1877
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
1
Billy Kid
T H E
2
Manor House Quarterly
Jeff Allen
The Year
1877 WAS
And the world was soaked in blood. It was the year of the Nez Percé. It was the year of a disembodied Africa. It was the year of an Elizabethan queen, when wooden flagpoles struck virgin soil. It was the end of tradition; it was the end of honor. The Indigenous resisted, modern artillery combated and the West pressed further. There were no rules and likewise little hope—no hope that would last, anyway. 1877 marked a pinnacle year in history. It solidified the height of exploration, where the deconstruction of a pre-modern culture met the zest of a newly becoming world, a world with a costly fascination with the industrial. The global few— the pioneers of an unbroken land—propagated a singular imagination that further marginalized and disillusioned the dreams of many with their pursuits of greed and their clenching after security. For those within the disjointed and segregated States of North America, the disillusionment that was theirs was found in the seedlings of hope that thirst for rebirth in an unforeseen and defeated future. Throughout—from the underdeveloped coastlines of the West, to the ever-changing landscapes of the plain, to the bewildered realities of the East—the chaotic space that was The United States of America observed a transition fraught with violence, joining a world collective entrenched in disenfranchisement. The follow pages of Manor House Quarterly will explore the fragments of this chaotic space, the fear within and the breached armistice that ensued. We invite you to become dissolved in their stories and to consider the consequence of their actions as you reconstruct the weighty reality that was 1877, while envisioning the inherited imagination we share due to their history. Dane Cardiel, Editor
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
3
Grace Ford
Megan Gilbert
6
Manor House Quarterly
Gather Round for My Story
Spooky night dreams howl at the past Circle the wagons to rein in the last bad memory shadow of my life before the wolves steer their pack toward my sharpened knife Gather round for my story of not long ago when the first thought I had was to set free the world
- Chloe Sparacino
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
7
Author: Dane Cardiel Illustrations:
Kristina Micotti
The Quiet The air was stale and mildly forgetful The land was peaceful I sat still and listened to the prairie Breathe rhythm into the surrounding silence There was a worm, an eagle, and a fox
“Not like this,” the worm said. “Not like this.” It was a virgin voice, stammered and clouded in fear His breath was concentrated, uneven Sound was emptied “Please—” I heard foot soldiers from across the field shout over the worm’s words “Fall back!” they said. “Fall back!” The virgin ran and ran and ran He ran with his company toward the western ridge He shouldered his rifle as it clanked and rattled against his canister of silver His hat hugged tightly to the rim of his forehead Reach the ridge, he told himself, Reach the ridge. From the east there was a slender sound that followed the boy It moved—swift and steady—through the loose trees of the seldom plain Pursuing the boy, bringing him to his knees 8
Manor House Quarterly
Where a second sound, thinner than the first Brought him to his face, where he swallowed earth and blood Frightened, I heard his eyes shift from left to right I heard his hands quiver over his wounds: Two jagged stones: one lodged between his first and second rib, and the other tangled in his lower intestines He sang sadly beneath his breath:
Oh! Precious is the flow That makes me white as snow No other fount I know Nothing but the blood of Jesus
The boy slouched against a bush, Coughing and spitting, Repeating this chorus again and again Until his voice faded into silence
“Deliver us, Lord” The prayer that continues: never ending, ceasing, or true “Lead us into faithfulness Keep us in your guiding hand Protect our families, our soldiers…”
She flew past many words spoken to the sky Carried into the sun Lost in the void of space where such words go Into nothing, grasping shadows of hope Here, where the Indian waits Where leathered skin absorbs promises from pine and spirit Where voices commingle in collective chant to earth and sky: Angry, yet kind All-seeing, yet blind Lost where such words go
The eagle’s voice came from above Reciting common words spoken to a god behind the veil of blue and grey Awaiting winged soldiers to grace cold fields of dust where victory follows… Faith But the eagle did not understand this faith
For the fox, no place was his He turned inward and became frightened He turned outward and became damaged He turned to either side and saw no one He looked up and laughed He looked down and cried For the fox there was no prayer, no last words Only a vacant voice casted aside From across the Salmon River Where I saw eyes and body: Eyes that stared cold And body that revealed the swallowed space That once housed organs and joy Of lungs shrunken behind ruin, with short breath, waiting
Speaking to those shadows Where I heard them speak back Saying, “The land is being forgotten” And, “Find our stories” And, “It’s not too late” But it was: It was too late
Giving memory to the quiet: Of a virgin wasted to the floor Of an Indian tireless and bound And of a cycle no God could change Their stories congealed in the element of dust, Crusted and frozen in imperfection, Where they remained: Beside a bush Beside destiny And the quiet, remaining thief, remaining calm, remaining still Beside the void
The creatures of the plain, Always waiting Fa l l 2 0 1 1
9
10 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
Author: Andrew Gumm Illustration:
Wes Bruce
Locusts T
here are two kinds out here the ones that remember and the ones that don’t If anyone smiles at storm clouds sayin “Its gunna be a big’un” They are the ones that don’t But I remember I remember the smell came first like fresh wheat and corn and something underneath from inside them It was like they spoke to each other with that smell But all that they said was one word More I remember the sound like tearing denim and tuning forks Their bodies like wet fists pounding every inch of the house Somehow I can’t remember what they looked like I must have seen them but I can’t remember Sometimes I dream though In the dream its morning and everything is perfectly still I’m standing in my doorway looking out at the corn but its too fat In fact everything is too fat the stalks, the grass, the sparse trees, even my old shed All of it fat, and the wrong shape And all of it the same color A dusty twitching gold Even the sky is almost gold in the morning sun I walk out to the corn which is all fat and wrong and twitching And everything the same color except the blue in the sky I reach out to touch a stalk and I feel that sick tug in my gut like I’m being watched by something And when my hand grabs ahold the field explodes
