Like a Charm

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Rootbound

Karin Slaughter

Blood Mountain, Georgia, 1803

Macon Orme was so hungry when he found the squirrel caught inthe snare trap that he ate it with his bare hands. The hot rush ofblood hitting his stomach was like poison, but he swallowed thefatty meat past the gag that wanted to come, the squirrel's razorlikeclaws cutting into the sides of his face as he gorged himselfon the sweet meat of the creature's underbelly.

Satiated, he fell back against a rock, his breathing coming inpants, the lingering taste of the squirrel sticking in the back of histhroat like molasses. His stomach made a churning sound, and heput his hand there as if to quiet it. He could feel the blood drippingdown his chin and caught it with his sleeve, hoping the darkmaterial of his shirt would not show the mark of his sin.

"I'm sorry," he said, an apology that would never be heard tothe man who had set the snare.

Three days had passed since he had stood at the poctaw, the wishingcircle of the Elawa. Hallucinations came easily with hunger, andwhen Macon closed his eyes he was sitting there again. He couldsmell the smoke from the fire, feel dark hair brushing against his bare arm. The woman had stood before him, half naked and gyratingin some dance that obviously had a religious meaning for herpeople but in Macon had only brought out burning lust. Hesqueezed his eyes shut, thinking about being inside her, feeling thegyrations firsthand. So many years had passed since he had lain witha woman without having to pay first. So many years had disappearedinto the quagmire of his mountain existence. When he thought ofher beneath him, his balls ached with anticipation, even as a coldwinter wind snapped through the trees.

Macon stood because he had to. He felt a flash of guilt forbreaking his self-imposed fast, but three days without nourishmentwas a lifetime to a man whose belly was all too familiar withthe pains of hunger. Bad fortune had made him go without foodbefore, but it seemed like every time he thought of the woman hisbody demanded more nourishment than it had ever needed before.If he did not want her so much, he would hate her.

As if they sensed his need, animals seemed to taunt him, runningacross his path, veering in and out of his line of sight. A deerstood in the forest, eyeing Macon carefully, as if searching hissoul. A rabbit followed him for a mile at least, slowly hopping inMacon's footsteps, pausing now and then to clean its face. Mostof his life had been spent trapping these beasts in the hundreds:laying snares and steel traps that cut so deep, sometimes therewould be an amputated paw waiting instead of a full-size jackrabbitwhen he checked on his weekly rounds. Other times, he wouldsee the teeth marks in the stubbed end of bone where they hadgnawed off their own limb in order to free themselves. Thesewere cunning animals, bent on survival. Macon gave them his respectbecause he saw in them something he saw in himself. Hewould survive.

Though he found himself of late wondering what this survivalcost him. He had not seen a looking glass in many years, but oftenMacon would see his own reflection in a stream when hestopped for water. Age had descended harshly. White grew into his beard, and when he thought to comb his fingers through hishair, chunks would come out in his hand, the roots sticking uplike tiny fragments of his youth.

There had been a time when vanity had been second nature toMacon Orme. He had oiled his hair and done it proper with thebone comb that had once belonged to his father. Saturdays he hadbathed before the weekly dance, where he would hold the neighbor'sdaughter close to his chest, smell the musky scent of her,dream of pressing his hips into hers. Sundays he had worn astarched collar that chafed his neck, pants that showed a finecrease down the front. He had kept a watch in his pocket on aslender silver chain. Macon Orme had been a farmer, a man concernedwith the passage of time. Then the Muscogee came anddestroyed the farm. The Indians were merciless. They stole thehorses and gave his mother such a fright that she grabbed herchest and fell dead to the ground. They razed the crops and whatthey could not carry away on horseback they burned. They took itall like it belonged to them.

Macon punched his fist into his thigh. Here he was, fifteenyears later, making a fool of himself for some dark-skinned heathen;the same sort of heathen who had birthed the bastards whotook his farm. That farm would have been Macon's inheritance.He would have had something to give the neighbor's daughter,something to lure her into letting him press his hips into hers forreal. He would have given her a child -- many children. Theywould have grown old together but for that day when everythinghad been taken away from him.

And yet he longed for the Indian woman in a way he had neverknown. He dreamed about her, tasted her in his sleep. Even beforehe had happened upon their camp three days ago, Maconhad felt a tugging at his chest, as if a string had been loopedaround his heart and something -- someone -- was pulling him towardher. That last night before he found their small settlement, apowerful burning in his chest had awakened him and he had abandoned his camp and stumbled up the hill toward the womanwithout even knowing why ...

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Excerpted from Like a Charm: A Novel in Voices by Karin Slaughter, John Connolly, Val McDermid, Mark Billingham, Denise Mina, Peter Robinson
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.