This work is dedicated to Jesus Christ… on His birthday!
Remember in the days of youth
When life was like an aching tooth
Abscessed before it breached the skin
Decayed since Adam’s Mortal sin
The instruments the Surgeon holds
In trembling hands are sharp and cold
As Roman nails and thorny crowns
‘Will it hurt?’ the patient frowns
A glass of wine will have to wait
Beyond the narrow Pearly Gates
Some vinegar to ease the pain
A Centurion says ‘It looks like rain’
And thru it all, the tooth still aches
And even now His hand, it shakes
While cutting nerve and breaking bone
The blood He spills is but His own.
The pain, it goes from bad to worse
With mouth so full it’s hard to curse
The hand that holds the cure that kills
‘Hey, Doctor! Are you with me still?’
Draped in angels’ velvet wings
Smiles the patient as he sings
‘He drilled my soul and filled the hole
And capped it with a crown of gold!’
And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it
were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts
saying, Come and see.
And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow;
and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth
conquering, and to conquer.
And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say,
Come and see.
And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to
him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and
that they should kill one another: and there was given
unto him a great sword.
And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come
and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that
sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand.
And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of
wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a
penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.
And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth
beast say, Come and see.
And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him
was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was
given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to
kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and
with the beasts of the earth.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Prologue
The Aching Tooth
SUNDAYS WERE ALWAYS HARD on the old man. It was only the
beginning of the week and already he felt empty and
drained, like rain barrel in a dust bowl. And it had
been that way for the last forty years. Lately it seemed
like time was just passing him by; and at his age, time
was becoming a very valuable commodity, and not to be
foolishly wasted. He was old and tired. But he still had
one more adventure left in him. And so, he went to bed
early that night, thinking things might soon take a turn
for the better, and hoping for the best. He was feeling
lucky. He said a prayer, and then tried to get some
sleep.
It wasn’t the
sound of the whippoorwill that had him pacing circles on
the floor of his bedroom that night; nor was it the
frightened starling that flew in through his window
scaring his poor wife half to death and down the stairs
to sleep on the sofa that tormented him so – No. That’s
not what was keeping him awake. It was a toothache.
Well, not really a toothache... But damn it to hell! It
sure felt like one.
He’d had them
before, you know; and it really didn't have anything to
do with his teeth. The old man had actually lost all of
his years ago, either naturally or at the bloodstained
hands of some sadistic dentist, as if there are any
other kind, he would often imagine. And still, it hurt,
like Hell. The symptoms were all there: the throbbing,
the soreness, the irritability, the restlessness, the
sleepless nights, constant frustration, the nagging
helplessness… and, of course, the pain. You name it!
They were all there...well, maybe not physically, but
they were mentally; and that as be just as bad – or even
worse! It was a toothache, I tell you; one that’s been
tormenting the old man or the last forty years.
He’d sometimes
wished it would just go away; the toothache, that is. It
never did, of course. At times he would forget about it
for while; but it always came back, usually on nights
such as these when the autumn air came down from the
mountains like a hungry wolf; and then, it would hurt
even more. And there was nothing he could do about it.
At one time, he thought he might eventually get used to
it. But that didn't happen either. The pain came back.
It always came back, like, like sin.
Well, it's about
time…” sighed the old man, dragging his tired feet
across the hardwood floor of his own bedroom the
following morning.
He was in the
winter of his life and the tooth still hurt, even after
all these years. But he was still alive, and that was
enough, for now anyway. And it was a good
morning. It was one of those mornings that reminded him
of his younger days, the ‘green years’, when the pain
was only just beginning and he didn’t seem to notice it
at all; or at least not as much as he should have. You
see, pain, like any physical distraction can sometimes
be mitigated, masked, if you will, if only
superficially, by the sheer exuberance of youth. Youth!
that wonder drug of the ages. If only we knew where to
find it, other than in its natural ephemeral state. No
better anesthetic has yet to be found. Youth! Now that’s
some strong medicine. And what an elixir! It’s better
than opium; more potent than heroine; and it sure lasts
a whole lot longer. But don’t look for it in your local
pharmacy; you won’t find it there. Nor seek for it in
the back alleys or on crowded streets of places with
names like Sri Lanka,
Bangkok, or Tora Bora where it is sold by conmen and
thieves, along with various opiates, hallucinogens,
aphrodisiacs, snake oil, and other narcotics, man-made
or natural. Beware of these so-called ‘Miracle-Makers’
and their fatal concoctions. Beware! I say. For as any
good doctor will tell you, ‘There’s a little poison in
every pill’. And like any other addictions, they all
have one fatal flaw: They all wear off, eventually; and
then they only leave you wanting more.
Youth!! It’s the
only real drug, you know. It can’t be bought, only had;
and then, only for the allotted amount of time. It’s
that wild-eyed wonderfulness which, if only for a few
fleeting years, desensitizes the nerve and detaches us
in most merciful measures from the aches and pains of a
decomposing and ever-decaying world. The only problem,
of course, as it is in any addiction, is that sooner or
later the drug wears off; and all that is left is a
longing that never ends and emptiness that can never be
filled, which is far worse than the pain that preceded
it. But those days were gone, and time has a way of
abating such natural anesthetics, rather cruelly it
would seem, and without pity. They didn’t last forever,
as the old man once thought they would, and had since
passed away into mere memory, just like everything else
in his waning and withering life.
Since then, the
ache had become dull and steady, like a dry hangover
that never went away. It drove the old man crazy
sometimes; it drove his wife even crazier, especially
late at night when he would pace circles on the floor
while she slept downstairs on the sofa, wondering if
he’d finally gone insane. It was a burdensome ordeal,
just like everything else in the life two lonely old
people trying to look out for each other in the aching
autumn of their lives.
He rarely
complained anymore; he knew it wouldn’t do any good. And
at the ripe old age of seventy-two, one might have
thought that any sensation, even a painful one, would be
better than none at all. But don’t tell that to an old
man with a toothache. In fact, don’t tell that to
anyone; and you just might not get hurt. The years had
passed by quickly. Too quickly! it seemed, as they often
do for old men with aching teeth that just ain’t there
anymore. Like a sprinter nearing the end of the race,
time didn’t crawl – it flew! And all the while, he
himself was slowing down. Nature is not only unfair –
it’s illogical. But where was it all going? he would
often stop to ask himself, never expecting an answer.
And what if… Sometimes, it just didn’t make any sense.
It had been forty
years since he'd first discovered the gold mine in
Wainwright's mountain. Sometimes it seemed like it
happened four hundred years ago; other times, like these
for instance, it felt like it happened only yesterday.
At times, he wondered if the gold would still be there,
after all these years. Did anyone remember? He’d told
the story often enough, which he now regretted, of
course, but he never the whole story; and he was always
careful never tell anyone, except for the Harlie
perhaps, what he’d really found. All who were there with
him that day were dead by now; others have simply
forgot. Maybe they never really cared to begin with.
Perhaps they weren’t even listening; they never seemed
to believe him anyway. And what the hell, it happened
such a long, long time ago.
Whether or not the
old man had actually found the mortal remains Mister
Cornelius G. Wainwright III, as he once claimed to an
eager but suspicious audience, the gold, or anything
else for that matter pertaining to the fated expedition,
was still subject to much speculation and debate. He
always did have a healthy imagination – even in his
declining years when the creative energies are usually
at their weakest – and was known to stretch the truth
now and then. Even when they were alive, the
members of the original posse, fourteen in all, could
never quite agree on exactly what took place in the
mountains that day and were perhaps, thought the old
man, even in death arguing in their graves, like some
grand jury of corpses, over the most minor and
inconsequential details as miners are known to do from
time to time. He could still hear their ghost-like
voices, especially late in the evening, whispering in
his ears like spirits of the night; and always… always,
with the same admonishment: ‘Thems that want don’t get’.
