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birthright_rpgSomewhere in Texas, 1929
It was raining. That was the first thing.
Ruben was lying on his left side when he opened his eyes, and he lay there for a minute before realizing that there was already an inch of water in the ditch. He had dirt in his mouth. His clothes were filthy and soaked. He was cold.
He tried to sit up, and it took a bit for his muscles to cooperate. Had he passed out again? He remembered the bottle he'd stolen in the last town, stolen and drank while sitting in an abandoned barn. He tilted his face up towards the sky and opened his mouth, allowing the rain in. He spat out the soil, clearing his mouth. He was still cold.
One hand grabbed onto a root protruding from the inside of the ditch, and he hauled himself out in a tangle of arms and legs. He was tall and thin, five-ten in bare feet. The rain was coming down steadily. Ruben tried to gather his thoughts. He plucked at the leg of his sodden pants, hitched up the cuff. The ankle shackle was still there, an iron band around his leg as a reminder of where he'd been. He scowled at it, let the wet fabric fall back into place.
Brother Malachi was a tall, imposing man, much taller than his followers. He'd been wearing a long black frock coat and wide-brimmed black hat as he gave his sermon. Faith healing. Snake handling. Speaking in tongues, It had reminded Ruben of his childhood in Tulsa. Pa had done a little preaching himself, at least before everything turned to dust and the family scattered like ashes. Besides, a loud, noisy crowd was the perfect place to hide until the law dogs stopped looking.
"Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod..."
He was up on unsteady legs, walking towards lights. It was raining harder now. One of his shoes was coming apart. The remaining links of chain attached to the shackle clinked as he walked. He was remembering things, but just flashes. Brother Malachi had called for people to help strike the tent. He'd raised his hand because there had been money and food on offer. He'd had plans to hop a train for California, get away from the Bowl for good. The ocean sounded mighty fine to him.
The next thing he'd known, the man's black coat had been flapping like a bat's wings, and he'd done.....something to him. That was a blur. Which was probably for the best, because right now he didn't want to remember. His hair dripped water down the back of his already sodden shirt. His hands were opening and closing.
"Yes, we'll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river..."
His shoe self-destructed, and he stumbled in the dark when he tripped over a solid object. Ruben went to his knees with a curse, then looked up at the sky. His fingers raked furrows in the wet earth. He pushed himself to his feet, walked on. The lights were closer. He was freezing.
And now he remembered what had happened.
It was a ramshackle house, and a girl of about fourteen opened the door a crack when Ruben banged on it. The eye he could see squinted at his dirty clothes, and a nasal voice inside shouted, "Close the God-forsaken door, Beaulah, you're lettin' the rain in!"
"There's a man out here, Maw," the girl answered, still squinting up at him. Ruben shoved unruly hair out of his face, crouched down so he could make eye contact. "Let me in, little Missus," he said in a low voice. The sound of the rain almost drowned out the words. "I want a piece of floor to sleep on until this lets up, and then I'll push off."
"He wants to come in, Maw," Beaulah said uncertainly, and a short, fat little man lumbered into view. "The hell you want?" "A place to sleep," Ruben answered in a strangely placid voice. He spread his hands out, lifting his arms to either side of his body. Crucifxion style. He could hear the rain and the thump-thump-thump of the man's pulse. "I got a gun," the man grunted. "You won't have to use it."
"Lord God, Thomas, let the man in!" the nasal voice said, from close range this time. The rain had turned into a downpour. "He'll drown or freeze if'n ya don't."
The door opened further, and Thomas looked Ruben up and down. The girl had disappeared, apparently into the only other room in the house. "C'mon in, but just for one night," he said with ill grace. "I ain't runnin' no charity ward."
"Yessir." Ruben stepped into the house, shook himself like a dog. There was a smoky fire going. He scratched the side of his neck. The bite itched.
And he was starving.
It was raining. That was the first thing.
Ruben was lying on his left side when he opened his eyes, and he lay there for a minute before realizing that there was already an inch of water in the ditch. He had dirt in his mouth. His clothes were filthy and soaked. He was cold.
He tried to sit up, and it took a bit for his muscles to cooperate. Had he passed out again? He remembered the bottle he'd stolen in the last town, stolen and drank while sitting in an abandoned barn. He tilted his face up towards the sky and opened his mouth, allowing the rain in. He spat out the soil, clearing his mouth. He was still cold.
One hand grabbed onto a root protruding from the inside of the ditch, and he hauled himself out in a tangle of arms and legs. He was tall and thin, five-ten in bare feet. The rain was coming down steadily. Ruben tried to gather his thoughts. He plucked at the leg of his sodden pants, hitched up the cuff. The ankle shackle was still there, an iron band around his leg as a reminder of where he'd been. He scowled at it, let the wet fabric fall back into place.
Brother Malachi was a tall, imposing man, much taller than his followers. He'd been wearing a long black frock coat and wide-brimmed black hat as he gave his sermon. Faith healing. Snake handling. Speaking in tongues, It had reminded Ruben of his childhood in Tulsa. Pa had done a little preaching himself, at least before everything turned to dust and the family scattered like ashes. Besides, a loud, noisy crowd was the perfect place to hide until the law dogs stopped looking.
"Shall we gather at the river, where bright angel feet have trod..."
He was up on unsteady legs, walking towards lights. It was raining harder now. One of his shoes was coming apart. The remaining links of chain attached to the shackle clinked as he walked. He was remembering things, but just flashes. Brother Malachi had called for people to help strike the tent. He'd raised his hand because there had been money and food on offer. He'd had plans to hop a train for California, get away from the Bowl for good. The ocean sounded mighty fine to him.
The next thing he'd known, the man's black coat had been flapping like a bat's wings, and he'd done.....something to him. That was a blur. Which was probably for the best, because right now he didn't want to remember. His hair dripped water down the back of his already sodden shirt. His hands were opening and closing.
"Yes, we'll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river..."
His shoe self-destructed, and he stumbled in the dark when he tripped over a solid object. Ruben went to his knees with a curse, then looked up at the sky. His fingers raked furrows in the wet earth. He pushed himself to his feet, walked on. The lights were closer. He was freezing.
And now he remembered what had happened.
It was a ramshackle house, and a girl of about fourteen opened the door a crack when Ruben banged on it. The eye he could see squinted at his dirty clothes, and a nasal voice inside shouted, "Close the God-forsaken door, Beaulah, you're lettin' the rain in!"
"There's a man out here, Maw," the girl answered, still squinting up at him. Ruben shoved unruly hair out of his face, crouched down so he could make eye contact. "Let me in, little Missus," he said in a low voice. The sound of the rain almost drowned out the words. "I want a piece of floor to sleep on until this lets up, and then I'll push off."
"He wants to come in, Maw," Beaulah said uncertainly, and a short, fat little man lumbered into view. "The hell you want?" "A place to sleep," Ruben answered in a strangely placid voice. He spread his hands out, lifting his arms to either side of his body. Crucifxion style. He could hear the rain and the thump-thump-thump of the man's pulse. "I got a gun," the man grunted. "You won't have to use it."
"Lord God, Thomas, let the man in!" the nasal voice said, from close range this time. The rain had turned into a downpour. "He'll drown or freeze if'n ya don't."
The door opened further, and Thomas looked Ruben up and down. The girl had disappeared, apparently into the only other room in the house. "C'mon in, but just for one night," he said with ill grace. "I ain't runnin' no charity ward."
"Yessir." Ruben stepped into the house, shook himself like a dog. There was a smoky fire going. He scratched the side of his neck. The bite itched.
And he was starving.