Freedom

Desire resides in old man Simon’s mind like a stone.

It anchors his boney feet to the home place, to the cabin, to the dirt: he seeks to take back the adjacent hill, high and rocky, named for the thief who stole it, who plundered and degraded it, the hill that Simon once hoped to claim his own.

He strains a careful, practiced eye through the gun site for his prey, Raymond Torbo, anticipation clutching at him like whiskey- hunger now, like woman-hunger once did, long ago. He doesn’t wonder at the why of it, doesn’t care.

Once his wife Alma asked him if the hill mattered “only because Torbo grabbed it, and named it... ’cause one Lord in heaven knows, ain’t nothin there worth having, there on Torbo Hill, …”

Simon hadn’t bothered to explain, couldn’t have, even he had wanted to, which he hadn’t.

Early each day he takes his place behind the gnarled pines that surround the front of his cabin, and waits. Torbo may or not appear, but Simon sets aside the time, just in case. He must not miss the moment, fears it may come at once, like a sudden snapshot: Torbo in front of him, sharply outlined, clearly detailed---so Simon knows he must be there. His craving has gone on for months now, and has become a vital part of what he does.

He suspects this must be by design, simple and meant to be, the way morning overtakes the brightest moon.

Otherwise he would be able to stop. Unpossessed, he would turn away, or attend to other things. The few acres he owns but no longer farms lie fallow behind him. And if he cared to capture game, there’s plenty nearby. A crack shot, he has always protected Alma, his daughters before they grew up and went away, and his cabin, from every menace--big varmints, mountain cats and on occasion, a bear; smaller critters, squirrels and birds, he’s left alone.

Now he spots Torbo riding his little chestnut mare half way up the stony path that leads to the hill’s crest. The man’s back is to Simon, offering a good, though narrow, red plaid target. Simon squints. Shooting Torbo in the back is not the way the old man wants it. He doesn’t like it. Tension tightens his jaw, shallows his breathing. It doesn’t feel right.

But he leans forward anyway, cocks the rifle, his expectation still to see the bastard explode right there in the clear morning air. He draws a deep breath and aims. The shot discharges with a loud report and zings well past Torbo and his horse, who rears back in fright, and takes off at a gallop.

Simon blinks. He missed; the fact of it registers in his mind and gradually settles in, like cold water slowly pouring over burning skin. His breath expels in a long, steady whistle. He doesn’t shoot again, does not choose to. He sets the rifle on the ground beside his feet. He glances ahead, just briefly, as Torbo and the mare ride on, then he strides away, breathing easy, leaving the rifle behind.

Hungrier than usual for breakfast, he doesn’t look back, or wait to see horse and rider disappear. He heads toward the cabin door. After the meal there’s the day stretching ahead, and Alma said something about wanting to go into town.