Oatho
Twins. Like God and Jesus. Like the tree. Like Oatho and me.
The prairie had a way of making a man feel small. Conway, a “behemoth” as his father had dubbed him, was okay with that. He liked feeling hidden from the world. More than that, he liked feeling fragile; the fragile deserved kindness, and the small deserved tenderness. And the behemoths? They bore the yoke.
In the middle of the nothingness stood an oak tree, its trunk divided in half, resembling a giant lying on its back with two mammoth legs pointed at the sky. God could have easily created two separate trees, had He been so inclined. Yet, the prairie was a lonely place, and being connected to something felt natural. It provided balance and context to the world. Conway understood this, and he wondered if God knew it too. Perhaps that’s why He fused them together from a single seed—much like He brought Jesus into the whole thing. God was alone before that—Lucifer having fallen. It was just like him and his brother, Oatho. Conway smiled at the idea, adjusting the girthy canvas bag on his back.
He felt drawn to the tree. Longing to lie beneath its lush canopy of leaves and enjoy the lunch his mother had packed for him and Oatho. Turkey vultures skipped and hopped beneath the giant’s legs, pulling away the flesh of some poor beast. As Conway approached, close enough to cause the flies swarming the fetid meat to scatter like black sheep harried by a dog, two men emerged from behind the two trunks.
“You just ‘bout big as this here tree, ain’t you?” The man looked to his partner. They shared the same broad face, with eyes set just far enough apart to be disconcerting.
Twins. Like God and Jesus. Like the tree. Like Oatho and me.
“Salutations,” said Conway.
The men split apart, one slowly circling to his left, the other to his right.
“Saluta—How ‘bout that, Griz. He talks like he’s a goddamn schoolteacher. You a teacher, boy?”
A gust of wind swept through, blowing the hat off the man named Griz.
“Name’s Conway. No, not a teacher, but I do read quite a bit.”
“You don’t be lookin’ like a reader,” said Griz, retrieving his hat from the tall grass. “You lookin’ like a bull.”
The two men laughed, their smiles a grotesque display of brown, black, and yellowed teeth.
“Well then, I am Sir Ted. How do you do?” The man curtsied with a sneer.
“Ted and Griz?” said Conway, an eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me your last name is Bear.”
The men’s faces drooped. Griz slowly drew a Bowie knife from his belt. “You know us?”
“Holy shit, it really is Bear?” said Conway. “I don’t know you gentlemen—Ted Bear and Griz Bear? You’ve got names fit for a child’s storybook, is all.”
Griz stepped forward, his lip curled. Ted’s hand shot up as if he were about to start a race, and Griz halted.
“Now, now. I don’t think the boy was trying to insult you, Griz. Was you, boy?”
Conway’s gaze shifted to the oak tree. Its shade seemed inviting amidst the tension. He wondered how a single oak could have found its place in this vast prairie.
“No, sir. In fact, I think I’ll just be on my way. I was planning on having a little lunch under that tree. I’d offer you gents some, but there’s only enough for me and my brother Oatho.”
The men’s eyes surveyed the area like hawks searching the tall grass for snakes, their fingers idly brushing the handles of their revolvers. Then, Griz, with a grin that spread slowly across his face like molasses, gestured toward the dead thing beneath the tree.
“You love your brother Oatho?” Ted’s voice was giddy, like a bully child holding a pigtail. “What kind of a fucking name is that anyway?”
“Oh, well, course I do. Sometimes it can be hard, traveling with him and all, but yes—I’d say that I love him most of the time. You know how it is, I’m sure.” Conway adjusted his canvas bag and yawned. “We’re quite different, him and me—different dispositions. As for his name, it’s because when we were little, he’d always say, ‘Oatho me’ whenever I got something he didn’t have. Still does. I have an apple, ‘Oatho me.’ I have a smoke, ‘Oatho me.’ So anyway, the family just started calling him that one day. Can’t even remember what he was called before that—I think they just called him ‘Other.’ Which I ‘spose ain’t much different than Oatho.”
“Sounds like a freak. He ain’t lookin’ like a dumb bull too, is he?”
