Bend the Blades of Grass by Phil Mills, Jr.

EACH BLADE OF GRASS twisted then leaned in unison like some natural chorus line. A hot wind—the natural breath of some unseen evil—pushed an eclectic mix of prairie grasses down only to have them rise again. Each blade returning to stand full upright as if only to defy nature’s incessant pushing. And through wide eyes, a little blondehaired girl named Molly Marie Anderson watched.

Stems of buffalo and tall gamagrass reached skyward, defiant across a vast stretch of small rolling hills deep in Western Kansas. The stems swayed, bent and fought to remain standing against a wind that never seemed to rest.

The little girl watched the grasses falling over, then back in a timeless ritual like the waves of some great ocean. As far as she could see, the scene never changed. There were no trees, no singular structure either natural or manmade to block her view.

Huge white puffy clouds floated overhead often reaching high into the deep blue sky. Now and then they blocked the sun creating irregular shade patterns across the prairie floor. The land was alive, an idyllic mix of beauty and mystery.

Six-year-old Molly watched the family dog chase a rabbit that had ventured too near the family home, and she smiled. Life was good. The dog she called Spots was a mixed breed of assorted colors and parentage. His efforts were in vain, but the girl was mesmerized by his efforts.

The Anderson family lived in a sod home built into the side of a hill—one of the few in the area. Sod blocks carved from the prairie floor were stacked like bricks on top of each other to form the walls. Only two small windows and the front door were made of wood. Grass born of the sod grew wildly over the roof like a man’s unruly hair.

Only where a chimney emerged from the roof was any attempt ever made to keep the grass cleared. Thus nature was making every effort to reclaim the sod, perpetuating the never-ending struggle between man and nature. The house blended into the surrounding landscape. A narrow stream fed by a spring of unknown origin was their only water source.

So it was here deep in Comanche country surrounded by an endless prairie and wide open skies the Anderson family had homesteaded two years earlier and literally taken root. Odds of their success were against them, and they knew as much.

Molly was the youngest child, and she had come as a pleasant surprise to a couple who had given up hope of ever having a daughter. Three teenage boys were of great help on this prairie homestead, but for Molly’s doting mother, this blue-eyed little girl was special.

She barely noticed the sudden appearance of her sixteen-year-old brother riding bareback on the family’s aged buckskin mare. But Molly was startled when he shouted, “Comanche! Downstream and headed this way.”

Her mother was suddenly there roughly picking her up like a sack of flour. And in spite of her protests, the woman carried her up on the ridge overlooking the house. There she found a stand of buffalo grass and laid Molly down.

“Stay here! Keep your head down and don’t move until I come get you! You understand me, child? Don’t raise your head and don’t make a sound.”

With that last set of instructions, her mother was gone. Molly lay trembling in the grass wishing Spots would come lay with her in this grassy shelter. But she dared not call out for him.

Within minutes she could hear her father barking out orders to her brothers and mother. She knew they were taking cover in the sod house, well-armed and ready. Molly didn’t understand why she was not with them. What she didn’t know was arrangements had been made with a nearby family that should something terrible happen to her parents, the neighbors would know where to find the little girl.

A hunting party of between ten and fifteen Comanche had been following the narrow stream looking for game and had stumbled on the Anderson soddy. They rode in from the west with the morning sun reflecting off their bronzed, leathery faces.

Molly’s father stepped from the sod home and confronted the unwelcome strangers. Comanche trouble, while always a possibility, had not been an issue since the Andersons moved into the area. The nearest neighbor was more than three miles away.

Angry voices carried up the ridge and found their way into Molly’s sensitive ears. She could hear her father shouting but couldn’t understand the responses. Not that it mattered. A solitary gunshot exploded from below, and an otherwise quiet morning was followed by screams of anger and pain.

An idyllic prairie morning gave way to death and dying. Molly trembled and clutched a small cloth doll to her chest. She dared not look... dared not lift her head to watch.

“Stay here! Keep your head down and don’t move until I come get you!”

The words of her mother echoed loudly in her head.

She fought down the urge to look... to gaze on the carnage so close at hand.

Often they had practiced for this hour, this moment. So many times her mother had led her to this very spot and told her to lay still. Her mother had explained to move would mean being seen and sure death... so she lie among the blades of grass and waited. Her mother would come get her eventually.

Molly felt the wind against her face as she watched the blades of grass refusing to give way to that same wind. Yes, they would bend often nearly flat only to stand again. They refused to die. So she lay still often realizing she was holding her breath.

Must not forget to breathe, she told herself.

Then she realized there was no sound... no movement from below the ridge... not even the whimper of a field mouse.

Did she dare roll over in the direction of the sod house lest she be found... and tortured? Molly shuddered at the thought of foreign hands touching her. She chilled at the knowledge death was so close at hand.

A fresh blast of wind disguised as a simple breeze swept over her then over the ridge and down toward the rolling prairie beyond. Then she heard a shout but was content to let it ride over her and out of earshot. She now watched individual blades of grass each in its own singular struggle for survival.