The sky is gone And I’m drowning in a boiling sea of wings Most folks that were here for the last one have gone since The folks with religion left soap boxing about the plagues of Egypt and how we were cursed by God Me and the others that stayed could never shake the taste of the word Cursed But the swarms haven’t come in a good long time And we’ve done well enough by our crops to grow and expand Trains come by six times a day filling the horizon with smoke and its mournful whistling Folks pour out of the trains with lumber and metal tools new wood houses and streets are covering the old fields and grasslands Folks piled on top of folks eating corn right off the cob and more coming all the time These are the ones that don’t remember These are the ones that say we’ve been blessed Saying that God has removed the plague on the land But the ones that remember don’t see it that way We still remember that smell underneath And smell it again every time some fool says manifest destiny We still remember the sounds of their bodies And hear it again in the hammers building bar rooms and picket fences The ones that don’t remember shout “Hallelujah” spraying flecks of corn and wheat out of their greedy mouths But I look around me and see more and more folks swarming out of the boxcars and I know why the locusts are gone because there wasn’t room out here for two kinds
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
11
Author: Michelle
Ong Visual: Megan Gilbert
The Visitor The cowboy glimpsed a flicker of lightning from the corner of his eye and tightened his hold on the reigns. Another jagged line struck the horizon. The blackened clouds raced above and a gust of wind lifted his coattails. Thunder rumbled and echoed in his bones. He nudged the horse with the side of his boot to gallop toward the lightning. The horse drew up her legs until her heels nearly floated an inch above the ground. The cowboy crouched until the horse’s mane whipped his leaning face. The clouds yawned and rain began to thud hollowly on his hat. Drops dangling from the brim of his hat lashed onto his face and dripped down his neck, settling into the groove of his collarbone. They slowly dribbled down his chest, causing him to twitch and shiver. The rain erupted into a deluge as he neared the house. The porch light shone warmly through the descending darkness. The cowboy slid off the horse in front of the stables and opened the latch to let her in. The horse entered her stall and sank onto her knees. Water continued to drip off of her and soaked into the hay. The stench of her wet coat perfumed the air and the cowboy wiped the horse down, but she stubbornly remained on her knees. He returned to the fury of the rain and an angry burst of wind banged the door open. The metal of the latch chilled his hands as he secured the door and trudged toward the house. He wiped his feet on the rough doormat in front of his door and wormed out of his coat. He held it at arm’s length and shook the water off of it, but the rain darted into his porch and soaked his back. He quickly unlocked the door and rushed into the house. He shut the door behind him and tottered in the darkness until he found the light switch. 12 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
He dropped the wet coat onto the wooden floor and sank into a chair to lift his muddy boots off, then surveyed his house. The layout was open, and the only other walls partitioned the bathroom from the rest of the house. The bag of feed still waited by the door, the cabinet remained broken, and water dripped from the ceiling. The cowboy sighed and padded to the bathroom. He dumped his coat and the rest of his damp clothes into a large bucket before bathing. When he stepped out of the bath, the rain was drumming violently on the roof. The water cascaded down the ridges of the corrugated tin and covered the windows of his house. Then he heard a knocking on the door and the faint sounds of a plaintive voice begging to be let in. The cowboy opened the door and saw a shivering young woman with her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Please, sir, I was caught in the storm. Could I come in and wait it out?” He peered into the darkness behind her. “Are you alone?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve taken the liberty of putting my horse in your stables.” “Come in,” he said. He handed her a clean towel and the woman began mopping herself up. “There’s a bathroom if you want to wash up.” “The storm shouldn’t last but a few hours.” “What brings you out here?” “I’m Beatrice, Dr. Shaw’s new apprentice,” she said. “I was gathering some herbs. Have you heard about the epidemic?” The cowboy started. “Cholera?” “The folks have been boiling everything, but we’ve had a few cases. Some of the patients have been responding to lemon juice, but this rain won’t help any. Who knows
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
13
how far the epidemic will spread this time.” She smiled. “You’ll be all right here. Do you live by yourself?” The cowboy nodded and lit a pile of wood sitting in the fireplace. He prodded the logs until sparks flew. The woman settled in front of the flames and held her hands to the warmth. A few drops of water fell from her fingertips and sizzled. She removed the bag she was carrying and opened it, removing clumps of herbs and a bunch of wild onions and setting them neatly on the floor in front of the fire. 14 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
“I have some empty jars you can store those in,” the cowboy said. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” The cowboy rummaged through a cupboard and lined the jars on the counter. Beatrice filled one jar with cloves, another with mint leaves, and a third with dandelion flowers. “Could I have some water?” she asked. The cowboy filled a glass and handed it to her.
