The Gypsy Pall
By
Gina Magini
Copyright 2010 by Gina Magini
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the author/publisher.
Chapter 1
“Gypsies!” Amos is excited as he dashes into the general store, a cloud of dust following him in. “Gypsy caravan setting up right outside of town!”
“Calm down,” Sugarman grumbles from behind the counter, his voice a deep baritone. “And make sure that door is shut, you’re letting in the dirt. Already got a layer thick as a blanket over everything. I clean all the time and can’t stay ahead of it.”
Several patrons in the shop turn to look at Amos. One man steps closer, a scowl on his weatherworn face.
“Gypsies,” he grumbles. “Damn thieves and miscreants is what they is. No better’n filthy animals. Better lock up yer daughters. And yer chickens.”
“Now, ain’t no call for that kinda talk, Jewel. Most times they don’t bother anyone. Just put on their shows, sell their medicines, and move on.” Sugarman slaps with a rag at some dust on his counter.
“Sure they do,” Jewel says sardonically. “You just like them ‘cause they bring in business while they’re here. I got you figured out, Sugarman. As for me, I’m going over to the sheriff and put in a word. It’s about time Luckman earned his keep.”
“I’ll go with you,” Amos volunteers, the new topic of conversation breaking the usual routine in his life.
Lean as a spade handle and bent from days over a plow, Amos wears his cap pulled down over his eyes. He thinks Jewel is right about this one. The last thing he needs is anyone causing trouble. Trouble he has in abundance, the drought has seen to that. He can barely eke out an existence in the parched soil, and his well is threatening to go dry. He’s lucky to own the farm outright. Those poor souls who are beholden to the bank are in a worse situation. Still, he and his wife, Martha, have their hands full just scraping enough food together to feed themselves and their two hired hands. In fact, he thinks, if they don’t get some rain soon, he’s going to be forced to let his help go. Then what will he and Martha do? They both work hard, but it’s more than two people can handle by themselves. It’s too bad they never had any children, he reflects, and not for the first time. Guess it weren’t meant to be.
They have it better than most here in Beachum County, Amos concedes. A lot of folks around the state have just watched their farms blow away. Those are the ones who have lost everything. At least here, it hasn’t gotten that bad yet. The country is in some dire shape, though, and the anxiety felt by farmers and businessmen alike is profound and unsettling.
Jewell and Amos leave the store and step out into the blowing dust. The driving wind has a way of turning the tiny particles into painful projectiles. It wears down the spirit, this near constant assault. A few motorcars line the streets, but most of the traffic consists of horse-drawn carts and a bicycle or two. How a man can pedal that contraption over the dry ruts and through the clouds of dirt is a mystery to Amos. It would take powerful leg muscles, he thinks. One good thing for Sugarman—he has sold out of all his goggles these days.
Stopping short, Amos grabs Jewel’s arm and points down the street. Together they watch as a dark-haired woman is helped down from a gypsy coach by a stout swarthy man. The couple, their brightly colored clothes billowing in the dirty wind, strolls with heads held high into the office of the town sheriff, casual and unhurried as if they were walking in a park on a pleasant spring day. They seem undaunted by the eye-watering dust that pushes against Amos’s slender frame and needles his thin shirt with a thousand tiny stings. The woman turns just before the door closes behind her, and her eyes meet his. Amos feels an unidentifiable warmth travel from his throat into the pit of his stomach. His heart races unaccountably. Then she is gone.
“By gawd!” Jewel spits angrily, his glittering eyes set deep in their pockets of flesh. Emory Jewel is a chunk of a man, his pig farm still in the black even with the drought. Hateful as a caged bobcat, he bristles all the time over one thing or another. He resents anyone getting the jump on him, especially those gypsy types and their ilk. Jewel has always thought himself superior to the vast majority of humankind, and riles easily over any small affront, real or imagined. He accelerates his pace, dragging Amos along behind him.
They are stopped short of their destination by the postmaster, Cleetis Cole, who detains them to gossip about the gypsies. He’s already heard about the camp being set up in Morgan Conner’s field, back of the hedgerow.
