Free After Eli by Terry Kay

obsession with the fence. He had calculated well, but there was the price of his energy and it had tired him. Now, at last, he was alone on the farm. He lifted his face to the breeze and began to sing softly to himself as he walked toward the house:
    “I have loved you with poems… I have loved you with daisies… I have loved you with everything but love…”
    * * *
    The house was locked against him. He paced the length of the porch and fought the rage that exploded like pain in his head. This was Dora’s work. Staring, suspicious Dora. Bitch Dora. But it did not matter; it would be simple to pry the lock. It was his anger that bothered him. It would not be good to uncage the anger. He had worked too hard.
    He slipped the lock and searched the house quickly but found no sign of Eli’s treasure. Outside, it was beginning to rain and he left the house and went into the barn. He made a small fire in the iron stove and placed a pan of water on top to boil. He needed to relax, to think. He sat in a chair beside the stove and lit his pipe and watched the film of steam build over the water. He told himself he had not expected to find Eli’s money so easily, that only a fool would hide a great sum in a likely place. And Eli could not have been a fool. Lester Caufield had said as much and he knew it from the behavior of Rachel and Sarah and Dora. Eli would have been shrewd; hiding the money would have been a game with him and it would be found only when the riddle of his plotting was solved. Game against game, thought Michael. Game against game. And Eli was a worthy foe.
    He made a strong tea of sassafras root and stirred in a spoon of honey. The tea was rich and sweet. He lay across his bed and listened as the rain pelted the oak-shingled roof above him. The inside of the barn was dark in the storm and though the room built for Eli’s worker had been partitioned and the iron stove installed and a window cut in the side of the barn, a remote chill still swirled in the corners and over the rough wall planking. Michael placed the cup on the floor beside him and pulled a blanket over his legs. He closed his eyes and listened and his thoughts began to swim with the sounds of the storm. He saw Mama Ada, felt her fingers on his arm and smelled the damp warning of death. Sarah’s laughter. Dora watching him—knowing. Yes, he thought with amusement, Dora knows. Or thinks she knows. Far away, thunder rumbled like a growl and Rachel’s face rose in Michael’s mind, smiled at him, then faded. The fence sang a falsetto whine in the wind. The well bucket blew over and clattered against the rock siding of the wellbox. He was above the house of Lester and Mary Caufield and the stream glittered like a sunflash. The rain fell hard, beating dully against the wood frame of the barn. Mary was under him, screaming. Sick, frightened Mary. So tight she bled and he had bruised himself in the shoving. A brilliant blink of lightning snapped its whiplash in the field below the house and Michael sat up abruptly in bed. He could feel himself growing full against his trousers and the cramped binding made him ache.
    He twisted on the bed and unbuttoned his trousers and freed himself. He lay back, touching himself lightly, and began a slow milking of the flared head. A pleasant, floating sensation grew in his chest. Suddenly, his body froze. A sound that was not a sound, but a prelude, whistled through the room. He buttoned his pants and rolled from the bed and caught the handle of his knife. He could hear the faint straining of chains and the scraping of wagon wheels. He slipped the knife back into its sheath and moved quietly across his room, into the barn and to the barn door.
    The wagon was driven by Floyd Crider. Rachel was with him, huddled under the makeshift tent of a heavy tarpaulin. The rain lashed at them in sheets and Floyd wrestled to control the frightened mules. He pulled the wagon close to the steps of the front porch and Rachel shook free