Michael Rode The Butter Shore

by JoaniePaiute

Adam had a song stuck in his head. That wasn’t unusual; Adam nearly always had a song running through his mind, and sometimes one would stay there for days. One time he’d had “Tom Dooley” stuck there for two weeks straight, and it had nearly driven him insane—mostly because he didn’t like the song. There weren’t many songs Adam disliked, but “Tom Dooley” was one of them. Those gruesome lyrics, set to such a cheery tune—he supposed it was meant to be ironic, but it made his teeth ache.

Mercifully, the current song was one that he liked. A lot. He could remember the first time he’d ever heard it; he’d been five or six, and the wagon train had put in at a town called Beaver Crick. (He remembered that, too; Pa had called it “Beaver Creek,” and the wagon train guide had corrected him.) Adam had held Inger’s hand as they’d walked down the boardwalk planks in front of the few stores. He’d held her hand not because he was afraid, but because having her—having a mother—had been a new sensation, a wonderful sensation, and he simply enjoyed touching her. They’d paused in front of the livery stable, listening to a muscular black man sing as he shod a horse.

“Michael, row de boat ashore, alleluia,” the man had sung in a tenor strong and true. “Michael, row de boat ashore, allelu-u-ia.” The words had hung suspended in the crisp spring air, and Inger and Adam had both swayed in time to the tune. The man had looked up from his work, and his eyes had crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

As they’d walked away, Adam had asked Inger, “Where’s the Butter Shore?” He’d misheard the words as, “Michael rode the butter shore,” and had pictured a broad-shouldered black man on a white steed, riding along a seashore made of white butter instead of sand. Adam liked butter on his bread almost as much as he liked jam—and since he really, truly loved jam, that was saying a lot.

Now, though, butter and jam were the farthest things from his mind. The only thing in the front of his mind was water. That and the song that was stuck in his head, providing a rhythm for his feet as he trudged across the endless dunes. Gritty, blistering sand stretched out in all directions, unbroken by river or “crick,” unblemished by any spot of green or blue or red. Sand, blindingly white and unforgiving, underneath a sky so pale it too was almost white.

Keeping step to the song in his head, Adam trudged on, because trudging was the only way to get out of this desert. Maybe get out, he amended, and tightened his grip on the handles of the rude travois he was dragging. Grimly, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. His throat was far too dry to sing or even hum, but he heard the words clearly in his mind.

Michael, row the boat ashore.
(Step.)
Alleluia.
(Step.)
Michael, row the boat ashore.
(Step.)
Allelu-u-ia.

Behind him, tied securely to the travois, Peter Kane grew heavier with every step. The sensible thing would be to drop him—or it. If Kane had died by now, Adam’s burden was only a body, an “it,” not a “he” anymore. And if he hadn’t died, why was Adam bent on saving him? Kane’s reaction to mercy would be scorn, not gratitude.

I’m not doing it to earn gratitude, Adam thought, not daring to drop the travois handles to check on Kane. If he dropped them, he might never pick them up again. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing to do. He clenched the poles more tightly, ignoring the blisters on his palms and the ache in his fingers.

Brother, help to mend the boat.
(Step.)
Alleluia.
(Step.)
Brother, help to mend the boat.
(Step.)
Allelu-u-ia.

For a moment, Adam allowed himself to think of his brothers. He’d heard them and Pa several days ago, calling his name. Kane, of course, had prevented him from answering, and the voices had gradually faded away. For the moment, Adam’s hope had faded with them, but hope had returned, along with a determination to escape. Hope…another thing that separates man from beast, he mused now, continuing to set one foot in front of the other in time to the song in his head.

Sister, help to trim the sail.
(Step.)
Alleluia.
(Step.)
Sister, help to trim the sail.
(Step.)
Allelu-u-ia.

His thoughts flitted across the years, and the faces of women appeared in his mind’s eye and drifted away again. Inger, of course, and Marie. Sue Ellen, Regina, Ruth. Inger again. What would they think of his predicament? What would they think of the game Kane had played with him, and of Adam’s final response to the game? Had Kane proven, after all, that Adam was more beast than man? Certainly Regina would define what Adam had done as attempted murder…or would she? Even Adam hadn’t known what he would do until the moment had come. And if a man couldn’t entirely know himself, how could he predict what another person would do or think? How could Adam begin to know what Regina or anyone else would say to him now? Man was alone inside his body after all. The thought made Adam shiver in the desert heat.

