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236 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 14, 2018
For Starlight the farm was his heritage and culture, the plainspoken earnestness of his neighbours all the language he needed, and the feel of the land beneath his feet all the philosophy and worldview that fed his sense of purpose. A night sky brimmed with stars, the snap and crackle of a fire behind him in the darkness, and the howls of wolves on distant ridges were all the spirituality he'd ever needed. He was not displaced or dispossessed. He was home. In that, he felt keenly alive.
They were weathered men. Their clothes were the tough and simple fabric of the farm, the field, the wilderness, and they stood together in that hushed silence, smoking and considering nothing but the gathered evidence of their industry. Above them the congress of stars pinwheeled slowly and a knife slice of moon hung over everything like a random thought. They could hear the sides of cattle shunted against the whitewashed planks of their pens and somewhere far off the skittering soliloquy of a night bird addressing all of it in plaintive, melancholic notes that rose and fell in counterpoint to their breaths, huffed with smoke. Then they nodded, each to himself, and turned in concert and began the slow, slumped walk to the porch and the house and the rustic simplicity of a bed, a quilt, and dreams wove from the experience of passing through a day, satisfied at the scuffed and worn feel at its edges.
He found that he could lose himself in savagery. That thick coil of vengeance he carried in his gut could unsnake itself and take on the quality of fists and kicks and hammer blows to heads and bellies and the cracking and breaking of teeth and ribs and other bones. So that he found a grim satisfaction in pushing men to fight. In those booze-filled nights in working men's towns, such contests of will and rage were easy to start and he let the vehemence of his shattered ego rain punishment on men in ones or twos or threes. He was thrilling to watch. For such a bulky man he was light on his feet and lizard fast. He punished men. He knew precisely how hard and often to attack and hit, and he toyed with them, bloodying faces and battering knees and hips and shoulders so that in the end his adversaries became limp, defenceless rags of men who dropped at his feet eventually, and he'd raise his fists and face to the ceiling of the sky and howl in a basso keening imbued with every ounce of hate he carried for the woman he hunted unceasingly. She would be his ultimate triumph.