Coal Black Horse by Robert Olmstead Read Free Book Online Page A

racket than a mast-rooting hog. He knew he had to be on his way and, this morning, ached with the guilt of recalcitrance. He wanted his days back. Wanted time to be his again. He idly tossed a stick in the direction of the racket. There was a long silence and then a scraping sound and then from a branch high over his head the squirrel began to chatter, scolding him for throwing the stick in its direction, scolding him for his presence on the cutbank.
    The sun soon shifted in the sky and found the patch of ground where he sat and he was blotted with light. He thought what sport it would be to fish this river. From the hard-twigged bushes came the chit notes of songbirds. Swallows were diving for the riverbank below his feet, building their nests. In the tops was a breeze combing the spiring trees and then it was quiet again as if a hand suddenly raised had been let down. Behind him he could hear the horse tearing away tussocks of grass.
    He tried to recall having slept the night through but could not.
    On the far bank emerged the figure of a human, a bent little woman. A cob pipe protruded from the shaded confines of her bonnet. A length of braided hair extended down her back. She carried a wooden bucket and a cane fish pole rocked on her shoulder, no more than a harmless curiosity. She stepped down from the grassy mull bank to the stony shore, the toes of her shoes poking from beneath her gingham skirts.
    He thought to slide away into the woods, but following her was a gaggle of squat white geese and this was walking food. A duck was selling for twenty-five cents and a goose was fifty cents or about that.
    He watched as she studied the water downstream and then wandered back upstream along the stone-cobbled shore. The geese followed her in both directions, bumping into each other as they toddled to turn and catch up. He didn’t have any coins. Maybe she’d take trade, but what to trade? He could steal just one, but in his thieving to date he’d never stole from anyone he’d seen to be an owner.
    The little old woman did not seem intent on fishing and after a while she dropped the fishing pole, sat down on her bucket, and concentrated on smoking her pipe. The geese wandered about in idleness and mild confusion until the little woman spat. They gathered on the spot, bumping into each other, inspecting her phlegm for some time. Then a goose found a grub and drew the attention of the others and they gathered there next. The woman continued to enjoy her pipe, sending a steady succession of gray puffs into the air. Over the pines, crows in flight made their raucous calls. Their soundcame on suddenly like a snapping bough. A mobbed owl hove into view and crossed his vision over the river’s surface. The owl slid low, found the dark understory on the near bank, and disappeared. The crows, having never shown themselves, broke off their pursuit.
    It was then he noticed the lazy water browning in color and beginning to rise. At first it was slow and he did not know if it was happening at all, so slow was its beginning, but then it rose more rapidly. The current quickened and there came wreaths of feather-white foam swirled about the edges of vortexes that made ripping sounds as they sucked shut. Stems and leafy branches followed and then a broad limb of dried wood.
    Upstream, there must have been a powerful rain as the river continued to swell until it had become a black muddy wash. The little woman stood, took her bucket in hand, and walked backward as the water followed her, nagging at her feet with every step she made. The geese assembled on her steps, flustered and squanking in confusion. She stepped cautiously and he wanted to yell that she should run. Then she did. She turned into a trot that took her to higher ground where the sand and gravel was closed over by hummocks of grass sewn into the red earth. She jumped the grassy step, the flustered geese climbing behind her, and watched as the river gently heaved