“Bet they paid him good or threatened him with a curse,” he jabbers animatedly. “Hard to say, but that Morgan, he’d sell his own mother for the right price. Don’t tell him I said that, but you know it’s true.”
Amos hears them talking, but as if from a distance. His mind is wandering, thinking of the sight of that gypsy woman, her skirts delicately lifted as she stepped from the carriage, the glimpse of her slender ankle, her bronze skin, and the dark eyes that flashed with fire when she looked back at him. It felt as if she pinned him with her gaze for just a few seconds. His heart still beat thick in his chest from that look she gave him. That smoldering knowing look.
It seems only a few minutes pass before the couple emerges from the sheriff’s office and climbs aboard their carriage. Amos stares openly, but the woman does not grace him with another glance. He watches as the man seats her inside the conveyance and takes up the reins, urging the old swaybacked horse into a trot. Amos keeps his eyes on the carriage until he can no longer see it through the haze of dust, its rattling and odd chiming a lingering music in his ears.
He follows Emory and Cleetis into the Sheriff Luckman’s office. Dane Luckman is a mountain of a man with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a low tolerance for shenanigans; a tough but fair man who has no problem keeping the peace in his small county. He pours a cup of coffee from a pot on the small camp stove and turns to face the men, his wide calm face damp with perspiration. The cup seems tiny in his large hand.
“Afternoon gentlemen,” he says.
“What’d them gypsies want?” Jewel demands.
“They bought a permit, if it’s any of your business,” Dane answers easily, taking a sip from his cup.
“We don’t want their types round here,” Jewel says, puffing his chest out. “It’s your job to keep the undesirable elements out of this here county. They ain’t welcome here.”
“It’s all legal, Emory. Just unruffle your feathers,” Dane warns. “Now, you listen to me, boys. I’ll run in anyone who hassles those folks. They’re just here to do a little entertainin’ and sell their wares. I won’t tolerate no trouble from you locals. Those people’ll be gone in a few days. Now, you just let ‘em be and we’ll all get along just fine.”
Jewel wants to argue, it’s easy to see. But, he knows Dane Luckman means every word he says and even Jewel with his prickly demeanor is reluctant to take on a man as strong as the sheriff. He clamps his jaw and stomps out.
“Well, he’ll stew in his own juices for a bit. How about you two? You boys have a problem?” Dane looks at the postmaster and Amos over his cup, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“No, no problem at all,” Amos says, backing away. He still sees those dark gypsy eyes in his mind, still feels the power of her gaze.
“Good then, let’s keep it that way.” Dane settles his massive body into the chair behind his desk and picks up a piece of paper. Clearly, they are dismissed.
Amos and Cleetis Cole join Jewel outside, where he paces, kicking up the dust with every step.
“I bet he gets a kickback from those vagrants,” Jewel mutters. “I bet they have an understandin’, some kinda dirty deal going.”
“It’s possible,” the postmaster says. His spectacles are coated with a layer of dust. He removes them and wipes them carefully before replacing them on his face.
“You know them gypsy women, they’ll lift their skirts for any man that pays,” Jewel continues. “Common trash.”
Amos considers the remark. He wonders if it’s true, then decides it must be. After all, that woman he saw is nothing like the good women of these parts. She was dressed flashy and her eyes were dark with pencil. And that look she gave him; that was nothing short of bald-faced brazen. These thoughts fill him with a strange and exotic longing. He wanders wordlessly away from his companions as if in a daze.
On the way home, he cannot resist eyeing the gypsies’ camp as he guides his horse and cart over the bumpy road that fronts Morgan Conner’s property. However, they have made their camp behind a row of trees at the far end of the field. He strains to catch sight of them, but all he can see from the road are maddening glimpses of activity behind the branches and dried out brush. He can just make out portions of the garishly painted caravans, the swirl of a skirt, the white flash of a man’s sleeve, a bright scarf. He can see a thin smoke rising on the dusty wind, and he believes he can just barely hear the melodic strains of unfamiliar music, mandolins, violins, maybe a squeezebox. He feels a strange stirring in his chest and wants to turn down the path, but he fights the urge and continues on home.
