The Night of the Hunter (8 page)

Miss Icey whipped the hot fudge till the black stove trembled. God works in a mysterious way, she said, His wonders to perform.

Walt sat by the window puffing contentedly on his pipe. Willa stood in the kitchen doorway, weeping soundlessly into her handkerchief while Pearl, at her knees, buried her face in her mother's apron. John kept apart from them, pale and thin-lipped, his eyes cast to the feet of the stranger.

And it's a good man, Icey continued, letting a drop of the candy fall in cold water to see if it balled and was ready to pour. A mighty good man that would come out of his way to bring a word of cheer to a grieving widow! Preacher cleared his throat.

I was with Brother Harper almost to the end, he said in his clear voice. And I 'lowed as how it would cheer the soul of this poor child to know how brave her husband was—how humble in the face of Eternity and the final judgment.

Icey, despite herself, uttered a single sob and lashed angrily at a tear with her apron hem.

Preacher! There'll be a place for you in heaven for bringing them tidings to Willa here!

As one of the chaplains at the penitentiary, said Preacher softly, it was, of course, my sad duty to bring comfort to the unhappy man during his final days. And now that I'm no longer employed by the penitentiary it is my joy to bring this small comfort to his widow.

Pearl took her face from the apron and lifted her enormous eyes to Willa.

Where's Dad, Mom?

Hush! whispered Willa, checking her sobs at last and mopping at her swollen eyes.

Icey poured the black fudge onto the buttered pan, and when the pot was scraped at last held it out for John to finish with his thumb. But the little boy's stony eyes did not turn to see. Icey, guessing how such first-hand intelligence of his father's last days must have stung the child, hurried off and thrust the pan into the sink.

Ben Harper, Preacher said, sitting now at the table and folding his long fingers into a web of tranquil piety, was the last of the condemned men whose troubled spirits I brought comfort to.

You say you ain't with the state no more? said Walt.

No, brother. I resigned only yesterday. The heart-rending spectacle of these poor men was too much for me. I figure to move on down the river and find myself a little pulpit some-wheres. Kentucky maybe. Maybe farther.

The fingers. John could not take his eyes from them. They rested together on the tablecloth in pale, silent embrace like spiders entwined. The fingers with the little blue letters. Now as the fingers stirred John could see them all. He supposed at first that the letters meant nothing; that perhaps each finger had a name and the name was a letter. H—A—T—E. The left hand. L—O—V—E. The right hand. Left hand and right hand and the fingers each had names. Now Preacher saw the boy staring and the hands sprang apart and he held them up.

Ah, little lad! You're staring at my fingers!

John said no word. His eyes fell back to the stubby black tops of Preacher's shoes.

These letters spell out the Lesson of Life, boy! boomed Preacher with a cozening and unctuous geniality. Shall I tell you the little story of Right-Hand-Left-Hand—the tale of Good and Evil?

John pressed his lips tighter.

Speak, boy! cried old Walt, nudging him. Preacher asked you a question!

Yes.

Ah, he's a shy one, poor little tyke! cried Preacher. And no wonder! Think, my friends, what life has already done to those tender years.

John would have none of him. But Pearl, who had come and stood by his knee, was wholly won now at the word story. And she pressed her head against his elbow till he noticed her.

Come set on Preacher's knee, little darling! he cried, and tossed her up and cradled her there while Willa's dark eyes watched, as spellbound as the rest.

Hate! roared Preacher, thrusting up the fingers of his left hand so that all might read. It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low! And since that ungodly day, brethren, the left hand has borne the curse of the living and Almighty Jehovah!

Walt grunted approval and, scratching a match on his trouser seat, held it to his pipe and sucked the flame.

Love! cried Preacher, thrusting up the right hand now. See these here fingers, dear friends! These fingers has veins that lead right square to the heart—to the almighty soul of man! The right hand, friends! The hand of Love! Now watch and I'll show you the story of Life! The fingers of these hands, dear hearts!—they're always a-tuggin' and a-warrin' one hand against the other!

