Jonathan Andrew Walker stood at the end of the dock with a handful of stones. It never occurred to him that it would be the last time he would skip rocks across the Tennessee River, if it had he may have stood there a while longer.
“Johnathan!” He recognized the deep booming voice of his father calling his name. It had been eight years since his father had returned home from the war and still, his voice snapped with the precision and confidence of an officer ordering his men. “Coming Pa!” Jonathan yelled. From the end of the dock, he could see his father standing tall with authority, his green eyes glaring from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. It was not just his voice, but his presence that still carried an air of military command. The sheriff's badge that hung over his heart was a funny thing, for most men a badge awarded authority, it told other men to respect them; for Samuel Walker it was different, the badge was nothing more than a formality, it was he who bestowed authority on the badge. It was in this light that Jonathan saw his father waiting on him, silently commanding his obedience, the way he commanded the world.
“Hey Pa”, Jonathan said as he tried to catch his breath.
“You ready son? We need to get moving, there ain’t no use huntin’ in the dark, and there's rain headed this way”.
“Yes sir,” Jonathan said quickly, “I’m ready.”
“Well, let's get moving.”
Jonathan took the reins from his father's hand and mounted his horse. Samuel followed suit and together they rode down the streets of Waterloo, the son nipping at his father’s shadow.
Shop fronts townspeople faded behind them replaced by the dense green of new spring. Jonathan found himself peering into the forest as they rode, but his sight was obstructed by the thick foliage that flanked both sides of the trial. His gaze could only penetrate three or four feet into the forest and from there the branches and leaves twisted and turned into imaginary terrors. His ears were plagued by the shifting underbrush, a falling acorn becoming a predator's footstep in his young mind. The immense deep green forest choked out the senses and led his thoughts toward creating monsters of what he could not see.
These were ancient woods, full of ancient mysteries. He recalled the stories he had heard on the docks and in the tavern, stories of spirits, beasts, and magic. His father insisted they were just stories, that when men encountered what they could not explain they made up tales to alleviate their fears. He told Jonathan “Men need to be in control, and to name a thing is to control it”. Jonathan never quite believed him, he always felt his father's way of controlling his fear of these woods was to simplify the unexplained, to name things in his own way, as nothing.
Samuel threw up his clenched fist as they rounded the bend in the trail. Jonathan knew what to do and eased his horse to a stop. The two of them sat in silence, Jonathan watched his father scanning the trail, his eyes locked on the road ahead. There were more than just monsters and witches to be wary of in these woods, highwaymen and federals often took advantage of travelers and they would surely see a man and a boy as easy pickings.
Samuel’s hand slowly worked its way to the pistol that hung at his side.
“Pa”, Jonathan whispered.
“Shhhh”, Samuel said as he lifted his left hand placing a finger over his mouth. “Look up the trail son”, Samuel said in a low calming tone.
Jonathan did as his father requested. Fifty yards up the trail was a large creature. Its fur was black, and its muscles rippled under its coat like waves on the midnight ocean, its eyes glowed, like hot amber deep inside a furnace. It was like nothing that they had seen, larger than any bear or panther. It stood watching them, hunched over with its weight placed squarely on its front paws, its shoulder drawn up, like the perfect predator.
Jonathan locked eyes with the beast and time stopped. In his mind he felt paralyzing fear, these woods belonged to the beast, and he knew that if it chose to charge, he would hide behind his father. All of his notions of being a man began to crumble and he knew at that moment he was still just a boy. The creature turned, its head pausing to look at Samuel as if it was evaluating him, silently barring its large dagger-like teeth before slowly walking into the woods and vanishing into the trees.
They rode in silence for the rest of their journey as if to speak of what they had seen might summon it. Their home was only a half an hour's ride from Waterloo, but the fear of the creature's return slowed time to a crawl. Jonathan knew this trail like the back of his hand, he had even traveled it alone on moonless nights navigating solely on memory, but now every bend and every rock face was new, and what lay ahead he did not know.
Despite the sense of dread that plagued their mind they arrived home safely. They unsaddled the horse and headed into the house. Samuel took down his rifle and laid it on the kitchen table before Jonathan.
“You know what this is?” Samuel asked, standing over his son.
“It's a rifle,” Jonathan said with a sense of obviousness.
“It's a Sharps rifle son. Model 1852, I took it off a Yankee at Seminary Ridge. It's a damn good rifle. I think you're about big enough to use it.”
Jonathan watched as his father opened the breach and showed him how to load the paper cartridge into the rifle.
“Your turn.” Samuel said.
Jonathan picked up the rifle and attempted to follow his father's instructions. His father watched as he struggled to lift the rifle. He fought to open the breach and dropped the paper cartridge on the floor, the rifle barrel slamming into the table as he knelt to collect the ammunition.