Again, she whimpered but quickly admonished her own frailty.

“Be quiet. Be strong,” she told herself startled briefly by the sound of her own voice.

The little girl found herself whispering to the wind to be quiet—even the chatter of birds singing and chattering worried her. A hawk circled overhead watching the Comanche attack below. A meadowlark rose to find less noisy surroundings.

“Momma?”

Molly felt a tear escape from her left eye and find its way down her dirty cheek... then another followed. She cried. Holding tightly to the well-worn doll she prayed a prayer of innocence and youth. She tried to find some degree of solace within this momentous hour.

Insects along with leggy grasshoppers and such... then a bumblebee floated nearby.

Now, her left ankle itched, but she dared not move. Her mother had told her “don’t move.”

Her mind raced to a better more innocent time. Chickens feeding on insects such as those near the house. Some old hen bound for Sunday dinner finding a timid insect to delight and enjoy. Baby chicks chasing grasshoppers made her smile.

More shots... more screams. The Comanche were in control.

Molly smelled smoke—the earthy kind born of burning grass on top of the sod home.

She had smelled that scent before. Prairie fires had never made it this far south, but she remembered the smell of the smoke and the bright orange glow as the fires burned along the horizon at night... always seeming so close.

There was a growing stench on the winds now. The breezes had turned and were now blowing up the ridge and over her hiding place. Smoke flowed over her, creating its own cloud of choking terror.

She found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

“Stay down. Stay in the grass!”

This warning rushed over her again and again. Her brain drifted toward some measure of unexplained madness.

There was another smell now... a sweet distasteful odor of unknown origin. The smell was on her quickly as it penetrated her nose. Her nostrils were on fire with this unknown scent.

Molly heard one last scream for mercy as the fire and smoke engaged her home. There was a sizzle of burning flesh as the fire consumed her family. Death was unmerciful and all consuming.

She tried to peek between the tufts and blades of grass, her eyes trying to focus through the gray smoke which was being fed by the remains of her family now perished. Her throat filled with vomit as she choked down the knowledge her family was somewhere inside the burning inferno below.

The Comanche shouted and waved their weapons in a victory celebration. Molly, despite her age, felt a rising anger—hatred beyond all measure—well up within her heart. Short and thick. Her hand instinctively moved to cover her nose and mouth. Molly fought down the urge to stand and rush to her family.

“Stay here until I come get you! Do you hear me? Stay here. No matter the circumstance.”

Must think of happy things such as butterflies and kittens, she told herself.

Still a fear rose within her. A lonely, depressing fear full of terror that all but consumed her. She pressed closer to the prairie floor as if trying to hold onto something, anything familiar and free of this terrifying moment.

Fear gave way to tears. Then she felt a calm rise over her. Her mind pushed aside the moment leaving to later the crackling sounds brought on by burning wood and grasses. Her legs and arms ached, stiff from lying so long in one place... one position.

Her back itched and the urge to scratch was overwhelming. Molly tried turning to see the sky, perhaps the horizon, but the distance was too great and the smoke too thick.

The grasses swayed in the smoke-filled air, bending away from the burning home only to rise again as the wind died down. For even in the face of pending death, the instinct to maintain the status quo to find some sense of normal is instinctive. Molly lay still, for her mother had told her to do so.

The screams had long since died as had their source. Molly knew little of such morbid things, so she waited. Even now with smoke all but consuming her, she refused to look, instead curling up in a fetal position squeezing tightly to the one constant she understood. Her mother had always come to get her before and would again.

Why hasn’t momma come to get me? I’m tired and this isn’t fun anymore.

There was no answer. Not even the meadowlark spoke now

There was only a rush to escape the flames below.

Fire from the burning house was being spread by the wind to nearby grasses and was now climbing the hill toward Molly. By the time it reached the ridge top where Molly lay hidden, it would be a full-blown prairie fire.

The Comanche had crossed the stream and sat on their horses and watched. Like a tender young rabbit or young prairie chickens afraid to move, Molly lay in the spring grasses and waited... unsuspecting, innocent. Like a new fawn hidden she lay still.

A bird rose angry near Molly, and she felt fear if only for a moment in the excited bird’s cry. A rabbit rushed past her, and she could see terror in its eyes. She felt warmth, a rising heat from below the ridge. And she beat down the urge to look.

“Be quiet!” she whispered to herself, although the crackling sound of burning grass was near, and the smoke was heavy on the wind. Grasshoppers and other creatures looked to escape, and a field mouse raced by so close as to be touched.

The heat from the burning grass rushed toward her. “Momma... come get me! Momma! Momma, please! I’m hot, momma!”

Bend down the blades of grass here on the Kansas prairie. Feel the gentle breezes touching the innocent and the bold. Know that death eventually comes to the just and the unjust.

Bend down the blades of grass for even here the winds of death shall blow as nature reclaims her blemished soul.