After a supper of succulent beefsteak, sliced tomatoes, golden fried potatoes, string beans and peach pie, he sits in his creaking rocker in the homey living room of his two-story farmhouse. Normally, he and Martha would have the radio going, fiddling with the dial to get the best reception, listening to Jack Benny, or The Shadow, or even to President Roosevelt speak to the nation. But this night is different. After his evening chores, after he washes up, after he smokes a pipe, he stares at his wife, Martha. Leaning back on the sofa, embroidery in her lap, legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles, she works her needle. He notices her worn faded dress, her light-colored hair wound back into a bun, her plain face and gentle mouth, the downward cast of her eyes. The clock ticks loudly on the shelf. He rocks. And he yearns. He yearns for something he cannot name.
“Martha,” he says finally. “I think I’ll take a run down to that gypsy camp.”
She looks up in surprise, her hand with the needle suspended in air. “Oh, Amos,” she says. “You know what they say about those people.”
“Well,” Amos replies. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”
“If you must, I suppose go on ahead. But don’t you get in any trouble,” she warns, shaking her head. She resumes her sewing.
As he places his cap on his head, she calls out to him. “Get me some of that rheumatiz’ potion. My knees are acting up again.”
He nods and slips out the door.
Chapter 2
Amos takes his horse out of her stall fits the harness over her smooth head. He’ll skip a saddle for this short ride. The wind nearly picks him off her back as he leads the beast outside the barn and down the long drive.
All the way to Morgan’s farm, he ponders this urge that compels him. He wonders what kind of reception he’ll get at the camp. Maybe they’ll be unfriendly to him. Or, maybe the mysterious gypsy woman will remember him from town, and welcome him with coy smiles and soft perfumed arms. A surge of excitement rushes through him at the thought, followed by a guilt-inducing image of Martha sitting innocently on the sofa with her sewing in hand.
As he turns up the path into Morgan’s field, he sees the flickering firelight ahead and the smeary glow of brightly colored lanterns. The foreign jingles and strumming of gypsy music reach his ears, and the sound of many voices carries over the wind. He feels eager anticipation in the air, and a squeezing of suspense in his heart. He can’t wait to enter the circle.
Rounding the trees, the first thing he notices is a lack of wind. Must be in a hollow, he thinks, although he never noticed that before. He always thought Morgan’s land was as flat and featureless as his own. The second thing he notices is a gathering of locals, all standing around a makeshift stage hastily erected before one of the caravans. Upon the stage an elderly man, red bandana tied round his long gray hair and baggy shirt hanging from his spare frame, is hawking a potion guaranteed to cure all ills. In broken English, he makes his pitch, and manages to get his points across in spite of the language barrier. Strange music fills the air and torches placed here and there on long sticks in the ground sputter and glimmer hauntingly. He sees the hateful Jewel in the crowd, scowling at the barker, and he observes Cleetis gaping stupidly, eyes wide behind his thick lenses. They pay no attention to Amos, and ignore each other as well.
Taking a look around, he sees other caravans with their lavish decorations and colorful embellishments. A group of musicians sits on upended casks in front of one carriage, dark men in loose trousers, with blousy shirts, sashes of bright colors, and shoulder-length black hair. They are attending their instruments, eyes closed as if mesmerized; caressing them as if they were women, tenderly urging from string and key their sweet wild refrains, not so much as glancing at their audience.
Another trailer offers charms and potions. Yet another offers tobaccos, jewelry, shawls, chimes, small handmade instruments, and teas. There are more carriages in the shadows, surrounded by darkness, but lit from within. Sneaky lurking trailers that crouch in the shadows like beasts and do not invite visitors. Without proclaiming so, they are clearly off limits to the public.
