Stepping Stones by Steve Gannon

that?  Why would God make Georgie different just so his fellow men would kill him?  What had my brother done to deserve such a heartbreaking, lonely end?
    And what about me, an d what I had done to the men who hung him?   They deserved the fate I had given them, and I was glad I’d done it.  But deep down I knew it was wrong. If there is a Creator, what will His judgment be for me? I wondered .  Abruptly, I realized that He had already damned me, for I was different, too.  I was green, just like that monkey . . . at least on the inside.  Or was the color of my soul actually black?
    Absently, I wondered if there were others like me—normal on the outside but different nonetheless.  If there were, and they were still alive, I knew they would be hiding.  I also knew I would never find them.  But for some reason, at that moment, I wanted very much to believe they were there.
    I remained in the north field all that night, sitting beside Georgie’s boulder until the first light of dawn.  By then it had turned bitter cold.  The freezing air had stiffened my joints.  I was sore from the fight as well.  It took me a while just to stand.
    The path lay in shadow as I followed it to the river.  St anding on the bank in the early morning light, I watched the dark waters flow by. I stripped off my clothes and dived in.  The river was icy cold and running fast.  I swam out from shore, my arms slashing the surface, feeling the current trying to pull me down.  When I began to grow numb, I stopped and let myself sink, descending into the frigid darkness.  Shafts of sunlight streamed down from above, eerie fingers fanning through the depths.  I hung weightless, wondering how it would feel to simply fill my lung s with one final watery breath.
    Would I find peace? I wondered .
    I doubted it.
    When I burst gasping to the surface, I found that the current had carried me a considerable distance downstream.  I was shivering when I reached the bank, but by then a morning breeze had come up , and I was dry by the time I found my clothes.  I dressed and headed back to the cabin.
    Pa was asleep when I arrived.  Quietly, I gathered my things.  There wasn’t much—some clothes, a buckskin wallet Georgie had made for me, a locket of Ma’s, my Grandpa’s watch.  They hardly filled my duffel bag.  When I was done, I stood at the foot of Pa’s bed.  It looked half empty without Ma in it.  Pa still slept on his side.
    “Pa.  Wake up.”
    “Huh?”
    “Wake up, Pa.”
    Pa opened his eyes.  I saw them cloud with shame as he remembered what had happened.  Slowly, he swung his feet to the floor, rubbing a hand across the rough white stubble covering his chin.  He still had on his clothes from the night before.  A jar of liquor sat on the night table.  He reached for it.
    “Don’t, Pa.”
    He peered over, seeming to notice me for the first time.  Again, he ran a hand over his chin, then glanced at the jar.
    “Please don’t, Pa.”
    “No, I don’t guess I will,” he sighed, cradling his head in his hands.
    “I buried Georgie in the north field by that boulder.  I figure he’d have liked that.”
    “I think maybe he would,” Pa said softly.  Painfully, he rose from the bed.  He looked old.  Funny, I had never noticed it before.  With a start, I realized that my father had grown old.
    He stood unsteadily, trying to straighten.  Then he spotted my bag by the door.  “You’re leaving?”
    I nodded.
    Pa’s throat started working.  I knew he had words to say.  “Seth, I need to tell you something,” he said quietly.  “Will you listen?”
    I didn’t respond.
    “Before your mother died, she made me promise to take care of you and Georgie after she was gone,” he went on.  “I told her of course I would; she didn’t need me to promise.  But she made me promise anyhow.  And she made me promise something else,” he added, his voice breaking.  “She made me promise to love you.”
    I could see