Molly's Divergent Blessings by Barry Lewis

“Molly’s Divergent Blessings” by Barry Lewis is a supernatural Western about a woman alone on her ranch who encounters a mysterious visitor offering help when she needs it most. Blending Western adventure, supernatural mystery, folklore, and questions of fate, the story explores what happens when the impossible enters an ordinary life.

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Molly's Divergent Blessing

While sitting on her bed, testing the air for tobacco or whiskey, Molly’s hand drifted under her pillow, and she wrapped her fingers around her father’s revolver; the cold weight anchored her rising panic. She cupped her other hand over the cylinder to muffle the metallic click as she thumbed the hammer. She listened. No creaking floorboards. Nothing to set someone on edge. Nothing but the voice inside, screaming. Her space was compromised. Evaluate, plan, act.
Samson, her border collie, rested on the porch. He barked if anyone came within a half-mile of the ranch, but the dog was silent. The feelings of ill-boding—trusted survival instincts— never failed her in such matters. Her father honed her skills over, and over and over like polishing a blade on a whetstone.

Trained by her father as the son he would never have and ever eager to please him, Molly was the perfect student. She shared her father’s catlike eyes. Even in pre-dawn hours, she moved with feline acuity and agility. Her father’s reputation as a gunman and separation from Dublin Wall, Ireland’s secret society of assassins, meant he carried a price on his head, thus the family was in constant peril. Her risk was two-fold; an intruder and her raging fever.

The wind was breathless. She heard a voice inside her head. Girl, stop shaking or you won’t hit a thing. As always, her father was right. She took three slow breaths, and her feet touched the cool wooden floor. She knew as soon as she put weight on the floor it would creak. Even when the wooden planks swelled with spring rains, the floors creaked. During summer walking across the floor was like playing a music box.

Control what you can and heed what you can’t.
Yes, Father.

True to their nature the floorboards sang out as soon as she placed her weight on them. The intruder would know she was on her feet. The door was what her father called a choke-point. One way in, one way out, but Molly was trapped if she didn’t act. Even the window placed too high off the ground for anyone to enter, another part of his deliberate design offered no escape for her. To wait forever was not a plan, and she wouldn’t allow a stranger into her home unchallenged.

Fever or not, she was her father’s daughter. Fate made her the sole owner of the McDonovan ranch, and she would protect what belonged to her. It was time to be the woman she was trained to be. She wiped the sweat from her brow.

Be fluid as the river and cold as a morning frost.
Yes, Father.

Molly rushed to the door and swung it wide as he had taught her. The muzzle of her gun traced the familiar objects in the kitchen seeking the unfamiliar. The muzzle stopped on a stranger who sat at her kitchen table.

“Get out, or I’ll shoot you,” her words and gun sights focused on the back of the stranger’s head. From his narrow shoulders, she judged the intruder to have a slender frame, his height at about five feet. He was a short man, perhaps a boy, with sandy-blonde hair.

“No. You won’t shoot me. Molly, you failed to reload your revolver after you cleaned it yesterday. You shot at a jackrabbit but missed. Your father always told you that you were too impatient with the handgun and to use a rifle when hunting. But you saw the rabbit by the barn and took the shot anyway. Your aim was off. I don’t blame you; the fever has taken a toll.”

“Who are you?”

“After you cleaned the gun, you put one cartridge in the cylinder and spun it twice. You laid it on the table and cried. Then, you unloaded it and cleaned it again. Unable to touch it for a while, you later placed it back in the holster and hung the holster on the wall. The reload—a memory lapse or fever, perhaps. May I stand now?”

The stranger stood, turned to face Molly and flashed an unassuming smile. It failed to place her mind and revolver at ease. He was no older than twelve. His voice wavered between a boy’s and a man’s.

Although the boy appeared to be unarmed, her father taught her, the mind is always the most dangerous weapon. Boy or not, he was dangerous. He tracked her every move with sapphire-blue eyes, bluer than the deepest part of Miller’s Lake. He too had skills.

“Reload the gun, if you feel the need. The cartridges are in the small boxes by the door. Top box for rifle cartridges and bottom for handguns.”

“I know where they are.” Molly’s voice trembled as she slumped into the chair opposite the boy. The realization about her empty gun stunned her. She was not the woman her father had trained her to be. Failure-tainted shame crept over her like a shroud.

“May I turn up the lamp so we can see one another better? I can stoke the fire and warm up what’s left of the coffee.”

Molly knew the stranger saw her as well as she saw him, but she nodded. She didn’t know if it was a dream or a momentary hallucination.

The boy touched the lamp, and the room became brighter. He turned to the fireplace. Although he touched nothing, the fire sprang to life, and the pot swung over the flames. From the three cups hanging on the wall, he selected Molly’s cup.