Amos’s attention turns back to the stage and he steps forward to buy a bottle of tonic. The old gypsy fixes him with a glare as he takes his money and hands him the medicine. Amos takes the plain glass bottle with a cork stopper, no label, from the wrinkled hand and slides it into his overall pocket. Several more people step up and purchase tonic. The old man never loses his rhythm; keeps rattling off his lingo as he collects the cash. Abruptly, the old man finishes his spiel and bows with a flourish. A hush falls over the proceedings.
“And now,” says the man, “my daughter, Apolena, will dance.”
He exits the stage and sets up his potion business behind a plank atop two wooden barrels. A few people drift over and begin buying tonic. Most, however, stay rooted to their spots in front of the stage, cash in hand.
The musicians sidle over to the stage area unobtrusively, playing as they walk. Then, their music abruptly swells and the tempo increases as the dark curtains at the rear of the stage slowly part. The men in the crowd involuntarily gasp as a woman’s leg emerges tantalizingly from behind the heavy drapes. Amos feels a catch in his throat as the rest of the woman follows. Her long flowing skirts lift and lower and swirl, enthralling the assembly with tantalizing hints of shapely legs, slim ankles, and small feet enclosed in blood red slippers. She moves snakelike around the stage, with small bells on her fingers, arms raised above her head, and belly undulating in a shockingly provocative manner. Her hips sway and her breasts roll inside a short gathered top that barely covers them. She is dripping with jewels and her wild unruly dark curls escape the silken scarf round her head. She wears golden hoop earrings and her eyes are dark as a tar bucket. Her lips have been painted an unnatural red and they glisten wetly in the flickering light. Her features are set in a look of passion and abandon, an expression only few of these men have ever seen on a woman’s face. She teases, she taunts, she flirts, and she tempts. The men begin throwing money on the stage, which a small child, hidden up to now, dashes out to retrieve. Even Jewel takes coins from his pockets to toss at the woman. He is rapt, his usual grimace replaced by a dull-witted look of absorption.
Toward the end of the dance, two more gypsy girls join Apolena on stage and dance with her, their movements enticing and hinting at sensual acts Amos cannot even contemplate without shame. The entire crowd is mesmerized, swaying together slightly as if one great being.
Apolena stands at the front of the stage and rotates her pelvis, spreads her knees, and gyrates low. She then pulls the veil back across her face and glides back behind the other two dancers. The dance ends suddenly and applause erupts. The girls vanish into the folds of the curtains and the old man takes their place. He puts up both hands, a plea for silence.
“My daughters now tell fortune,” he says. “Make line to have fortune told. Five dollars each man.”
He points to the three painted caravans in a row next to the stage and the men line up. Amos makes certain to be in line at Apolena’s trailer. She pokes her head out the doorway and signals the first man to come in. Amos is third in line and his heart is beating so fast he fears he will suffer a stroke. But he stays. The first man is inside a full fifteen minutes, though it seems longer to the impatient Amos. The man emerges with a stunned look on his face and takes a bit of good natured ribbing as he sidles past the waiting men. Apolena signals the second man from the curtained doorway with a lazy wave of her hand. He too exits about fifteen minutes later with a vacant look in his eyes. Then it is Amos’s turn and he swallows hard before stepping through the curtains.
It is dim inside the small trailer. Apolena seats herself behind a cloth covered table upon which rests a crystal ball of smoky glass. The interior of the cabin is draped in rich satin of varying colors and the scented air is musky and thick with a sweet aroma. Apolena gazes at him over her crimson veil for a moment, her dark eyes liquid and taunting. Slowly she reaches up and removes the silky veil, revealing a smile. Her white even teeth behind ruby lips, and rich dark skin glowing in the lamp light cause a thousand tingles to rush up Amos’s chest like a sudden fever, over his throat, and into his hair. Even his scalp thrills to the impact of that vision. It’s as if each individual hair on his head reacts by standing away from his skin, trembling. He has never seen a more lovely nor dangerous looking creature in his life. More beautiful than the wild mare rearing up on her back legs on the prairie, framed by the flaming sunset. More dangerous than the lithe crouching cougar at the edge of his land who stalked him one evening. More perilous than the thundering storm that rolls over the open ground, bending bush and tree to its will.
