A Far Piece to Canaan (12 page)

I said yes and noticed a Christmas tree in the corner about four foot tall hung with popcorn chains, pine cones, painted carvings of animals, and a big carved wood star at the top. About the prettiest Christmas tree I ever seen except there wudn't nothing under it, which struck me as lonesome. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the whittling knife. “Merry Christmas.”

Ben got up and stood rock-still, not saying anything. I was beginning to think maybe he wudn't going to take it, then he swallowed and spoke so quiet you could hardly hear him.

“Thank y', Samuel.”

I don't know how long he rolled the knife around in his hand, then he put it under the Christmas tree. “I'll open th' blades Christmas mornin',” he said, then began looking around.

I knew he was searching for a present for me and figured it was going to be one of his wood carvings. If that was so, I wanted the mallard duck and let my eyes fall on it long enough to tell him that was it but not so long he'd have to give it if he didn't want to. He did, and we shook hands, and I said, “Thanks.”

That duck was something to see, boy. It looked like it would take to wing in a second. It was as big as a live duck, which was going to cause a problem at home since I couldn't tell Mom and Dad where I got it and a wooden duck a foot long is hard to hide.

We sat by the fire for a while, then I brought up the buck. He didn't seem at all surprised.

“You say hits eyes was gouged out.”

“That's what Mr. Shackelford said. Eyes gouged out, nuts and hindquarters cut off.”

“Hmm,” he said, and lit his pipe again, which kept going out. “You say this happened inside a mile from th' river?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure.”

Ben kind of sucked his teeth. “Be a long way t' get there from th' low bottoms if you didn't go up th' cliff, wouldn't it?”

“Aw, yeah,” I said. “It's three mile anyway down to where the sandbar starts, then you got t' double back. Maybe seven mile that way.”

“Any footprints around th' carcass?”

“Mr. Shackelford didn't mention any.”

“Don't make no difference,” Ben said, getting up from his chair and standing with his back to the fire. “Hit's moving inland from th' river. Hit can climb th' cliffs again.”

“Th' Devil's got t' climb cliffs?” I said, that not making any sense to me.

“Two-legged ones does.”

He meant a man! That was what he meant last time! “You think a man done this?”

“Man, or somethin' like it, anyways.”

“Why you think that?”

“I know th' river. I've been livin' here over ten year and I seen his tracks down on th' Little Bend. Big man. From his footprints, he's bigger'n me, and I'm six-three and two hunnert. He never left th' river until a few year ago, then he began goin' over th' cliffs until, somehow, he got hurt and just stayed on th' bottoms. His tracks have changed.”

“Cloved,” I said.

Ben's eyes widened. “You been foolin' around that water hole, ain't you?”

I told him the whole story from start to finish, the blue hole, the dog, the cave, how we got away, and even about burying the fish. “It happened before you told me not t' go there,” I said, “and none of us been back since.”

Ben sat back down in the chair and threw a leg over one of the arms. “Samuel, you better tell your pa about this. I don't know for sure, but this fellow may start t' come further inland from th' river if th' winter gets rough. Hit's a lot easier t' kill a sheep than get rabbits and squirrels when you got a gimpy leg. Besides, most of th' game has left th' Little Bend. If he comes out further, I'm afraid of what he might do. Ain't nothin' in him but hate.”

“Has he killed anybody before?” I asked, thinking about the people that was drowned or maybe, I thought, found dead in the Blue Hole.

“Don't know. I heard the same tales you probably have about th' Blue Hole. One thing I do know is he does crazy things. I seen his doin's before on some animals down near that water hole. Nobody's done nothin' about th' goings-on 'cause up to now hit ain't bothered them directly. Hit's like any other kinda evil. Folks will let hit grow until hit gits t' be a monster, then hit's too late t' do anything without a lot of people gettin' hurt.”

He was still talking about evil and it scared me. “LD said his pa wanted to float a Bible out on th' Blue Hole. He said it would drive th' evil out of th' water.”

Ben shook his head. He had started shaking it the second I said, “float a Bible” and kept on shaking it until I finished, which surprised me because up to now I'd never seen him do anything without thinking it through first.