He watched her gulp it down and immediately refilled it. “I’ve tried everything,” she said. “I don’t want to die.” She “I’ve been so thirsty all day,” she said. “It must be all this started to cry and sank to the floor. “Please help me.” rain.” “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m no doctor.” “You should rest. It’s a long ride back to town.” “I know who you are. I know that before your wife died The cowboy began preparing a stew and stopped chopin the last epidemic you were saving patients. You’re the ping carrots when he heard Beatrice retching violently only one that can help us.” in the bathroom. She emerged after a long while, pale and shaking. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “There was nothing I could do then and there’s nothing I can do now.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me “Don’t you see that I’m dying?” She lifted her shirt sleeve today.” and showed him skin hanging loosely from a withered “How long have you been sick?” arm. “Dr. Shaw is the latest victim. He told me where to “It’s just something I ate.” find you. Please help us, Michael.” “You should change. You can wear my wife’s clothes. She “Mary was taken away from me for a reason. I was in diwas about your size.” rect contact with all those patients and yet she was the “Thank you. I’m really sorry for being such a bother.” one that succumbed. It has taken me a long time to realShe shut the bathroom door behind her and the cowboy ize that sometimes there is nothing we can do.” heard the sound of running water. She appeared with The lights flickered and abruptly went out. her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. For a brief “It’s the generator,” Michael said. “The lightning struck minute, the cowboy caught a sight of his wife and smiled pretty close.” sadly. “I’m going back to town,” Beatrice said. She picked up “Is your wife out of town?” Beatrice asked. her bag. “She passed away a year ago.” He stirred the stew and “It’s dangerous to ride in this weather.” placed the pot on the table. “The rain sounds like it’s letting up. You should be able to make it back into town “I wouldn’t want to infect you.” before it’s too late.” Michael handed her the jars. Beatrice suddenly blanched and dashed to the bathroom. “Why won’t you help us?” She shut the door behind her, but the cowboy could hear “What do you want me to do? I have no cure.” her vomiting. When she failed to come out of the bathroom, he gently “What are you hoping to accomplish out here?” knocked on the door. “Beatrice? Are you all right?”
“I live off of the land and when death finally visits me, I “I’m fine. I’m just going to stay in here for a while. I’m will greet it without fear.” really sorry.” Beatrice opened the door and stepped onto the porch. She turned around and looked at Michael. “You’re a cow“Have you taken anything?” ard,” she said, then closed the door behind her. “Yes, I’ve been taking what Dr. Shaw prescribed me.” Michael sat on the chair by the door and scanned the “You were out here gathering the cloves and onions for room. There was no sign of the woman having been yourself weren’t you?” there. The water that had dripped from her had already The bathroom door opened. “Yes. I…I didn’t want to evaporated. scare you.” “Have you tried cucumber and lemon juice?” Fa l l 2 0 1 1
15
Author: Brit Steele Illustrations: Aubrey Perkins
PHANTOM LIMB LOVE SYNDROME My Great Uncle lost his hand in a paper factory accident In 1876 There was so much blood He became weightless and started dreaming about snow “Dying’s not so bad” he told us In his dream, the snow was so thick It was perfect for snow angels He made a hundred angels He never got cold That’s what dying is like, he said It must have been hard to talk about what happened after that Because he hardly ever talked about it Not to the police after they arrested him in full tuxedo Trying to drag her arm out of the park with a six-horse team And not when they left her on the island Surrounded by wind and endless Atlantic He would just shake his head and tell us: “Her hands were so beautiful I wanted to put them under glass Thats how beautiful They were the kind of hands That made you think about all the things Hands do Like knitting And playing violin And one-two left-right combo punches And frantic touching, when you are being reunited Or being torn apart” 16 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
He started visiting her hand when they put it in the park People spread their blankets under her And ate ice cream Birds built nests between her fingers Couples slow danced beneath her On nights that the band Was playing the classics He had to grit his teeth to look at her “Thats a love that no one ever talks about The kind you have to bite down hard To tolerate... Bullet-removal love” They would stay up after all the crowds had gone home And talk about the constellations She held the light He kept the June Bugs off her When it got cold He ordered a special blanket for her A blanket twenty times the size of normal blankets It took three months to make They would sit in the snow Getting snowed on together He would tell her about growing up in Long Island About how it got so cold That he and his younger brother once moved A dresser away from the wall And found a giant icicle growing behind it Icicles grew on her finger nails “That’s how I knew she loved me back: She let herself become my home Not everyone is willing to do that For someone else”
The nightmares came in February In his sleep, he saw her turning green The ocean air was too full of brine and minerals Every night she got a little bit greener Every morning he woke up and dried her off With the giant blanket So the salt mists wouldn’t settle on her It wasnt enough “I had to get her to safety Even if I had to drag her there under the pressure Of six tons of horsepower Even if I had to break my back under the weight of her colossal love I remember, the night before the heist, I was holding her hand I made her a spit-sealed oath I said ‘I swear to not let you become Park Pigeon Woman You will never have to fill your arms with birds Who do not visit When your hands are empty I will not let you become a forgotton part of a city Who replaced you with younger beauties I will not let you be swallowed in cast-out postcard remorse “I wish you were here” fading into your back muscles Like the memory of the man who never returned home from New York I will not let you be weathered by generations of heavy storms Or be left outside as a target in war time I will not let the sea pound years onto your body Like an abandoned harbor You are this city’s most attractive attraction You are this country’s most steadfast lover And...’”