“What you want, peasant?” she addresses him, her sultry voice filled with an odd combination of scorn and invitation.
His throat goes dry and he fumbles his cap from his head and worries it in his rough hands.
“You,” he whispers hoarsely. “How much?”
She laughs softly. Her voice is like bells or zephyrs or the clear rushing waters of an enchanted stream.
“What a crude man you are,” she says, looking intently at him. “Why you think you can buy my love?”
He stammers his reply, which makes no sense even to his ears. He has heard rumors, he tells her. He thought, he assumed, he guessed.
“Well, you guess wrong, peasant,” she replies. “I should curse you for this insult. But, Apolena feels pity for you. You have woman?”
“Yes. My wife, Martha,” he tells her, his face flushed and perspiring.
“Why you not make love with your wife, Martha?” she demands.
“She’s a good woman, my wife,” he says. “She works hard, she’s decent. She’s not the type to, well, appreciate the animal side of things. She’s upstanding.”
“Ah, I see now,” Apolena says knowingly. “You would do these things to me that you would not do to your virtuous wife.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you mean, peasant,” she snaps. She closes her eyes for a moment and touches her chin with the tip of her slender finger. Amos eyes the many rings on her hand, the dark red nails, her slender bangled wrist, and is seized by a feeling of irresistible lust tinged with fear. He knows he has offended her but can’t seem to disguise his longing. He thinks it must be oozing from his pores, filling the very air with its urgency.
“Come back tomorrow night,” she decrees. “Bring fifty dollars and something that belongs to your wife.”
“Fifty dollars?” he says in shock. She dismisses him with a wave of her hand.
“Fifty dollars, peasant,” she says as she rises. He stumbles to the doorway and carries his hunger with him out into the night.
Chapter 3
The next night, with Martha snoozing on the sofa after her dose of gypsy tonic, Amos returns to the camp. He watches the dancers with fascination, his blood pounding in his ears, and his eyes full of the luscious Apolena. He waits in line this night behind the rotund Emory Jewel, but they do not speak. Rather, they avoid looking directly at each other. When Emory is signaled, he lumbers up the small wooden steps and disappears behind the curtain. He is gone a long while, according to Amos’s estimation. Amos imagines what must be happening inside the trailer and burns with envy.
Finally, Emory leaves the caravan and it is Amos’s turn. He has brought the fifty dollars, made though hasty sales of a young heifer, some eggs, and some lengths of pipe he had planned to use with his new windmill. He also brings a wad of hair he tore from Martha’s brush.
“Peasant man, what have you brought Apolena?” she asks, looking at him from behind thick black lashes, her dark eyes gleaming and mysterious.
“Hair,” he says, laying a tangled nest of golden locks on the table. She slowly picks up the light fluff and massages it between her fingers. She raises it to her slender nostrils and inhales.
“Ah, this very personal,” she says. “Will be potent.”
“What will you do? What will happen?” he pleads.
“I know what you want. No questions,” she whispers, putting a finger to her scarlet lips.
She cups the hair in her hands and closes her eyes. Murmuring in a language he does not understand, she rocks a little in her seat and begins to tremble slightly. Amos watches her, and his lust for her radiates from him. It fills the room like the presence of third person. Her mumbling becomes more agitated. Finally, she opens her eyes and blows a puff of air into her hands.
“It is done,” she says, dropping the ball of Martha’s hair back on the table. “Wash yourself when you get home. You stink of your desire for me; I smell it from here. Do not approach your wife with the stench of this longing on your skin, foolish peasant.”
He picks up the hair and puts it into his pocket. Once outside, he breathes deeply and wonders what he has done. Even his doubt cannot curb the painful swelling in his trousers.
As before, the wind picks up once he is away from the gypsy camp, stinging him with small grains of sand and dirt. He rides home slowly, his desire still burning within him. Not desire for Martha, but he would sate himself on her should she allow it. He thinks she will not.