Now he thrust his fingers together, left hand and right hand, and now they wrung and twisted one another until the knuckles crackled horribly.

—a-warrin' and a-ragin', my friends! The soul of man a-fightin' against his own greed and lust and stinking corruption! Look at them, dear hearts! Old left hand Hate's a-fightin' and it looks like old right hand Love's a goner! But wait, now! Hot dog! Love's a-winnin'! Yessirree! Old left hand Hate's a goner! And at the last word he brought both hands down with a crash to the table top.

Hot dog, brothers and sisters! It was Love that won! Old Mister Left Hand has gone down for the count!

Icey sighed and sliced the crisscross squares of fudge with the long bread knife.

I declare! she said softly. I never heard it better told, Preacher.

Now! cried Preacher, bending to John with a smile. Did you catch on, boy?

John sighed.

Answer when you're spoken to, John, said Willa.

Yes.

Most folks, smiled Preacher, wonders about these here tattoos. When a feller has tattoos on his hands it's generally somethin' ornery like anchors and pistols and naked females and such. I tell you I find these tattoos mighty handy when it comes to preachin' the Word.

Well now, said Walt, between puffs of pipe smoke. It sure tells me the story.

That fudge, smiled Icey, will be cool directly and we'll all have some.

Thank you, sister.

I declare, Willa, sighed Icey with a hard stare at John. I never seen that boy of yours so quiet. Looks to me like he could use a good dose of salts.

John! Take your hands from behind you and act nice.

Yes, Mom.

Preacher smiled and patted the shaggy head with firm, quick movements.

Many and many's the time, he said softly, when I sat listening to Brother Harper speak about these youngins.

Now John's eyes flew to Preacher's face.

What did he tell you?

The room was silent. Outside the pale winter sun had appeared and they could hear the drip, drip of the melting snow on the roof.

Why, he told me what fine little lambs you and your sister yonder both was! cried Preacher, his washed-out-blue eyes twinkling palely.

Is that all? John said.

Willa stirred uncomfortably and went over to gather Pearl from the stranger's lap.

Why no, boy, smiled Preacher, something new in his eyes now as if a game had begun between them. He told me lots and lots of things. Nice things, boy.

John lapsed into silence again, his hands pushing into his pockets.

Well, he said, without glancing at Willa. I reckon me and Pearl better go now!

Oh, but the fudge ain't hard yit! cried Icey warmly. I promised you a piece if you was good.

I don't want no fudge, said John, quite plainly.

Well, I declare! cried Icey, her mouth pursing angrily. Such impudence!

John Harper! When you don't want somethin' you're supposed to say, No thank you! cried Willa.

No thank you!

I'm sorry, Icey, Willa murmured, blushing with shame. I'll tend to him 'gainst I get him home.

But Preacher intervened.

Now, my dear! We all forgit how much these little lambs has endured. He didn't mean no impudence. Did you now, boy?

The fingers. John could not take his eyes from the fingers long enough to think about what it was Preacher was saying.

Did
you, boy?

John stood quite still, his feet very close together, thinking about his dad that day in the tall grass by the smokehouse and he could not hear what they were saying because he was thinking back, trying to remember the hands of the blue men with the guns and sticks. But because the hands had kept moving he could not remember whether these had been the hands named Love or the hands named Hate or whether they had any names at all. Now Willa's breath stirred in his ear, hot and furious, choking with humiliation.

You just wait, John Harper! Just wait till I git you home!

Run, puppy, run! Run, puppy, run!

Yonder comes the big dog, run, puppy, run!