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
17
18 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
He didnt know the right way to end an oath So he just said “Amen” And then he spit on her “Love is like that” The next night, he put on the only tuxedo he ever owned The same one his father wore the night He lost a duel over a barmaid in Kentucky Because he “confused her with a star. Swear to Jesus.” My Great Uncle headed into the park with six horses and a kerosene lantern When the horses did not budge the thousand pound fist He told her to stop being so heavy-handed She couldn’t “Some women are like that” He was arrested by five officers For being too drunk ...And for attempted robbery Uncle called it “kidnapping” Thats what they call it When you steal something that has feelings At the trial, a psychologist Testified that Uncle’s condition was fairly common “Phantom Limb Love Syndrome,” he said,
“I’ve seen it a million times He is missing his hand So he falls in love with the idea of completion “I’ve seen a hundred people Fall in love with a hundred things Strange things Crazy things Because they wanted so badly to be complete” They let my Great Uncle go at the end of the trial By that time, they had already moved the hand To Liberty Island Uncle called it “Lonely Island” Because it looked like Long Island and Liberty Island combined We went with him once to visit He was an old man by then We watched as he wrapped the big blanket around her One last time And leaned his head against her arm And just stood there gritting his teeth Hard Knowing he couldn’t stand there Forever
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
19
Steve
Matthew Mahoney
In 1876, Major League baseball was birthed as the National League. In 1878, Cormac McCarthy’s character Judge Holden kills the main character of Blood Meridian who is known only as “the kid” for the majority of the book, and as “the man” when he is killed. The brutality of the American West fails and a new version begins. Perhaps a more civilized test of capabilities.
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
21
As this shapely brunette propelled herself forward and then lowered down to rest upon the lip of the thick round monstrous cannon, already I could see that great beauty, her sheer athleticism and confidence.
“Zazel, the human projectile,” one placard proclaimed, another declared her “The Human Cannon Ball.” The crowd hushed with inquisitive awe as she climbed the tall ladder onto the iron façade that stood above the grand proscenium.
My uncle James, the well-to-do clerk, claiming passing acquaintance with “The Great Farini,” procured two tickets at the Westminster Royal Aquarium to view this modern day spectacle.
She flew before my eyes that overcast Monday when I turned twenty. It was early April and the chill winds penetrated even thick woolen overcoats.
a fancy takes flight
I.
Yet none was forthcoming, and with each passing day, my theories as to why grew stranger with desperation. Perhaps I was too pedestrian for such a celebrity starlet. Indeed, HRH the Prince of Wales reportedly had seen two separate performances of Zazel’s high-flying act. I was an apprentice at Lloyds, a young man with prospects, hardworking and prized for my steady hand with
I closely followed as Zazel’s career flourished anew as part of the grand tours of P.T. Barnum’s circus. But not all was smooth flying, so to speak. Controversy swirled around the human cannon ball. and I dutifully saved all the clippings describing it.
For a stretch of two months I wrote her many long letters, pouring out my heart, confessing my steadfast fascination, and serving up compliments to her many graces. I politely asked to know her better, and each day as I handed off my next missive to her stage manager, I hoped for a reply.
They cited possible dangers, and there was truth in that, as lovely Rossa did fall in one Aquarium performance and was injured fairly seriously in Portsmouth,
Men would advise their spouses to try and look like Zazel, and these women did not always agree or appreciate the physical advantages of her athletic education. Perhaps then it was jealousy that helped fuel the fervor when groups rallied to shut down her performances.
Please do not mistake my relating this as a catalog of regret, for I do not delight in savoring the past. While I never met this lovely object of my distant affections, I did remain true to my personal promise.
an unhappy ending
III.
Uncle James made light of my romantic notions when revealing Zazel was but 14 years of age. Her real name was Rossa Matilda Richter, a German girl born in London’s own Agnes Street, yet her perfection burns anew in my thoughts every day.
disappointments and revelations
II.
