezekiel responded strangely to… She paused for what I could only presume to be a dramatic effect. Her audience was captivated. Simmons, who had become exhausted by his mother’s increasingly lackluster performance, interrupted his mother with an unenthused What was Mrs. Kean’s statement? 

Well, the fat woman answered, milking every second of her time in the spotlight, she said… she said ‘if you’re going out into the west wood, don’t go shooting my son...’ 

And how did Ezekiel respond? Simmons asked. 

Well, she swallowed as if it had just dawned on her that her story was entirely unconvincing, He laughed. She tried to recover her theatrical flair. The laugh was almost maniacal. The jury might have stripped me of my namesake there on the spot had Simmons given them a chance.

But you did not see Ezekiel murder Thomas Kean? The judge asked. Hesitant, his mother replied.

Well, no, but— she began, but her son cut her off once again.

So, what exactly are you an eyewitness to?

The laughter. Her voice quivered, demonstrating her decreasing confidence. The longer Mrs. Edinburough was permitted to speak, the more beside myself I became.

It was a chuckle! I stood and shouted, defending my namesake. All the frustration and stress of the situation boiled over at once, and it was aimed directly toward the fat woman on the stand. My words were bitter, and my tone was harsh, but I could hardly feel bad for it as she actively sought to have my head. I seethed, continuing my rant. Mrs. Kean said something I thought to be funny, and I chuckled and walked away. I did not murder Thomas Kean! I barely even knew the guy; yes, we were both the town’s Huntsman, but we hunted in entirely different places. And if laughing at a joke should be considered a crime, then lock me up because you, Mrs. Edinburough, are the biggest joke in this room! My words were like the purposeful deconstruction of a dam; the room flooded with animated talk, causing me to raise my voice, causing others to raise their voices, causing me to raise my voice further, causing others to… you get the picture. Apart from Simmons and my mother, the courtroom stood ablaze in opinionated prattle.

Enough! Simmons shot up. His chair fell behind him, sounding a report that further emphasized his demand for silence. The room of 142 people became still and silent. All eyes were on the judge—well, almost all eyes. 

That's exactly what we should expect him to say as the murderer, Mrs. Edinburough whispered toward the jury. Her words sliced through the silence without hindrance. Every ear heard what she had said.

Now, I had known Simmons for a long time; apart from his being twelve years older than me, we grew up together. But the man I saw standing stern as stone in the front of the town was different. He was furious. In a still, quiet voice, softer than the guileful whispers of his mother, Simmons broke what silence remained.

Mother, justice will indeed be had. You have nothing. You have brought shame upon yourself and your family and upon our town. Go home, Mother. Go home. All eyes and ears were on her. All the attention she had been craving was wrapped in a small box and placed in her lap. She stood; her chair cried a sigh of relief. She stepped down from the witness stand, and carrying her humiliation, she left. No one made a sound until the door closed behind her.

If you have ever wondered what freedom sounds like, it sounds like the click of a door latch falling into its place. Mrs. Edinburough’s shame fell upon the hearts of everyone who believed her. 

This is a human being, Simmons pleaded with the remaining townsfolk—with his people. In your arrogance and your foolishness, you believed a woman who attempted to condemn a good man to death. I hope you can feel the shame you carry. These were not the words of the mayor nor of the judge; this was Simmons—a humble friend who bore deep love for every one of his townsfolk. I could see in his brow the heartbreak for his people as he shared in their shame. But I could not understand his heartbreak. I felt no pity for these people. Rather, I was beside myself with joy and relief. 

Do you want to know how I know Ezekiel could not have killed Thomas that day? Simmons asked the jury. There was no response. Ezekiel could not have killed Thomas. Thomas’s body was found in the Woodsman’s valley, and I know Ezekiel was hunting the northern lakes because I was there with him! Anyone on the jury who remained unconvinced was refused the chance to speak. Simmons announced insufficient evidence. Go home, all of you!