“Now, let’s be cordial, Griz,” Ted replied, his tone even, his eyes cold.
As they spoke, a monarch butterfly flittered down from the sky, landing delicately on Conway’s thick forearm. Its wings were pinched together like a woman in prayer. “You see this creature?” asked Conway, holding still so as not to disturb the monarch. “It’s a lot like me and my brother. Oatho’s like the left wing, and I’m the right. Without each other, I don’t know if there would be much reason to go on.”
Griz reached out and snatched the butterfly from Conway’s arm. The big man flinched, his eyes and mouth momentarily widening in shock.
Griz looked into his eyes, silent, sick, waiting to see what the behemoth would do. Then, with the smug air of a shopkeep getting the better end of a deal, he tore a vibrant wing from the black body of the monarch.
Conway frowned. He didn’t like these men, but he understood them. Violence wasn’t new, not to him nor to the world. Oatho had pulled the wings off many men, but their screams were worse than the violence itself. Was the butterfly screaming, its cries too delicate for the dull ears of men?
“Is this what it would be like if you didn’t have your brother?” Griz spat, then flicked the wing into the tall grass.
As Conway watched, he couldn’t help but notice how Griz’s every movement and word seemed tailored for the amusement of his twin; it seemed a cruelty blossomed out of an unwell brotherly love. Teddy Bear soaked it up sometimes, but other times, all relationships having a hierarchy, he would only offer his brother a contemptuous stare, leaving Griz dour. Conway wondered how much crueler these men would be without each other. Or did cruelty sharpen cruelty?
“A violent, yet poetic analogy. And what about you? Being twins, you must love each other deeply. A love that close can be desperate, full of fear of loss.”
Griz made a fist, crushing the monarch in his square, freckled hand. “I’m getting tired of this bull.”
“Perhaps we’re all acquainted enough to get to it?” said Ted. “Give us your valuables, and we’ll be on our way. Then you can go have lunch with your brother under that tree. Hand to God.”
“A nice leisurely lunch!” added Griz with a menacing snicker.
The afternoon sun bore down on Conway, causing him to look at the men through squinted eyes. He pulled out a leather book bound with a single piece of twine and tossed it to Ted. “It’s got the little money I have. Earned through hard work, I might add. It’s yours. I’ll be having my lunch now.”
Ted smiled conspiratorially at his brother as he untied the twine. He removed a small bundle of bills from within and casually tossed the empty wallet back to Conway.
“Well, aren’t you gonna say thank you, Bull?” asked Griz.
“No. No, I’m not. I will say good day though.”
“You think we’re fools? That bag on your back is holding more than food. Hand it over.”
But Conway didn’t comply. He walked off toward the tree, his colossal steps matting the tall grass, leaving a trail to the solitary oak. Behind him, he could hear the twins’ menacing footfalls. Whether it was their whispering or just the susurrous of the prairie wind through the oak leaves, he couldn’t be sure. The turkey vultures perched on a nearby rock formation, their gaze like a courtroom jury casting judgment. The evidence lay beneath the tree: the body of a young man. Conway turned to face the killers.
The twins laughed as if it were all an elaborate prank, as if the three of them would soon be sharing beers and swapping stories and playing cards and attending each other’s weddings and funerals—and one of those was going to be happening here, beneath the oak’s outstretched limbs, underneath God’s watchful eye.
“Oh boy, this must be a whole mess of a bad day for you,” said Ted. “Look at that puss. But, hey, you should feel glad—you’re a big boy, and now you have twice the food to eat.”
“I’m just trying to imagine what must be goin’ through that big ol’ head of yours. If it were me, and Ted here was the one spoiling in this heat from a bullet to the back of the head, I’d be more than a little annoyed. Might even have the mind to try something stupid. You gonna try something stupid?” Griz drew his revolver, spinning the chamber with a tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. “I’ve got six bullets in this gun that I’m itching to use. Oh, wait, that’s right,” he said with a wink. “I only have five now.”
Conway gazed into the distance. He was too far from town to hope for any intervention by the law. He himself didn’t carry a revolver; he never saw himself as a violent man. Oatho, on the other hand, craved violence. Even as children, Oatho’s disposition was clear. He was hidden away from the neighbors and the law, unable to attend school or help with the bills; his appetite for destruction was too great.
