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Tradition

Walker Manning Hughes

    The squat gray mare lurched and pedalled, fighting to gain the crest of the rocky slope. Foamy sweat lathered her neck and shoulders from the urgent push across the flats, making it hard for John Thomas to hold his seat. There hadn't been time for a saddle, and the boy's face contorted as if it alone could maintain his place by sheer force of will. Crimson hair swayed in a silent rhythm over the boy's twelve-year-old frame.
    “Come on girl. Get up now,” John Thomas encouraged. If he didn't hurry, and if the newborn was a boy child, he might never see his grandpap again.
    The horse, near blind in her pre-dawn exertion, trusted the boy and pushed forward. At the summit she stumbled. John Thomas heard a vicious crack!, and felt a sharp intake of breath between his legs.
    “Not far, Sadie. Let's go,” he said, but he knew it was no use. A tear broke free of the well swelling his eyes and he slid from his slick seat. Only then did the horse go down. A throaty, agonized cry broke the quiet of the morning, as near hopeless and human as the boy had ever heard. The mare despised the pain and tried to find her feet.
    “No, no. Stay there girl. You did good. You did good.” The boy caressed his friend's head and saw her front leg bent in a way it never should have been. White bone grinned inside a violent red gash. The rock that had turned lay there, its green belly basking in the long forgotten morning breeze. The hole it left behind crawled with armored centipedes, their hundreds of pumping legs mocking the powerful beast that had been cut down to their base level.
    “I don't have my rifle,” John Thomas said into the wind. He knew he had to end the horse's pain. He turned and broke into a run, wanting to fly the last half-mile into town.
    He had two pressing reasons to find his grandpap now.

    The ancient church bell tolled, calling the town to gather, and the boy appeared to be just another excited resident as he pushed through the dusty street.
    “John Thomas, wait!” a voice called, and the boy turned to see a frail, apple-cheeked girl of ten running towards him. She clutched her skirts with one hand and a ragged, floppy-eared puppy with the other.
    “Sarah Mae. I’ve no time now.”
    “But it’s terrible, cousin,” the girl said. “Pa’s to drown my baby!” She waved the little dog as evidence.
    John Thomas stopped. “What? That doesn’t sound like Seth Daniel.”
    “He’s not hisself. She made her water right on his boot, and he can’t stand it. She’s barely weaned, and not even named. You’ve gotta help!”
    “Here, give her to me,” John Thomas said. “I’ll keep her safe, but I’ve got worse troubles right now and you’re slowing me, girl.” The shivering pup yelped once, but snuggled in for warmth when held close. “I’ve got to find grandpap.”
    “Everybody’ll be at the church. They say Mary Grace is birthing. They say it’ll be a boy.”
    “If it is, we may never speak to grandpap again.” John Thomas turned and hurried towards the town’s center with Sarah Mae struggling to keep up. There was a crowd already gathered, pushing through the double oaken doors of the long, low church.
    “Have you seen Josiah William?” John Thomas asked anyone who would listen. Eventually a woman pointed into the building.
    “We’ll never get in there,” Sarah Mae said.
    “Come on.”
    The pair ran to a back wall, where a window stood open. Soon they were inside, with the little puppy tucked into the boy’s coat. They found the sanctuary and went in.
    “There he is!” Sarah Mae said after a moment.
    Several men huddled near a podium at the head of a press of townsfolk. A woman was there in a wheeled chair, a blanket wrapped bundle in her arms.
    “Grandpap!” John Thomas said. A white-bearded man with creased, knowing eyes turned. A six shooter swung on his hip and on the hips of many of the men there, a rare sight inside the holy place and a testament to their willingness to do what had to be done.
    “Boy, does your mother know you’ve come?” the older man said.
    “No, sir,” John Thomas said. “But I had to. And now something terrible’s happened.”
    “What is it, boy?”
    “It’s Sadie,” John Thomas said. He fought hard to stay steady, to be a man for his grandpap. But before he could finish explaining about his horse, a rotund man stepped forward and jostled a small, hand-held bell. The Mayor. Everyone grew quiet and the frustrated boy’s grandpap shushed him with a wave.
    “Good people,” the mayor called with raised hands. “Today has brought us a new member to our little community. A child, naked and with nothing, who seeks to make a place among us. To take an identity that can be respected and cherished.” There were several nods from the onlookers. “Some say we are a backward town, that we are old-fashioned. But I say a child has a right to a decent name.” Cheers exploded from the crowd. The bundle held by the woman let out a squall at the unexpected outburst. The mayor leaned to whisper in the woman’s ear, and she raised the bundle over her head. The noise subsided in anticipation and the blanket was pulled back.
    “A boy child,” the mayor proclaimed.
    A concentrated hush settled over the town. “There are no male names left behind, and not for a hundred years has this question been asked. Who will name this child?”
    “I will,” a clear voice said, and John Thomas saw his grandpap step forward.
    “No!” the boy yelled, but no one turned his way.
    “By what right do you claim this honor?” the mayor said.
    “By right of age. I am the eldest.”
    The mayor paused to allow anyone to refute the claim. When no one spoke, he went on.
    “What name will you give the child?”
    “The name that was given me. A name that has been handed down for generations on end, and carried with honor.” The white-bearded man took another careful step. The woman handed the angry red baby to him, and he raised it even higher for everyone to see.
    John Thomas felt the earth shift under his feet. The puppy in his coat gave a quick jerk and the boy stared at it absently.
    “I name this child.,” his grandpap said. “From this day until another takes it, let him bear the name of Josiah William.”
    The baby stopped his fussing, as if he understood the importance of what had happened to him. The crowd let out one cheer of approval, and grew quiet once again. They parted to make a lane for the old man. He walked to the door, and as he passed, each person turned to show him their back. He was a nobody now. He had no name.
    John Thomas felt his heart shatter. He didn’t want to turn, didn’t want to disregard his grandpap. But he knew he must. He couldn’t dishonor tradition and his own good name, and he couldn’t belittle the old man’s sacrifice.
    In a loud voice he said, “If anyone here can hear me, and loves me as I do him, help me now! My horse Sadie lies up on South Ridge with a broken leg. She needs tending to.” He saw his grandpap pause for a moment, and without looking give a slight, almost imperceptible nod. John Thomas swayed on his feet as he turned to present his back to his grandpap.
    The crowd stood as the old man made his way out of town. John Thomas stayed still until they began to break up.
    After about twenty minutes, the long rolling report of a gunshot broke the calm, warming air. John Thomas looked at the little ragged puppy.
    “From this day until another takes it, you will bear the name of Sadie,” he said. Tears streaked his face. After another few moments, a second shot sounded, clear and final.
    The boy turned and found the end of a dwindling line of people. Numb, he waited to pay his respects to the child called Josiah William.



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