The courtroom filtered out. Many of the townsfolk were hesitant to leave—likely because their zeal was left unsatisfied. Nonetheless, the unsatisfied mob left—few with the fortitude to speak. The room was all but empty; I was free.

two

The Woman Whom I Love Greatly

The last of my captors slunk out of the courtroom, few lingering to talk with one another. A haze of disappointment staled the air above their heads as they treated the space like a musty old library. I looked to my left, where I saw Mr. Kean holding his wife in his arms. His piercing eyes caught mine. Bitter, he ushered the weeping woman away from my gaze. I watched as they left; neither of them turned to look back.

I heard footsteps running up behind me. I turned my head but not soon enough. With a pitchy grunt of surprise, I was tackled from behind. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor with a laugh. The soft arms and warm, dough-scented embrace tipped me off to the identity of my assailant. It was the Chefmaster’s daughter—it was Elle. The woman I had been going steady with for about three months—though, some may argue that she had been courting me since the day she was born. Elle Brink was an exceptional woman and a blessing to have around. There was not a soul in town who disliked Elle, and I was certainly no exception.

Elle sprung to her feet from the floor, where I lingered a minute longer. The freedom and rush of adrenaline from the events of the day sparked an idea in my mind—an idea that I had considered time and time again but never with such commitment. My idea was subdued—but not forgotten—by the chair Mrs. Edinburough had stressed. Using the chair to stand again, one of its legs gave way. CRACK! thud. I was back on the floor, this time more hesitant to get up. Simmons stuck out his hand as Elle and my mother laughed at my recent regrounding with less pity than I felt I deserved. Unlike the chair, I trusted Simmons to be less susceptible to breaking under the weight of his mother. I took his hand, and he gave me a lift back to my feet. The laughter of those close to me filled the empty room. I was embarrassed, believe me, but I honestly think Elle was more embarrassed by my klutziness than I was. 

The relief I felt of being once again firmly planted on my feet was overwhelmed by the relief we all felt, and that relief had us cackling like a pack of wild dogs. All sorts of thoughts raced through my mind, but still, my mind drew back to the thought, the one idea I did not dare let leave my mind again. I had decided right then and there that I was going to marry Elle Brink.

I had tossed the idea around in my head before but had always drowned it in one idiotic excuse or another. This time, however, I grabbed onto it and refused to let go. I had known Elle my whole life, but only for the past few months has she really caught my eye. As I looked into her squinted eyes and soon-to-be laugh lines, I could truly see her for who she was. Her hair, a sunlit blonde, waved upon her shoulders with a few wild and loose strands whistling across her bronzed cheekbones. Her eyes were a deep brown, and her smile was wide. She was neither slender nor bulky, neither tall nor small; her stature could only be described as average, though I could only refer to it as ideal. I had never seen a challenge too difficult nor a wound too deep for Elle to mend, and my love of her kindness was only trumped by her love of the Good Lord. She made our town’s chapel her second home, and for all of the wonderful and inspiring things she is to me, most people saw her as just another agreeable person. Few saw the real beauty I saw in that wide laughing smile. 

As the laughing subsided, the smiles remained—mine, fixated on Elle. The nervous tension we had built up in preparation for my trial had let itself out. The freeing silence was like a sweet aroma in the once-heavy air of the room, but before it could be enjoyed, it was burdened again by the heavy heart of the town’s mayor. 

How can the people of this town be so easily turned against one of their own? No one answered Simmons. I could only imagine the burden he shouldered. These were his people, most of whom were his friends. Everyone has a dark side, and Simmons was no stranger to that, but to see the sickness manifest in such an explicit manner within his own friends grieved him. That day would indeed change the way Simmons viewed the people of his town. Likewise, the implications of such a venomous dealing worried us. In a town of people with questionable morals who seemingly lacked common sense, the question begged itself.

What is my life going to look like from here on out? The question slipped out of my mouth and shlopped onto the floor like a dead fish where the four of us stared blankly at it. I did not mean to ask it aloud, but the love-stricken boy in me sure was glad I did when Elle responded.