The tale the
deputy had told them was just too fantastic. Besides,
there was nothing to substantiate the incredible story
of golden caverns and man-eating cannibals except for
the words of one lonely old man with a silly dream and a
toothache; and we all know how unreliable that can be.
And considering the source…well, even if there was any
truth in it, who would believe it?
As it were,
nothing was brought back from the mountain that day –
certainly not any gold. The claims he’d made at the time
were too outrageous, too incredible, too un-believable,
and just too, too… Homerish (especially the part
about the cannibalized Ferals and the shrunken
head of Cornelius G. Wainwright III) to ever be taken
seriously. Besides, he could never prove it; never even
tried. There was simply no evidence. Nothing! Not a
single hair from man with the bottlebrush they went
searching for in the first place all those years ago. As
for the gold… well, let’s just say that, in the end,
Homer had nothing to show for his efforts, or the
courage he displayed in the face of certain doom and
disaster, other than some strange and wonderful tale
about a ‘golden temple’ at the end of a long dark tunnel
that remained dubious at best, and a downright lie at
worst, to this very day. It’s as difficult to believe
now as it was back then. All that remained was an old
yellow piece of paper the old man had kept tucked away
in his pocket for the last forty years. It was the map.
And what about the
gold? You know… the ‘Mother-load!’ as he so eagerly
described what he’d found that day to a select few who
were, even now, waiting patiently outside his bedroom
window that cool September morning. And didn’t the old
deputy also mention something about a mysterious black
stone he’d found there, inside a...What’s that he called
it now? A golden tabernacle? Yep! Those were his exact
words. That’s what he said: A ‘Golden Tabernacle’.
That’s precisely how he described it. That was his story
and he was sticking to it. Could it be? Well, legends
being what legends are made of, you decide what is
true…and what ain’t. The others had already made up
their mind. They were all there that morning, right
outside the old man’s bedroom window: the four horsemen,
the Negro, the Indian, and of course, Red-Beard. And
there they waited, tired and hungry, and with a few
aching teeth of their own.
The
map he’d sketched out forty years ago was by now as
thin, wrinkled, and transparent as the skin on back of
the old man’s hands, the capillaries of which were as
visibly defined as the lines on the parchment itself. If
held up the slightest breeze, it would surely
disintegrate as if blown away like a dandelion in the
wind. He kept it in his pocket, all the time, even in
his sleep, and even after all these years. He was still
afraid that someone might try to steal it.
And that’s what
kept him alive all these years. Not so much the map, as
indispensable as it seemed, but the gold. That familiar
yellow specter that for so many sleepless nights haunted
the old man like a grinning ghost creeping through his
bedroom long before dawn, climbing under the covers and
whispering lugubriously into his ear the sad and simple
secret that he still, after all these years, refused to
believe: ‘…Thems that want don’t get.’
‘They only want it
all for themselves…’ the old man would protest out loud,
even when his wife was listening, ‘those greedy
bastards!’ Naturally, it made her nervous, and the tooth
ache more. In the end, it only made him want it that
much more – the gold, that is. It was a tooth, I tell
you, a golden tooth that had him pacing circles on the
bedroom floor like a damn fool, keeping his wife awake
all night, and making him do what in his own sound
Christian mind he knew to be a sin. But there was
something else, something dark and wonderful, something…
And what about the
Ferals? You know, the flesh-eating cannibals the
old man claimed to have found at the end of a long and
dark tunnel that day, sitting cozily and comfortably by
the fire, picking their pointed teeth with bones of the
dead man. Were they really the same wild savages, the
illegal slaves brought over from the Islands by the
greedy prospector to mine the unholy hill know to this
day as Mount Wainwright? Or, did the old man just make
that up too? And was poor Cornelius really ‘boiled
alive’ like the old man said? Did the bloodthirsty
cannibals really partake of his flesh in the manner
prescribed by their own barbaric and aboriginal custom?
Well, that’s the way the old man remembered it. He was
there; so was the gold. He saw it. He only hoped it
would still be there when he returned. He was betting on
it; and so was Red-Beard, and his four horsemen.
There was someone
missing that day. His name was Elmo Cotton, a young
sharecropper from Harley whom the old man had grown very
fond lately. He was still at home, of course, in bed
with his wife… but more about him later. And oh, there
was one other person involved in the events that were
about to unfold, someone the old man was always
suspicions of.
His name was
Henley, Tom Henley. He was an aging but agile
prospector, getting on in years who lived up in the
hills with his only son, Zack, not far from where the
old man was headed that day with Red-Beard and his weary
band of treasure hunters. Some say Tom was crazy, ‘teched’,
or just ‘not right in the head’. Others, especially
those who got to know him better, said he was a genius.
They were all right, I suppose; genius and madness often
drink from the same bottle. But Tom Henley was more than
that. He was what you might call a ‘mountain-man’,
probably the last one left in that civilized part of the
world. He was a smart one too! a right ‘educated
hillbilly’ who knew a thing or two not only of this
world but those other worlds, the worlds of the
mind where only brave men dare to go, and from which
they sometimes never return. He had been to college
where he studied the arts and sciences. He read books,
and at one time had walked among kings and counselors.
He has lived the city and been to the mountain, always
preferring the latter, of course, to which he finally
returned for good one day, taking up permanent residence
in his home-in-a-hill, as he called it. He went
there not only to mine gold and silver, among other
things, which he was quite proficient at, but to escape
a world he no longer had any use for. He believed in
himself and little else. But he also believed in the old
man with the aching tooth when no one else did. Tom
Henley was the last of his kind. He was a mountain-man.
The old man rarely
spoke of the gold anymore; not as much as he used to; at
least not as much as he did forty years ago when the
tooth first began to ache. He had his reasons, of
course; which may or may not be apparent by now. But
that didn’t stop him from bringing it up occasionally;
especially when he’d been a’drinking, which he still
enjoyed to do from time to time despite his wife’s
admonitions and his own better judgment, and
particularly in the company of those he liked and knew
he could trust; and even they were becoming scarce. It
was something he just couldn’t resist, no matter how
hard he tried. Lately, however, he was a little more
careful about what he said and to whom he said it. Like
I said before, he had his reasons. There were so many
stories surrounding Cornelius G. Wainwright III and the
lost gold mine that everyone knew it was only a matter
of time before someone tried to prove them right or, for
that matter, even wrong. Nobody suspected it would be
the old man himself who would finally do it; after all,
he was so old, so tired, and so...
But that’s exactly
what he wanted them all to believe. That’s the way he’d
planned it all along. The gold was his; and that’s all
there was to it. He’d found it; no one else. It belonged
to him. He had the map; he drew it himself. It was more
than anyone else had! And that was enough. Now, all he
had to do was go back and claim it. Naturally, he would
have to stake it first, as prescribed by law, and make
it all official. That’s where Smiley the surveyor came
in. Finding it would be another matter. And that’s why
he decided to bring along Red-Beard and the others.
Minin’ for gold is hard work, especially at Homer’s age.
He’d need all the help he could get. And like I said
before, there was still someone missing.
Time was no longer
on the old man’s side. He wasn’t just getting old – he
was old! just like everyone kept telling him he was; and
time, like the tide, waits for no man. His only hope now
was that the gold would still be there after all these
years. As for anything else he might find... well, he
just didn’t think about it anymore. And what about the
gold? Was it still there? He had his doubts now and
then. Or was it only a dream? And what about the stone?