“Naw, you don't fight evil holdin' prayer meetins. Ain't nothin' wrong with that pool of water. People say all sorts of fool stuff. Never let fear rule you, Samuel. Someday, when this is all over, you need t' go out and swim in that thing. Show you're not afraid of th' stupid things people say. But, when it comes t' evil, you got t' face hit down, and you got t' do hit just soon as you know for sure hit's evil. There's lots a signs whoever's doin' this is crazy. Mean crazy. If nobody does nothin', he's gonna hurt or kill someone. I hope your pas don't wait that long.”

I knew what he was driving at. We had to tell. Man, were Dad and Mom going to be mad. I'd never get to go anywhere and might lose my friends. Fred would get a licking, but LD would get razor stropped and it would be a real bad one. That brought me to Lonnie. I remembered what Fred said about Mr. Miller when he got drunk. I wondered if maybe he was the one doing everything when he got liquored up. He had already knifed somebody. Even if he wudn't the crazy man, he still might hurt Lonnie real bad if we told.

By this time, I had been sitting and thinking just like Ben. I decided to ask him about Lonnie's pa being th' crazy man, and th' problem with Lonnie even if he wudn't.

“Lafe Miller's a mean drunk,” he said when I finished. “He might kill somebody when he's boozin', but he ain't your crazy man. He don't have a cloved foot.”

I felt like a fool for not thinking of that. “Mr. Miller might still hurt Lonnie, though.”

Ben sighed. “Yeah, he might. Y'all better not say Lonnie was along. But you got t' tell about what you saw. Hit won't wait, Samuel.”

I knew he was right and it was going to spoil everything. I kept trying to figure some way around it, but nothing come to mind. By this time, it was nigh two o'clock and I had a long walk ahead of me and stood up. “Well, gotta go. Be seein' you, and Merry Christmas,” I said.

Ben got up too, but he didn't say Merry Christmas. “Got a gun at your house?” he asked.

“Dad has a shotgun, and Bob has a .22.”

When we got to the door he put his hand on the latch, then stopped. “Ever shoot 'em?”

“Shot th' .22.”

“Shoot pretty often?”

“Once,” I answered, beginning to feel funny at his questions.

Ben kind of sucked his lips, then went over to a long box all shined up and opened it. Inside were three of the prettiest guns you ever lay your eyes on. There was a 12-gauge shotgun with the stock carved with birds and rabbits, a .22 carved with squirrels, groundhogs, and trees, and another rifle of some kind that was the prettiest of all. It was carved with deer and a wild boar with his head down coming at a hunter, its tusks white ivory.

“Come on,” Ben said, pulling the two rifles out of the box along with a couple boxes of shells. “It's time you got a little more shootin' under your belt.”

We walked outside and the dogs growled. He shushed them, then put a cardboard box against a tree and smeared some mud in a little circle four or five inches wide on its bottom. We backed off about a hundred foot, and he handed me the .22.

“Put one in the middle of that mud,” he said.

The rifle was a single shot just like Bob's with the sights the same and all, but from a hundred foot I just ticked the box edge. Ben watched for four or five shots, then said I had a good eye, but there was a couple of little things he had picked up would help and for me to watch. He shot four times and trimmed out a hole in the center of the mud no bigger than a dime. Then he showed me how to relax and a bunch of other things and pretty soon I was hitting the mud circle almost every time. We shot up the whole box of shells. Then he picked up the big rifle and fired. Man, it was loud. I asked what kind it was.

“.30–30,” he answered. “Deer rifle. You like to shoot it?”

I sure did. It was a lot heavier than the .22, and I had trouble holding it. When I shot, it kicked like a mule. Dang nigh deafened me too. “Wow, that's sure some gun.”

He laughed a little short laugh. “Ain't much use around here, though,” he said. “No deer, no hogs. I keep it oiled and cleaned. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” I asked.

He kind of squenched his mouth. “Anything . . . what kind of shells you got for your .22?”

“Shorts,” I answered.

When we got back to the cabin, he took out a box of .22 long-rifle hollow points.

“Shorts is for practice,” he said. “I want you t' take these with you. A .22 short won't stop nothin' unless you hit it in th' head. A long-rifle holla point will spread and take down a big critter. You understand what I mean?”