Whatever it will be, she whispered to me alone, I don’t want you to face it alone. I swooned. Her words made my heart lighter than my mother’s Easter brisket. Looking back at this moment, I cringe to think how obviously Elle had wanted to marry me. At the moment, however, I was too head over heels for her to see it. Had I not been too busy grinning with my mouth gaping, I might have also seen Simmons and my mother look at each other in absolute befuddlement as to how I could be so clueless. 

The hours passed, and four of us made it back to my mother’s house, where she began cooking us the most wonderful meal—duck and potatoes. The duck was courtesy of yours truly and became a topic to return to when the conversation ran dry. Our supper conversation consisted of everything from the trial to the chair incident to the recurring This is one fine duck. At one point, Elle and I sat confused as my mother and Simmons had an in-depth conversation about tools. Little did I know that the conversation was metaphorical and was actually about Elle and me. I guess Elle was supposed to be a hammer because Elle had been trying to nail me down for several years. Elle’s eyes met mine, revealing a cluelessness of her own. It was encouraging to see that I was not alone in my confusion. After a while of messing with Elle and me, Simmons and my mother finally brought the conversation back to This is one fine duck.

I had never felt so much appreciation for the people around me as I did at this moment. My mother, Lilian Cottrell, discontented to be gray-haired, was a single mother of one and a lioness of laughter. She sat back in her chair, wearing a grin as she relished the taste of her own cooking.

I never understood why you refused the offer to be a Chefmaster alongside the Brinks. They could more than use the help these days. Simmons stated, billow-bellied with the delight of my mother’s cooking and two whole potatoes in his stomach. 

Unlike you, Mr. ‘I have two namesakes,’ being only a seamstress will suit me just fine! my mother spouted back. Simmons Edinburough laughed.

The way I see it, Simmons answered, shepherding and being a mayor of a town often feels like it is the same job; however, I’ll admit that sometimes shepherding the sheep is a more pleasurable task! 

Are we that much of a chore to keep in line? Elle asked, feigning offense. 

Well…, he defended, the sheep do not put me through nonsensical trials. The joyous tone of delight among friends seemed to fade away as the mayor’s concern arose. His flock had begun to stray willingly away. My mother looked to him with reassurance and spoke as a mother to her own son.

You’re well off when it comes to solving the needs of this town, Simmons. You know best what we need, and I know it wasn’t through ease of life that you learned it, but we appreciate your ability to solve all the nonsense thrown your way. I know those dark eyes of yours bare a pain we have yet to understand, but I reckon it’s from that pain that you get what this town really needs—a cure to their nonsense—empathy. Looking down at his empty plate, Simmons took the words of my mother to heart.

Usually, he rebutted, a little common sense will do the trick, but this is just plain heartless.

Don’t they know this is a man’s namesake they’re dealing with? Elle asked; her tone was frustrated but nonetheless soft. To take away a namesake is a horrible thing; it's his right to life and work and food; it’s his right to be human. As she argued in defense of me, my mind slipped back to that one unforgettable thought—I was going to marry her. Even as she spoke beside me at the Cottrell dinner table, my ears never tired from her voice, and my eyes never ached from her face. She was strong-willed but never overbearing.

I know, Simmons said, placing an assuring hand on the back of Elle’s chair. Her frustration seemed to simmer a little less. She took a moment, then a breath, before speaking up again. 

I think, Elle paused as if to choose her words carefully around the town’s mayor. I think the system of this town is foolish.

