Róisín Dubh

I look up at the empty horizon, the unbroken landscape. Not a tree. Not a mountain. Not a soul. The sun was over head again, it never seemed to move. I wipe my brow with my sleeve and look around at the rest of the crew. Twenty soulless men working on the Californian railway, most of them Irish immigrants, all of them dead inside. The captain in his royal blue Union uniform marches down the line inspecting our work. He stops and takes out his canteen. I watch on jealously as the water falls from his greedy mouth on to the barren ground. The thirsty earth drinks it up and in seconds the pool of water at his feet is gone. Licking my dry, cracked lips I stare at him and he stares back at me wiping his face with a smirk. Suddenly, behind him in the distance emerges a dark figure. I squint as the skyline shimmers in the stifling heat, then it is gone. The captain turns and follows my eye line and upon scanning the vacant, distant hills, turns around, puts his canteen away and tells me to get back to work. The man was a callous, right prick. I grab the metal bar and shove it under the heavy railway. I push down, and the line comes up. Quickly, another man whose name I never learned, grabs the ruined sleeper and replaces it with a brand new one. I drop the line back down and wipe my sweaty brow.
Three days ago, this whole track was razed by Indians, or so I was told. I had heard many stories about the natives before I came out here and I am sure some stories were true, but others seemed so far-fetched I wouldn’t be surprised if they were recited straight from a penny dreadful. Just the other day I had overheard one of the workers speak of a young Yankee who had his tongue cut out by a Comanche warrior, while another one cut his fingers off and ate them one by one. Savages I was told. They would kill ya, soon as see ya. I had only been on the tracks for a couple of weeks, but it felt so much longer. After a few days you stop counting. There was no concept of time out here, nothing aged in a place like this. The days blurred into the next, minutes feel like hours, hours feel like days. Some of the men had been out here for months and I’m told no one has ever lasted more than a year. That’s one story I didn’t doubt. Suddenly I notice a glimmer of sunlight twinkling from the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I see it. A black, shiny arrowhead is poking out of the dirt. I pick it up and rub it through my dirty palm, it couldn’t be bigger than a farthing, but it was light as a feather. I quickly pocket my newly found trinket as the captain’s call for lunch pierces the air. A welcome relief.
I sit down on the hard ground as the sun watches over us like a patient vulture. There is no shade. There was never any shade. We sat together and yet we were all alone. I bite into my ration of bread. Stale. Someone was playing a tin whistle, the sound of which wafts through the hot air. The soft Irish melody both joyful and solemn, nostalgically taking me back to my home country. For a brief second I could smell the dew of grass, see distance horses, and hear bird song on the wind. I watch the horizon. It calls to me. I could do it. I could run away. I think about it every day. We all did. The captain walks past dropping two coins at my feet which snaps me out of my homesick trance. I pick up the coins. Four cents. Four cents a day was all our lives were worth.

The noise of men working on the railway pollutes the otherwise hot, still air. Men cursing. Humans working. Souls dying. It was too hot to work but we don’t stop. We’re not allowed to as we don’t own our lives. I swing the hammer down and it hits the wood steak deep into the ground. The face of my dead wife flashes into my mind. The heat, it must be the heat. It’s makes you see things. I swing the hammer down once more. My wife is now standing in front of me, the wind blowing through her long, red hair. I shake the image out of my mind and try to concentrate on my work.
I grab another wooden steak and pace out 10 yards and hit it into the ground with one swing. Crack! She’s laughing as she playfully runs through the luscious field of grass. I can smell it. I can feel it between my toes. Her sundress flowing in the warm breeze, the sky shimmering like a waterfall. She stops running and beckons me to follow. I smile and longing for her touch I reach out to her.
‘Oi Williams! You fucking crazy bastard! Get back here!’
Suddenly, I open my eyes to see the youngest man in our crew named Williams running as fast as he can into the deserted wild. Everybody stops working and just watches him run to his freedom, or more likely his death. The captain gives chase but gives up quickly, realizing the futility in his endeavour.
 