“Watch out!” Samuel said, raising his voice and shaking his head in disapproval, “You can't be fumbling around like that on a hunt.”
“I’m sorry Pa,” Jonathan said, laying the rifle on the table, “I just get nervous with you watchin' me.”
“If I make you nervous, what are you gonna do if you see a bear out there?”
“I don't know Pa, but that thing out there wasn't no bear.”
Samuel shook his head,” It doesn't matter what it was if you're fumbling around with that rifle, it will get you.”
Samuel motioned to Jonathan to follow him, and they stepped out onto the front porch. Thunder rumbled in the distance and Jonathan could smell the rain on the horizon. Samuel pointed toward the tree line about one hundred yards from their home. “I’ve seen a lot of things in these woods that I can't explain. I know you heard stories about it, we all have witches and spirits and the like. I don't know what's out there, but I do know you can't let it scare you. A man’s got a job to do, and he does it, it's that simple.” He pulled the revolver from his holster and holding it by the barrel offered it to Jonathan. “I gotta check our traps before the rain gets here. I know that thing got you spooked, you ain't gotta go but one day you won't have a choice.”
“Yes sir, " Jonathan said, tucking the pistol into his waistline.
Samuel knelt down and looked Jonathan in the eyes. “I love you, son,” he said, with a hint of sadness in his voice, “I’ll be back not long after dark.”
Jonathan was silent, as he watched his father walk away, rifle in hand. He looked at the ground, he wanted to go, he knew he should go, but his fear kept him. He was letting his father down and he could feel it. It was the first time he had felt shame, it was a man's shame, and he hated it.
As his father disappeared into the woods Jonathan turned and went inside and up the stairs to his father's room. The house was large and served as a mausoleum for the memories of the family that once occupied its halls. The pictures that hung on the walls told the story of a family, once prominent and happy. Jonathan's grandfather had made his fortune in the lumber business and that fortune built the house. Then the war came. His father and his uncle left to fight and when they returned home, they found the war had been here as well. Only three-year-old Johnathan and Ms. Susan, (a free woman who had worked for the family since Samuel was a baby) remained. His Uncle James left to seek his fortune on the rivers to the south and Susan passed from consumption when Jonathan was ten, since then it had been him and his father, it was a big house for only two, a lonely house.
Jonathan kicked off his boots, lay on his father's bed, and thought about the family that he never knew and dreamt of what it was like before the war. They were sad thoughts, but they helped him to forget about the creature they had seen and the fear and shame he felt for letting his father down. The sound of rain pinging off the tin roof filled his ears, it was a familiar sound, a comforting sound, his thoughts slowly turned to dreams and gently he drifted to sleep.
The morning sun broke through the east-facing window and rested on Jonathan's face. He sat up and dusted the fog of sleep from his mind. As he sat up in bed, he was aware he had slept all night. He put on his boots and headed downstairs.
“Pa?” Jonathan shouted as he reached the bottom of the staircase.
“Pa, you here?”
Jonathan ran to the kitchen but saw no sign of his father. He began to panic. Thoughts of that creature on the trail, and his father's promise to be home before dark raced through his mind. He ran to the barn. His father’s horse wasn’t there, everything was as it was the night before. He ran around the perimeter of the house and then back inside hoping to find his father. He checked every room and then checked again, his father wasn't home, he hadn't been home.
With heavy exhausted breath Jonathan sat on the front steps looking out at the world. What had happened to his father? Where was he? Did that thing, that black beast take him? His mind raced with fear and dread. Then that feeling returned, it was gross and dirty, he felt unwashed, and he wanted to hide from the world. It was shame, the shame of being too scared to go with his father. The shame of letting him down. And he cried.
As he sat on the porch trying to dry his eyes, he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and as he did his hand brushed cold steel. It was the pistol his father had handed him. He drew the gun and held it in both hands, it was heavy, made for a man and not for a boy. He stared at the gun and his father's words played softly in his mind, “I don't know what's out there, but I do know you can't let it scare you. A man’s got a job to do, and he does it, it's that simple”.
Jonathan stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes as he ran into the house. He grabbed his father's old Confederate knapsack, inside was a bayonet, mini balls, and cartridge papers. He grabbed extra clothes and rolled a blanket. He ran to the kitchen and packed bread and jerky and filled the old canteen. He double checked his bag and was satisfied that he had all he needed. He closed the front door, walked down the steps. He walked with heavy steps, and he felt his pulse quicken as he reached the tree line. He stood on the edge of home and the unknown trying to quiet the fear that whispered of his shame. He said a quick prayer and drew the pistol from his waist and stepping into the void he found the pistol was not so heavy anymore.