Once inside his house, he washes carefully at the kitchen pump and dries himself on the flour sack towel hanging near the sink. He checks the living room sofa for Martha, but she is not there. He looks around the modest room with its lace doilies, sturdy furniture, and muslin curtains, and appreciates his wife’s comforting touches. His desire subsides a little, and he strives for the peace he usually feels inside his home. It teases around the edges but eludes him. He does not believe the gypsy has done anything other than separate him from his money.
Putting out the downstairs lamps, he trudges upstairs to the bedroom he shares with Martha. He expects to find her asleep under the sheets, her ripe body covered in sweat from the endless heat. He expects she will have her back to him and her knees drawn up inside her light cotton gown. He does not intend to disturb her. But, he sees light seeping from under the closed door and he is surprised.
Slowly, he opens the door. Martha is stretched out on top of the patchwork quilt without a stitch of clothes on. Amos is shocked but delighted.
“Hot night,” he says to her.
“And soon to be hotter,” she replies invitingly. She spreads her legs wide, revealing her sex to him. The swelling in his trousers begins to throb. He removes his clothing quickly.
“Amos,” Martha purrs when she spies his condition. “You’re as ready as can be. Come here.”
He walks to the bed and she raises her hand to take him. Just like milking a cow, she pulls at him until he thinks he will burst. Martha has never been so forward before.
“I love the way the skin slides up and down,” she says, almost as if talking to herself. “I love the silky feel under my fingers. I want this inside me, Amos. I want you to push into me and let me snare you in my crevice like a wild rabbit. I want to roll you over and ride you like a horse and clench you inside me and drain you.”
Amos can’t help himself. He has never had to practice restraint and has no experience at holding back. He erupts and his issue pumps from him in spurts. Some of it lands on Martha’s chest and she smiles.
“Lick it off me, Amos,” she says impishly.
“No!” Amos is flabbergasted by the request. “That’s just not right, Martha.”
“Nothing wrong with it,” Martha says, her eyes dreamy. “But if you don’t want to, then I’ll just play with it.”
She runs her hands through the wetness and smears it on her breasts, circling her nipples with her fingertips. Looking up at Amos, Martha smoothes her hands down her belly and into her thatch. Seeing that she has his undivided attention, she parts her lips and slides her fingers in and out of herself.
“I need you, Amos,” she says. “I have a powerful desire. I’ve never felt this agitated. Please lay with me now.”
Amos starts to tell her he can’t, that he needs time to recover. But he realizes he has already risen again, hard as an oak knot and ready to go, the fire in his loins barely quenched.
“Use your mouth on me, Amos,” she says breathlessly. “Put it right here, on my cleft. Put your tongue into me.”
“Now, Martha, you know I’m a simple man,” he admonishes. “What you’re asking, well, it’s unnatural. I just can’t do that. Just let me straight on in like always.”
He falls on top of Martha and slides into her wetness, groaning from the lush hot feel of her. He pants as he thrusts. In his passion, he is not at first aware that Martha has wrapped her legs around his waist. When he realizes what she is doing, he becomes even more excited. She is stirring beneath him, timing her movements to his like a dance. He is out of his mind with passion, the sensations mingling in confusion with his memory of the dark gypsy. For a moment, he imagines it is Apolena he has mounted, her he is sinking into. Then, his mind clears and he sees Martha’s face looking up at him with half closed eyes and mouth parted. He cries out when his release comes. He pumps a few more times, long and slow, and then Martha groans and he feels her insides clamping down on him. He is surprised and holds very still so he can attend to each quiver. This event is unprecedented in their lovemaking and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Martha has experienced a release much like his own, it would seem. She writhes beneath him, clings to his back with her hands, pulses rhythmically around him. Finally, she sighs and relaxes under him.
“Oh, Amos,” she breathes. “That was wonderful.”
He is stirred by her words, feels a rush of love for her, and pride for himself. As he pulls himself from her body, he is deeply grateful to the gypsy woman. She did know what he needed after all. Lying beside Martha, Amos tries to gather her in his arms, but she is resistant.
“I want to taste you, Amos,” she says firmly. He is disappointed and also strangely aroused by her words.
