Caleb Longhorn, District 10 [Finished!]
Dec 18, 2014 21:19:16 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 18, 2014 21:19:16 GMT -5
Caleb Longhorn
District 10
Age: 17
Gender: Male
Life had chosen Caleb Longhorn.
Born on the eve of a cold winter’s night between threadbare sheets of a district ten rancher, he tumbled into the world with a giggle. There had been doubt that the difficult and arduous birth would produce anything to survive, but Caleb was wrestled free from his mother and took to screeching and howling immediately. It was, of course, the little girl behind him that did not get gifted with a chance. She was stillborn, and unlike Caleb, Elaine Longhorn did not utter a sound at birth. She was buried without much of a fuss. A small headstone, a few parting words, and the knowing nods of men and women in District Ten were all that Elaine would receive. In a district where the cows had fuller bellies than the hands that fed them, it was not uncommon to lose children even before they were swept up into the reaping bowl.
Still—the emptiness crafted a hole in the family quilt. Her name still lingered on his mother’s lips throughout childhood. Caleb was the second of her children, Rebera having coming several years prior. Frances would bookend the family line. She was and would be the smallest of the three, with the tiniest voice and the widest eyes. Their mother had a voice that cracked like a whip cutting straight through the air. She was first to rise in the morning and the last to bed. She never left their side when one of them had so much as a cough, and made sure to whisper all the old prayers her mother’s mother had taught her. Caleb remembered the concoctions and tinctures she would prepare as home remedies, foul smelling brews that were “good for the heart.”
His father was a rocking chair philosopher. He trusted in the clouds and found faith in talking to animals. They always had more to say than any man he’d ever met—at least, that’s what he much preferred. Smoking a pipe on the old wooden porch of their home late into the evening was not out of the ordinary. Where Caleb’s mother could have them marching from one end of the district to the other, their father was the one to wrap their bumps and mend their bruises. When he spoke, there was always a hush to fall upon them. For the words on his lips were as precious as the rains that came to break the dry season, and their little heads desperate to catch any sort of wisdom in the dead end district.
Their hands were never strangers to work. Callouses came at an early age, and rope burn was a badge of honor on a cattle ranch. Mornings were spent prepping the feed, measuring out bales of hay, and sweeping out stalls for the waiting march of bovine. Caleb marveled at their passivity in such tight quarters. District Ten afforded them the opportunity to stretch out their limbs, and was remarkably empty of peacekeepers. The few stories of riots were all buried under the hunger in his belly, and faded in the longs hours of a hot sun. His father taught them that hard work was their just reward; his mother reminded them of their luck to be raising such an important resource for the capitol; his sisters reminded him day in and day out that waddling through cow shit was far better than a number of other fates that could’ve befallen them.
A happy family and fuller stomachs would have been enough for Caleb to believe that Life had chosen him, but it was a fever that ravaged District Ten in his childhood that solidified it all. He was dripping with sweat when he saw her, swaddled in white, with long black hair and brown eyes just in front of his bed. The window was open and brought a chill, enough that his sisters lying next to him shivered. The doctor had come and tutted and fretted, he had put damp clothes on their brows and gave roots for them to chew. His mother had tried all the remedies she could get her hands on, barely stopping to rest before his father had taken her by the hand and left the three to sleep. This vision—the woman in white—had come in his delusions, and more than anything Caleb felt calm.
Are you going to take us? He had asked, his voice small.
Not yet, She replied. He remembered that even in the darkness she still shone. She was not death—for death was dark, painful, and crept close to the floor. This warm soul was far more powerful, if fragile. She let the white of her cloth tumble across the hardwood floor. Her hand upon his forehead caused the sweat to drip down onto his neck and—with a slow hush from her lips—the heat subsided. Caleb watched the woman in white do the same to his sleeping sisters before throwing a sidelong glance back at him. She walked through the doorframe to the hall, and it was the last he saw of her.
When he awoke the next morning, the doctor conceded it was nothing short of miraculous that all three had managed to survive. He whispered to his sisters about the woman in white, but all of them reminded the child of six that what he had seen was a fevered dream. This same dream would return to him again, with the same woman but—after the gentle teasing and the hiss of his mother’s tongue—Caleb learned that such dreams were best kept in his eyes, and not springing from his lips. He would tell tales to his calves. Life had come and let them know it was not finished. There was much more to be done, and that he had been granted a second chance was reason enough for him to keep going.
Eleven years have come and gone since, turning the boy into a man. Seventeen is old enough to drive the cattle runs with his father, whose gray hairs and arthritic hands grow more evident each year. They ride side by side, with Rebera at the rear. He has taken to learning the art of healing. Childhood gave way to understanding the sores that appeared on skin, to the miracle of life, and all the calls a cow could make. He could place a groan from a grunt and whether they were hungry or coming down with an illness. Rebera could rope, and Frances could sing, but there was magic to healing that brought a smile to Caleb’s face.
He liked to say that there were two worlds—the world of the sick, and the world of the well. He traveled between worlds because he knew he could, and that one day he, like everyone, would reside in one over the other. Working with his hands had always brought joy but to touch another and make the well electrified. He rode out to the adjacent farms, tending to the sick as best he could. Their family wasn’t paid much in return, but enough that he could keep them better fed than before. His older sister’s hemming and hawing changed to quiet gaping at all the good will Caleb managed to sow. For a boy that couldn’t tie up a bull better than a girl, she couldn’t deny his tending to the sick worked wonders.
Now he stands, thick arms from wrestling with thousand pound animals, and strong legs from running alongside—just an inch taller than his father, and three more than his eldest sister. His big hands are gentle against a tough hide, and gentler still to an open wound. He washes thoroughly, and keeps a close eye on all signs of trouble. While his sweaty clothes and dirtied face might leave something to be desired, he credits being absorbed into his work with his skill. Caleb contends that a Longhorn is as stubborn as the cattle they breed, with heads just as hard.
Worn boots and dirty jeans are better fits for him than the fancy adornments of the upper districts. What better world is there than District Ten? In truth, he’d rather be riding out under the stars than caught tucked away with a book under his arm. Of course, his family was never one for book learning—hand work was far more important. He’d stand much to learn from those that could teach him a thing or two. Provided that they can keep up the pace. Life is, and will be, for Caleb Longhorn, about living. Nothing more, nothing less.
*Odair*