There was only one way to find out, of course. He had to
go back, back to the mountain, back to where it all
began. He had to know.
The old man knew
he’d go back. He always knew. It was almost as if he had
no choice. It was all just a matter of time. He was sure
the gold would still be there when he returned. It had
to be. Why? Well, because the tooth told him so – that’s
why! And it reminded him every goddamn day, just like
the spirits of the night. It was a tooth, I tell you!
And it still ached after all these years; even when it
wasn’t there. The pain was almost unbearable. And there
was only way to make it stop. He had to go back to where
it all began. Back to the mountain. He knew that by now.
There was no other way. Homer Skinner just had to go
a’minin’.
It was really the
only thing left for him to do; besides dying, that is.
And that would come soon enough anyway. He wasn’t doing
it for his wife, although he knew she would benefit as
well if everything worked out according to plan; and he
certainly wasn’t doing it for himself… Or was he? When
you get right down to it, isn’t that why we do anything?
Maybe so; but he was actually doing it for a friend. He
was doing it for Elmo Cotton, the Harlie. Somehow, that
made all the difference, even if it didn’t stop the
pain. It was something he had been meaning to do for a
long time.
And so, Homer
Skinner had finally decided: It’s about time...
Cornelius G. Wainwright III was dead all right, his
bones long since buried along with those of the
flesh-eating Ferals. All the old man needed now
was time, just a little more time. He had the map. He
knew the way. The mountain was still there; and so was
the gold.
Chapter One
Waiting for the Sun
IT WAS MONDAY, a cool September morning, and still dark
outside; what some folks like to call ‘the other side of
twilight’. One by one, the four horsemen arrived in
front of Homer Skinner's house that day, followed by a
small painted wagon with a large Negro driver and a
rather suspicious looking passenger who appeared to be
fast asleep.
Waiting for
them was man dressed in a blue and gray uniform. He was
holding fast to a great white bovine, inextricably
linked to him by a hemp rope knotted through a golden
ring piercing the smoking wet nostrils of the beast. It
was a magnificent Brahma bull, as evidenced by its great
Hindu hump swaying from side to side atop so many fleshy
folds sagging from its creamy white breast.
The bovine
beast, not unlike its current owner and master whom it
obeyed implicitly, was bred purely for the military
purposes. But this animal, whose Asiatic hooves still
clearly crack the crowded streets of Calcutta, was no
ordinary bull, and was obviously of that same pure stock
and noble pedigree; as opposed to its mixed American
cousin herded over the virgin plains and prairies,
destined for the slaughterhouse to be sold by the pond
to a young and starving nation. Not unlike the biblical
golden calf that preceded it, once idolized in the
shadow of Mount Sinai, even as Moses gazed upon the
flaming face of God, this was a sacred cow, and one
worthy of worshipped. It had been handpicked by the
war-child himself to serve his unholy purpose, and acted
accordingly. And so, Red-Beard bestowed upon the animal
a name befitting its true character and nature – Jove.
And as in the Greek god whose own incarnated spirit was
once embodied in the same fantastic form of the great
white bull, so too did this ancient Brahma exhibit all
the deity invested in its broad beefy being.
The current
owner of this magnificent animal, if indeed such a prime
and noble specimen could be ‘owned’ by any mere mortal,
was Horace ‘Rusty’ Horn; although he was more commonly
referred to simply as ‘Red-Beard’ chiefly on account of
the long red whiskers that flowed from his face like so
many strands of long rusty wires. No one knew for
certain where Red-Beard came from, or what circumstances
had landed him in his present position. No one asked. No
one dared. Aside from his military credentials, which
were conspicuously displayed not only in the uniform but
in the overall countenance of the man, all of which will
be extrapolated upon in the manner they deserve, little
was actually known of the colonel’s past existence other
than the fact that he hailed from a long line of
military men dating back to the Revolutionary War, his
grandfather having fought at the Battle of New Orleans
under Colonel Andrew ‘Stonewall’ Jackson. It was for
this reason, among others perhaps, the young red-head
was tagged with the prodigious and self-fulfilling title
of ‘war-child’, a name he didn’t necessarily approve of,
but one that would follow Red-Beard for the rest of his
natural life, and beyond; red being the true color of
war. What was known about Rusty’s own military
background was that he’d served in the army at one time
and held the commanding rank of colonel, as evidenced
not only by the signature sword that hung like a double
edged phallic that was forever at his side, but also by
the eagle insignia still attached to the faded flap of
the army cap he was wearing that day.
The other
occupational talent Red-Beard showed a particular
interest in, and was actually quite knowledgeable of,
was the specialized field of explosives; especially in
its more recent military applications, which proved
vital to the outcome of the war. It was a relatively new
and unstable science, a revolutionary concept, which,
together with the recent introduction of a volatile
substance known as ‘Nitro-glycerin’ became even more
unstable, and dangerous. They called it ‘dynamite’.
Behind
Red-Beard, and slightly off to the side, was a wagon
being drawn by two long-horned oxen. They were large and
healthy animals, having recently been steered in order
to enhance their beefy bulk; not only for the long
journey that lie ahead of them, but also so that they
fetch a higher premium in the meat market, if and when
they ever returned to fulfill such a grim and gruesome
destiny.
Inside the
painted wagon sat two men. One was a substantially large
Negro perched high on the buckboard who was not only the
driver of the vehicle but, oddly enough, its current
owner and operator. His name was Sam; he answered to no
other. The other man, lazily lounging in the back of the
overloaded wagon was a rather diminutive, at least by
comparison to the black Goliath before him, Native
American Indian; or, Redman, as they were commonly, and
perhaps colorfully, referred to at the time. He went by
the simple, unassuming and, as some might even suggest,
condescending name of ‘Boy’, even though he as well into
his thirties by now, and well beyond adolescence.
The wagon was
painted green and red, which happened to be the colors
of the Redman’s native tribe, a fact which didn’t go
entirely un-noticed when he accepted Red-Beard’s offer
to join the secret expedition. It was actually Sam’s
idea, having worked closely with the Redman before and
holding no special animosity toward that particular
race; chiefly, I suppose, on account of the Redman held
no special animosity toward the Negro. In fact, the two
actually got along rather well together, as those with
common enemies often do in this discriminating and
segregated world of ours. His eyes were half-closed
beneath a tall hat sitting on top of his sloping red
forehead in the conical shape of tall brown wigwam,
presently hiding much of his oriental aspect. On one
side of the rounded pyramid was an eagle’s feather, its
sharp quill piercing ceremoniously through the molded
fabric. The hat, along with a thick curtain of jet-black
hair cascading straight down to his naked red shoulders,
made it virtually impossible tell whether the Indian
named Boy was awake or asleep at any given moment, a
peculiarity shared by many of his noble but suspicious
race. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither, as one of the
Caucasian persuasion might come to suspect.
Stoically and
serenely tucked away among the many provision stacked up
all around him, this dark-haired dreamer might easily
have been overlooked, if one were not looking for a
stoic and serene Indian sitting in the back of a wagon
that is, precariously resting his head on one of the
many wooden containers placed haphazardly in the back
wagon to serve, or so it seemed, as the Redman’s pillow.
