LITMIR.BIZ

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my name. I blurt out, “You know my brother!”

      The bullet catcher looks out at the rain, coming down harder than before, turning the clearing to slurry. “I knew him,” he says, finally. “It was his dream to become a bullet catcher. But he was undisciplined, angry. He wasn’t interested in training. It was too painful for him.” The bullet catcher is silent for a time, just looking at the rain. “And in the end,” he says, “the training killed him.”

      The air goes out of me. The canvas, pitter-pattering with rain, turns into a kaleidoscope of color. I lie back down and close my eyes. The sound of rain surrounds and envelops me. I hope it comes down so hard that it floods this place. I want the water to carry us down the mountain and throw us against the rocks until all our bones are broken and we are nothing but blood and torn skin and mud. I’ve been living with Nikko’s death for six years, but now, after this brief moment of hope, it’s like he’s died all over again.

      “He spoke of you often,” the bullet catcher says beyond the sound of rain, his voice almost apologetic. Perhaps he says more, but his voice is indistinguishable from the rain, a white noise through which nothing else can penetrate.

      • • •

      I sleep without realizing it. There are no benefits to this kind of sleep, full of so much blackness. When I open my eyes the rain has stopped, but the smell of it hangs in the air, crisp and clean and earthy. The sun shines through the canvas, making the air golden and warm. The bullet catcher is outside, fixing his fire pit, drying his rocking chair.

      “You passed out,” the bullet catcher says when I join him.

      I nod.

      “Your wound is bad. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

      “You don’t have to make excuses for me.”

      He merely nods again.

      “How can I help?”

      “The best thing for you is rest. You will heal quicker. Then you will leave. Same as before.”

      “I’d like to help. To thank you.” Maybe it’s impossible to get him to train me. Maybe it’s a foolish child’s dream. But even so, there’s no way I’m leaving without him telling me everything he knows about Nikko.

      The bullet catcher scans his camp, half destroyed by the rain, before resting his gaze on me. His eyes are soft, almost kind. “There is much to do. It will be hard work in your condition.” He pauses “But hard work is seldom without reward.”

      2.

      The bullet catcher doesn’t rest. He moves slowly, but constantly. Over the months that I spend with him, healing from my gunshot wound, I become his shadow. When he wakes before the sun, I’m right behind him. When he goes into the woods to check the traps, I’m there, asking questions. I’m there when he skins the fur from the wolves caught in the traps. I help as he hangs the hides in the sun to dry. He cuts the meat from the bone in a way that draws hardly any blood. He saves the bones and shows me how to suck the marrow from them. He salts and preserves the meat. Nothing of the animal goes to waste.

      There are no seasons in the desert. The weather changes from hot to not quite as hot and then back again. Up on the mountain, fall slowly turns to winter. When the dawn breaks, brisk, with only the promise of light, I go down to the lake to bathe. I find a large smooth rock just beneath the surface of the water and sit. The thin film of ice breaks away as I disturb the water, so cold that I want to jump out and run for my clothes, run back to camp, where I know the bullet catcher will just then be feeding branches into the fire. So I take a large flat rock and balance it on my lap to keep me anchored. Like the bullet catcher, I find a small dimpled rock and scratch the dirt from my skin in little circles.

      The skin where the bullet pierced me is pink and rough, but it’s finally closed. It still hurts when I breathe deeply, but the pain is only an echo of its former self. I pass my fingers over the scar, regretting how fast it’s healed. Every day, I’ve examined the wound in the old, cracked hand mirror the bullet catcher uses for shaving and ticked off the days in my mind. Soon he will force me out.

      I’m still shivering as I head back into camp. The fire crackles. A pot of coffee boils and steams above it. The bullet catcher gives a curt nod as he heads down to the lake for his turn. By the time he returns the coffee is ready. He pours out two mugs and hands me one.

      We’ve honed this routine over the months and, dare I say, I think he’s taken a shine to my being here, our little morning ritual of coffee and near silence before the work of the day begins.

      He sips, sits in his chair, pulls out his pipe, and begins cleaning the bowl with a knife. “Your wound has healed,” he says. “It’s time you were moving on.” He packs the bowl with tobacco, lights it, and puffs a zero into the air.

      “It still hurts when I breathe,” I stammer. I pull my shirt down one shoulder to reveal the spot above the collarbone where the skin is still raw.

      He raises his hand to stop me and says, “You will have food enough and water to make it down the mountain. You helped with the hunting and preserving. You have earned your share.”

      “I have earned more than that.” My face is hot despite the cool mountain morning.

      He puffs calmly on his pipe and says, “You are young and without ties. I offer you enough food and water to get to town. From there you can go any direction you wish. You could even go north, out of the desert, for as few ties as you have to the Southland.”

      “You talk like it’s a blessing to be an orphan.”

      “There are blessings and misfortunes to every walk of life. The orphan is lonely, but weightless, and can fly anywhere. A person from a large family is tied to others, but also to the ground, and finds it difficult to travel.”

      “And if I tie myself to you?”

      “This is not the life for you.” He had been watching the smoky zeroes as they floated skyward and unraveled, but now he looks at me and says grimly, “Your brother came to understand that, but too late.”

      “You’ve already been teaching me, whether you realize it or not.” I take a deep breath and say, “I’ve learned to trap, and clean wounds. I’ve learned to build a fire. I’ve learned so much.”

      “This was your brother’s dream. Not yours. I advise you to find a dream of your own.”

      “And what would you recommend? What opportunities do you think there are for a girl in places like Sand or any of the other one-horse towns in the Southland? Dishwasher? Bartender? Prostitute? I’d rather die.”

      The bullet catcher studies me. Smoke curls up out of his nose. “You should know the consequences of the decision you are about to make. To be a bullet catcher is to be an outlaw. You will be hated. You will be feared. If you are lonely now, you will be lonelier still. You will most likely die young. There will be pain that I cannot describe.”

      He looks at me, his eyes studying my face, judging every twitch and tiny reaction. “Now,” he says. “Does that sound better or worse than being a dishwasher?”

      Though I know I shouldn’t, I look down at my boots. They’re polished and mended—another skill the bullet catcher has taught me in my time with him. I don’t want him to see how frightened I am by his words, just in case it shows on my face. I take a breath, summon my courage, look him in the eyes, and say, “It’s not about better or worse. This is what I want.”

      “Have you ever heard of the merchant’s curse?” he asks.

      I shake my head.

      “The merchant’s curse is to get everything you ever wanted.”

      “Doesn’t sound like much of a curse,” I say.

      He looks at me for a long time, then simply says, “Very well.”

      • • •

      We wake before dawn

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