I did. It scared me and he could tell. When he spoke again, his face and voice was hard. “Samuel, I want you t' clean that rifle and put it where you can get hold of it quick. Hide these holla points near it. If some night your daddy ain't home and somebody tries t' break in, aim like I showed you and shoot right at th' center of his chest. Then put in another shell and keep shootin' 'til whoever it is has gotten away or is dead.”

I felt weak all over and Ben could see it, but his face stayed hard. “I know what I just said is awful, but that thing down on th' river is gonna hurt lots of people if he ain't stopped. I don't want you t' be one of 'em.”

I understood, but I knew I couldn't do it. Wudn't any way I could shoot anybody.

It was past three o'clock by this time, so I said goodbye, put my duck under my arm, and headed for home at a trot. The cows were in the field where the Dry Branch Road turned off the Cuyper Creek Pike, and since I had to get them up for milking anyway, I decided to go home by that direction. As I trotted I thought about Fred. I had to tell about the crazy man not being a devil but I knew he'd ask me how I knew. I couldn't tell him that Ben Begley had told me. And another thing, I was going to have to change what I said when the four of us met. Thinking got to bothering me so much I decided to quit thinking.

When I passed the Mulligans', I took to the hollows, not wanting to explain my duck. Things were going well for the Mulligans. I could see the edge of their strawberry patch. It had really taken off. Dad and Alfred had made a deal so Alfred could have a share in an acre of tobacco by working some for us and got Mr. Berman to say it was okay. Mr. Berman also let Alfred make a garden and grow a couple of acres of corn so he could feed some hogs. Alfred's sows had pigs and they were really growing. As soon as the pigs were weaned, Alfred killed one of the sows, and they had lots of pork to eat. They had a great show going.

The closer I got to home, the more I worried Dad or Bob would see the cows and come out to meet me and ask about the duck. I needed time to think what to say. I couldn't tell them I got it from Ben. When I got to the last pasture before the stock barn, I ran ahead of the cows and hid the duck in the hayloft.

That night I got out the rifle. Since Bob was home, I had an excuse to clean it, and asked him in front of everybody if I could keep it in my room. He said sure, then Mom got upset and said she didn't want me fooling with guns, and Dad and Bob said all the ammunition was in Mom and Dad's bedroom and it couldn't hurt anything. She didn't like it, but she finally agreed. As I curled up under the quilts that night I had a funny feeling, boy. I had a rifle in the corner just six foot from me, and a box of fifty long-rifle hollow points hidden about a yard away. If the crazy man busted in, I was set to kill him and I knew I couldn't do it.

M
onday morning, which was the day before Christmas, I got up extra early. There was a lot of stuff to do. First, I had to get a safe place for my duck. I couldn't leave it in the hayloft since Dad was helping with the chores now that stripping was over and would find it if he threw down hay. The second thing I had to do was go to the Mulligan house and find out when we were going to meet with Lonnie and LD. The duck problem got solved when I remembered a loose plank in the barn's feed room. It was a perfect hiding place.

When the chores were finished, I grabbed a handful of biscuits and took off for the Mulligans'. Fred was out splitting up kindling and wearing his Lash LaRue neckerchief.

“Hidey, Fred Cody,” I said, and he grinned, letting the hatchet dangle in his hand.

“Hidey, hidey, Samuel. What you doin' here so early?”

“You know dang well what,” I said, and we both laughed.

“Tomorra afternoon,” he said, and picked up another chunk of wood and split it.

“Christmas Day? What about LD? His dad and mom ain't about t' let him go anywhere on Christmas Day except church.”

“That's why we're meetin' in th' Howards' tobacco barn. Lonnie asked his ma if he can visit me, and she said yes, so we'll come together. One o'clock sharp. Wanta come in for a while?” and he sunk the hatchet in the end of a log.

“Naw, got t' get back. Don't want Mom missin' me t'day if I'm gonna be gone tomorra.”

“Wonder what she'll say when she finds out about th' Blue Hole,” Fred muttered, and he sounded like he had made up his mind about how he was going to vote.