Ray and Alby Ride, Some                                      

Charles Armstrong 2011

           The sedge grass sparkled with frost. Alby walked up the path. Every step or three, he’d kick a stand of grass and a shower of ice crystals explode and fall glittering in the new risen sunlight. He neared the oaks at the edge of the field, Alby saw a large lump of...something lying in the path. Nearer, he could see the lump was wearing shoes.   

James Ables was gently snoring. he had an odd look on his saggy old face- as if he wanted to sneeze. Alby prodded his side with the toe of his tennis shoe.

“Are you dead?” 

“Hunnnng.” said James Ables. “Whuff.” He was covered in frost, shimmering in the dappled sunshine. James Ables made an attempt to sit upright. Failed. Tried again.

“He’p me, Alby, I’m plumb froze to th’ ground.” Alby got a good hold on James Ables right arm and pulled. The arm came free making a stripping sound. James Ables reached over and got his left arm free, reaching up to Alby, silently asking for assistance. Alby grabbed the outstretched hands, and with a gusty sigh James Ables sat up like a corpse in a monster movie. He looked pretty satisfied with his accomplishment.

“I wonder if I hadda good time last night.” He coughed and spat to the side.

Having no father, Alby had never seen a full grown man wake up. He watched in fascination as James Abels rolled over onto his knees and began searching in the sedge grass bunches.

“I know it’s around here somewhur- ahhh, here it is.” James Abels’ hand reached inside a clump of grass to withdraw a quart Mason jar half full of clear liquid. He unscrewed the top and drank, his mouth wide and open, his lft arm elegantly held out from his body for balance. A great phlegmy cough threw his head forward, the motion causing the liquid to slop over the rim of the jar. 

“Nothing like th’ hair of th’ dawg t’fix ya uo in th’ mornin’.” James Abels stood, wavering a little. He stretched, his whole back and body crackling. Turning away from Alby, he shuffled over to a sapling. He peed for a long time, and as he peed, he emitted a thunderous fart. 

“Whur ya goin’, Alby, so early in the mornin’?” 

“Gonna ride horses with Randy ‘n’ Ray.” Alby started up the path. James Abels, having nothing better to do, followed shakily.

“Don’cha hafta go t’school?”

“Naw- it’s Saturday.”

“Saddy- wull-whut happened t’Frydy?” James Abels was puzzled.

“It’s come and gone, James.”

 “I reckon I’ll find out whut I done on Frydy down t’Cletus Woods’-he’ll know, since that’s th’ last place I remember bein’.”

“I reckon.” said Alby. 

At the top of the hill they came to a barbed wire fence. Alby slipped easily between the strands. He turned back, put a foot on the bottom strand, pushing down while pulling up on the top one. James Abels bent stiffly and lurched through.The dirt field was red, with limestone boulders poking through. 

“Them Kilpatricks always got a good crop o’rocks, ain’t they?” James Abels chuckled in a rusty voice.

The house high up on it’s spindly underpinnings in the middle of the field, stark and unpainted. The area near the door was completely bare- a “swept yard”. A half grown rooster was practicing his new-found crow from the top of a rusty sedan. The door flew open and a head accompanied by a skinny arm poked out. 

“Yew git yer sorry self away from here, James Abels! I don’t ever wanna see yer ugly face around here agin!”

James Abels looked stunned.

“Whud I done to yew, Miz Kilpatrick?” His face shone with offended innocence.

“Yew know very well whut yew done, you shiffliss drunk- now git!” The door slammed and the whole house shuddered. The rooster said,”ERRR?”

Shoulders slumped, James Abels turned to leave.

“It’s a sad life, when a feller cain’t even say howdy to his neighbor in the mornin’.”

The door sprang open again.

“You worthless hillrunner, I AIN’T yer neighbor- you don’t even HAVE a house- just livin’ out in th’ woods like a wild animal!” The door slammed shut again, but Alby and James Abels could hear Miz Kilpatrick raging inside the house.

“Well- I guess I’ll see ya on down th’ road, Alby- thanks fer hepin’ me git up this mornin’.” James Abels sloped off towards Cletus Woods’ house, the Mason jar twinkling in the now- bright sun as he walked.

Alby filled his lungs with air and turned toward the house.

“Raaaaayyyy!” he called as loud as he could. He didn’t like to enter the house, it was crowded enough in there as it was. He heard a window open and Ray came tumbling out, a bundle of arms and legs.

“Why’nt you use th’ door, Ray?” asked Alby.

Ray unfolded himself to his full height of six feet. Even though Ray was thirteen, he was still in the same class at school as Alby.

“Too many people in th’ way.” Ray brushed his white hair from his face. He blinked his pink eyes.