The gun felt heavier, though she couldn’t say why. She eased the hammer into place and put the useless revolver on the table, still pointing at the boy.

“Why are you here?”

“People call me Kid and I’m here because you need me.” The boy folded his hands on the table; he waited for her reply.

She stared at the strange boy as countless questions fought their way to the surface of her fevered mind. “Kid, I appreciate you are here to help me, but I don’t understand.”

“I’m here because you didn’t pick up the gun with the single cartridge in it. I’m here for twenty-four hours, starting now. Molly, I’m here to help you. You can tell me to leave, and I will, but this gift of twenty-four hours is a one-time thing. The clock has started. Decide to hear what I have to say or send me away.”

She brushed her bangs from her eyes. When she looked up, the gun was in its holster and a steaming cup of coffee, her cup, replaced it. The floorboards remained silent. 

Molly’s father told her others possessed formidable skills, but there was one, the ultimate assassin, who had skills above all others. Providing a balance between good and evil, his skills were unmatched and his decisions final. This boy may be the ultimate assassin her father spoke of.

“Tell me your problems and I’ll try to help.”

“Oh, since you put it that way … we have no water, the stock pond is a mud hole so the cattle will soon die, and my father died before he could break the gray horse in the corral.”

“Those are valid issues, but there are solutions. A spring runs beneath your well and pond. What you need is rain to fill them. Would you like it to rain?” The boy asked about the rain like asking if she wanted cream in her coffee.

She heard herself say, “Now, please. The sooner the better.” This must be the delirium her parents experienced in their final days. They spoke to people who weren’t there and failed to acknowledge the ones who were. Time must be short, she reasoned.

At first, she heard only a few raindrops like crows pecking on the roof. Then, a gentle rain fell. She stared at the boy. He bowed his head over his folded hands. His lips moved silently while her lower lip quivered.

Molly stumbled out the door to the parched earth and tilted her face to the rain. The rain smelled and tasted as it should. It had to be real. She opened her eyes, and a cloudless dawn smiled back at her.

Molly took a faltering step toward the porch. The knot in her stomach climbed to her throat and her head swam. So many impossible questions needed answers. Samson’s tail thumped a steady drumbeat on the porch planks, not a care in the world. Kid was as she left him.

“The sky is beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Kid, there are no clouds, only rain.”
“You didn’t ask for clouds, only rain.”

She stared at the boy who probably wasn’t a boy and listened to the glorious rain. It hadn’t rained for weeks, but still there was a bowl under the leaky-roof. The bowl, no longer ordinary, was next to the kitchen sink. Her mother placed it there when the leak showed itself two days after her father passed. The next day, her mother followed him. With each new raindrop, the bowl sang, after its voice being silent for weeks.

“So, now the pond will be full, the well will have water, and the horse will be as tame as a lamb?” She hated the hysterical tone in her voice, but since the boy was undoubtedly imaginary, where was the harm?

“The rain will help the pond, but it won’t fill it, and the spring will need help. I will fill the pond and the well. I enjoy watching such wonders. It never gets old. As for the horse—although different from a lamb—it will indeed be tame.”

She reached for her father’s cup on the wall, but hesitated. Instead, she returned with one of the two cups for visitors. They didn’t have many visitors, and the cups seldom left the cupboard. In the window’s reflection, she watched his eyes; they traced her every movement.

Molly’s hands shook as she half-filled the cup, then set it on the table with a less than ladylike thud. Sweat rolled down the back of her neck. She wondered if the fever had robbed her of her finely honed skills when she needed them most. 
“Sorry, I don’t have cream.” Her heart ached. Her mother loved early morning rain and cream. “I can fry some potatoes. I have no meat to offer you. As you know, I missed the rabbit. We haven’t had bacon for some time.” There hadn’t been we for some time either.

“Thank you. I don’t need anything.”
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“The time is yours. Spend it as you wish. You can ask me anything and I will answer if I can.”
“If I touch you, will you disappear, and I wake from the strangest dream I’ve ever had?”

He held out his hands. She touched them. They had substance but lacked the firmness of her father’s. Kid smiled as she squeezed his hands. Molly figured out the difference. There were no bones in his hands and her heart skipped a beat.
He caught her before she fell, wetted a cloth with rainwater from the bowl and placed it on the back of her neck. Her fever ran rampant, and her body would soon surrender to it. Kid whispered, closed his eyes and placed a hand on her forehead.

Soon, she awoke, unsure if she had dreamt of the boy or if her mind was unraveling. Molly shivered in his arms as he helped her back into the chair.

“Are you better?”

