San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
I remember, as a very young boy, being afraid of the dark. For a time, hollow-eyed pirates lurked in shadowy corners of my room, soulless vampires tapped on the window and a heartless body snatcher lived under my bed. Winnie blamed the penny dreadfuls that I consumed like candy for rotting my brain. An astute observation on her part, which I rejected immediately.
Following suit on my rejection, Grandfather rejected my request for a lit lamp in my room at night. “Waste not, want not, Scotty.” Using oil to fend off the darkness designed for repose was not only thriftless but foolish. To hell with a night-stalking, fire-breathing creature that could sear the skin right off a young lad with a single burp. Upon hearing the possible fate of his grandson’s flesh, the man’s response was firm and direct. “It will grow back.” I believe it was the first time I raised a questioning eyebrow to my grandfather, with many more to follow through the years.
It was Winnie who helped me conquer my first bout of night sweats.
*******
A wind, which could turn ugly in winter, showed its kinder side one evening as it gathered up the city’s smokey fog and shoved it up the coast - leaving behind a clear sky.
“Tell me, ScottyGarrett, why does the Good Lord bless us with the night?”
Sitting on the brownstone’s back stoop next to his friend, Scott sighed. Wasn’t it obvious? Every nine-year-old boy knows the Lord created the darkness for hollow-eyed pirates, soulless vampires and heartless body snatchers. However, considering the questionable fate of his penny dreadfuls, Scott relied on a safer answer. “The Good Lord blessed us with nighttime so we can rest and conquer tomorrow.”
“No, child. I not be askin’ why the Good Lord gave the nighttime to ye grandfather. I be askin’ why he gave it to the rest of us.”
*******
A grin surfaced at the memory of Winifred McLoughlin’s solid comprehension of her employer - a feat Scott had yet to fully accomplish.
Winnie’s explanation was simple. The Lord blessed us with darkness so we may see the stars. She pointed up at the heavens while my eyes counted a million sparkling diamonds - a buccaneer’s treasure unveiled. Soon after that night, the pirates, vampires and body snatchers left my room. Harlan Garrett’s opinion indicated his grandson had finally reached the level of maturity where the line between fantasy and reality could be clearly defined. Truth be told, it was my first understanding of the purpose of darkness that sent those demons bouncing back to their cheap paper while my life’s goal to be a buccaneer remained a priority.
Scott smiled. Flexing the cramp in his writing hand, a thought of The Enchantress tickled an afterthought. “It still is.”
A decade later, an unsuccessful skirmish introduced me to the hospitality the Confederate Army offered to their Union guests. Hollow-eyed prisoners, soulless guards and heartless living conditions were now part of my darkened existence.
Word began circulating among the men that some of us would be transferred to other prison camps. As fate would have it, I would not be one of them.
*******
Arms crossed, Scott leaned against one of the second floor window frames. Frame was an accurate description, indeed, considering the absence of glass panes. The few dozen barred openings, spaced evenly across all four walls, left the room’s occupants exposed to extreme weather and temperatures - fueling the disease and dysentery spreading amongst the men. Scott himself had completed his third feverish day.
Staring out into the darkness provided the setting for the murmuring discussions and speculation on recent rumors regarding evacuation. Who would be moved? To what location? Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina? Scott was beyond caring. All were patterned after the rat-infested shithole he presently stood in and all were a million miles away from Boston.
“Lovely view of the James.”
If not for the sarcastic tone of the man’s delivered statement, Scott’s mouth would have declined on choosing slightly upturned corners. “I’d rather it be the Charles.”
“Ah, you damn Bostonians never did know a creek from a trickle. The Delaware, now that’s a river.”
With a half-turn to achieve a better view of his uninvited conversationalist, Scott was greeted with an extended hand.
“Grateson, 1st New Jersey Cavalry.”
Moving to accept the friendly gesture, eyes acknowledged the rank on the man’s shoulders. Even under horrific conditions, Scott’s rigid military stance continued to be automatic. “Sir.”
“We’re living in a festering wound that’s sent protocol straight to Hades. A relaxed handshake will do, son.”
“Lancer. 2nd Massachusetts Cavalry.” A conscious effort produced the firm grip needed to complete the introduction.
“Taking in the beauty of the evening, I see.”