“Well, I’m sad. This boy shouldn’t have been slain like a sick dog. Were you planning on burying him?”
“Burying him? No, no we wasn’t planning on burying him,” Ted replied.
“And you ain’t gonna either,” added Griz.
Conway nodded his head in acceptance. “Very well. Might you do me a kindness before I go?”
“A kindness? Well, I don’t know ‘bout that, boy. We ain’t the kindness types.” Ted smiled at his brother.
“It’s not much, but I’d like to have my lunch under this here tree. And seeing how I now have more to share, perhaps we can break bread together.”
The twins, who seemed to share the same mindset on virtually everything, and therefore the same schedule when it came to hunger, eyed Conway with a mix of interest and skepticism.
“And why wouldn’t we just take it all for ourselves?” asked Ted.
“You certainly can and likely will, but I’m betting you’d prefer the food without it being covered with brain and blood. This way, I get to enjoy at least a mouthful of my mother’s delicious sandwiches, and you get food that don’t taste like my innards.”
“Let’s just shoot him. I’ll get the food from his sack before it bleeds through,” said Griz.
Ted placed his thumb and index finger on the bridge of his nose, letting out a weary sigh. “Do you realize how stupid you sound? The blood would seep through that straight away. For once in your goddamn life, Griz, can you please just use your damn brain?”
Griz kicked a protruding root and gazed out across the lonesome prairie.
Conway slowly reached his hand to his shoulder. “I think you boys will like this meal. Heck, you might even decide to let me continue my dull life after you’ve had a bite.”
“Doubt that,” said Griz, licking his lips.
“And why aren’t you more cut up about your brother’s brains being vulture feed?” asked Ted.
“Well, Oatho and I are twins,” said Conway, unfastening the bulky canvas sack from his back. “Just like you two. Which one of you was born first? I’m guessing Ted.”
“That’s right,” said Ted. “But you two ain’t lookin’ like twins.”
“Oh, that young man? No, that’s not my brother… Well, not my flesh and blood. I do consider all men my brothers, but that man isn’t my twin, no. See, where your brother followed you out of the womb and into this prairie, my brother and I came out fused together. Like this tree.” Conway patted the trunk, gazing up at the dancing leaves, his face dappled with shifting patterns of sunlight. “They say the only reason he lived was because of me. He needed someone big to carry him around, to be his workhorse, an ox—or bull, as you put it. But he’s strong, might be stronger than me. He’s carried me through hard times as much as I him.”
The canvas bag opened to a single sheet and glided down, settling gently on the dead man’s face. Blood spots began to expand, like spilled wine soaking through a napkin.
The men looked on in horror, their hands fumbling for their weapons in a desperate scramble. But fear, as it does, made their hands clumsy and ineffectual.
The turkey vulture jury, now awakened and alert, retreated another yard. A tornado of flies swarmed beneath the tree, buzzing greedily around the two bandits. They crawled across the pallid foreheads and cheeks of the men, like ravenous children dipping their forelegs into pudding before it’s been served.
Attached to Conway’s back like a fleshy, tumor-like growth with teeth, his twin brother Oatho raised his chin and let out a hoarse, unbearable moan. His limbs unfolded beneath him, like a newly born foal standing for the first time. This grotesque twin, a grown man, folded up like a ventriloquist dummy, as tall as Conway, but as thin as a rail. Then, with an unexpected burst of energy, Oatho hurled himself forward, wrenching his brother Conway onto his back.
Conway raised his hand, square and block-like, to shield his eyes from the sun. A feeling of surrender washed over him. He pointed his toes toward the top of the tree as if he were a child on a swing reaching its apex. Closing his eyes, he let the sunlight kiss his eyelids; his brother was in control now, and that was just how it had to be.
Oatho’s legs, bare and wiry, were twisted up with ropy, sinewy muscles. It seemed implausible that they could support the weight of Conway, the behemoth. Yet, after a few wobbly steps, Oatho corrected himself like a sick horse regaining its strength. He yawned deeply, exposing ragged yellow teeth, then focused his gaze on the two petrified men.