Little did the
Indian know (or perhaps he did know and merely choose to
act that way rather than exhibit any outward fear which
the others might have taken as a sign of weakness,
which was another trait common among his savage
ancestors) that the keg supporting his heathenish head
contained that special blend of explosives known as
dynamite. It was a relatively new concoction, invented
by a German philanthropist named Alfred Nobel, who,
ironically enough a ‘peace prize’ would one day be named
after, and was said to be a vast improvement over the
old black powder, which was still in use in many
mountainous parts of the country in the risky business
of gold mining, as well as the extraction of other
precious ore and mineral so inherent to that noble, and
sometimes fatal, profession. But even under such
precarious circumstances, the Redman’s mind drifted. It
seemed to be hovering between the Black Hills of South
Dakota and the Appalachians or, perhaps, somewhere over
the mountains of the moon.
A day earlier,
the little wagon had been loaded down with enough
crates, boxes, bags, bottles, barrels, shovels, spades,
rakes, pick-axes, saws, hoes, ropes, ladders, chisels,
and chains, to open a hardware store. There were other
things as well, objects notably designed specifically
for the dark and dangerous enterprise of tunneling for
gold, a risky business that was not always successful,
or profitable, as one famous miner with a bottlebrush
moustache found out almost forty years ago.
“Humph!” said
the colossal Negro to no one in particular. “The
colonel’s here. But I don’t see anyone else. They’s
‘spose to be here by now.”
As if suddenly
awakening from some idyllic Indian slumber filled with
beaver and buffalo, and not yet willing to surrender to
the realities of life among the pale faced pagans,
Geronimo stirred in his blanket. And through that solemn
curtain of hair, which, depending on the how the light
was shinning on it at any given moment, appeared as
insular strands of black and blue ribbon, he instructed
the driver of the wagon: “Patience, son of darkness.
They will be here.”
“What makes you
so sure?” said Sam, feeling just a little bit patronized
whenever Boy talked to in such a condescending fashion,
which any other self-respecting black man might’ve
easily taken for an insult, and be just as wrong.
Drawing the
curtain from his tired eyes like a recently widowed
lover peeling back the black veil of her grief long
after the coffin is buried and the mourners have all
gone to bed, the Indian simply looked into the eyes of
his companion and solemnly assured him: “the gold...”
“I heard that!”
agreed the Negro, which was his own and unique and
expressive way of voicing his enthusiasm.
“There’s magic
in gold,” the Indian prophesized, as the Incas of old
surly did even as the Spanish conquistadores carted it
away by the boatload across the sea, leaving behind the
diseases that would eventually doom the ancient
civilization to extinction. “It’s old, like the
mountains, and just as strong. Big medicine! Nothing can
break the spell. You cannot let it go.” He then lowered
his head as his mind drifted from the mountains of the
moon and around the Milky Way, adding with a solemnity
typically reserved for ones last dying breath, “It
always brings them back.”
“It do more
than that,” replied the dark driver, having witnessed
firsthand the powerful persuasion of the precious yellow
element over the mortal minds of weaker men, black or
white. “I hopes I didn’t wake you, little feller,” he
sarcastically apologized. “For a while there, I thought
you was dead.”
“Death…”
philosophized the Redman in that sleepy-eyed state of
transcendentalism he could often be found in, “is
nothing more than a never-ending nap, where you lie down
and never wake up. What the Redman call the ‘big
sleep’, he stated with a noticeable sign of
contentment, as if he found the gloomy prospect of
complete and total unconsciousness pleasing to his
native sensibilities, in a natural sort of way. Perhaps
it was something they shared with the ancient Israelites
who, in their own ambiguous renderings, describe a
similar existence in the shadowy and sleepy world of
Sheol. “And oh, by the way…” added the Redman as he
mounted his bright red mustang and resumed his solitary
sojourn through the deep, dark Heavens, “there are no
dreams.”
“‘Scuse me?”
balked the Negro. “No dreams!” Now what kinda sleep is
that, Boy? Every man gots a right to dream – don’t he?
Why even a damn slave gots him a right to dream. Fo’
some, that’s the only rights they gots... the only time
they gets to be free! Why, even a goddamn dead man gots
a him the right to dream. Humph!”
Somewhere in
the starry outskirts of the Milky Way, beyond the rings
of Saturn and the many moons of Jupiter, the Indian
named Boy suddenly halted. He turned his celestial pony
around and, like a red-tailed meteor breaching a pale
blue sky, came hurling back down to Earth in order to
address the concerns of the black man he’d come to love
almost as a brother in the few short days they’d known
each another. “No, Sam,” he solemnly proclaimed before
taking off once again like the Egyptian sun-god, Ra, who
would periodically traverse those that same deep, dark
heavens in his own celestial chariot where only kindred
spirits so often collide, “Life and death need each
other. They are like a husband and wife. One completes
the other. Without death, life can have no meaning; and
without life… well, there is no death. Same thing – See?
It’s the same with Freedom. Think about it, son of
darkness. Think and die… And be free!”
“Damn Injun…”
growled the black man from the front of the wagon, “Go
back to sleep.” He had heard such gloomy
prognostications from his black passenger before, never
quite understanding and thus unable to grasp, or
appreciate, all the subtleties of the Redman’s morbid
philosophy and the seriousness in which they were
delivered. “Humph!” added the black man to further
punctuate his own obstinate attitude. The Negro cared
not for such metaphysical nonsense. His reality was
hard, cold, and real, like Pittsburgh steel and American
justice, as solid and strong as the chains he once wore
while mining the sulfur hills of Florida. And as for
freedom… Well, freedom for this black man was just a
word he’d once heard, as useless and meaningless as
those now spewing forth from the back of his painted
wagon, and just as confusing. But wait! thinks the Negro
to himself just then, recalling to mind a smile that
creased the fallen face of a fellow prisoner he once
knew down in the Old Florida; a slave, not unlike
himself, who’d died in his arms not too long ago in that
same poisonous prison. It was the fumes, and the sulfur,
that finally killed Ol’ Isaac, who’d spent nearly his
entire life in the mines. There came a time when he
simply couldn’t breathe anymore. His lungs collapsed;
they gave out. And then he expired. But not without a
smile, the black driver suddenly remembered just then.
It was the first time it ever happened, at least in the
mines. And it was the smile that stayed with all him
those long cheerless years; a smile so simple and real,
so serene that, if for only for one fleeting moment, he
thought he knew what real freedom was, what it really
meant and, perhaps, how to obtain it. “You know sumpin’,
Boy” he was finally forced to admit, although a little
reluctantly and not wishing to encourage the red-skinned
philosopher or tempt fate any more than necessary,
“Maybe you’s right after all. Could be the only way to
gets freedom, is by dyin’. And maybe we’s all be better
off dead. And in that case, I ‘spose I really don’t mind
dyin’. But not right now,” he finally objected after
running it over in his mind for a moment or two. “Gots
me a whole lot of livin’ to do just yet,” he reminded
his morbid passenger. “But don’t let that stop you. And
don’t be waitin’ on ol’ Sam now. He’ll be a’comin’ along
shortly. Yes he will. And I’s be right behind you, Boy.
A noticeable
smile shot through the Indian’s long black mane. Like an
arrow piercing a hole through a dark dense cloud, it
allowed in just enough light to gladden the Negro’s
generous and sizable heart.
After a moment
of stoic contemplation, the black man suddenly felt
obliged to amend his last statement, and selfishly so:
“So go ahead and dies... if that’s what you has in mind.
Ain’t no one gonna stop you. Not me. No sir! And I can’t
say I blames you, either. Humph! Just do me one favor
befo’ you goes and dies,” he insisted. “You’ll do that
fo’ ol’ ’ Sam – Won’t you, Boy?”
The Redman
nodded, solemnly.
The Negro shook
his big black head and smiled. “Just don’t be doin’ it
my wagon,’ he insisted. “This here ain’t no damn hearse.