Scott’s stomach wasn’t up for a dose of optimism. “Your mention of a festering wound was more accurate.” With recrossed arms, his gaze returned to the dismal dark view of life outside the cramped warehouse quarters.
“The wound is a place where the light enters.”
“Sir?” Glancing sideways showed Scott’s uninvited-now-unwanted companion turning his back to what the window had to offer. Instead, Grateson stood scrutinizing his temporary bunk mates.
“Don’t get your hopes up that you’re currently in the presence of a great philosopher. I can assure you, Lieutenant, it is not the case.”
A response to Grateson’s confession didn’t seem necessary. Even though a light breeze bravely ventured through the window to battle the stagnant air inside, Scott struggled for a comfortable breath.
“Some thirteenth century Persian poet said it. Runny… Rodney… Rumi… I can’t remember the fella’s name. A memorized required reading from my school days still rumbling around in the head.”
The upturned corners returned. Scott could certainly identify with disjointed recited quotes rumbling around in a head. He had plenty of those. However, this man’s school days weren’t from any backwoods. West Point would be a good guess.
“The way I see it, son, we’re all going to encounter some degree of pain and suffering no matter how piously we try to live our lives. Hell, we stepped up for the good of the cause and, well,” - Grateson swept his arm out as if showing off a rich, fertile valley - “I don’t believe they made mention of these fine accommodations. But it’s this God-forsaken wound that’s going to let in the light and show us the strength we have inside. If not for the darkness, lieutenant -“
“We wouldn’t see the stars.” Scott mustered a sincere smile.
“How about that. It appears I’ve been the one in the company of a great philosopher all along. Son, we best get you to lie down and find someone who resembles a doctor.”
*******
A week-long fever put me in a murky limbo of reality and night screams. Finally breaking free of its grasp, I found myself lying on a urine-soaked blanket with the James River still outside the window. I was told transferring a dying man seemed illogical. Why stink up the road south with an extra dead body when the bastard Yank could be easily buried in a Virginia mucky grave? The Confederate guard expressed regret I had lived instead of obliging their request.
Once my unsteady legs could support what weight the fever hadn’t eaten away, I sought out the man who saved me mentally and physically to offer my gratitude. His name was Captain Grateson. Unfortunately, an unsuccessful task as my attempts were met with blank stares and shaking heads. No one could place him.
As twilight deepened, Scott fished a matchstick out of his pocket and struck it across the wooden table to light the candle he’d brought outdoors. He’d opted for the crickets’ rendition of Mozart as a backdrop for journal writing instead of his family’s overlapping after-supper conversations in the Great Room.
To this day I’m uncertain if Grateson evacuated along with all the men who knew him or if my sickness had simply created him to preserve my sanity.
When it’s dark enough, we can see the stars.
The wound is where the light enters.
Two very different statements with the same message that have carried me through some trying times. Look for the light. Find inner strength.
A quick, abrupt breeze blew over Scott’s shoulder and extinguished the candle. Slowly exhaling, the journal’s author called upon his inner strength… and another match. The relit candle revealed an impish grin seated across the table. With an exaggerated breath, Kinsey puffed out her cheeks.
“Blow it out again, little one, and we’ll be having a discussion.”
A replied tsk only nudged the flame. “No wonder you squint. You’re ruining your eyes writing in the dark.”
“The state of sudden darkness happened upon your arrival. And as far as the squinting goes, it’s an involuntary reaction to the concentration needed for my feeble attempt in understanding you.”
“It could be old age.” The prankish grin returned.
“Or an annoying pest disrespecting her elder.” A suspicious eyebrow raised. “Why are you out here? You’re usually chomping at the bit to poke at Johnny for an evening debate or to slay Jelly in a three-move chess game.”
A shrug of the shoulders, unfolding a solemn stillness on Kinsey’s face, served as her reply. She drew her feet up and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on her knees - a curtain drawn.
Scott’s eyes briefly touched his writing. Murdoch. Johnny. Teresa His gaze drifted back to his cousin. And Kinsey. All of us have had our share of wounds to let the light in.
Finishing his journal entry could wait. Leaning forward, Scott blew out the candle - the wick’s tip briefly displayed a glowing ember.
“Why did you do that?” Confusion laced Kinsey’s question.
“Well…” Scott slid his chair next to his little cousin. “We need enough darkness to see the stars.”
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