The sound of rain leaking into the bowl neither proved nor disproved her state of mind. They talked for a while; she didn’t know if she had answered him. She was still evaluating whether “better” applied to her.

It continued to rain while they talked. Molly realized how much she had missed its soothing sound. It was like her mother’s voice. She had never made the connection before. Now, it was unmistakable.

Kid slipped a pocket watch from his breast pocket and opened it. Inside was the picture of a girl who looked like her younger self. The girl had long red hair and freckles. She wore a gingham dress with a white lace collar. Molly recalled her mother making her a similar dress when she was that age.

The watch was beautiful, made of gold, carved with strange symbols and the chain looked like the young girl’s braided hair. He closed the watch, and her mind snapped back. She looked up and into those eyes. 

“Let’s fill the pond and the well.” He took her hand and led her out into the rain. Before they reached the stock pond, her soaked clothes had become a second skin. He was dry from head to toe. Amazingly dry.

He tilted his head to the sky, whispered something, and the cloudless sky stopped leaking. He then raised his left hand to shoulder height. The cattle sucking the last moisture from hoof prints backed to the edges of the pond as it filled. In minutes, it was full.

Molly pulled away, spun around and laughed as her hair stuck to her face. She wished she was wearing the gingham dress the girl in the photo wore. It would be grand to hold out the hem and dance until her laughter and breath drained from her.

“To the well, Molly.” Kid yelled. “To the well!”

They raced back to the well. Standing in front of it, she hesitated before lowering the bucket and drawing it back to her. The bucket was half full of water tainted with the blue-black clay her father had used to seal the well.

Once again, Kid raised his out-stretched left hand to shoulder height, and water rose in the well. Molly watched it fill and giggled like a child.

Kid clasped his hands once more, bowed his head, and whispered. Molly stopped short as they neared the corral. There stood a black stallion near Smokey, the gray bronc with white stockings. The prettiest horse she had ever seen. The bronc would be the last horse her father would ever buy, an unruly one, the one he never broke.

Molly, death does not always ride a black horse. Be mindful of the many forms it may take.
Yes, Father. Ever mindful.

The stallion shimmered somewhere between blue and black bathed in fresh rain and sunshine. Molly held out her hand to it, but it backed to the edge of the corral. Kid looked at the stallion, at Molly and back at the stallion. He held out his hand, and the stallion pawed the now firm mud. The animal stood still in its tracks. Kid tilted his head. “Come.”

The stallion walked the perimeter of the fence stopping barely within Kid’s reach. Molly reached for the stallion, but it reared back and refused to come near her. Animals never shied from her, and it made her thoughts stutter. Dumbfounded, she watched the interaction between Kid and the horses.
Kid slipped through the fence. He raised both arms as if to hug Smokey and the horse came to him. Slowly but it came. The horse shook its head as the boy spoke.

Molly didn’t understand a word Kid said. With his hands on each side of Smokey’s head he spoke in that mesmerizing language, Molly strained to hear. The language sounded ancient and tribal like a combination of song and poetry. She was jealous of her father’s last horse, for its ability to understand the strange language.

Smokey stood motionless. The only movement from Kid came from his lips. They stood that way for several minutes. Then, Kid lowered his arms and turned to Molly. “Do you have a bridle and saddle for Smokey?”

“In the tack room inside the barn.”

Kid disappeared and returned with a blanket, saddle and bridle. After he saddled Smokey, he walked around the corral and Smokey followed. Molly’s breath hitched. Her father, a respected horse trainer, tried countless times to place a bridle on the horse, but it refused the bridle and even the weight of the blanket. Now, Smokey stood saddled, and he followed Kid like a little puppy.

“Would you like to be the first to ride him?”

“Not on your life.” She regretted her absurd reply, but it was too late.

Kid smiled. Smokey stood still as Kid placed his foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. Kid rode him around the corral and into the paddock. On his return, he stopped in front of her. He dismounted and held out the reins.
Molly shifted her weight from foot to foot and her sweaty hand trembled, but she accepted the reins. With her foot in the stirrup, she added her weight in increments. When she had her full weight in the stirrup, she swung her leg over the saddle. She sat, still as a headstone. Tears rolled down her cheeks. This was what her father wanted. Smokey was to be her horse and now, it could be.
Kid saddled his stallion and followed on horseback as Molly showed him the ranch. They rode past cattle crowding around the now full stock pond, on their way to show him her favorite spot, a shady hilltop where she could see most of the ranch. Dirt still mounded on her parents’ graves, the crosses freshly carved.

“What do you call your horse?” Molly asked.
“Raven. He’s not really mine. We only travel together.”

“That’s a strange name for a horse—oh, there’s a jackrabbit. I wish I had my rifle. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything but potatoes. I only eat rabbits when I can hit them.”

