(no subject)
TITLE: Constant Companions
AUTHOR: Wild Columbine
RATING: R for sexual references and some violence
FEEDBACK: Yes please
DISCLAIMERS: The characters and original story are, of course, the work of the brilliant Annie Proulx, and I just write to fill and extend that original story, while keeping to its spirit.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is a short piece about Ennis as a boy. Most of it is unpleasant but I felt a strong need to write it. There are no lovely descriptions of love and sex, so if that’s what you’re after, please don’t read it.
CONSTANT COMPANIONS
For a small boy on a large horse the distance between his home and the nearest neighbours could be lazily covered within the golden haze of a country hour. His Saturday morning chores behind him, Ennis rode bareback, at one with the sturdy bay gelding, lost in a place of private joy.
It felt to him that he'd always been around horses, since that first day when he slipped out of his mama, fast and early, on the rough, windswept verge just beyond their ranch gate. She'd told him the tale time and again, about K. E. in the truck, wailing away at this sudden turn of events, his big sis shushing him and acting the grown-up girl, his father pacing helplessly, okay with livestock, not so good with women. And Ennis himself, entering the scene with a defiant cry, covered in blood, vernix and semen-scented fluid, to be quickly wrapped in his mama's sweater, enfolded in her loving arms, as three curious horses leaned over the fence to watch the nativity tableau.
"And what did you say, Mama?" His trusting eyes would always shine; he knew the answer.
"I kissed you and called you my little darling."
It was an easy ride to where he was headed, crossing fields, jumping fences, through dry creek beds, his wirey, bare legs holding securely around the horse. Destination in sight, he took the last field at a slow canter until the old man's attention turned to him, whereupon he eased his legs up onto his mount's broad back and carefully stood, balancing against the rolling motion until he wobbled and jumped down, laughing.
"Hey, Ennis."
"Hey, Earl."
He loved the old men's little home, with its kitchen and living room all rolled into one, and just a tiny bedroom filled up with a big, rough-made bed. The rooms had small-paned windows whose beautiful, thick glass gave the outside world a warped, unnatural look and Ennis liked to peer through, turning his head this way and that, making the trees and clouds and sky slide and melt into comical shapes. The house was empty and cluttered at the same time; Earl and Rich didn't have much but there was always something or other out on the table being worked on. When he came over they fed him foamy milk and rough biscuits, or sweet red apples from off their trees. He knew they didn't go into town much to buy goods, kept themselves to themselves, but it seemed to Ennis that they had everything they could ever want or need right here at home.
Ennis knew he shouldn't be here, that his dad would give him a whipping if he found out, but it was worth the risk to breathe in the musky animal smells and listen to the silence as wood was planed or switches plaited, or bits of wire were twisted into gate latches or pot-hooks. And afterwards he'd reluctantly ride home in time to milk the house cow, leaning his head into her warm, comforting flank, hypnotised by the rhythmic squirt of milk into bucket, putting off his re-entry into the clean, scrubbed, combative world of his own house.
"Don't you go bendin down, Mort, them two are headin your way." Ennis's father laughed a little as he squinted along Sage's single dreary street but his young son saw the hard look in his eyes. Mort expelled a long stream of dirty, tobacco-stained spit in the general direction of Earl and Rich, and muttered, "Faggots."
Later, after Ennis had been left alone with his brother for a few minutes, the old men caught his gaze and inclined their heads, ever so slightly, in his direction. He returned the greeting with a quick smile, but not quick enough to get past K. E.
"You been to their place."
"No, I ain't."
"Yeah, you have. I seen you ride off. You know what them two is, dontcha? They's faggots, queers."
Ennis frowned, shrugged, tried to walk away, but his big brother was enjoying himself.
"I know what they do, too. You wanta know? You know when Mr Hansen brung his bull round to put to our cows. You seen how the bull put his big thing in the cows? Well, that's what Earl does ta Rich, pushes his thing in his ass, in his shit-hole. And then they turn round and Rich does it ta Earl." He smirked at his baby brother's widening eyes and gaping mouth. "That's disgustin, yeah? That’s p..preverted!"
"How you know that?" Ennis whispered.
"Danny told me. His brother told him." K.E. flicked his eyes up and caught his father's approaching reflection in the drygoods store window, mixed in with the flour and the oats. He pitched his voice just right and continued, "So if Dad catches you goin out near them dirty queers again, you'll be for it. You'll get the beltin of your life."
Which is just what he got, a thrashing that left his backside and legs welted and stinging and had him crying hot, bitter tears up in the tiny attic bedroom he shared with K.E. He didn’t understand what made his father shout downstairs, Chrissakes woman you want a nancy-boy son, just knew it didn’t mean any good for him. But later, alone in the outhouse after he'd lowered himself, wincing, onto the smooth wooden seat, he ran his hands here and there over parts of himself his mama had forbade him to touch, parts he didn't even have proper names for, and he thought about what K.E. had said.
