The Fields Tinged with Red

The Fields Tinged with Red-4

There was a word for what Nick was feeling as he gazed out at the fields the next day and Teddy prepared to take the fatal shot, and that word was ambedo: a melancholic trance in which one could become so completely absorbed by the sensory details of their surroundings—the wind massaging the green hills so that they undulated like sea anemones or the red-gold chiaroscuro sky lending palette and poetry to everything or the sun glaring over the horizon like a burning but indifferent god—that they forgot what they were doing or even why they were there. That’s what had happened to him the first time he’d watched Silent Jim so intently across the field (and then proceeded to completely miss his target) and it’s what was happening to him again now—that is, until Teddy squeezed the trigger, and nothing happened.

Or next to nothing. In fact, there was a slight jolt, just an impotent click. Either way, it was clear to Nick that Selena had changed her mind sometime in the night and emptied the magazine of bullets yet again.

“Okay, what the f**k is this?” said Teddy— unusually calm, absolutely livid. He ejected the clip and peered into it. Once. Twice.

“Huh?” He looked at Selena and Nick. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” said Selena, calmly, and shook her head. “It’s how it’s going to be.”

He moved to speak but paused—as though words would never be enough—then disappeared into the house ... after which they heard bookcases crashing and glass shattering.

“You’ll never find them,” called Selena through the doors. “And if that was the other lantern we are now without light. So thanks.”

She started to go in but was stopped by Nick, who had gently gripped her arm. “You’re playing with fire—you know that. What I want to know is, why?”

But she just shook her head and looked out at the field—at the raptor; which a glance told him was still present—still watching.

And then Teddy was there—he was right there—grabbing him by the neck and wrestling him around roughly; holding a paring knife to his throat as he glared at Selena. “You got about 10 seconds to find those bullets, b***h, or Hawkeye here is going to be cracking jokes through a tracheotomy. Okay? Got it?”

“Look, I can explain—”

“Explain it to him when he’s bleeding,” he snapped, his voice like sparks running along a fuse, and pressed the blade against Nick’s throat. “Just bring me those f*****g bullets.”

“Okay, okay—okay; just ... just don’t hurt him. Please. They’re—they’re in the urn.” She indicated the French doors. “On the mantle. It’ll take me, like, five seconds. I swear.”

“Move,” he said.

And she did; move, that is—ducking into the house and returning with a white, ovoid urn, which she emptied onto the floorboards. Handing him the bullets, which were covered in sweat and ash.

“Now wipe them off and put them into the clip ... dammit, I showed you how to do it, now do it!”

And she did it; loading the clip and sliding it into the stock, just as he’d shown her—as he’d shown them—handing him the weapon as he reached out and snatched it and then shoved Nick toward her.

“There now, see? I don’t know about you but I feel, like, a million times better.” He chambered a round but didn’t aim the gun. “And you’re going to feel better with me in charge, trust me. Because you’re both pretty f*****g worthless.” He glanced at the raptor, at Silent Jim—who’d crept still closer—and smiled. “Isn’t he beautiful?” He moved over to the railing and paused. “Oh yuh; going to look mighty handsome when he’s mounted over that mantle, that I can tell you. And all that beef I saved? It’s going to taste so good—you’re going to love it. That is; if I let you stay. That is, if I don’t just cook you after the beef.”

He rested his elbow on the railing and aimed at the raptor, then looked at them over his shoulder. “Because it all comes down to weak versus strong—ultimately. Foxes and rabbits. And if there’s one thing this ex-con and farm boy knows how to do—it’s butcher rabbits.”

And then he squeezed the trigger (and clearly missed) even as Selena rushed forward and snatched up the knife and plunged it into his neck—and Nick grabbed the rifle. Then he began hemorrhaging as she stabbed him again and again and Nick beat him with the Garand: pummeling him like a maniac, like a meth-crazed lunatic; continuing even when something hard flecked his face (which he thought might be a dental filling); pounding and pounding until something moist entered his eye and he tasted copper; tasted blood.

After which, deliriously, Nick could only stare down at what they’d done; even as something hard and white—something brittle, like a vase—shattered against the side of his skull. And then there were stars.

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