Carrie Wren – Editor

First Chapter Edited Manuscript, "Sight"
His dog’s name was Nan. Nan was pulled close in Henry’s arms like a warm bundle of sticks. Waves of black and white fur could no longer conceal the dog’s bony, weightless frame. With each uneven step, the child’s small cradling fingers slipped over and between the skin-covered ribs. Behind his grandfather, the ten-year-old struggled to make his heavy limbs move. The habitually wagging tail and quick legs that for years had followed Henry everywhere, now dangled motionless. A blink of brave tears traveled down the boy’s cheeks, then dropped onto his soft curls.
A tall and slightly bent, white-haired Scotsman turned his shoulder to check on his grandson who trailed behind. He paused, briefly, closed his eyes and drew in a long breath for his grandson’s grief. He faced the child slowly and explained in a gentle voice just louder than a whisper, “You don’t need to be doin’ this. You know, I’d take good care of her.”
For a moment Henry’s water-glazed eyes met the old man’s worried gaze, then went directly to the bundle clenched in his battered fist. He knew his old dog was wrapped inside the blue and green tartan cloth.
“I know grandfather”.
Dinner last night had been Nan’s moment of doom.
“The dog’s no good,” Henry's father said, poking an empty fork towards the old canine curled on the floor next to the boy’s chair. “I won’t have you wasting any more time with her.”
Alarmed, Henry looked down at his defenseless companion, then with defiance glared back at his father across the table. The half-eaten plate of meat and potatoes no longer appealed to him. Somehow, he wished he could slump down unseen to the cold stone floor and run away with his dog.
Almost a year ago, Grandfather Johnston was injured and had turned the farm over to Henry’s father, James. As the first-born son, he would inherit the manor upon the old man’s death, as someday, would Henry’s favored oldest brother, James IV.
The eventual master, Henry’s father James, stabbed a hunk of mutton and jammed it into his mouth. “Enough.” This time the jagged tines were aimed at Henry. His father’s way of dealing with crippled or sick livestock was with a quick blow or sharp blade. Every time, he said what he believed, “No use wasting a good shell.” As always, some poor creature was sent to a cruel death at his father’s hand. Henry was determined that those brutal hands would never touch his beloved friend.
Early the next morning, Henry awoke from a night of tortured sleep. He was stirred awake by a gentle shake of his shoulder.
“Come on child, wake up.” It was his grandfather.
Pale light had seeped through the panes of glass and parted curtains into the darkness enough for him to see the man’s large frame sitting on the bed. A massive scared and veined hand pushed the boy’s unruly hair back with the tenderness of an old woman.
“Come on lad, let’s get this done.”
With care, Henry carried Nan and followed the elder Johnston through the hay meadow behind the stone barn. Unnoticed, his trouser legs were soaked with dew, and the predawn air was filled with a cheery weave of bird songs. An ancient fence made of skillfully stacked lichen-mottled rocks hemmed in the wet, high grasses that bordered the forest. A wooden gate that had always been closed, stood open wide and ominous, waiting for their passage. Through the dark tree trunks and berried bushes, Henry could see a hole which, sometime during the night, the old man had dug. A mound of black soil with a shovel, its spade half buried in it, loomed next to the dark wound in the forest’s floor.
Facing his grandson, the elder Johnston stood blocking the grave’s view.
“You know this pup has had a fortunate run, a good life,” he told his grandson. He reached out and gently to pat the dog resting in Henry’s arms. “And Henry, you know, there’s no doubt’n that it’s time for you to let her go.”
Henry squeezed the dog to his chest. How could he part with her? What would life be like without his shadow? All his memories included her. She had always been there. Now she was going into the ground just like his mother. He would never see her again.
His grandfather unfolded the fabric and laid it on the ground, exposing an old-fashioned pistol.
“Now let me have her.” Firmly, he attempted to pull the dog from the unyielding boy.
“I’ll do it,” Henry wept without sound and began to shiver. “I’ll do it.”
Slowly and tenderly, he laid the unquestioning creature down on the grass next to the hole. Kneeling, he stroked her head and tried to find his friend somewhere behind cloudy, blind eyes.
“Henry,” the old man paused. Unable to endure the child’s agony, he completed the sentence in a low, strict voice. “I want you to go back to the house. I’ve forgotten my powder box.”
Confused, Henry looked up at the towering man. He was sure he had seen him put it in his jacket pocket.
“Now,” His grandfather demanded. “It’s in my room on the side table.”
“Please,” courageously Henry tried to hide the quiver in his lower lip. He bit it. “Please grandfather.”
“Now, Henry Johnston.”
He embraced the old dog, then stammered to his feet. The old man’s stern face told him there would be no argument.
“I’ll be right back,” Henry softly told Nan and made for the house. Before he reached the middle of the field, he heard a loud crack.
In complete darkness, the man sat bolt upright in his bed. Waking from the dream, he tried to understand where he was. He could still hear the retort of the pistol. But in truth it was thunder off in the distance. He reached for a match and lit the lantern beside his bed. Lying back on his pillow, he reviewed his boyhood memory. Though it was some thirty years past and an ocean away, it still haunted him.