And my name ain’t Lester Cox. That fo’ sho’!” he added,
referring, of course, to the Creekwood undertaker who
drove a wagon not unlike that of his own; only Lester’s
was black, and seldom empty, “That’s fo’ damn sho!”
* * *
OVERHEARING THE FAMILIAR and sometimes quarrelsome voices of his
subordinates, Red-Beard simply told everyone to shut up
and keep quiet as he continued gazing up at the small
window above Homer’s porch without so turning his head
one degree or another. “And that’s an order,” he
reminded them all.
The Negro’s
name was Sam. He didn’t have a last name, which is what
differentiated him at the time him from others of his
African ancestry who’d assumed over the years the
namesakes of their slave masters, or so the Negro
claimed. There was a woman, a prostitute, he’d once met
in Old Port Fierce, in a place called Shadytown, who
suggested, rather coldly and with no degree of
uncertainty, that the Negro’s last name was actually
‘Harley’, a common appellation among many blacks, as
well as whites, and one with long roots that could be
traced all the way back to Old Erasmus himself, and his
benevolent master, Mister Buford Harley. But that’s
another story, and for another time. Exactly how this
woman of ill repute came to such a conclusion and what,
if any, facts she had to support such an un-collaborated
statement, were never revealed. It was in her best
interest, both personally or professionally, never to
divulge the sources of her information, which, by the
way, was considered a serious breach of sacred trust by
those engaged in her chosen profession who took certain
precautions in protecting their client’s anonymity, as
well as their reputations; besides, it was also not very
good for business.
Sam was once a
convicted criminal, as well as a slave, who’d been
sentenced to work the sulfur mines of Tampa Florida, a
slave state right up until the end of the war. He worked
like an animal, alongside thieves and murderers, digging
day and night (he could never tell one from another in
the sunless pits tunnels of the mineshaft) for that main
ingredient that went into the manufacture of gunpowder,
which fuelled the war and eventually lead to his own
emancipation. He hailed from a place called Shadytown, a
small town on the outskirts of Old Port Fierce inhabited
primarily by Negroes, but was also a host to a number of
transients known to frequent that ‘colorful’ part of the
city that catered to their peculiar and sometimes
self-destructive tastes. The crime he’d been accused of
was never proven. But facts, stubborn things they can be
in most other situations, were simply ignored or
overlooked at the time of Sam’s conviction; the color of
his skin didn’t seem to help matters, either. He was
released from bondage at the conclusion of the war and
moved to Old Port Fierce where Red-Beard found him
laboriously working the docks thereabout, loading and
un-loading the many merchant ships that came from the
more prosperous cities of the north or, perhaps, around
the world. It was chiefly because of these two
professions, with all the vicissitudes they so demanded,
that Sam the Negro obtained his superior strength, along
with his manly reputation.
As previously
mentioned, the other man’s name was ‘Boy’, which was
actually quite misleading since this ‘boy’ was, for all
appearances and intellectual capacity, well beyond that
stage of mental and physical development normally
associated with the patronizing term. The name, however
unjustly applied and for whatever unconscionable reason,
stuck; and so did the shame. At present, this particular
‘Boy’ was well into his third decade (thirty-eight years
to be exact) which, in his own forsaken but not totally
forgotten culture, should have easily made him a
grandfather many times over by now; the customary age of
marriage for Indians at that time being about fourteen
years, or, as the Redman themselves would say in their
own metaphorically way: ‘… old enough to shoot the
arrow.’
The youthful
appellation was first attached to the taciturn native,
quite innocently in fact, the day he was orphaned in the
wilderness and taken in by an elderly pioneer couple
who, just passing through and having no children of
their own, took pity on the ‘boy’ by providing him with
not only a new name, but the family as well; his real
parents having been massacred shortly after the war,
along with the rest of his tribe, at the tender age of
ten by a wayward band of mercenary soldiers whose
allegiance was never quite established. But the memories
remained, as well as the pride instilled in him from a
very early age, as he claimed to be the direct
descendant of a mighty warrior king who fell at the
sword of a great white god. The name just stuck – and so
did his vengeance. Despite his civilized surroundings,
and perhaps because of them, the Indian named Boy had
retained much of his pagan past and would, in the
fashion of his ancient ancestors, make burnt offerings
to the various deities ascribed to his particular
religion. It was just something else the large Negro
could never quite understand about his pantheistic
passenger: How did he know which god he was worshiping?
It’s one of those things that makes monotheism not only
more practical and desirable, but less confusion.
Never-the-less, the two wagon riders complemented one
another other quite nicely, like black-eyed peas and raw
red meat, I suppose, and were deemed indispensable to
the mission for which they were about to embark on; at
least as far as Red-Beard, who’d made a career out of
assigning men to their rightful tasks, was concerned.
It was still
dark outside, the sun just beginning to breach the
eastern horizon, but not so much that the four horsemen
couldn’t make out the anticipated sight of a small
painted wagon with two riders and one man mounted on a
bull silhouetted against the early morning sky. He
looked angry and impatient; not unlike the ominous
bovine beneath him with clouds of white vapor spewing
from its dilating nostrils.
“What took you
so long?” was all Red-Beard had to say as the four
horsemen slowly materialized through a dark gray mist.
He was still looking for signs of life within. There was
a small light shining in the upstairs window by then,
but that was all.
Nobody answered.
Among the four
horsemen who had arrived just then was a sinister
looking man slouched over a sickly horse that looked as
though it had difficulty bearing such a wicked burden.
He seemed to be smiling, conspicuously missing all but a
single tooth that protruded from his lower jaw like the
petrified remains of a dead tree stump. He had been in
the army, just like Red-Beard, and was a corporal at the
time, although it would be difficult to tell. There was
just nothing honorable, wholesome, or disciplined about
this diseased reprobate.
The middle-aged
man next to him spat on the ground, impatiently wiping
his chin with the sleeve of his jacket as the young
rider behind him waited for the volcano to erupt. He had
a tan-leathered face, a magnificent moustache, and skin
like an alligator. It was Mister Charles Smiley. He was
a shrew and wiry, and often out-spoken, land surveyor
who, despite his rugged outdoor appearance and lack of
higher education, was considered by many a man of many
talents with a keen eye for detail. He also was known to
possess a voracious appetite for sugar and tobacco. His
only serious flaw, which, by the way, he shared with yet
another great revolutionary of that noble profession,
General George Washington, was a constant string of
obscenities that seemed to accompany all his verbal
expressions, which will be extrapolated upon in chapters
to come.
Charles Smiley
was an institution all to himself. The mountains and the
plains were his classrooms, his University, if you will
– his Harvard, and his Yale. The earth was his home,
with every rock and tree accounted for as so much
furniture to be catalogued in a big black field book he
called ‘The Bible’. He loved the land, and would map and
measured every square inch of it, as only he knew how.
Aside from that, he was also a magnificent orator, and
may’ve even made a right proper professor, if only he
could learn to stop spitting, and perhaps curb that
savage tongue of his, from which behind those hairy lips
forever flowed a constant string of profanities as
thick, as long, and as natural as the manure springing
from the rear end of grazing buffalo. It was enough to
make a cowboy cry and a sailor blush. But he could also
become strangely quiet at times, depending on mood and
circumstance, in which case Charles Smiley would simply
take refuge behind his mustachioed mask much as a thief
will sometimes hide behind a kerchief, or a bride behind
her veil. But as any mariner will surely admonish:
‘...it’s just the calm before the storm’.