Gary Glauber
The Incredible FLYING LADY
The assembled crowd broke into thunderous applause. Over twelve hundred of us offered a rousing ovation and certainly I was having my best birthday ever. I hounded my uncle to find out more about her. Perhaps it was a silly obsession, but I thought it love.
Then the flash, a loud crack, and a puff of smoke, and instantly she was ejected from the cannon, her supple body flying high, defying gravity in a graceful arc that first rose toward the glass ceiling then came to rest in a net thirty feet across the main hall.
As Zazel waved to the eager spectators, I fancied that she and I shared a brief moment. Then, as Farini explained the dangerous feat of propulsion to come, she disappeared into the grey mouth of that massive barrel. My foolish heart was racing; the crowd was hushed.
Deep in his cups, and thirsty yet, Farini had begun to divulge freely about the vivacious and supple girl who had achieved recent fame.
Farini had developed the spring-loaded cannon from which the beautiful flying girl had been launched. He revealed how this human cannon involved no gunpowder. Rossa was propelled by a catapult action; a spring timed to coincide with the firecrackers’ flash, noise, and smoke.
A week earlier he had dined with The Great Farini, a Canadian whose real name was W.L. Hunt, and he was livid that Zazel had given notice and was soon joining forces with P.T. Barnum.
When I confessed to him the silliness of my obsession, he explained that I was not the only one she had disappointed.
Perhaps her parents intercepted my love notes or that dastardly stage manager never delivered them. Frustrated and beset with depression over the futility of my quest, I eagerly took up my uncle’s invitation for a dinner where he sought to further discuss this human cannon ball.
R.A. Watt in The Illustrated News proclaimed Zazel’s figure the most perfect he ever saw, and even G.B. Shaw noted that much of her appeal lay in the fact that, to fit into the cannon, she had to shed most of her Victorian clothing. Surely many wanted to know this acrobatic ingénue better.
the pen while helping illustrate the loss book with notable shipwrecks. Yet I am not royalty, nor do I possess an allure of great wealth or notoriety. At best, I am but a humble technical artist.
Some fourteen years after that birthday gift, in the fall of 1891, Zazel missed the safety net. She suffered a crippling injury and was forced to spend the rest of her days in a restrictive brace.
On occasion, I still sent off a friendly, affectionate letter, hoping against all odds that it might reach her and that she would respond in kind. But ultimately, I never heard directly from Rossa Matilda Richter. Still, I felt her presence with me always.
Several would-be human cannon balls met their makers. I often feared for Zazel’s well-being. Scientists published studies indicating that these human projectiles often lost consciousness while flying, which they theorized would likely lead to serious long-term brain damage.
She never seemed enamored of this beauty queen role, her expression is one of tolerance, not a ‘come hither’ look, yet she always smiled politely, and was comfortable within that very shapely feminine body. Meanwhile other men and women had begun trying to join her elite profession.
Such is the explosive power of celebrity, I suppose. Of course I collected the exploitive photo cards and even the stereoscopic ones. Zazel’s alluring poses featured her reclining against a tiger’s pelt, pearls in hand, impatiently gazing off into some danger out of range.
Mostly elderly women spoke out against her, But their words did not stop crowds from turning out. No performances were ever cancelled and each stop was packed to the brim with those come to witness the beautiful lady shot from a monstrous cannon.
where the receiving net was rotten. But after some required recovery time, Zazel was back on tour.
Illustration:
Kristina Micotti
I thanked my uncle for the shared information, and made a solemn promise to follow Rossa’s career wherever it might take her. Perhaps I was just another distant admirer, but this flying woman had captured my heart, and I could do nothing less.
But now it seemed Barnum and his famous circus offered more money and a greater chance at international fame. Rossa knew the dangers of her daredevil feats and likely wanted the most she could get through stunning audiences, creating thrills and excitement.
Farini, famous showman and tightrope walker, stepped up. He promised exciting, sensational fare, and with Zazel, he mixed beauty, grace, and danger in one single act. It was a godsend for the ailing exhibition space; The Human Cannon Ball had ignited their soaring salvation.
The new Aquarium’s art exhibits and classical concerts drew insufficient crowds to support the expensive system of supplying fresh and sea-water into its four large tanks. These empty tanks were a running joke, and when directors displayed a dead whale, the need for change was obvious.
Farini was drawn to the fact that Rossa had once fallen from a high trapeze. While she had sustained injury, she came to him having already conquered a fear of falling. Farini saw her potential and the timing was perfect; he was creating programs for the Aquarium.
Young Rossa was trained in ballet and gymnastics and had been a stage performer since the age of five. By age 11, she was a seasoned trapeze artist who went by “La Petite Lulu.”
Some may conjecture that my obsession with Zazel was no more genuine than the puff of smoke surrounding her spring-released launch high into the air. But older and perhaps a little wiser, I now confess how that encounter back in 1877 changed my life ever since.
