Is our story, this sad tale, one of unending misery and betrayal? Of men and women driven to excess and further beyond even that? Of incivility and blood and sin and outrage and the premature termination of far too many tomorrows? Is there not hope? Is there not love? Are there not gentler things?
The Fruitful Plains are an oasis, there is no other way to in which to give it illustration. A bountiful, vibrant oasis of clean grass, temperate clime, healthy critters and cattle, and fresh water from a handful of hidden underground springs.
The residences within the Fruitful Plain are spread out in concentric circles and in the center lies a place for commerce and camaraderie with a thoroughfare so clean not even the horses dare shit upon it. Those that inhabit the Fruitful Plain consider themselves blessed and protected for even though they make targets both ripe and sweet great misfortune befalls all who try to enter with ill intention in their hearts. Savages are felled by illness, marauders torn asunder by wind, water, and thunder, thieves deciding at the very last moment to seek their score elsewheres.
Holly Kellwood Madison steps out of her home and stares out over the sloping plain, the wind a kind friend to her almond hair. She had come so far that she found it utterly incredible she was here: on a peaceful plain with her cool wind and nothing but love in her heart.
To the right of her front stoop, a little ways off stands a white tree of undetermined species with bluish green leaves and thing branches. At its base is a tiny tombstone into which are chiseled this words, "Charles Madison. Devoted Husband. Kindest of Fathers."
Holly turns to the stone and offers it a sad smile.
"Mama?"
A young girl who has seen only five Summers swings her way outside on crutches, her left extremity having unfortunately been found wanting in contest 'gainst an overturned carriage.
"Mama? Are we not to have supper?"
"Silly girl. As long as these four walls stand there shall always be supper for you and I."
Holly stirs a medley of beans, potatoes, and carrots on the stove. Next to it the chicken further browns in a frying pan. And little Thistle Madison pencils drawings into a tiny journal.
"And what finds result from your imagination this time, my love?"
"I am drawing the exquisite Miss Marigold Ollyganger in a fine dress."
"She must go to many great parties."
"She is a raccoon in human clothes, mother. She is not invited to any parties."
"That seems sad."
"Oh, it isn't! She sneaks in anyhows!"
Eating across from her daughter and taking in her natural auburn curls and wet chestnut eyes, Holly can only fixate on the instinctual mastication of her chicken else she might very well weep with gladness--and gladness or sorrow is not easily distinguished by the young.
Holly cleans up the scraps and the plates whilst Thistle awaits her in her bedroom.
"Mama? I'm waaiiiiting," her voice calls.
"Patience, sweetness. Almost complete."
In sitting up in bed while Thistle listens and smiles with eyes closed, Holly looks over her daughter's drawings and concludes an improvised bedtime story.
"...and so, after a most trying endeavor with Maxwell the Beagle, Miss Marigold Ollyganger was finally free to sneak into the town ball. She was costumed magnificently in a purple and green dress, a tiny and lacy purple hat, and a glittering emerald parasol. She met many fine friends that night under that far table in the corner, far from the eyes of humankind. And deep into the night they danced and danced and danced. Miss Marigold slept quiet as a mouse that night and that was good for tomorrow there would be another adventure."
Eyes still closed, Thistle says, "I believe that's my favorite story so far."
"I love you Thissy Missy."
"I love you too, mama. G'night."
Holly gives her daughter a light kiss, a gentle thing. Then she gets out of the bed and takes the candle with her.
"Mama? I found a metal star today."
"What?"
"A metal star like Sheriff Morgan wears. It was buried. It was cold, mama. It was very, very cold. I left it there. Too cold."
Words almost catch in Holly's throat. Almost. "It's warm in here, my darling. Very, very warm. Sweet dreams."
Holly grabs a spade from against the wall and a lantern, "Should have buried the goddamn thing deeper."
At the age of sixteen her father took her to an underground courtroom filled with people that had the mouths of beasts. Amidst her cries and pleas the judge swore her in, stifled her tongue, and blackened her heart. She received the accoutrements of her office and fastened them with purpose, topping it off with a wide black hat.
Her own father made her a Death Sheriff.
She stayed that way ten years before the strength of Charles Madison's heart filled hers with blood again.
Are there not gentler things?
Indeed there are.
But first they must crawl through Hell.
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