‘Smiley’, as he
preferred to be called, affectionately or otherwise,
wore an old red handkerchief for a scarf and a broad
black brimming hat, as many in that sunny part of the
untamed world still do to shield themselves from the
elements. Inextricably attached to his body like any
other organ, the hat covered much of Smiley’s enormous
head, which began balding at the unfair age of
twenty-two. Perhaps it was to make up for this follicle
deficiency that the surveyor began sporting a
magnificent moustache, which covered all of his mouth
and most of his chin, concealing the oral cavity within.
It was ten inches long from tip to tapering tip,
naturally sculptured by the elements, and blonde, of
course, much like the golden fibers that had once graced
his balding dome like so many amber waves of grain
immortalized in song. And if you looked real close you
might just find a just few strands of gray mixed within
the blonde, which, of course, came with his profession,
as well as his age.
The moustache
served the surveyor well, like a personal signature not
to be outdone or duplicated; or a self-perpetuating mask
that was difficult, if not impossible, to penetrate, and
growing by the minute. Because of his constant exposure
to the sun, not to mention years of battling the harsh
elements, Smiley was a man aged well beyond his years.
And it showed, not only in his thick alligator-like skin
and sun-scorched eyes but in numerous lesions and
cancers forming on various parts of his unprotected
body, especially on the back of his hands and neck which
in constant use and need of. Land surveying is a
demanding and dangerous occupation, a risky business
that takes both brains and brawn; and it is not for the
faint of heart or feeble of mind. It takes more than it
gives. It takes a man like Charles Smiley.
Even his name
was a deception – ‘Smiley’. But how could you tell? The
moustache simply wouldn’t allow it. Duplicity needs to
be deceptive, if it’s to be effective at all, as well as
anonymous. In fact, it was virtually impossible to tell
exactly what was on Mister Smiley’s mind at any given
moment, as the hairy mask was constantly concealing any
and all emotion from the neck up, along with all
countenances connected with them. Whether or not he was
smiling, frowning, laughing, crying, smirking, sneering,
jeering, jesting, or exhibiting any kind of facial
expression what-so-ever was not to be discerned nor
evidenced. The mask, the moustache that is, made sure of
it… just as it was supposed to. ‘He’s a tricky one, that
Mister Smiley,’ many would come to agree. ‘Never know
what he might be a’thinkin’. And that’s just the way the
surveyor liked it. Hell! He might even crack a smile if
you even tried; after spitting out a gallon of tobacco
juice, along with a profanity or two; but, of course…you
would never know it.
Despite
everything else he might’ve lost on account of his
rambling profession, including two wives and more
children than he actually knew of, Charles Smiley had
always retained his vocal abilities, which could be
heard resonating through the hills and hollers, along
with every profanity known to man, as he looked through
the glass, read his rods, and became, as the saying
goes: ‘the master of all he surveyed’. “God-damn it,
Homer!” shouted the surveyor with little or no effort
expended, “if you don’t get out of that @#$%^&*’ing bed
right this minute, I’ll…Why, I’ll come up there and… ”
At that moment,
an older gentleman stepped in. “That’ll do, Mister
Smiley,” he said, affectionately caressing the head of a
five-pound hammer protruding conspicuously from his
side. “No need for blasphemy.”
“Why don’t we
just knock on the door?” suggested the surveyor’s
youthful apprentice, resting his beardless chin on one
of the many range-poles angling out of his saddle like
so many arrows in a quiver.
“Can’t,”
replied Red-Beard, sharply. “Homer’s orders. Doesn’t
want to wake up the wife, you know.”
“Can’t say I
blames him for that,” muttered the moustache, having
been married once himself and familiar with such
unsolicited interruptions.
“Womens is
mighty peculiar ‘bout that,” added the outlaw, which the
others took as some perverted twist of male chauvinism
they’d come to expect from the misogynistic
bachelor.
“What do you
know about women, Alvin?” the carpenter inquired.
“I know
enough,” gummed the thief.
“Enough not to
marry one,” observed the Negro who, as a matter of pride
and principle, had always made it a point, if not a
solemn vow, never to trust anyone, especially women,
when it came to commitments. It was a difficult chain to
break; and he’d broken his share in his long and lustful
life, along with many a young girl’s heart.
Like the proud
American buffalo doomed to certain extinction, the
Indian shook his musky black mane and went silently back
to sleep.
“Don’t worry,”
assured the colonel through a full face of his own
impetuous whiskers, “He'll be a'comin'. He said he
would.”
* * *
HORACE ‘RUSTY’ HORN could be a patient man, but only when it
served his own dark and ambiguous purposes; and then,
only up to a point. He was seldom charitable and forever
suspicious of those who were. But he was feeling neither
patient nor charitable that particular morning; in fact,
he looked nervous, anxious, and perhaps a little angry,
like a bull about to be steered, imagined Sam the Negro;
or an altar-bound man about to be hitched, which some
will say is pretty much the same thing anyway, and just
as scared. The others, he thought… well, they just
looked tired, and hungry.
They had been
up all night, including ‘Little Dick’ Dilworth who
probably shouldn’t have been there in front of Mister
Skinner’s house in the first place. He was clearly the
youngest and most naïve of the four horsemen, and
inexperienced in all aspects regarding the present
enterprise at hand. He’d been brought along by Charles
Smiley, who would employ the young from time to time to
pull hold the rods and pull chains requisite in the
business of land surveying, and maybe even make him
laugh one in a while. How could he sleep? How could any
of them sleep with all that was on their minds the night
before, and all that talk about gold? “I’m hungry,”
complained Dick, “How ‘bout you, Mister Smiley?”
Mister Charles
Smiley had only two weaknesses, and Little Dick knew
them both. One was for chewing tobacco; the other was
his employer’s special fondness for sugar pastries and
other confectionary delights, the latter of which he was
sure to have stashed away somewhere in is saddle bags.
“No time for
that, Dick,” moved the moustache. “But a little pinch
wouldn’t hurt right now.” He then began fumbling though
his pockets for the small leather pouch in which he kept
the moist brown leaf, which he would gingerly place
between cheek and gum at least twelve times a day, or
whenever he was nervous. Smiley just loved to chew, as
evidenced by the globular masses of reddish-brown
spittle that were occasionally found clinging to the
long hairs of his moustache, along with the remains of
other tasty morsels that somehow always seemed to find
their way into his saddlebag, including cakes and pies,
which always seemed to mysteriously disappear whenever
the surveyor was close at hand. Not that I’m making any
false accusations here; but, if you were to accuse this
incorrigible addict of absconding with the last pinch of
tobacco from the pouch or the last piece of pie from the
tray, you would surely be justified in doing so, for the
evidence would be written all over his face, as well as
on it.
“That’s all you
whippersnappers ever thinks about – Food!” exclaimed the
outlaw.
“And sex!”
ejaculated the moustache.
“That too,”
Alvin agreed, at which point he began going through his
weathered saddlebags for a little brown bottle he’d
brought along against the wishes of his commanding
officer, and a doctor he once saw in Old Port Fierce. It
was the only real lover he’d ever known, and one no
woman could compete with; not that she would ever want
to, of course.
“Could use a
few vittles myself,” growled the Negro, with an appetite
that could never be quite satisfied, by man or woman.
“Speaking of
which…” interrupted the gray-headed carpenter who,
possessing a healthy appetite of his own, as most
laborers do, had similar concerns about the dining
arrangements, or lack thereof. “Where’s the cook,
colonel?” he enquired, with that particular culinary
position in mind. It was a position he, and at least a
few of the others, deemed indispensable in expeditions
such as the one they were currently embarked upon, and
was already longing for, among other things, the
home-cooked meals his young wife was in the habit of
preparing for him on a daily basis after putting down
his hammer and saw for the night.
“Shhhhhh!”