While I dated many women, ultimately I never married. All of these women seemed unable to compete with that icon of my youthful days, the lady who went flying through my chimerical fantasies. None was nearly as beautiful, as fearless, as wonderful.
Zazel thrived by dancing with danger and eventually lost to a broken back. My letter asking to visit her in the hospital received no reply. I suspect she wanted no one to view her in such a debilitated state.
Her career was over. She was only 28.
“Abolish Plutocracy if you would abolish poverty� Rutherford B. Hayes
Liam Vaughan 26 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
“Now that we are poor, we are free” Sitting Bull
Liam Vaughan Fa l l 2 0 1 1
27
Dust Author: Shaun Conde Spelman Illustration: Ben Weiland “Whiskey…and keep em’ coming.” Vice. Vice is the only thing to keep a man’s soul from wondering. Now I’ve never been to church but a couple of times and I don’t proclaim to be a shepherd of men. But I’ve seen enough to know the depths at which men’s hearts lie. I’d been born in Virginia along with my brother. We were just boys though we would be made men sooner than nature had intended. My father had died when I was but six and my mother packed up and left on a night like any other. We’d hoped she’d moved out west; perhaps find herself another man to put in the sling. At least those were the lies my brother and I assured one another with. Like most folk we were keen on living. Sure we relied on the kindness of strangers but we knew the world far before our time. We were never a family of clear thinkers, my father by choice and my mother by nature. In and out of jail some handful of times, my brother and I didn’t have much going for us. I remember one cold October morning, the air wet with a chill even through the thick walls of the county slink, my brother says to me, “I’m thinking about heading west. Find myself a life outside of here.” I didn’t say nothing. I’d heard plentty about people moving out west, claiming a stake of land and making a name for themselves. There was a vast untapped terrain that needed to be tamed. The Queen of England makes business in conquering peoples and places already built up—nothing but glorified pirates. But west of the colonies it wasn’t taking land, it was forging it. Anyone could make a name for themselves—or so I thought then. “You know what Peter, I think I just might join you.” We shared a smile like the closest of kin, and its devilishness took after our father. We served our time, gathered what little we owned, and headed out with a party of people on horse and wagon. Folks from all sorts of places, wanting more than
America had to offer us. We were united but we stood apart. A man’s dreams are built from the shattered dreams of others. At least that’s what this Indian named Prancing Fox told me. I had my doubts, as he smelt of shoe shine and sweated more than a redskin should. But even truth can come from liars. How can the world hold the dreams of so many? It can’t, and that’s what my brother and I learned.
We didn’t know where we were going, any of us. We didn’t know where we were going, any of us. I suppose we hoped that El Dorado might just be over the next ridge. Instead we got another ridge to look forward to. As we traveled some people ended their journey and stopped to make claim. Often there was someone among them, too sick to go on so they stayed. I don’t imagine they lasted long, though I hope they found what they were looking for. Some four months went by and there were only twenty of us left. We’d gone as far as we could. The blazing sun made the hotheads all the hotter and we’d seen a couple of murders. But who were we? We had no law, no authority. So it was decided that the next source of freshwater is where we would lay our heads, as a group. And that we did. It seemed only fitting to call her Ridgewater—though her water was limited to a small creek. There was local game and some vegetation amongst the brittle mud and sand. We’d make do with what we had, as returning wasn’t an option. We’d never make it. And had we returned to Virginia, what would we have returned to? A life where Peter and I found the end of a noose or forgotten by the world because of our reliance on drink. Had we managed either Papa would have been proud. Those first two years were harsh but we expected no Fa l l 2 0 1 1
29
less. Three passed before winter and the snow claimed six more. But as people left others came. They hadn’t forged the land like we had but we needed them just as much as they needed us. Word spread and Ridgewater grew. I opened up a saloon with my brother. We called her The Golden Grin and things started out fine enough. The boom of folk meant you got a lot of breeds of people. No more did everyone enter our town reeking of desperation. Instead you got folk who left out west because the colonies didn’t want them no more. Drifters, murderers, and the downright foolish. These people didn’t pour their sweat and blood into the earth like we did. And be it the seasons of nature or man, things changed. Peter began drinking even though we’d seen what Papa had become. I’d try to ignore it at first but when when he started harassing patrons one day, I gave him a look from our childhood. It was a look our mother always gave to us when Papa hit her around something awful. She’d stare right at us and no words were needed. “Don’t ever become your father.” Isn’t it amazing we try to become better people than our folks, but we just end up doing the same damn things? I knew it and so did Peter. Our fourth year in, the creek had all dried up. I wish I could have said the same about Peter. Folks in Ridgewater were dropping faster than the cattle. With no towns for some while near us, it was hard to find good water, so people came to me for drink. I didn’t have much in the way of water but warm whiskey and beer. Here we are, hot as hell, and all we can do is turn to drink so our throats don’t feel like bleached bones in a desert. Sand in your eyes, mouth and other places none too
keen to mention to any r e s p e c t a b l e l a d y .