“Let’s go ridin’ “ He turned toward the road.

“Whur’s Randy?”

“He’s comin’ “ Just then Randy scuttled out of the house and down the rickety steps. Randy was old, Alby thought- maybe twenty- but it was hard to tell because he was so little. Randy’s head came up to Alby’s shoulder. He had the same long spindling legs as his brother, but that’s where the resemblance stopped. His torso looked as if someone had squashed him. From the side, Randy’s body was shaped in an ess-curve, with his chest caved in and his back humped up, like he was hiding something big, back there under his shirt. He had no neck. Randy’s head was huge, mushrooming out over his lopsided face. Fierce green eyes and a pointed nose above a twisted mouth. 

Randy walked right past the other boys, as if they weren’t there. Ray and Alby followed.

The three walked down the center of Lime Kiln Road, as is the right of boys on Saturday. There was no traffic. The crows were cawing in the corn fields, arguing over the few bugs left in the wind-dried stalks. They stopped at the gate to Aunt Vammer’s barn. Randy unhooked the wire bail over the top of the stick that held the three strands of barbed wire stretched across the lane. 

“Close th’ gate, Ray.” Randy loped on ahead.

Near the barn, they could hear Old Joe stump-sucking. It sounded like a pig grunting, which was odd- because Old Joe was a Tennessee Walker stallion, tall and red, with a white blaze between his eyes and four white stockings on his legs. Old Joe was well trained, with four gaits. He was mean and hated people. The times Alby had ridden Old Joe, just as Joe hit the single-foot gait and the ride smoothed out like silk, the stud horse had reached around and bitten Alby hard on the leg. Old Joe was strong and beautiful, but his attitude toward people was the purest poison. 

Old Joe’s hobby was stump-sucking. Stump-sucking is a terrible sin in a horse. There were signs of his endeavors  everywhere in the barnyard. All the top boards of the yard were gnawed where he had set his huge white teeth and sucked air into his belly, all the while grunting loudly. No one on Lime Kiln Road knew why a horse would do this, buy it was so ugly and disturbing that it was thought to be a devilish flaw in an otherwise fine horse. Stump-sucking didn’t seem to affect Old Joe’s health, but it did seem to bea part of his bad disposition.

Randy climbed up to the stumped-sucked top rail and perched there, safe and out of the way. He hated to ride, but he wanted to watch, in case Alby or Ray did something foolish- like fall off. Then, he would cackle exactly like a hen, laughing and pointing and clutching his stomach.

Alby went down the main alley of the barn, back into the dim and dusty room where the bridles were kept. There were no saddles- worn out or stolen years ago. Alby had his own bridle. He had braided the straps and reins from orange “seagrass” baling twine. He had found the bit in the barn, too. Don Maxwell, Aunt Vammer’s son- the owner of Old Joe, had turned the bit in his square hands and said, “‘At’s old- look s like a old timey cavalry bit.” Alby knew in his heart the bit was from a Confederate bridle used by the local Reb guerillas. Those resistance fighters had hidden down in the limestone caves behind Aunt Vammer’s house. Long ago, they had put their names on the walls of the cave with candle soot. Last summer, Ray and Alby put their names there, too.

As Alby emerged from the dimness of the barn, he saw Ray leading his filly, Flicka, toward the gate. Alby felt a rush of envy. Flicka was the daughter of Old Joe, red and long legged. She was just ole enough to take the weight of one boy. Ray tried hard to train her to be gaited, but Flicka had a mind of her own. Ray gathered up a handful of her mane along with the reins an sprang atop her shining back. Flicka rolled her eyes and bounced her head. She tried to see what was on her back, turning in a tight circle. Ray pulled her head straight with the reins.

Something magic happened when Ray was on Flicka. A profound change occurred in both boy and horse. Ray was no longer just a kid in ragged tennis shoes. Flicka went from curious pasture animal to Steed. They became the mystic thing: The Horseman.

Horse-man. Standing proud and erect, two pairs of eyes reflecting stern responsibility and power. Alby could feel the ghostly line of horsemen fading back in time behind them. Back from Confederate cavalryman, back to the knightly riders on the fields of Europe, back to the first Sycthian to come riding out of the darkness of central Asia into the light of the Roman Empire. The power flowed in an unbroken stream.

Alby went to the battered corn crib. Climbing up, he pulled out an ear wrapped in its papery husk. This was another part in the ritual of magic. Holding his bridle behind his back, he approached the pasture fence. He rustled the corn husk, and with one hand parted the leaves. 

Far off, across the field, two horses raised their heads, swiveled their ears like radar.  They knew that sound. It was the sound of pleasure. Rich tastes were associated  with the dry rustlings. Slowly the horses began to move. Heads down, eyes and ears forward, they ambled across the pasture and swungs their big heads over the barbed wire fence, stretching their noses hopefully at the offering in Alby’s hand. 