The bruises and welts stayed angry and obvious for a week or so, decorating his skinny legs where they poked out of his shorts, but if his teacher paid them any mind she knew better than to say anything. When they'd all but faded, the boys' dad came in one Saturday afternoon and ordered his sons into the truck. Ennis’s puzzled gaze sought out his mama’s eyes but she just bit her lip and turned away. Cissie whined that she never got to go nowhere and her dad told her to shut her noise, this was men's business.
They drove a while in silence, the atmosphere hissing with tension, and Ennis got a nasty clutching sensation round his balls when they headed into the road that passed Earl’s and Rich's gate, but soon their daddy turned up a rutted side track, the truck bumping and rattling, lurching along as far as he could take it. Then they walked.
Ennis was well used to his father's rough ways, never being touched nice or soft, but this was something different. Seemed his daddy was going to drag him along the track faster than his little boy's legs were made for going. K.E. kept asking what was happening, his voice high and tight with nervous excitement, but got no reply until they came to one of the irrigation ditches that criss-crossed the landscape.
“Look, and look good!”
The boys looked. On this picture-postcard Wyoming day, under a sky full of fluffy clouds, for all the world like sheep grazing on vast, cerulean fields, all warmth, all colour drained from the earth, and in the sickening void which engulfed him Ennis was aware only of his father’s hand like a vice around his neck and the obscene sight which met his horrified stare and the faraway sound of a nine-year-old boy dying inside.
For weeks afterwards, Ennis woke up screaming every night, until K.E. insisted on sleeping on the couch downstairs. When he wasn't screaming he was having nightmares where his daddy was always laughing and K.E. was shouting in his face and Earl was staring out at him with those empty, despairing eyes. He pissed the bed so often his parents had to throw his mattress out and he paid for the replacement one with another beating.
It took a long time for him to get the nerve to ride back across the once-golden fields. No longer did he take the last field at a canter but pulled up short and snuck up a low rise on his belly to see what he could see. His far-sighted eyed took in a scene of desolation. No stock remained although a few bloodied feathers stuck to the chicken coop as though wild dogs had beaten the human ones to the plunder; every window of the little house was broken, the beautiful glass lying about in chunks; the outhouse door swung back and forth, banging in the ceaseless wind; nothing else moved. He returned a few more times, just to check, and once he thought a shadow might have shifted inside the bedroom but it was probably just a curtain moving in the wind, or maybe an old bird, trapped in the wrong place and lonely beyond caring.
AUTHOR: Wild Columbine
RATING: R for sexual references and some violence
FEEDBACK: Yes please
DISCLAIMERS: The characters and original story are, of course, the work of the brilliant Annie Proulx, and I just write to fill and extend that original story, while keeping to its spirit.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is a short piece about Ennis as a boy. Most of it is unpleasant but I felt a strong need to write it. There are no lovely descriptions of love and sex, so if that’s what you’re after, please don’t read it.
CONSTANT COMPANIONS
For a small boy on a large horse the distance between his home and the nearest neighbours could be lazily covered within the golden haze of a country hour. His Saturday morning chores behind him, Ennis rode bareback, at one with the sturdy bay gelding, lost in a place of private joy.
It felt to him that he'd always been around horses, since that first day when he slipped out of his mama, fast and early, on the rough, windswept verge just beyond their ranch gate. She'd told him the tale time and again, about K. E. in the truck, wailing away at this sudden turn of events, his big sis shushing him and acting the grown-up girl, his father pacing helplessly, okay with livestock, not so good with women. And Ennis himself, entering the scene with a defiant cry, covered in blood, vernix and semen-scented fluid, to be quickly wrapped in his mama's sweater, enfolded in her loving arms, as three curious horses leaned over the fence to watch the nativity tableau.
"And what did you say, Mama?" His trusting eyes would always shine; he knew the answer.
"I kissed you and called you my little darling."
It was an easy ride to where he was headed, crossing fields, jumping fences, through dry creek beds, his wirey, bare legs holding securely around the horse. Destination in sight, he took the last field at a slow canter until the old man's attention turned to him, whereupon he eased his legs up onto his mount's broad back and carefully stood, balancing against the rolling motion until he wobbled and jumped down, laughing.
"Hey, Ennis."
"Hey, Earl."
He loved the old men's little home, with its kitchen and living room all rolled into one, and just a tiny bedroom filled up with a big, rough-made bed. The rooms had small-paned windows whose beautiful, thick glass gave the outside world a warped, unnatural look and Ennis liked to peer through, turning his head this way and that, making the trees and clouds and sky slide and melt into comical shapes. The house was empty and cluttered at the same time; Earl and Rich didn't have much but there was always something or other out on the table being worked on. When he came over they fed him foamy milk and rough biscuits, or sweet red apples from off their trees. He knew they didn't go into town much to buy goods, kept themselves to themselves, but it seemed to Ennis that they had everything they could ever want or need right here at home.