With all that heat killing anything green around us, the ground became nothing but dust, twisted and thrown about at the mercies of the wind. There were times you could scarcely see across town. Sand in your eyes, mouth, and other places none too keen to mention to any respectable lady. There were a lot of infections and more than a few kids who were operating with just one eye. I 30 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
thought for certain we’d met our end. That our town would be found by other gung-ho folk traveling west. Maybe they could see our folly and turn back home. Maybe they could learn from our mistakes. Strangely enough Ridgewater pushed on through that summer. We lost a good nine people—some claimed by the still untamed lands and others moving on or heading back. There wasn’t much sense in reasoning with those folk who wanted to leave. We all knew they were as good as dead, but was it any worse than Ridgewater? There were times even I thought the cold hand of death would be soothing against that searing western sun. In winter the water would come back—but I’d be going at it alone. Mad with drink Peter picked a fight with some rough men passing through. They had the look that made respectable folk close up their doors. Skin like rough leather and scruff like splinters on a poor man’s coffin. But drink will make you say things your conscience has good mind burying some six feet under the ground. They nearly beat him dead by the time I got to him. I was no dandy but I also have the hide of a desert lizard like this group of guys. Either by divine providence or fiendish anathema they backed off. Maybe they thought he would be better off dead. They were probably right. Our sheriff, a self-appointed bastard who somehow remained fat even when times were tough, decided to throw Peter in the slink for a few days. The cold would have taken him but people—good people, made sure he had blankets, and even the chilled air did her part to ease the bruises painted on his body. When it were time to go he looked up at me and even though he was standing right there—I couldn’t see him anymore. To ease his pain further he liquored himself up, like a dog returning to its vomit just to scarf it back down again. One morning I wake up and Peter was gone. A nice older lady named Ethel, one who had been with us from the very beginning, tells me she heard him in the dead of night ranting and raving in nothing but his long johns. Then a couple minutes later amidst the harsh wind she thought she heard a gunshot. She told me to think nothing of it but we both knew what it meant. The land of Ridgewater had claimed another—that my brother had ended up just as my folk had—and that someday that would be me too.
It wasn’t till the dwindling days of winter that I could get out into the forest and look for Peter. After a few hours I saw a patch of red amongst the melting snow— and there’s Peter with a frozen smile in his red long johns, gun still in hand and what I reckon are the blown apart remains of a squirrel. I laughed and sat myself right up next to that tree for a couple hours. It had been years since we’d laughed. Trouble with laughter is it stays with you some while but like everything
It had been years since we’d laughed. Tr o u b l e w i t h l a u g h t e r i s it stays with you some while, but like everything else, it leaves you. else—it leaves you. I kept running the saloon and people kept coming. Some things change, other things don’t. We never got back that steady flow of water like before. Just when winter seems to lie down in her bed, we get a small creek for a week or two—but after that we make do with enough moisture to keep our eyes from drying out. Lips cracked, skin tanned—even the people took on the form of the dry dirt beneath our feet. As I’ve said, I’m not be a religious man, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice things when they’re out of place. Or for that matter, too well into place. I once heard a preacher in Virginia speak about dust. Something about “Dust we are and to dust we shall return.” Well I can attest that is true. Thrown about by the wind, brittle, and useless. Dust isn’t fertile land to grow a crop or any flower of beauty. No, dust is simply when dirt has been left to dry. And are we any better? We can remain firm but we are only so resilient to the elements around us. I’m still not sure why I’m here. Here in this town where God has no business. Or here on this earth where God does not make his home. There are days often, a stranger will coming walking through my doors, the wind picking up the dust behind him. And it’s when that warm air hits my face that I wish it would take me too. Better than stagnant mud that clings to the bottom of a man’s shoe. I’ll drink to that.
I’m told that after some fifteen years Ridgewater is a ghost town—a place forgotten and left for greener pastures where the wind is sweet and mild, and the dirt covered with foliage. Well I’m still here serving drinks as I always have and the same faces make their way across my gaze, some inside as patrons and others too skittish to enter. Now and then I see a face I don’t recognize but they’re always welcome to take a load off, forget about the troubles the world has, and dust their feet off. We may not have much in the way of water but for a price you can wash down your strife with some liquor to make life go down just a bit smoother.
Because truth is, that’s all we got.
