Butterfly Season

Chapter One

      Two windows, four walls. Nothing more, nothing less. If she hadn't already stepped off the edge of the world where she hung precariously by cracked and bleeding fingers, she would surely have been driven mad by the never-ending sameness of the tiny room where she sat almost hopeless and not quite helpless as her daughter dreamed her troubled dreams on the bed across the way.

     She gritted her teeth and dug in her nails as she held on to the small spark of sanity left to her as she waited and watched for the approach of Death, who would pound, heavy-fisted upon the door, demanding she step aside so he could claim what was his.

     Dog heard the approaching footsteps before she did and rose in one fluid motion despite his advanced age, teeth bared, a rumble emerging from deep within his heavy chest. And the woman-child was awake immediately; crossing the room to stand at her mother's side as they listened to the hornet-buzz of angry voices drawing closer ever closer.

     The woman began to tremble and the girl bent to place a soft, reassuring kiss against her too-hot cheek. Thy will, she thought as she took a deep breath and braced herself for the inevitable. Thy will.

     Mother and daughter jumped as the door burst open under the force of a heavy blow. A voice echoed down through the years, desperate to save the child it had not been able to protect in the past. Lila recognized it at once as it circled her head and breathed excitedly into her ear. Mama.

     Run, Olivia, she shouted. The child started, hesitated as fear and acceptance battled for control of her emotions. Run, her mother commanded a second time and she turned to the window, seeming to float through it with Dog following closely at her heels.

     The field, someone shouted and they moved as one to follow the barefoot girl as she fled.

     Lila stepped through the shattered remnants of the front door into the surreal world of the yard full of men and guns and drifting early morning fog as the first shotgun blast filled the air and the acrid smell of gunpowder invaded her nostrils. She turned and watched in disbelief as Dog, who had hurled himself at Olivia, sending her to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and too-white nightgown, whirled in mid-air, yelped once, then crumpled to the waiting earth. She heard Olivia's cry, watched as she crawled to the animal's side and pulled his big head onto her lap. She tried to call out, to tell the girl to get up, to go, just go, but no sound emerged from between her suddenly cold, dry lips.

     For a moment, no one moved, then Olivia rose slowly to her feet, holding out her bloodied hands to the watching men. And then they shot her, shot her, shot her and her body twirled and tumbled before she fell, arms outstretched, into the tangle of wild rose bushes growing along the fence. Then silence.

     Lila ran then, unheeding of the men with their smoking guns, unaware of everything but her dying daughter, who needed her––needed her. Olivia's dark eyes opened as her mother cradled her in arms that had not been strong enough to keep her safe and lowered her gently to the ground. Mama, she whispered, then she was nothing.

     Throwing back her head, Lila howled like a wild thing as madness reached out to claim her forever and ever, amen . . . 

Chapter Two

In the beginning there was Freedom.  

Two men, one an ex-slave with skin the color of polished ebony, the other tall and thin to the point of emaciation with eyes such a pale shade of blue, people often assumed he was blind (it was difficult to believe anyone could view the world out of those eyes), were the town's first settlers. Approximately seventy-five miles due north of Houston, Freedom was established in June 1866, almost a year to the day after General Gordon Granger made his announcement in Galveston that all men were free, and five years after President Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation.

The ex-slave, a bald-headed giant of a man with a quick laugh and a quicker wit, was named George Campbell by his former master––George because the man liked the name, and Campbell because it was customary to assign property the same surname as its owner. Friends and family referred to him as Crooner because he could be heard singing some little tune or another from sunup until sundown. As soon as he realized he was a free man, he refused to answer to any other name. If anyone questioned the origin of the name, his only explanation was, It was given to me by folks what loved me.

The other man was often referred to by his past employer as, A sorry excuse for a foreman. But, despite his gauntness and strange eyes that took some getting used to, he was considered a fine example of a hard working man by the dock hands who labored by his side day after day under the sweltering gulf coast sun. This man with the permanently sunburned face answered to the names of Sir, Boss, Bossman, and an occasional You ignorant, good for nothing fool for five years, even though his mother had christened him Henry Hamilton Hudson Mueller some twenty odd years earlier. After he left Galveston for good, he told anyone who cared to know, and even some who could not have cared less, he was, Henry. Just plain old Henry.