“Martha, I don’t want to deny you anything, but that’s some wrong-headed thinking you’ve fallen into,” he says gently. “You’re coming up with wild ideas, acts that are deviant against nature, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t care,” she pouts. “I want to.”
“Well, I won’t stop you, but it don’t seem right to me,” he answers carefully.
Martha moves her mouth over his chest and stomach and lower. He holds his breath. Her lips are like fire on his skin. When she takes him into her mouth, he is immediately rigid again. It feels so good to him, and it feels shameful. However, his conscience is drowned out by the waves of pleasure her mouth is creating on his swollen rod. And she is making sounds like she would make if she were lapping a delicacy. Mmmm, she says, mmmm, and each little moan sends him further into ecstasy. He is panting from excitement. His engorged tool soon erupts again. He feels it coming and tries to back off. But, Martha does not want to pull away. She sucks it all down and swallows it as if it were sweet cream. Amos lay with heart pounding, his mind suffused with astonishment and joy. Maybe this is wrong, he thinks, but he loves it.
Martha crawls back up beside him and lays her head on his shoulder. In spite of the heat, he pulls her slick body to him and they hold each other tenderly.
“I love you, Martha,” Amos says in a low sleepy voice.
“I know you do,” she replies. “And, I love you, too.”
Eventually they pull apart to sleep, but Amos reaches out now and again in his slumber to affectionately pat or caress Martha, or maybe just to assure himself of her presence.
The next morning, Amos wakes and stretches. He is alone in his bed, his memories of the night before spurring a renewed desire. Shaking his head with a self-conscious grin, he pushes these thoughts aside and thinks instead about his busy day. Work to be done on the windmill, repairs to the fence, irrigation ditches to be dug. And there’s that pesky hitch that keeps giving him trouble. His mind is gradually drawn away from the previous night’s surprising passion. He descends the stairs for breakfast, a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips. He is standing pretty tall this morning.
Entering the kitchen, he finds it empty. The old wooden table is bare, the countertops clean and uncluttered, and the stove cool to the touch. The usual morning smells of sizzling bacon, yeasty rolls, crisp hash brown potatoes, and scrambled eggs are strangely absent. Martha is nowhere to be found. He scratches his head in puzzlement. This is so unusual, he wonders if Martha has been stricken by a seizure or stroke. He decides he had better get some shoes on his bare feet and go find her.
He sits on a kitchen chair and pulls on his work boots. Only then does he notice the wind is silent this morning, for the first time in days. Outside, a cloud passes over the sun and darkens the room for a moment. Glancing out the kitchen window, he sees the dry trees and gray weathered outbuildings cast into temporary shadow before the sun once again appears. His back tells him rain is near, although he doesn’t quite believe it.
Amos wanders outside and shades his face with a hand as he scans the back yard. His eyes sweep the area, noting the slight dip of the empty clothesline, the weatherworn barn, the chickens flocking around their coop, and the endless fields stretching into the distance, all drying under the heartless sun. Martha is not there. Neither, Amos notices, is either of his field hands who should by this time of the morning be busy working on the windmill. A haze lay across the land as the dust settles. After days upon days of gusty winds filling the air with dirt, the stillness seems strange. But there is a burgeoning and invisible pressure in the air, an indefinable compression as if nature itself were constricting the land and everything in it.
The sounds of the day reach his ears, no longer drowned out by the relentless winds. Amos hears birds call. He hears the forlorn metallic clang of a chain against the mill. He hears the rustle of small animals in the dry vegetation. And he hears one other thing. Voices. Faint, but discernable, he hears clearly the voices of a man and woman talking; the tone hints at intimacy. And the sounds are coming from inside his barn.
For reasons he does not understand, Amos does not throw open the doors. He steps furtively to a crack in the boards and puts his eye to the gap. Soon his vision adjusts to the dimmer setting inside, and what he sees gives him a shock. He watches quietly, his breath sucked out of him. On a low stack of straw bales, he sees Martha in a compromising position with one of his hired men, Jeb.