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
31
Faithful silence screams: cries of desperation as rusted lanterns flicker among the darkness of an alter. moseying past stoned memories; lost love; and unknown details splintered shovels soon sink deep into the infinite abyss. beneath flocks of untamed history— grasp calloused palms unveiling unclean remains of frames having defeated the test of time. under meaningless possessions— lie abiding explanations for restless souls yearning eternity‌ ashes, exclaiming: the burden of being. bones, testifying: the brutality of experience. dust, advising us: now. - A.D. Norbeck
32 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
Fueron
El Patron said it was good for the people to have something to fear besides him. When they spoke to him about it he said only, Esta bien. On the day they found the cave the women went to see if they could pick their own daughters out of the heap of bones and carrion and hair. Some mothers fought over remains, other carcasses went unclaimed. On the day after, it began to rain and rain. When the floods came there were whispers that it was San Nicolas weeping for his lost daughters. El Patron said that San Nicolas was pissing on them all, and laughing. After three days of rain, a scarred old Indian descended like a phantom from the hills and waded through the streets of the village. He called, Ayuda ayuda. Prudencio went out to drown him. Before he let go of the tangles of black hair, the legs had stopped kicking and there were no more bubbles. As the old Indian floated away face down on the flood currents, Prudencio said, That is for what you did to our daughters. Days later, the receding waters revealed the bloated remains of the children scattered in the streets, washed from their graves, engorged with the rain. The women wailed and said, They will never find rest.
- Joshua Soch
Illustrations: Jeff Allen Fa l l 2 0 1 1
33
34 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
Mary’s Lamb
Composition : Lowell Mason Author: Sarah Josepha Hale Illustration : Kristina Micotti Recording: Thomas Edison
Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day— That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school. And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear; And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said—“I’m not afraid— You’ll keep me from all harm.” “What makes the lamb love Mary so?” The eager children cry— “O, Mary loves the lamb, you know,” The Teacher did reply;— “And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind.” Fa l l 2 0 1 1
35
4/24
3/2
Rutherford B. Hayes (R) declared as President of The United States of America. Hayes won by just one electoral vote. A day later he was sworn into office as 19th President.
1/1
Russia declares war on Turkey through Romania
6/15
Henry O Flipper becomes first Black graduate at West Point.
3/24
The Queen of England declares herself as Empress of India.
6/26
The only year the Cambridge/Oxford’s boat race ended in a “Dead Heat.”
Mount Cotapaxi in Ecuador erupts, causing severe mudflows that wipe out surrounding cities and valleys killing 1,000.
2/12
U.S. railroad builders strike against wage reduction.
2/26
The Compromise of 1877, or the “Corrupt Bargain,” or to the four million slaves in the South, the “Great Betrayal,” was the political agreement that handed presidency to Rutherford B. Hayes (R), despite Samuel J. Tilden’s(D) winning of the popular vote. This agreement began the end of the Reconstruction Era and facilitated the White population to get on with making money, while eliminating the efforts of Blacks to secure their promised civil rights: an effort that would not rise again until the 1950’s.
36 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
4/10
First human cannonball act preformed in London.
5/5
Sitting Bull leads his band of Lakota into Canada to avoid harassment by the United States Army under Colonel Nelson Miles.
8/12
Thomas Edison invents the Edisonphone, a sound recording device.
7/2
Hermann Hesse is born.
North American astronomer Asaph Hall discovers two moons of Mars, Phobos and Deimos.
12/15
9/20 8/2
San Francisco Public Library opens with 5,000 volumes.
7/20
Military shoots on stopped railroad workers in Baltimore, nine killed. A day before the military breaks the railroad strike.
Chase National Bank opens in New York City, later merging into Chase Manhattan.
Thomas Edison patents his invention of the phonograph.
10/5
Chief Joseph surrenders, ending Nez Perce War.
8/22
The Nez Perce Indians flee to Yellowstone National Park.
12/30
Johnannes Brahms’ 2nd Symphony in D, premieres in Vienna.
12/6
Washington Post publishes 1st edition.
9/24
Takamori Saigo leads the last Samurai Revolt in Kyushu. This day, specifically, lead to the final deaths of forty samurai including Saigo. Decidedly, this was the completion of modernization in Japan and the end of the Samurai era.
Fa l l 2 0 1 1
37
Contributors
Dane Cardiel Foreword, The Quiet
Daniel Heffernan Layout Design, Portraits
Jeff Allen Billy the Kid, Fueron & Timeline Illustrations
Chloe Sparacino Gather Round for My Story
Gary Glauber The Incredible Flying Lady
Megan Gilbert Gather Round & Visitor Visuals
Wes Bruce Two Kinds
Kristina Micotti The Quiet, Flying Lady & Phonograph illustrations
Brit Steele Phantom Limb Love Syndrome
A.D. Norbeck Faithful
Aubrey Perkins Illustrations
Matthew Mahoney Steve
Shaun Conde Spelman Dust
Josh Soch Fueron
Liam Vaughan Rutheford B. Hayes Sitting Bull
Ben Weiland Dust Illustration
Grace Ford Buffalo
Michele Ong The Visitor
38 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y
Frank Scott Krueger Cover Ilustration
Andrew Gumm Locusts
We’d
be delighted in your visit
ManorHouseQuarterly.Com
Copyright 2011 by Manor House Quarterly. The exclusive rights expire 120-days from publication. After this period, all content is recognized and protected under the Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial-No Derivitives Liscense.
40 M a n o r H o u s e Q u a r t e r l y