“Which one y’gonna take, Alby?” Randy, like the two other boys, knew the choice- comfort or speed. Belle was a huge black mare with abroad back- easy to stay up on, but she was slow and lazy. Star, on the other hand, was tall and fast. Star was also smart. When she tired of bearing a rider, she would pull her trick. As she galloped along, she would suddenly swerve into the pine trees that bordered the dirt paths. The tree limbs were low and her rider would be brushed off to land on his rear end. Star would trot off, leaving Alby o run along behind, yelling at her to stop. This she would ignore until the corn re-appeared. Then, the game started again. 

“Star, I reckon.” Alby waved the delicious corn under Star’s nose. She reached out delicately with her big white teeth. As she took the first crunch, Alby dropped the bridle over her neck, and she was Caught. 

It never failed to amaze Alby that a kid with apiece of rope and an ear of corn could control such a huge beast. As he looked into her deep brown eyes, he thought he could see a bemused tolerance there, as if Star was saying, “Alright, little man, I’ll go along with your little trick- but just until I’ve tired of playing.”

Alby settled the bridle on her head. Her ears pulled back as the bit went into the gap between her teeth. She hated the taste of iron. Alby drew her over to a big limestone rock. Holding the reins carefully, put aleg over her back. Immediately Star moved away at a walk, leaving Alby hanging from her side by one knee. He could hear Randy laughing at his undignified position, but Alby didn’t care. He gave a mighty heave and was finally up. Now he,too, was the Horseman. He drew back on the reins. Star stopped, awaiting his command.

From the back of the horse, Alby saw the world shift. Roads and hills changed their value. His vision grew and lengthened as the understanding settled into his body. His nose was filled with the sweet smell of horse. Alby felt strong. Randy looked even smaller as he opened the gate for the two riders. 

“Y’wanna come along, Randy?” Alby made the offer as a thanks for opening the gate. 

“Naw, I’m gonna make me some money t’day, Candyman.” Alby blushed. Randy had sent off to a candy company that mailed out assortments of cheap candyon credit. The deal was, you could sell the candy, then send the company the money to pay them back. 

There were a lot of Kilpatrick kids, and Randy had to hide his candy carefully or they would have consumed his stock like a school of piranhas. Once, when Alby and Ray were at the house alone, they had come across Randy’s cache. They had eaten a lot of it. When confronted by an irate Randy, they had denied it. Randy had been forced to pay for it. That really made him angry. Randy knew Alby could beat him in a fight, even though Alby was younger. His only revenge was to remind Alby of his crime by calling him Candyman. Alby promised himself over and over that he’d paid off the debt as soon as he got some money. Every time he was fluch, he’d forget. It was a nasty situation- everyone on Lime Kiln Road knew about it. Alby was glad that Randy stayed behind.

“Lookie here, Alby, see- Flicka’s singlefootin’!” Singlefoot is a gait that horse either learn or are born with. Alby didn’t know which. There were a few different gaits. Don Maxwell said there were four gaits: “walk, stumble, fart and fall.”

“Yep- there she goes!” Little Flicka fell in and out of the singlefoot, obeying whatever inherited urges. Her neat left hoof kicked out to the side rhythmically as she moved quickly down the lane. Alby knew knew just what it felt like- he had riden Old Joe  when the stallion was in a good mood. As a pure-bred Tennessee Walker, Joe was trained in all the gaits, but mostly hated to do anything that people wanted him to do. Occasionally, when he was calm and happy, he’d break into the singlefoot. Alby thought it was like shifting gears in a car- the ride would came out smooth as silk and the wind rushed by his ears. It made Alby want to sing.

Ray led the way down to the big field in the bottom, Flicka’s round red bottom gleaming in the warming sun. 

When Alby came to a stop beside Mill Creek, Ray had already slide off and was busily scrambling around in the brush, choosing a stick. His face was shining pale among the leaves. 

“Who you wanta be, Alby?”

Alby thought= it was a tricky thing. Everybody knew the Yankees had won, but both boys knew it was best to be a Rebel.

“I choose Rebels!” He slid the six feet down to the ground. Hauling on the baling twine reins, Alby began searching for the perfect stick.

He had spent a great deal of his life looking for the perfect stick.At times he had indeed found it, but the parameters changed constantly. Sometimes he needed a short, stout stick. Other times, as now, he wanted the real, true Perfect Stick. The Stick of Sticks. Alby knew just what i’d be like: about four feet long, with a smooth skin.He had an idea that The Stick was made of cherry, but he hadn’t seen a cherry one that long. The thickness at the butt would be the same as his thumb. Whippiness was important. If he could sorta snap it a little, that was good.