I’ll agree that the use of namesakes is not ideal, but they do well to accomplish their purposes, so I could not call them foolish, Simmons answered, but still, questioning eyes met his from each end of the table. He explained, This town’s been a dying town since my father first established it. Within the first year of its founding, he found great difficulty keeping his citizens motivated to work. Understanding this town’s need for hardworking people, he orchestrated what families would do which jobs and tied those occupations to their surname. Seamstresses sew, the Butcher cleans the Huntsman’s game, the Highwaymen keep our gravel roads smooth, the Goatsmen shepherd, the Woodsman gathers the town's firewood, and the Gas Jockey tops off our vehicles with fuel. In exchange for doing their jobs, he said they are permitted free food, free gas, and free merchandise. After establishing this, an issue arose where one man still refused to work—to fulfill the namesake given to him. My father’s solution was the very threat you faced today, Ezekiel. When someone fails to fulfill their namesake—or breaks any law—the townsfolk reserve the right to strip that person of it democratically. It only happened once when I was young, and for a town that had been around for about thirty-six years, it is a miracle it has not happened more. You’re right, Elle. To be stripped of your namesake in this town is a heartless thing. It is to be stripped of the Good Lord’s own image—to be stripped of humanity. I’ll grant my father was far from a great man; in the days before his death, it could be said he was downright evil, but sometimes the evilest of minds is the cleverest of problem solvers. People greatly feared having their right to life—to free food, clothes, housing, and firewood to last the winter—taken from them. Many people left the town, but those who stayed adhered themselves and their lives to it, accepting it as law. No matter how hard I try, the seasoned members of the town council refuse to consider any alternative. So, for now, we are stuck with it.

It’s not a foolish law, my mother expanded, it is a law for the foolish. She looked to Elle, whose head hung low. Think of the good the law has done for our town; without it, we’d likely be shorthanded in all this town’s essential needs. I assure you; it was not by choice that Joseph Portsmith became this town’s ceramist, she paused, dropped her tone, and looked to Simmons. Nor was it the Woodsman’s desire to live so far away from the rest of us. But the job needed doing, and I reckon this town would freeze to do death without his wood. My mother lifted up her tone again and forced a smile to lighten the mood, So if you find the frost ticklin’ the grasses on the first freeze of the year, you tell that Woodsman when he brings up the town’s wood ‘thank you!’. I am sure he’d like to hear it. 

Yet another moment of silence passed before the heavy topic dissipated from our minds. We stared at our plates. Between the four of us, that night, we downed seven whole potatoes and a duck. With plates empty and stomachs and conversations satisfied, we sat, once again content, around the dimly lit cedar table. The sun had fallen behind the mountain peaks, and our minds had found peace. We savored the moment as we did our food. If you are familiar with the feeling of contentment, you know that silence never really feels silent. Contentment always fills the air with a joyous tune we all know is there, even if it cannot be heard. 

The moment had passed sooner than I would have liked. My mother took to her feet, drafting Elle to help with the dishes. It was about eight in the evening when Simmons said his goodbyes, and I saw him out. 

You know, Simmons stopped, whispering to me on our creaky doorstep, I know a guy who can make you a ring for that one. He gestured toward Elle.

I don’t imagine your guy will be able to make one soon enough for my liking, I chuckled. Simmons read me like a book. He always knew me well, but I knew him well, too; he wore something heavy behind his smile. As he turned to walk home, I watched the smile drop off his face. Who actually killed Thomas Kean? I thought. The question must have writhed around in Simmons’s brain like a decapitated snake. But my renewed sense of freedom and deep love for Elle distracted me from asking the same question. Thomas Kean had indeed been shot, and no one knew who was responsible. Fortunately for me, I was off the hook. Before my thoughts could carry me away, my mother hollered from the living room. 

Get inside and close the door; you’re lettin’ all the cold air in! Looking up, I saw Simmons turn the corner at the end of the road. I gathered myself together, easing a smile back on my face, and returned inside, where the last of the firewood roared, and the air was still warm.

Kathook. I closed the door behind myself. Elle and my mother were cracking puns. My mother, with eyes scouring the room for a subject, landed on the scented candle.

"Can-dle you how wonderful this candle smells." It was apple and cinnamon—something that, to our town, would be considered a luxury. Elle forced a laugh through the groans that ensued; certainly not one of my mother’s