Red-Beard whispered in reticent response. “I think I
hear something.” He was gazing up at the lighted window,
eyes wide open, his pupils dilating in mechanical motion
in order to take in every bit of light affordable in the
early morning hours.
“What’s takin’
him so long?” Smiley demanded to know, becoming
increasingly impatient while considering, along with a
few of the others, continuing the journey without the
old man’s assistance. He was already aware of the
proximity of Wainwright’s lost gold mine having surveyed
much of the mountain himself, and was sure he could find
it on his own, map or no map. “Hell! Let’s just get on
with it,” he spat.
Little Dick
Dilworth usually made it a point never to argue or
disagree with his foul-mouthed employer – he knew it
wouldn’t do any good – but not that day; there was too
much at stake. Besides, he really liked the old man and,
as it sometimes happens in this prejudiced world where
young and old are considered equally handicapped and
treated as such, a bond was formed where it otherwise
may never have existed. “Ah, com’on,” he pleaded in
earnest. “Give the old man a little time. Will’ya,
Chuck…?”
Call it a
mistake, a simple error in judgment, a careless
slip-of-the tongue, the kind young men sometimes make,
usually without knowing it and, in most cases,
completely pardonable. They just happen. Depend on it.
But this was a little different and, perhaps, not so
excusable. Dick realized his error the moment it was
made; but by then, of course, it was too late. And so,
with no way of extricating himself from the delicate
position he had carelessly, and perhaps a little
foolishly (although without malice and certainly no
intention of being disrespectful to the man who paid his
wages) put himself into that particular morning, Little
Dick Dilworth slumped over his saddle and prepared
himself for what he instinctively knew was to follow: a
good, old fashion, peel-the-paint-off-the wall,
‘ear-waxin’, as they were sometimes called by those
who’d ever had the displeasure of being on the receiving
end of any one of Charles S. Smiley’s (and the ‘S’ stood
for swearin’, many would swear) profanity laden
diatribes.
For
sensitivity’s sake, and perhaps those younger readers
who may not be able to chew, stomach, digest, swallow,
comprehend, or otherwise appreciate the surveyor’s use
(or misuse, as the case may be) of the vernacular in its
most vulgar expression – that is to say, with every
profanity known to God and man thrown in for reasons
beyond human comprehension– it will henceforth be
necessary to omit the more offensive and most obscene
expressions from the narrative, at least in the special
case of Mister Charles Smiley who, if the truth be
known, and despite his well-deserved reputation for
utilizing the ear of his fellow man for his own personal
urinal, was actually a man of deep sympathies with
respect and reverence for all God’s creatures. His words
were often chosen more for their effect rather than
their actual meaning, and thus misconstrued, not unlike
the language so often employed by the great General
George Washington, a pious and God-fearing man by all
other accounts, on his own desperate and deleted troops,
which was said, according to more than one observant
subordinate, ‘…strong enough to peel the paint off a
barn wall!’ And in fact, if you really want to get a
good idea of what Mister Smiley sounded like… well
then, all you would have to do is think of the most
disgusting, vicious, vile, vitriolic, obnoxious,
obscene, filthy, foul-mouthed, polluted, profane,
repugnant, repellent reproachable, sexually explicit
word in the lexicon of man you can think of, insert that
same tainted explicative either as a noun, pronoun,
verb, adverb, adjective, or any other grammatical
function, into any one sentence spewing forth from those
unpardonable lips, add to it a few god-damn-its and
go-to-hells, throw in a half dozen sons-of-bitches, heap
a pile of jackasses on top of that, and then, well, with
that done, you may have a vague idea of what it is like
to be on the receiving end of a good old fashioned
ear-waxing, compliments of Mister Charles (And don’t
call me Chuck!) Smiley.
But take heed
and take heart, my judgmental friends; for handsome is
not always as handsome does… or says for that matter;
and neither is ugliness. For you see, it is not the
words themselves, however obscene and graphically
presented, that do the most damage (if that were the
case we may as well arm our military with Turret’s
Dictionary rather than guns and grenades, never
realizing that the enemy might be equally armed and may
very well use our own weapons against us) but the heart
and soul of those who deliver them and the malignancy
born within, which is, of course, the real obscenity,
and the root of evil. For here lies the true source of
that festering sewer, springing spitefully from hell’s
heart, hating for hate’s sake, which fountains forth
from time to time, straight out of the unwashed mouth of
man, as pure, unadulterated honey.
Expelling an
exhausted wad of chewing tobacco on the ground, with
half of the reddish-brown saliva grimly clinging to his
moustache, and discounting all that was said previous to
the insulting remark, the surly surveyor shot back in
his typical unseen but unmistakable spleen.
“!@#$%^&*!!!!!” he exploded in a volcanic eruption of
spit, tobacco juice, and profanity. “Don’t call me
Charlie! You hear me, boy? God-damn-it-to-hell!
Charlie’s for pimps, pirates and riverboat gamblers,” he
sternly admonished the impetuous youth whom he’d
recently employed as a rod-man, along with the
additional charge of looking after his vast array of
carefully kept surveying equipment. “And don’t you ever
– Ever!” he reiterated just to make it stick – “ever
call me Chuck! I hate that !@#$%^&*’ing name!”
Call it vanity
Call it pride. Call it anything you want. You may even
call Charles Smiley a no-good-yellow-egg-sucking dog
who’s lower than a snakes belly and meaner than a
one-eyed polecat dipped in sour mule piss and tossed
into the sea. But please… just don’t call him ‘Chuck’.
“Easy on the
lad, Charles,” sympathized the carpenter who was still
having his doubts about the enterprise at hand. He then
turned to the red bearded man by his side and whispered
out loud: “I don't know about this, Rusty. Skinner may
not be up to it. It's been a long time. The boy may
right. Homer is getting’ old, you know. And so am
I, for that matter,” reminded the stiffening Hammer,
whose own wooden shaft may not have been as firm and
reliable as it once was. “And besides,” he added with a
trace of doubt in his tiring eyes, “we really don’t know
if it’s still there.”
“The gold?”
gulped the outlaw, taking a long, sloppy sip from his
bottle.
“Or if it ever
was there to begin with,” the surveyor added, and not
for the first time. Like many others, Smiley still had
his suspicions, especially considering the fact that
Homer had never actually produced any evidence to
support his golden claim, or substantiate his fantastic
facts. If the gold were there, however, Smiley would
surely find it. He could smell the stuff, or so he
boasted, in the valley of the Dead. ‘It smells
like…like, a woman’, he said once told Dick in
confidence. But how would he know? It was the scent
alien to the young man’s nostrils at the time as well as
his sensitivities.
Red-Beard had
been equally suspicious of Mister Skinner at one time.
It wasn’t the first time Homer’s credibility came into
question; it would certainly not be the last. What
disturbed him most of all, however, was the fact that
the others were becoming equally suspicious. It was not
a good sign, he thought, especially in times of war. The
colonel respected the carpenter’s concern; even so, the
wheels were already in motion. It wasn’t the gold that
Colonel Horn was primarily interested it at the time.
There was something else, something old and precious;
and he knew he wasn’t the only one thinking about it.
It took a
while, but Red-Beard finally came up with the answer he
thought would calm all of their fears, as well as their
nerves. It may not have been the correct answer, or the
one they were actually looking for, but it was the only
one he could think of at the time: “How do I know the
gold’s still there?” he rhetorically asked himself as he
was want to do at times. “Simple!” he likewise answered
himself. “Because ain’t no one found it yet – That’s
how.”
