The Punished Separation

It was a lowly steppe, where rivers flowed only to dry, where lesser men went only to die. The moon forgot to shine on that desert as dusk fell. The rain flew past those empty basins. Seeing the frozen lakes up north it hurried – before the heat could catch up to it. The rabbits had been chased out of the arid plains by snakes long ago – they left their kits behind and the predators feasted on young forgotten delicacies. Nature is cruel everywhere, but if you followed the caravans up to the Dakota Territories you were begging for callousness.

Only the noblest of animals could live there, in solitary ranks: the bison, the snake, the vulture, the man. Small bushels of dried-up trees rolled alongside shovelfuls of dust, sprung up by the unheard wind. The only whistle blown through the night came from proud herders calling their old horses.

Schäfer was the least experienced of those ranchers, and yet, his old man had quickly discovered his knack for hunting bison. He caught the first Atlantic steamer dragged by his ankles. His mother, a pious woman who was never seen without her head covering, often played catch with Schäfer’s little hands:

“Get your tie, we’re going to Church whether you are sick or tired,” was a common refrain heard in the morning hours. The boy often leapt onto the living room floor, hitting his fists on the crooked wooden boards, groaning, “Kirche! Kirche!”

It was a contest he never won; that little whirl of a man was no match for a strong woman. Arms tempered by grueling farm work lifted the crying sack of potatoes, the young tuber desperately clung to her poor brown dress, closing his eyes and letting some angry tears slip, he wailed against that life giving breast – until he caught sight of his first genitor.

Fearing a whipping he sobbed gently and fell limp. Again this scene repeated itself on the walk up to the cramped cabins – “Amerika! Amerika!” – but instead of telling the boy to be quiet, the worried mother looked at the crashing waves in the distance. Her husband consoled her and they felt the whims of their child disappear, drowned out by the ocean’s somber song.

He grew between the kicks of dust and the sandy bluffs, and became a calm soul. His old man taught him patience, showing him the tricks of survival in a harsh steppe, a great host of Danubians kept him company. When work was a memory cut into callous hands, they used to sing such beautiful songs; they pierced the pleasant evening mood with their voices. A bunch of howling wolves they were. Brothers,
cousins, family friends, they stuck together and filled the emptiness of that desolate country, and it was good to be with your kind.

The young man always caught the first rays of the sun – he could hear the yellow giant’s steps sear the earth. Yet the sun was not there to be caught in the creases of his straw hat, covering a crest of stiff blonde hair. The bright days lit up his smile, nightfalls like these made his eyes a darker blue.

Our Midwest had no starry night, so the homeland gave its bright-eyed Volk. The elders saddled their mounts and kicked the loins; a tired convoy was on the march again, the cold land would lead them home on the paths they knew. Lazy hooves were waking up the soil from its slumber; the sod rolled and lied dormant again. No plough could wake that earth the young boy thought under his fur coat as the slow gallop lulled him to sleep.

Faint memories nudged his senses, the clicking of the horses’ irons made it easier, his eyes peered into a now distant shore. Accompanied by the lullaby of clops and thuds into the arid turf, Schäfer saw his earliest recollection. The great vessel’s machinery clanked against the crashing tides, a cacophony of screeching metal and ringing bells, the great Atlantic steamer was on full alert. Ropes were dangled from the top mast, the sailors hauled tools and trinkets around screaming,“Bewegung!”

When a man’s senses first start to emerge, like a chick bursting out of its shell, he searches for warmth. The young Kinder found the embrace of that pious heart and nuzzled her softly, he felt her soft hands embracing him and covering his new skin with blankets.

His mother’s love scrubbed the noise from his mind. He wanted to stay in that embrace forever. The boat’s clang gave him no rest; they were hurrying out of the cabin into the humid outside. How such delicate things turn cold, how pink tenderness becomes a darker shade of rivet skin. He had not forgotten his home, but he had forgotten its warmth for that while. The baby rancher gasped, the familiar embrace of his Mother twisted in a cold grasp, what is skin if not a pallid glove?

That glove turned into a soaked trap, he could not breathe, he swam, swim out of that tight embrace! Tread aside those gelid waters and cut through the wind of life! He woke up and coughed, he left his country behind for a handful of dirt now stuck in his throat. The dirt was different: it stuck to him like flour, it was wet. He uncurled his eyelids quickly and gave himself a soaked punch, spitting out the rapidly falling pour. He no longer found protection from the weak straw hat, the hailstorm reached into his scalp. He gasped for air, finally returning to reality.

“Was?” he asked himself fruitlessly. It had not rained in weeks, why now when they were heading back home? He whistled and no one whistled back, he whistled and the winds mocked him for trying, ripping him away from his bright ilk.

His body gave a slight tussle, recoil from his fits of choking. The horse thought nothing of it and hurried before that soil turned to mud. The stars gave no thought either and let their grey clad brethren cast the rain. Why did they choose that colder-than-iron night for a hunt? Why did the fixed suns not bother to shine for that company of rugged men?

The skies knew of them, they saw their birth and gave far-reaching gifts, yet the blue veil remained dim seeing its children pass. Sitting atop the firmament, Helios gathered light and said: “I see no sparks of men, only the glimmer of necessity.”

He cracked his terrifying whip and made the vultures scatter, the horses jump. For a moment you could see their muzzles shaking off the pouring rain under the blaze’s flicker.

The old world’s children passed the night seeking a way back, frantically searching for a Polaris hidden behind the clouds, the godly storm swelled under their cries of “Hilfe!”

They held onto their broad-brimmed leather hats and looked up, but no bright fixtures could be seen, the rain washed their wrinkles out. Sailing atop their saddles they invoked a prayer. Fate heard those begging men, and said, “They are no children of mine, I’ll turn away from them, for they made their own destiny on a boat years ago.”

They were like rustling leaves, upsetting the calm of that harsh plain. There were no gusts to give them flight, only the hail of a miracle cyclone. So the cracks of that fruitless soil were filled, Gaia woke and heard those ungrateful herders scrambling atop her back, the cracked soil let out a short gasp and bubbled up the mud, the stirring earth spoke through that brown sludge, “I will not guide them, they measure their steps by balancing blood.”

Balance that life they did. The elders whistled, calling for their child lost to sleep. They bit their lips and the wind cracked its lisp, no answer from their loved one. Furious storm, you are carried by that howling
devil called wind, you see how it breaks families apart! Takes grain from its stalk! Their heads were fixed dead ahead, they could not look anywhere but ahead of them.

“He will make it back,” Convincing themselves of having heard his bark, kicking the loins harder, the
horses’ tongues were breaking, they left their child behind for fear of their sacrifices waning. How quickly warm embraces turn into cold hearts.

Schäfer was alone, under the hail, under the thoughts of his home. He leaned over this horse and kicked, kicked again.

“Los! Los!”

That proud mare did all it could, but the world had other plans for that poor child. Thunder raged, the horse spun uncontrollably. Schäfer pulled his reigns to no avail, the hooves were sliding on the quick mud and not much was left to do other than brace for a hard fall. The horse’s joints caved in and the two animals rolled in a nearby ditch. The largest of them screamed, its mouth wide-open, letting a river of rain flow right into it as the roar echoed in that dark night. The other limping creature had to find refuge. Soaking and scared, he dug his nails into the nearby ditch, he got up and fell on his face again, his clothes were now heavy, mud-filled rags.

He kept limping until a flash of thunder showed him a small refuge. A bluff with a wide enough cover for three men, or a man and his horse. He thought fast and moved quicker, reaching the promised spot, the dry soil below him now never felt so soft.

He curled into his knees and waited for it all to pass…