Ennis knew he shouldn't be here, that his dad would give him a whipping if he found out, but it was worth the risk to breathe in the musky animal smells and listen to the silence as wood was planed or switches plaited, or bits of wire were twisted into gate latches or pot-hooks. And afterwards he'd reluctantly ride home in time to milk the house cow, leaning his head into her warm, comforting flank, hypnotised by the rhythmic squirt of milk into bucket, putting off his re-entry into the clean, scrubbed, combative world of his own house.
"Don't you go bendin down, Mort, them two are headin your way." Ennis's father laughed a little as he squinted along Sage's single dreary street but his young son saw the hard look in his eyes. Mort expelled a long stream of dirty, tobacco-stained spit in the general direction of Earl and Rich, and muttered, "Faggots."
Later, after Ennis had been left alone with his brother for a few minutes, the old men caught his gaze and inclined their heads, ever so slightly, in his direction. He returned the greeting with a quick smile, but not quick enough to get past K. E.
"You been to their place."
"No, I ain't."
"Yeah, you have. I seen you ride off. You know what them two is, dontcha? They's faggots, queers."
Ennis frowned, shrugged, tried to walk away, but his big brother was enjoying himself.
"I know what they do, too. You wanta know? You know when Mr Hansen brung his bull round to put to our cows. You seen how the bull put his big thing in the cows? Well, that's what Earl does ta Rich, pushes his thing in his ass, in his shit-hole. And then they turn round and Rich does it ta Earl." He smirked at his baby brother's widening eyes and gaping mouth. "That's disgustin, yeah? That’s p..preverted!"
"How you know that?" Ennis whispered.
"Danny told me. His brother told him." K.E. flicked his eyes up and caught his father's approaching reflection in the drygoods store window, mixed in with the flour and the oats. He pitched his voice just right and continued, "So if Dad catches you goin out near them dirty queers again, you'll be for it. You'll get the beltin of your life."
Which is just what he got, a thrashing that left his backside and legs welted and stinging and had him crying hot, bitter tears up in the tiny attic bedroom he shared with K.E. He didn’t understand what made his father shout downstairs, Chrissakes woman you want a nancy-boy son, just knew it didn’t mean any good for him. But later, alone in the outhouse after he'd lowered himself, wincing, onto the smooth wooden seat, he ran his hands here and there over parts of himself his mama had forbade him to touch, parts he didn't even have proper names for, and he thought about what K.E. had said.
The bruises and welts stayed angry and obvious for a week or so, decorating his skinny legs where they poked out of his shorts, but if his teacher paid them any mind she knew better than to say anything. When they'd all but faded, the boys' dad came in one Saturday afternoon and ordered his sons into the truck. Ennis’s puzzled gaze sought out his mama’s eyes but she just bit her lip and turned away. Cissie whined that she never got to go nowhere and her dad told her to shut her noise, this was men's business.
They drove a while in silence, the atmosphere hissing with tension, and Ennis got a nasty clutching sensation round his balls when they headed into the road that passed Earl’s and Rich's gate, but soon their daddy turned up a rutted side track, the truck bumping and rattling, lurching along as far as he could take it. Then they walked.
Ennis was well used to his father's rough ways, never being touched nice or soft, but this was something different. Seemed his daddy was going to drag him along the track faster than his little boy's legs were made for going. K.E. kept asking what was happening, his voice high and tight with nervous excitement, but got no reply until they came to one of the irrigation ditches that criss-crossed the landscape.
“Look, and look good!”
The boys looked. On this picture-postcard Wyoming day, under a sky full of fluffy clouds, for all the world like sheep grazing on vast, cerulean fields, all warmth, all colour drained from the earth, and in the sickening void which engulfed him Ennis was aware only of his father’s hand like a vice around his neck and the obscene sight which met his horrified stare and the faraway sound of a nine-year-old boy dying inside.
For weeks afterwards, Ennis woke up screaming every night, until K.E. insisted on sleeping on the couch downstairs. When he wasn't screaming he was having nightmares where his daddy was always laughing and K.E. was shouting in his face and Earl was staring out at him with those empty, despairing eyes. He pissed the bed so often his parents had to throw his mattress out and he paid for the replacement one with another beating.
It took a long time for him to get the nerve to ride back across the once-golden fields. No longer did he take the last field at a canter but pulled up short and snuck up a low rise on his belly to see what he could see. His far-sighted eyed took in a scene of desolation. No stock remained although a few bloodied feathers stuck to the chicken coop as though wild dogs had beaten the human ones to the plunder; every window of the little house was broken, the beautiful glass lying about in chunks; the outhouse door swung back and forth, banging in the ceaseless wind; nothing else moved. He returned a few more times, just to check, and once he thought a shadow might have shifted inside the bedroom but it was probably just a curtain moving in the wind, or maybe an old bird, trapped in the wrong place and lonely beyond caring.