—Child's Rhyme

This was toward the end of March. On the Monday of the third week of Preacher's stay at Cresap's Landing he told Walt Spoon that he had made up his mind to stay on through the spring. And since he had no money it was his intention to wait until he could pick up a little work on one of the larger bottomland farms and pay off his debts and then in May or June he would hold a grand spring revival over in Jason Lindsay's orchard. Few country preachers work full time at it: most of them are farmers or they hire out for the harvest or do store work in the lean times and so to Walt Spoon this seemed a plainly sensible plan. Mamie Ernest, as much taken in by Preacher's grand manner as the rest of them, did not so much as mention the matter of board and room he owed her for and it was tacitly agreed that he would pay for these things when he could. Old Friend Martin, the regular pastor at Cresap's Landing's little frame Presbyterian Church, gave Preacher a perfectly good old black overcoat and invited him to preach at his own pulpit. Everyone was completely won by Preacher's flashing eyes and his rolling, booming voice, and the sermon about the right- and left-hand fingers had the congregation buzzing and chattering all the way home that Sunday. Willa kept on at her job at the confectionery and it was a fairly common thing before long for Preacher to come by of an evening to talk to her about Ben's last days and to enjoy cocoa and a platter of Icey's Potsdam cakes. There was never, of course, a breath of bad gossip about these casual attentions because everyone could see the two of them quite plainly through the window of the ice-cream parlor. Icey, however, had launched upon an all-out campaign to fan the friendship into the sort of refined interest that would lead to Willa's second marriage. But Willa resisted.

No, Icey. It's too soon after Ben's passing for me to be thinkin' about marryin' again. Besides—

Besides nothin'! cried Icey, popping a little frosted cube of Turkish delight into her mouth. That feller is just achin' to settle down with some nice woman and make a home for himself here in Cresap's Landing, Willa. I declare, I don't know what's the matter with you. Are ye blind? 'Deed, it ain't every day in the week that as nice a man as that comes down the pike. And you can bet your bottom dollar, my fine girl, there'll be some smart young sister between here and Captina will snap him up if you don't.

John don't like him much.

Pshaw! Youngins! It'll be a sad day when a sassy-britches like that John of yours can stand up and tell their elders what's right and wrong.

Well—I suppose—

Besides, honey! What about Pearl? She just
dotes
on him!

Yes. Yes, that's so, Icey.

Fiddlesticks! It's only natural for boys to feel sorty—well sorty
loyal
to the memory of the father. You mark my words, Willa, that boy wouldn't cotton up to no man you picked to marry.

Gracious, Icey! Here we are just talkin' about it like he'd gone and
asked
me.

Shoot, now! Ain't no man'll ever ask a woman if she don't find a way to let him know she's ready.

Willa had finished polishing the long silver soda spoons and now she was arranging them neatly in a long row behind the fountain. She sighed and lifted her troubled eyes to Icey's impatient scowl.

There's something else, she said softly.

Well! The only thing else I can think of is you just naturally can't see yourself in the same bed with him.

No, it's not that. I don't much care about that any more. I don't think I ever want to have those feelings about any man again. It's not love I'm huntin' any more. I reckon I've had my chance at that already. If I was to marry again, Icey, it wouldn't be for no other earthly reason than to give the kids a father and a provider—

Then what in heaven's name is wrong with Mister Powell? He wouldn't make much but it would be a comfort to your soul to—

It's the money, Icey! she breathed quickly, and commenced polishing one of the spoons over again, with swift, nervous rubs of the fragrant cloth.

Icey grunted.

Pshaw! That money! I declare you'll let that money haunt you to your grave, Willa Harper.

I reckon that's so, Icey, said the girl. It's always there—bloody and evil and covered with sin. My sin as much as Ben's, Icey! I feel like I ought to have to pay for it just as much as he done some ways. Like I'd driven him to it.

Such barefaced foolishness! It's gone—gone I tell you!

There's no way I can tell, said Willa, staring at her chapped hands, whether he knows about it or not.

Who knows?

Mr. Powell.

Well, shoot! I reckon he should know about it! Everyone in Marshall County knew. It was in the Moundsville
Daily Echo—
the whole story. I reckon it was even in the Wheeling papers, too. Folks talked about it all up and down the panhandle. But what in the world has his knowin' about it got to do with anything, will you please tell me that?