A few days pass and everybody has forgotten about Williams, he’d be dead soon if he wasn’t already, but I haven’t. What if he found freedom? What if he found salvation? What if he needed salvation? I look out to the horizon. I could her call to me. Her soft whisper on the wind. I drop my tools and slowly walk into the desolate wasteland, leaving behind the stability of steady work, food and water. I never look back. I can hear the other crew members voices in the distance, the heat melts them into the hot air as I continue to walk. Not knowing exactly where I was going I march into the nothing.
I look down at my tired feet. Some unknown power forces the will of my legs. One, then the other. I make dust clouds with my heels as a thick malaise haunts my brain. No thoughts, it’s too hot to think. Sweat drips down and drenches my shirt as I swallow and wipe my brow. I look up at the sun and curse its existence. The heat begins to consume me. I open my canteen again and drink the last of my water. Every. Single. Drop. It’s all gone. Just in front of me I see a lonely tree dying in the stifling heat. I sit under it giving it some company and try to take rest from the abusive heat, but its shade-less branches give me no comfort. I begin to feel tired and slowly close my eyes, when suddenly a dark figure stands over me blocking the sun, giving me a momentary relief from the heat, the first and last I’ll ever get. I open my eyes and find myself staring at a dark-skinned native Indian man two feet from my face, his dark, eyes examining my presence. For a few brief moments we just stare at each other in silence until I begin to feel unsafe. As if reading my mind the man offers the small gourd from his leather pants. That’s when I notice the bones dangling across his belt. He offers the gourd again and I hesitate to take it, not sure if it was safe to do so. My thirst gets the better of me and eventually take the vessel and gorge myself of its contents. I drink until my mouth is full and the water spills down my chin. I give the gourd back to the Indian, he smiles and stands up straight. I watch him as I wipe my face dry. His thin shirtless body gleaming in the sun as he points to somewhere out on the horizon. He turns to me, says something in his native language that I cannot understand and begins to walk away beckoning me to do the same. I stand up and slowly follow the mysterious man.

The Indian walks a few yards in front of me as I lag behind, he stops and points to a large group of desert shrubbery a little while ahead of us. He motions me to continue walking and I look at the man suspiciously, but his wide, bright smile encourages me to continue so I abide. I walk a few yards then turn around and see that the Indian has begun to walk in the opposite direction. I stand there for a few moments and watch him disappear into the hazy landscape. I am now hot, thirsty and lost. Where was he pointing to? What was he saying? With no other option I turn and begin walking again trying to figure out what the Indian could mean, while the sun mocks my attempts to concentrate. There she is again; through the heat I can see her. She is as pretty as the first day I met her. Her beautiful crimson hair dancing in the breeze as her summer dress flows around her delicate, slender body. I could see her, she called to me, I was almost there. I am absolutely exhausted now and collapse to my knees reaching out to her. I want to die. I was ready. Suddenly I see a hand hidden in the shrubbery close by. I slowly crawl over to it and discover that it belongs to a man lying face up on the ground. It’s Williams and he’s almost dead. The native he hadn’t slit my throat or eaten my fingers, he had helped me. The stories were wrong. They were not violent killers. They were not savages. I look at the dying young man, his chest slowly rising and falling. He is still breathing, by barely, wheezing through his parched lungs. He turns to me and slowly opens his eyes. He silently mouths something like water and I slowly shake my head. Williams closes his eyes again and resolves to die. The young man’s face is sun burnt and his lips white and broken. My wife’s whispers in my ear as her hand softly caresses my shoulder. I am not sure what compels me but somehow I find the strength to stand up and with every ounce of strength I can muster I pick Williams up and throw him over my shoulder.

I slowly walk up to the camp hoping to find the captain and the rest of the crew waiting for me and my triumphant return however, what I find shocks me to my core. Dead bodies, all with arrows protruding from their chests. Every man is dead. Their scalps cut off and their eyes are ripped from their sockets. Blood stains the campground dark crimson. I collapse to the ground with exhaustion and hopelessness. The earth is hard, unforgiving and relentless. I turn and look at Williams who has now stopped breathing. I have nothing more to give, once again I am ready to die. I look up at the bright sun as if to acknowledge my victor. Now defeated I present my body for the final blow as my last breath exhales from my dying lungs. Gently and slowly my wife closes my eyes with her smooth fingers as an Irish melody played on a tin whistle fills the air taking me away from this soulless nightmare, taking me to my dead wife, my sweet Róisín Dubh.