As a matter of course, there were those who doubted the sincerity of the friendship between two men with such disparate backgrounds––questioned whether or not the former overseer and the ex-slave could be as close as they claimed. But Henry and Crooner were quick to silence any skeptics with a scathing look and a willingness to recount the tale of how their shared history bound them to one another rather than drove them apart. Each of them could describe in great detail the long and often arduous journey that put them on the path to Freedom.

It was June in Houston and it was hot. Even though the sun was barely over the horizon, the humidity was high enough to make a man feel as if he'd been walloped with a wet burlap sack the minute he stepped out of doors. Henry was doubly uncomfortable because he’d been called into the boss’s sweltering box of an office in the warehouse for the third time in as many weeks for refusing to apply the whip to a man who was not, in Mr. Campbell’s opinion, Carrying his share of the load. 

Rivulets of sweat streamed down Henry’s back and gathered in pools under his arms. He pulled at the tight collar of his shirt and thought, for a brief moment, of unbuttoning the top button to ease some of his discomfort. Noticing Campbell still had on both his vest and jacket despite the heat, he thought better of it.

As the tirade against Henry’s lack of control on the dock continued, George stepped, unbidden, into the room and leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed over his barrel chest. Henry eyed him with interest and Mr. Campbell stuttered and coughed at the unexpected intrusion. Recovering from his surprise, he gave George a cold look and ordered him back to the docks where he belonged.

Turning to Henry, he shouted. This is what I’m talking about. These men are out of control. We need discipline out there. 

George continued to lean against the door and Campbell took a threatening step toward him. I told you to get back to work. He raised a hand as if to strike, but something in George’s demeanor stopped him in his tracks.

George grinned. Heard me some interesting news this morning. Seems as if a General Granger of the Union army just announced all slaves was free. He said one man can’t own another. I come in here to tell you that I ain’t working for you no more. I'm done sweating for another man. Anymore sweating I do will be for myself.

Henry jumped to his feet so quickly, the chair toppled over and crashed to the floor with a loud bang, but he didn't seem to notice. Is it true, George? Is it over at last?

George’s grin grew wider. Sure is. The two men stared at each other, then simultaneously burst into gales of laughter.

Henry reached up and unbuttoned first the top button of his shirt, then the next and the next until it hung wide open around his skinny chest. He had never approved of slavery and had stayed on the docks because he feared another foreman would mistreat the men as he had been expected, and refused, to do.

I quit too, he announced as he crossed the room to give George’s hand a hearty shake. I quit.

Campbell stared at them wide-eyed. This is preposterous, he bellowed. You men stop laughing. Get back to work at once.

Neither man paid him any attention. They walked out of the building side by side and never looked back. Their decision to travel together was not ever discussed aloud, it simply happened. They walked out of town that afternoon, George with nothing but the clothes he had on, Henry with a small satchel containing one clean shirt, a few tools and a daguerreotype of his parents. His rifle was slung over one shoulder and the few remaining dollars from his last paycheck were in his pocket.

Game was plentiful, so they were never hungry and Henry managed to find an odd job or two in every small town they

came to. Crooner usually camped out in the woods while Henry worked. Both men understood that even though the war was long over, not everyone took kindly to seeing a free colored man walking brazenly down their streets. When the pair grew weary of traveling, they stopped and decided to build twin houses on opposite sides of a wide stretch in the road.

     There was an abundance of sweet-smelling, sturdy pine trees and the land was theirs for the taking. Six months after the houses had been erected, a huge white man with a voice as soft as silk stopped his covered wagon between the houses, removed his hat as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of an arm, and inquired as to what this place might be.

Crooner and Henry exchanged knowing looks before Crooner stepped into the road and held out a welcoming hand to the stranger. Why, this here’s Freedom, my man, he replied with a grin. Yes sir, this here’s Freedom.

The stranger, whose name was Davy Callahan, decided to stay. His wagon was filled with lumber and dry goods and he got busy building a store a short distance away from the houses. He rightly believed others would come to settle, and they would need someplace to purchase supplies. The other two men pitched in and Davy repaid their kindness with meals cooked on his wood-burning stove, which he had erected in the road until the store was completed, and tales of his childhood spent hunting and fishing in Tennessee.

