Restlessness (TWS)
12-02-2011, 05:21 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-16-2012, 04:21 AM by goggleman64.)
"Thank you kindly for everything, Mrs. Ward." The barrel-chested man with the curly black hair tipped his hat as he stepped off the river-ferry's dock. "I don't know that I hope we've forgotten something, but you'd be the silver lining if we did."
He smiled -- not a big, toothy grin but a small, kind smile that belied a gentlemanly restraint. Behind him his wife bundled their children into the wagon.
Mrs. Ward smiled back. "You're too kind, Mr. Bakerman."
"You take care." Mr. Bakerman turned to go, then looked over his shoulder at her. "And give my regards to your husband."
Then they were off. They'd only arrived three hours ago. The noonday sun beat down on Virginia Ward like a hot hammer but she stayed on the dock and waved as they pulled away, taking the trail West that thousands had taken before them. The wind was right and she could hear the kids fighting with each other, could hear their mother scolding them and could hear the man whistling as he drove the horses; high, clear notes. She watched them until the whistling stopped, or just faded -- at which point she realized they might look back and see her still standing there like a statue, Lot's wife on the banks of the Chicoritte.
She untied the ferry and pushed off from the dock with a pole twice as long as she was tall, then pushed with the pole against the river bottom to get the ferry moving. The Chicoritte had been getting shallow from lack of rain; now it ran so quietly that Virginia could lay down the pole and just let the ferry glide.
The wind had died without her noticing, and she had left the whining gnats at the riverbank. Virginia looked out from the midpoint of the wide, muddy Chicoritte and could heard nothing but the crusty scraping of the guide ropes that ran through hoops mounted on the ferry, steering it from dock to dock. Without thinking she began to whistle what she could remember of Mr. Bakerman's tune.
Halfway through her song she saw something upstream.
As she lapsed into silence she shaded her eyes, peering at the thing. A few moments later she used the pole to stop the ferry. The thing drifted slowly toward her in the water, a lone bump tracking down the middle of a muddy road.
At length, she realized it was a person.
He smiled -- not a big, toothy grin but a small, kind smile that belied a gentlemanly restraint. Behind him his wife bundled their children into the wagon.
Mrs. Ward smiled back. "You're too kind, Mr. Bakerman."
"You take care." Mr. Bakerman turned to go, then looked over his shoulder at her. "And give my regards to your husband."
Then they were off. They'd only arrived three hours ago. The noonday sun beat down on Virginia Ward like a hot hammer but she stayed on the dock and waved as they pulled away, taking the trail West that thousands had taken before them. The wind was right and she could hear the kids fighting with each other, could hear their mother scolding them and could hear the man whistling as he drove the horses; high, clear notes. She watched them until the whistling stopped, or just faded -- at which point she realized they might look back and see her still standing there like a statue, Lot's wife on the banks of the Chicoritte.
She untied the ferry and pushed off from the dock with a pole twice as long as she was tall, then pushed with the pole against the river bottom to get the ferry moving. The Chicoritte had been getting shallow from lack of rain; now it ran so quietly that Virginia could lay down the pole and just let the ferry glide.
The wind had died without her noticing, and she had left the whining gnats at the riverbank. Virginia looked out from the midpoint of the wide, muddy Chicoritte and could heard nothing but the crusty scraping of the guide ropes that ran through hoops mounted on the ferry, steering it from dock to dock. Without thinking she began to whistle what she could remember of Mr. Bakerman's tune.
Halfway through her song she saw something upstream.
As she lapsed into silence she shaded her eyes, peering at the thing. A few moments later she used the pole to stop the ferry. The thing drifted slowly toward her in the water, a lone bump tracking down the middle of a muddy road.
At length, she realized it was a person.
Restlessness: A Lovecraftian Western Romance
Coming not soon, but in time
Coming not soon, but in time