River Jordan is chilly and cold.
(Step.)
Alleluia.
(Step.)
Kills the body but not the soul.
(Step.)
Allelu-u-ia.

Was it “kills the body” or “chills the body”? He couldn’t remember, but underneath the blazing disk of a sun, the word “chills” carried no meaning. It was only a nonsensical syllable, like Marie’s baby talk to Joe, or Hop Sing’s comical tyrades. Adam’s skin was so dry it had ceased to sweat, and he thought he could feel his blood simmering in his veins. His parched tongue had swollen to fill his mouth, and he’d stopped swallowing hours ago. Earlier in the day, he’d sucked on pebbles to stimulate his saliva, but by now there was simply no saliva to stimulate.

But “kills the body”…that hit home. Kane’s weight pulled on his cramped fingers and threatened to drag his arms from their sockets. Was the man still breathing? If not, Adam had killed his body, broken it irreparably, stopped it as easily as halting the ticking of a grandfather clock by holding the pendulum still.

“…but not the soul.” If Kane’s body had stopped ticking, then what about his soul? Had it flown the coop, left the barn, kicked the bucket? Idioms for death paraded through his mind like a line of waddling ducks. Half-hallucinating, he watched those ducks toddle toward a clear, agonizingly wet lake. Uselessly, he licked his lips with his swollen tongue.

The imaginary ducks splashed into the water one by one, and inexplicably disappeared beneath its surface. Adam frowned, wondering where they’d gone. Then he shook his head to clear it. They aren’t real, he told himself. Kane is real, and he’s on that travois behind me. Or was he? Was he still there, or had he gone to glory…or hellfire…or nothingness? Pa was so certain about heaven and hell; right now, Adam envied him that certainty.

River Jordan is deep and wide.
(Step.)
Alleluia.
(Step.)
Milk and honey on the other side.
(Step.)
Allelu-u-ia.

Forget milk and honey, Adam thought wistfully. I’d kill for a little of that River Jordan right now. He cringed inwardly at the flippant murderous expression, but only inwardly. He held his body rigidly in control, not allowing it the luxury of another shudder that might weaken his grip on the travois. Step. One foot. Another. Step again. Alleluia, he thought. Alleluia, damn it. Rivers and sand, boats and butter, drifted through his fevered brain.

Michael rode the butter shore.
(Step.)
Alleluia.
(Step.)
Michael rode the butter shore.
(Step.)
Allelu-u-ia

“Adam!” he heard, and for a moment he thought the word was only in his mind, like the constant song or the vision of waddling ducks. But the voice came again, louder and closer, and Adam paused in mid-step to squint up at the white-yellow horizon. At first he saw only sand blending into pale sky, but then Pa’s burly frame came into focus, sliding, skidding, running across the butter-sand toward him. Two shadows ran to catch up with him: Hoss and Joe. Adam’s knees quivered, and the next thing he knew, he’d collapsed into Pa’s arms, cradled like a baby. Water from a canteen was running across his chin and into his open mouth and—oh, alleluia!—down his raw and burning throat. He gave a feeble croak and snatched at the canteen, but Pa held it just out of his reach. “Easy, son,” he said, and at the tender tone, Adam broke. He didn’t deserve tenderness. He didn’t deserve water. He didn’t deserve…

Vaguely he heard Hoss say that Kane was dead, and then he heard himself babbling, “I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to kill him.” Pa looked at Hoss and Joe, then back at Adam, obviously bewildered. Adam wanted to make Pa understand, make them all understand, but how could he? He struggled to find the words, grasping at a series of antonyms that did no good: man, beast, human, animal, mercy, vengeance, heaven, hell…He choked out again, “I didn’t want to kill him.”

Pa didn’t answer, just held the canteen to Adam’s lips again. Instinct made him suck greedily, even as he told himself he didn’t deserve it. The water was lukewarm but so much cooler than the air around them that it felt like…like Christmas, he thought. Water for Christmas, and he almost laughed. He reached again for the canteen, and this time Pa let him take it. Controlling himself with an effort, he sipped slowly and felt the water slide down his throat, as smooth as butter. That made him think again of good old Michael, a glistening, black warrior-angel, charging on an ivory steed across a butter shore.

Alleluia, Adam thought desperately, and began to sob again. The word rang hollow, but he thought it anyway, a fierce and silent incantation against the beast. Alleluia, damn it. Allelu-u-ia.