Kid reached out his hand. The rabbit shook its head, scratched its ear, then came to him. It stepped into his open arms. Molly placed her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

Kid spoke to the rabbit in his strange language and placed his hand over the rabbit’s eyes while he blew a slight breath on the hare. When he removed his hand, the rabbit lay lifeless. Kid stroked the rabbit’s fur and handed it to her.
She felt for the tiny heartbeat, but there was none. For a moment, she felt as lifeless as the rabbit. Impossibilities piled layer upon layer.

Later, Molly prepared a stew for supper while Kid stared into the fire. He pulled the watch from his pocket. She calmed her racing heart with slow breaths. The timepiece was cradled in his right hand as he waved his left hand over it. Once clockwise and once counterclockwise.

Her mind raced. Evaluate, plan, act. How absurd her father’s teachings sounded in her head. She couldn’t evaluate what she had seen so how could she form a plan and act on it? Kid called rain from a cloudless sky and sucked life from a rabbit with his strange language and breath. She wondered if her father even knew such powers existed. If he did, he took the knowledge to his grave.  

The land needs more rain. A gentle rain tapped on the roof, then dripped into her mother’s bowl. She looked up to see Kid studying her.

“I can repair the roof before I leave.”

“No. Please don’t. It reminds me of my mother.”

He nodded and whispered to himself, the wind, the rain, the world and somewhere something changed. She was not aware of where or what, but she knew when he spoke the strange language, something changed.

Molly enjoyed her stew and felt at peace. Smokey was saddle-broken, the pond and well were full, and a gentle rain showered the ranch. As Molly ate, she glanced at the boy. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I no longer need food.”

“You’re not real, are you? This is a dream I’m having, and I’ll wake up in the morning, and everything will be the same as it was.”

“Molly, I assure you, you are not dreaming. The rain you hear is real. You rode Smokey today. The stock pond is full, and you drew fresh water from the well. I also repaired all your fences while you prepared your supper. It’s all real. How is your fever?”

“Wait, it’s gone. My fever is gone. And the whispering by the fire, you were repairing the fences?”

“They weren’t on your list, but they needed repair.”

Time passed. She asked questions he couldn’t answer, but he told her everything he could. He opened his watch. “It’s time Molly.”

“No. It can’t be. Please, a few more hours, even minutes. Please.”

He shook his head. Molly held up her hand and ran to her bedroom. She returned huffing while brushing loose hair from her face and wearing her best dress. The last one her mother made. It wasn’t gingham with a white lace collar, but it was a dress.

“Please, a few more minutes. I feel I’ve wasted so much of my time. Please!”
“I’m sorry, Molly. I’m not the keeper of time. Time has its own taskmaster.”

Kid walked out into a steady shower under a cloudless sky. The first hint of dawn kissed the treetops. It was a new beginning. Night surrendered its hold on the world while day claimed it.

Kid saddled Raven and slid into the saddle as if he and Raven were one. He waved, turned to the west, raised his head, and spoke his amazing language to the sky.

Molly ran down the steps, stood in her best dress in a gentle rain and reached for her pocket. She always insisted on pockets. The revolver felt colder and heavier than usual. Rain and tears cascaded down her cheeks. She thumbed the hammer and heard a voice in her head, Girl, stop shaking or you won’t hit a thing. Molly paused, breathed, and calmed herself. Then, she heard more of her father’s good advice.

Death doesn’t always ride a black horse.
Yes, Father. But sometimes it does.

The shot echoed in her ears. The odor of spent gunpowder filled the air. Raven reared up and Kid fell from the saddle. She ran to him and placed his head in her lap, brushing hair from his eyes. His amazing sapphire eyes. A red flower bloomed on his chest. She threw the revolver into the mud. Molly cradled his head and rocked him.

“Tell me. You’re the ultimate assassin, aren’t you? Tell me!” she screamed, shaking him.

Raven ran at her. Molly ducked her head and shielded Kid as the horse turned into a bird and flew west. It screeched and disappeared into a heat shimmer.
 Kid placed his bloody hand on her cheek and coughed. “Molly, only I can stop the rain. Only I can stop….”

His somewhat solid body liquified, leaving only his clothes and the pocket watch. Molly wrapped the timepiece in her scented handkerchief and placed it in her pocket. She lifted her face to rain falling from a cloudless sky and longed to be the rabbit. 

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Barry Lewis is the author of The Wyoming Adventure and What’s Dragon You Down. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including HotPoet Equinox, Literature Today, Amethyst Review, Poetry Breakfast, The Writers’ Journal, Grist, and Harrow House Journal. He also has an upcoming short story in Bloomin Onion.