Willa shivered.

Maybe, she whispered, he knows where it's hid.

It's at the bottom of the Ohio River! That's where it's hid!

Maybe. Maybe not.

It was a warm night for the end of March. Walt had left the front door to the ice-cream parlor open when he went out after supper to gossip with the old men down at Darly Stidger's store. And yet it was not spring, although winter was dead and the moon was sickly with the neitherness of the time between those seasons: those last few weeks before the cries of the green frogs would rise in stitching clamor from the river shores and meadow bogs.

How would I know, said Willa presently, if Preacher was to ask me to marry him—that he wasn't just after the money? Maybe he thinks I've got it hid somewhere.

He's a man of God, said Icey, gravely. It's plain enough to me.

Oh, I know, Icey—

Besides. It was wrote plain enough in the papers—how Ben wouldn't tell—how Mr. McGlumphey said he might get him off with Life if he told and he still wouldn't tell.

Secretly, said Willa. He could have told me secretly. And give it to me to hide.

Well, did he?

No.

Well then why don't you just come right out plain and ask Mr. Powell if Ben ever said anything to him about it?

About the money?

Yes.

He'd think it was queer, Icey.

Fiddlesticks! A man never knows what a woman really means.

Besides—like you say—he's a man of God. I'd be ashamed to have him know I suspicioned him.

Hark! cried Icey, holding up a finger. That's him a-comin' up Peacock Alley now!

Yes! Yes! cried Willa, flushing. That's him a-singin'! Don't he have the grandest singin' voice?

They could have heard it moments before had they been still: Preacher's sweet, high tenor as he drew closer along the sidewalks, singing the old hymn.

Oh, Icey, I'm a sight!

Pshaw! You look grand. Now, fill him up with cocoa, Willa! Men can't think good when they're gettin' fed.

Icey ran off to the kitchen so she could listen at the crack. But the old woman's ears did not serve her well in these late years and she knew nothing of what the two had said until ten o'clock struck and Willa returned, flushed and happier-looking than Icey ever remembered seeing her.

Has he gone?

Yes, Icey! Yes!

Well, child, what's the commotion?

Willa flung herself upon the old woman's shoulder, hugging her and sobbing happily.

Here, now! Here! What's all this?

Oh, Icey! It's such a load off my mind!

Did he ask you to marry him?

No! No, it's not that, Icey! It's about the money!

Well, gracious sakes alive, stop fidgeting and tell me. What now?

Icey, I just come right out bold as brass and asked him straight.

Ask him about the money?

Icey, I just said: Did Ben Harper ever tell you what he done with that money he stole? And Mr. Powell just looked at me funny for a minute with his head on one side and directly he smiled and he says to me: Why, my dear child, don't you know? And I told him I didn't know and I said I'd asked Ben myself during those last days and he wouldn't never tell me because he said that money had the curse of Cain on it and if I was to have it I'd just go to hell headlong.

Well, then what—

Wait, now! I'll get to it, Icey. Then Mr. Powell just looked at me peculiar for a minute and then he finished his cocoa and he smiles and he says: Well now I'm mighty surprised he wouldn't tell you, my child. And I says: Why, whatever do you mean, Mr. Powell? And he says: Because the night before they hanged him he told
me
where that money was.

He told Mr. Powell?

Yes.

Then where—

Wait, now, Icey! I'm getting to it! He said Ben sent for him that night and said that the curse of that money had soured on his conscience long enough. He said he wanted to leave this world without leaving that gold behind for other poor, weak mortals to lust after and murder for—

Icey pursed her lips rapidly, her black eyes twinkling like hat pins in her flushed, plump face.

—and Ben told him that night that the money was gone where it wouldn't never do no one any more harm because of the sinful and greedy willfulness of poor mortals like himself—

The clock in the hall rattled suddenly and rustled like an awakening bird. It chimed the quarter hour.