     Because Texas had been so far from the main battlegrounds of the war, it suffered comparatively less damage than other southern states. After the war, migration to the state increased. Migrants were both white and freedmen with their families in tow, and they came to both farm and settle in towns. Many of them drifted through Freedom, some decided to stay, others drifted out again when they realized the town’s policy of equality for coloreds and whites was not for them or they were not quite ready to settle down.

     Some, like Caleb and Opal Dean, decided to set up housekeeping outside of town, while others, such as Miss Sophie, who wanted company as long as it wasn’t too close, settled happily at the edge of the growing community.

And Freedom waited. 

Chapter Three

Never mind that he'd come up the path dozens upon dozens of times in the last few years, Caleb couldn't help but feel a little thrill of pride every time he stepped into the clearing and saw the cabin––the home he'd built with his own two hands as a shelter for his wife, daughter and new baby son. The store-bought (store bought!) windows gleamed in the late afternoon sun and he knew Lila, under her mother's ever-watchful eye, spent a good long time washing them this morning just as she did every morning. Those windows were Opal's pride and joy. Sometimes he teased her, saying she cared more about them than she did her own children. She'd laugh and swat at him with a dishrag, but the twinkle in her dark eyes pleased him more than she would ever know.

The only bone of contention was the peach tree Opal had planted the first day they'd pulled the wagon into the clearing. He'd warned her it would not grow in the hard, rocky soil of East Texas, but she insisted. It reminds me of home, she declared as she poured a bucketful of spring water over the newly turned earth. And the stubborn little tree had taken root.

Home, he thought with a little snort and a shake of his head. She meant Georgia––land of green, rolling hills and sunshine so hot it could bake the skin right off of a man as he toiled hour after endless hour, day after endless day under its unblinking eye. Georgia, home of peaches the size of a man's fist––sweet and soft as a woman's kiss, home of row after row of cotton waiting to be picked by hard, callused hands that knew nothing else, had no choice but to pick until the fingers stiffened and bled, until each boll was safe and secure in a sack hung over a permanently hunched shoulder, back aching from the constant weight of it. Georgia, land of white women in white dresses on white porches of big white houses, of white masters with whips clutched in white fists, of friends stolen, of wives and babies sold despite the tears and pleas of those left behind. Georgia, land of heartache and hurt and misery.

Shaking his head in anger and disgust, he muttered under his breath, Don't know why a body’d want to remember that place. Waste of good water, you ask me. But his irritation dissipated as he spied his daughter emerging from the barn with a full pail of fresh milk. Ah, Lila, he thought as she smiled and waved. What a good daughter you are. What a joy. His little girl who loved nothing more than to sit outside late of an evening when the chores were finished and the air was cool. Mama. Papa, she'd call to them. Come see the stars. Come see. And sooner or later, they'd step out of the cabin where they'd find pleasure in Lila's enjoyment of the night . . .

Chapter Four

But now, when she managed to think about anything at all, Lila thought the nights were the hardest. When she sat alone in the tiny cabin with only the dying embers of the day’s fire for company, the memories would circle wraith-like around her head. She swatted at them with cold hands, pulled at her hair vexedly until it stood up in horns and snarls, and cried aloud, but to no avail. The room was peopled with spirits and she watched in fascinated horror as they danced their dance of death around and around the confined space of her prison cell.

There was Papa at the fireplace, rising to his feet after stirring the fire. He whirled in surprise at the sound of the door splintering under the force of a heavy blow. His eyes widened with shock and he lifted his arms beseechingly toward the smiling stranger who, with casual slowness, lifted a shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The blast was ear-shattering and Mama’s high-pitched scream from the big bed against the wall pierced the night. Mama managed to shout, Run, Lila before the second intruder killed her and the nursing baby at her breast with a single shot.

She was halfway up the ladder to the loft when rough hands caught in the hem of her long white nightgown and flung her callously to the floor below. Quick as a cat, she rolled over and scrambled to her feet, but the men were faster. They caught her and threw her down on the foot of the bed. When she struggled, they hit her. Over the sound of their maniacal laughter she heard the rending of her gown, felt her legs ripped apart and experienced a pain she had never known existed before.

As the night wore on her moans turned to whimpers until, at last, she turned her head and stared into the unseeing eyes of her mother and prayed. She prayed for mercy. She prayed for death. But neither came. At long last the men grew weary of the game and rose to their feet. One of them used the tattered remains of her gown to wipe himself clean, the other urinated across her nude, swollen body. She willed herself to remain still, but