He pushed through the Indian plum bushes to get closer to the edge of the creek bank. There were some willows hanging over water. He saw the one he wanted, even though he thought it would be too whippy. His foot found a purchase on the lip of the bank. He opened his Barlow pocket knife and reached out over the rippling water. He had just enough time for a question mark to form in his mind before the dirt crumbled away beneath his foot. Alby shot downward two feet, hopping on the other foot for balance.

“Shoot! this water’s cold!” The feeling was gone from his leg.

“Oh, well, now I can get at my stick easy.” He cut the branch and squelched up the bank.

“I saw you was gonna slip, but it was too quick t’say anything.” Ray looked smug. Whenever anything bad occurred, Ray got this smiley, faraway look on his face- like he was just so glad something like that hadn’t happened to him.

“ ‘esgo, it’s cold under these trees.” Alby looked around for something to stand on. He saw a fallen log and led Star over. For once, the big horse didn’t pull a trick on him.He gathered in the reins and turned her head to the field. 

As they broke out of the woods, Alby sat forward and pressed his knees into Star’s sides. He felt a throbbing rush flooding up into his throat, like a tide of energy. Star caught the feeling and she began to trot. They turned at the opposite end of the field. 

Alby saw Ray emerge from the thicket. Ray rode with his stick stiffly upright, the way cavalrymen did in John Wayne movies.

“There come them ole Yankees, men- let’s tear ‘em up!” Alby spoke gruffly to his imaginary troop of riders behind. He felt the tension rise. He swung his sword horizontally, testing the blade. With a high, keening Rebel yell, he dug his heels into Star’s flanks.

Star laid back her ears and leaped forward. The wind lifted Alby’s red hair. He could hear the rumble of dozens of hooves as he and his men sped toward the oncoming Yanks. Ray didn’t give the Rebel yell, he was a Yankee today, Yankees didn’t do that. They just came on- silent, ruthless- ready and capable of destroying any resistance.

Aunt Vammer had told them the story about the only act of The War the valley had ever seen. There was a cabin- a dogtrot cabin- over yonder in the pines. Just a little clearing in the woods, with brush fencing it in. The well was right in the front of the cabin.A little boy sat on the steps of the cabin, playing with his coon dog. The little boy had heard the sound of a horse running flat out. Soon, a single rider broke from the woods, riding hard and fast, leaning over his mount’s neck. In the middle of the clearing, he stopped. His horse reared and turned, facing the way they’d come The rider, all in the butternut color of the Confederacy, jerked out his Colt Dragoon pistol and fired three shots into the forest.

“You’ll never git me, you damned bluebellies! do yer worst!” Then the Reb turned and dashed into the wilderness. 

After a few moments, here came the Yankees, a whole bunch of ‘em, riding as hard as they could. The only sound was of harsh, heavy breathing and the jingle of harness. One Yank peeled off, trotted over to the little boy. 

“Which way did he go?”

The boy and his coon hound were paralyzed into muteness. There was a frozen moment. The boy blinked, raised his finger, pointing- away from the trail the Reb had taken. The Yankee called to his troop, “This-a-way, Cap’n!” The whole blue mass of the Yankees went boiling down the wrong path. The little boy was alone with his dog again. A crow laughed.

The battle lines crashed together with the solid impact of large pieces of meat. Dust swirled and swords clashed. Alby met Ray’s attack with a snarl on his face.

“You’ll never git me!”

Ray got his smiley face on and began to rain down blows on Alby. Ray was taller and had a longer reach. His sword whickered through Alby’s defense.

Alby’s breath went whoosh out of his lungs under the attack. Ray was happy he wasn’t Alby, but he sure was happy he was Ray Kilpatrick. He enjoyed avoiding the smaller boy’s blows. Everything seemed slowed down to Ray.

Alby took one more whack on his back before turning Star’s head and circling behind Ray. Alby’s moment had come. His vision turned red, as if his head was filling with blood. Star’s flank slammed into Flicka’s as Alby began to beat Ray from behind. Ray tried to move away, but Alby pushed Star closer and closer. The older horse’s superior strength and weigh began to turn the tide of battle. Ray began to think it wasn’t so much fun to be Ray, after all.

“Quit it, quit it, quit it!” Alby began to gleefully poke at Ray’s backside. 

“Had enough, Yankee?” Ray answered by digging his heels into Flicka’s sides and galloping up the path and out of the field. Alby followed. They ran their horses up onto the top of the hill and down the other side. They stopped and the horses blew and sweated.

“I beat you good, didn’t I?” crowed Alby.