Then where is the money?

At the bottom of the river, said Willa gladly. Wrapped around a twelve-pound cobblestone.

Ah, Lord! It's a blessing from God, Willa. A blessing from God.

Yes, Icey! Oh, yes! And I can mind the time when I would have sold my soul to Satan himself to know how I could lay hands on that bloody gold. Oh, Icey, sin gets such a hold sometimes! There was nights when I'd want to know about that money so bad I'd even fergit the awful thing that was going to happen to Ben up there at Moundsville penitentiary. That's what sin and greed will do to a human soul, Icey.

Praise God! Yes, Willa! Yes!

But Ben took care of me, Icey. Even in death he kept me from the awful sin that money would have brought with it.

Yes! Yes! Oh, that's so true!

I feel clean now, Icey. My whole body's just a-quiverin' with cleanness.

I know! I know!

That money was cursed!

It was that! Cursed and bloodied! Praise God!

And now God has saved me from it!

They subsided, uttering little crooning cries of emotion and directly Icey bent forward in her rocker and shook a finger gently under Willa's nose.

And now! she cried softly. You'll know that when Mr. Powell asks you to marry him—that it won't be for
that.
You know well and good that a man of God like him don't give a whipstitch about money or not. It's a cinch he's not stayin' here at Cresap's Landing just for the fun of helping Jason Lindsay with his second plowing!

No, reflected Willa. I know that. But still—

Still what?

I just can't help wonderin' how little John will take the news.

About what?

About the money, Icey.

Pshaw! Why tell him at all?

Yes, said Willa. Yes, I'm going to tell him. He should know.

She was silent a moment.

It's all so strange, Icey.

Willa's eyes were bright with the old fear again.

All along, she said, I had the feeling that John knew something.

John thought: I will go with them because not going would make them think: What does he know? Why is he afraid for us to see him? Is he afraid we'll make him tell?

He thought: Because Mr. Powell knows. He knows I know where the money's hid. He has always known and that's why he told Mom that fib about Dad saying the money was in the river. That's so he can have me all to himself—get it out of me his own way. I am afraid of Mr. Powell. I am more afraid of him than I have ever been of shadows or the thunder or when you look through the little bubble in the glass of the window in the upstairs hall and all of the out-of-doors stretches and twists its neck.

Willa called: Pearl? John? You ready?

Yes, he thought. Yes, I am ready. Because I mustn't let them know I am afraid and I must keep on pretending I am brave because I promised I would be. When the blue men come and took him away that day I promised that I would take care of Pearl with my life and I promised I wouldn't never tell about what he made me swear not to. His name is Preacher. His name is Harry Powell. But the names of the fingers are E and V and O and L and E and T and A and H and that story he tells about the one hand being Hate and the other hand being Love is a lie because they are both Hate and to watch them moving scares me worse than shadows, worse than the wind.

Willa in a pretty new hat from Moundsville was busy by the pump tucking the last of the sandwiches into the picnic basket. Pearl's hair was brushed till the ringlets shone like dark, carved wood against the shoulders of her bright gingham dress. John waited, transfixed with his thoughts, on the back porch.

John? You ready? Have you got your hair brushed?

Yes.

She came to the screen door and glared at him.

Young man, just kindly wipe that pout off your face 'gainst I give you more of what you got the other night!

He sighed heavily and turned from the door, staring at the yard pump, at the smokehouse, and beyond the picket fence where the hills were peppered now with the first green smoke of spring. It had come overnight: a burgeoning and a stirring in the land that was tired and musty-smelling like the flesh of old folks after the death of winter; now the land was alive and the air was ripe and musky with the spring river smell like the ripe, passionate sweat of a country waitress. He could hear them preparing for the day's outing. It was to be a church picnic downriver at Raven Rock at the old Presbyterian graveyard where his father was buried and all the lost, forgotten progenitors before him. They were taking a little chartered packet down river and at nightfall they would return.