“The fuck!” yelled Ted, breaking from his fright to lift his revolver. But it was a second too late. Oatho’s mouth was on his shoulder, a soft kiss coming away with its pound of flesh. “Kill it! Kill it!” Ted’s scream turned to a curdling bellow as blood spurted and gushed from his arm like an oil strike.
Griz lunged at Oatho, but despite his willingness to find his mark, he was caught off guard by the agility of this naked, thin man, whose face resembled a steamed and peeled potato fit for the stew.
Oatho seized Ted by the neck and squeezed. His bloodshot eyes bulged in unison with the bandit’s. But while Ted’s eyes reflected dread, Oatho’s burned with bloodlust and malice.
Griz pulled his gun and fired a shot into Oatho’s bare side.
Oatho staggered backward, but with his eyes full of resolve, he ran at Griz with the speed and power of a mountain lion. BAM—another shot rang out, this one striking the hideous twin’s face. Oatho’s nose burst like a ripe plum thrown against a fence. His lifeless body, naked and pale, lay beneath his brother, the behemoth.
The shout of anguish scattered the hungry vultures in every direction. For the first time in his life, Conway faced the prospect of solitude, a fear that surged through his entire being. He rolled over, positioning his brother’s limp body to face the top of the oak, and then pushed himself up to his knees.
Griz stood over his brother’s mangled corpse, shaking. He turned to face Conway, the behemoth. “You killed him,” he said, voice trembling.
“I’ve never killed a man in my life. My brother killed him.”
Griz staggered over to the large man, who, even on his knees, was nearly as big as him. He lifted his revolver and placed the barrel between Conway’s eyes. “You and your brother are the same.”
Conway didn’t want to die, but it would solve the physical pain that his brother’s death was causing him. And it would end the emotional turmoil. His tears cleared paths of white flesh down his dirty face.
“In a way, I suppose we were the same. But not quite like you and your brother. No, you were two sides of the same coin, weren’t you? Only you were both heads, or tails—too similar. A pair of violent men with the same cravings—”
“You’ve a demon on yer back!” replied Griz, cocking the hammer of his revolver.
“Oatho was primal, this is true,” Conway said thoughtfully. His breathing had steadied, yet the tears still came. “But look at me. I’m a peaceful man, kind even. Oatho, he was the sun—burned hot, could scorch a man. Me? I’m more like the moon—calm, reflective. But you two,” his eyes narrowed, “that’s a different story. The sun doesn’t belong in the night. You needed a moon.”
Griz pushed the barrel hard against the behemoth's head, nearly toppling him over.
“Alright, Mr. Moon,” Griz said through his teeth, “let’s say you’re right. Maybe we were no good for each other. He was still my bother, and I can’t face this world without him.” His finger, stained with his twin’s blood, quivered on the trigger. “So this is it. The end of the Bear brothers.”
Conway laughed, startling the bandit.
“I reckon you can proceed with that plan, if it’s your desire. But may I offer an alternative?”
The outlaw scoffed, his jaw muscles clinching.
“I won’t live without a doctor,” said Conway.
“You won’t live with a bullet to your head.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But what if you were to take me to one? What if, here beneath this fused tree, you and I became brothers? I need someone to be my storm—to be my sun—and you need someone to be your moon. The violent outlaw and the peaceful bull.”
Griz pulled the trigger, killing a vulture that had come too close to his brother’s corpse.
God and Jesus. The tree. The Bear and the Bull.
Hello, thanks for reading my story.
When I started writing Oatho, it was just the tree in my mind, almost exactly like the photo above. I’m obsessed with oak trees. The valley oak is one of the best things on this planet. For me, in some ways, it answers the question, What is the meaning of life? Its twisted branches and rough texture are daily reminders of why we’re here: to stand in the sun, in our beautiful, twisted bodies, and just be. Take it all in.
I know that isn’t what this story is about, I wrote it after all, but I just need you all to know how much I love trees. Anyway - ta ta for now.
Credit: Sean Leonard edited this story. He caught some missed errors (and here I thought I was perfect!) and was super helpful in polishing this story up.