They all looked
at one another, dismayed and bewildered; but somehow,
they were satisfied with the colonel’s response. It was
a good answer; one that made sense. And they all knew
deep down that the gold would still be there. Otherwise,
why would Red-Beard, who was known to be a prudent man,
as well as a very ambitious one, be spending so much of
his time and energy in pursuing such a dangerous
enterprise in which he himself could perish in the
process? Besides, they all finally agreed: if anyone
else had already found the gold, surely they would have
heard about it by now. Things like that are difficult,
if not impossible, to keep a secret for very long,
especially in times like these, after the war, when
money was in short supply and gold was the only king.
But greed always leads to gossip, sooner or later; and
gossip ends at the grave. Some say gold can loosen a
man’s tongue quicker than white lightening’ or a woman’s
whisper, and be just as fatal.
“Ain’t gonna be
easy, Colonel,” the old carpenter opined with his hammer
dangling stiffly his side. “Dangerous work, you know.
Those old mines...”
“I heard that,”
the Negro solemnly agreed, having worked the mines
himself at one time, at the business end of a whip. “Had
one drop in on me once,” he stated quite frankly.
“Thought I was gonna die. Buried alive under all that
sulfur and sin. Six mens was kilt that day…all chained
together. Convicts, you know. Never had a chance. Never
found the bodies either! Nobody even look. They was all
niggers… just likes me. Rest of us, we just goes back
to work... like nothin’ happen. Nothin’ I’s could do.”
“Could’a said a
prayer,” suggested Dick.
“Won’t do no
good,” reminded the Negro. “God don’t hear no prayers in
them ol’ mines. Only the devil.
“Like I was
saying, Colonel,” the carpenter resumed, “those old
mines are graves in waiting.”
“Well,” said
Red-Beard, nodding to the toothless man sitting next to
him on a stolen horse, “that’s what our Engineer is for.
Throwing a long
hard glance at the man from Eulogy, the Old Hammer shook
his heavy head and sighed, “Engineer – Eh?”
Little Dick,
who was still feeling the aftershock of his previous
admonishment suddenly sprung up his own head and
ejaculated, “I didn’t know you ‘drived’ a train, Alvin!”
“And they
wonder why I drink…” voiced the outlaw. Actually, the
closest Alvin Webb ever come to a real train was once
when he’d tried to rob one on horseback, failing
miserably in the process when, while attempting to ride
and shoot at the same time, and with a black stocking
pulled a little too tightly over his head, he fell off
his horse and shot off his big toe by mistake, leaving
him with a visible and painful limp that would not only
haunt and hound him for the rest of his miserable life
but remind him, along with everyone else who had
witnessed the bewildering event, of just what a pitiful
poltroon the toothless outlaw actually was. It was
enough to drive Alvin to drink; and it did. Everyone,
including Rusty Horn, knew that sooner or later the
hapless thief would end up on the knotted end of a rope,
or perhaps the wrong end of a gun. And with Alvin’s
luck, not to mention his addiction to alcohol and his
lust for other men’s women, it might just be his own. He
pulled the cork from his bottle and took another deep
draw. “You know,” he suddenly mused, wiping his mouth
with the back of his dirty sleeve, “it was a woman that
drived me to drink... And I never even got to thank
her,” he grinned.
“Lucky for
her,” the Hammer replied.
Alvin was a
drunk, of course, as well as a thief and liar; and those
were just some of his more admirable qualities. “Want
some, Colonel?” he said, tilting the little brown jug in
the colonel’s general direction, as he would do from
time to time, tempting not only the devil but his own
fate as well. It is an undisclosed yet well-known fact
that, while vice loves company, virtue often dines
alone.
Red-Beard
merely turned his head and looked away. A teetotaler by
choice, Red-Beard had made it a practice never to
indulge, taking a total Muslim approach on the subject
of alcohol. Moonshine was not to his taste, or liking,
at least not after his after the operation. In fact, he
never drank after the war; and he didn’t trust anyone
who did. He considered it undisciplined, and cautioned
his soldiers to avoid the spirits as they would a
scorned woman with a deadly weapon.
The outlaw
laughed. “Hector?”
“You know I
don’t drink that belly-rot,” replied the Hammer. As it
were, and despite his Irish name, Mister O’Brien never
developed a taste for hard liquor. Since marrying his
beautiful young bride, Hector had become accustomed to
the finer things in life, like new food, old wine, Cuban
cigars, and, of course, younger women. “And besides,” he
added for the benefit of those who just didn’t know any
better, “I don’t get drunk … anymore.”
“Drink this and
you will,” said Alvin, the cork still lodged in between
his gangrene gums. “How ‘bout you, Mister Surveyor? Care
for a snoot?”
Charles Smiley,
on the other hand, did get drunk; and contrary to
colonel’s sober attitude toward Ol’ John Barleycorn, he
didn’t trust anyone who didn’t pull a cork, at least
once in a while. He gratefully accepted the outlaw’s
offer, careful to wipe off the top of the bottle on the
skirt of his coat in attempt to ward off whatever other
diseases might still be lingering thereabout, the
antiseptic effects of one hundred proof distilled
moonshine notwithstanding. “Damn!!!!” he exclaimed in
one long hard swallow. “Now that’s what I call white
lightnin’!”
Turing his
attention, as well as an instigating eye, to the Indian
in the wagon, Alvin winked, “How ‘bout you, Geronimo. A
little fire-water?”
The Redman
sneered, “White man’s medicine…”
“Better than no
medicine at all,” suggested the outlaw, corking the
bottle and tossing into the back of the little wagon
well within the Redman’s reach.
“Cures what
ails you, Boy,” smiled the surveyor. “Go ahead! You know
you wants it. All Injuns do. It’s in the blood.”
The Redman
acquiesced. Unplugging the contaminated corked container
and holding it to his savage red lips, the Indian named
Boy imbibed. “Hair of the dog,” he gulped. “I hope this
one don’t bite back.”
“I’ll has me a
taste,” sounded Sam, eagerly enough.
Boy corked the
poison and quietly passed it up front to the driver.
“Wait!”
cautioned the owner of the bottle. “We don’t drink with
no nig…” But on second thought, Alvin nodded his
approval and Sam had his fill by emptying the clear
container in one satisfying and integrated gulp.
“None for you,
Dick,” insisted Smiley as the half-empty bottle finally
found its way into the receptive hands of his young
apprentice, “I promised yo’ momma. Remember?”
“Yeah,” mocked
the outlaw, “remember what yo’ momma say… boy,”
“Shouldn’t be
drinking on the job anyway, Alvin,” scolded the youth in
return.
“Shut up,
dick-head!” snapped the outlaw.
Dilworth fired
right back: “Horse-thief!”
Alvin went for
his gun.
No one moved.
The four horsemen simply looked on, as cowboys often do
in these in trying situations. Calling a man a
horse-thief (even if it was true) was serious business,
and everyone knew it; even Little Dick who perhaps
should have known better. But the alcohol had already
taking its toll, at least on Webb. There was little
anyone could do, or say, at that point. So no one said a
word, not even Hector O’Brien, whose towering presence
and ever-present hammer had always, at least up until
then, had a calming effect on the others.
It was then
when Colonel Rusty Horn stepped in. “Hold it right
there, soldier,” he abruptly ordered, knowing it was way
too early for a fight, especially one that could end in
a man’s death. They were all, in their own self-serving
and self-destructive ways, indispensable; and he needed
all the help he could get. Besides, Red-Bard had more
important things on his mind at the time to worry about;
and it showed. Even Little Dick could see it. It wasn’t
the gold, but something else, something buried deep
inside the mountain, something deep and dark, as old as
the Heavens, and just as powerful; and he wasn’t even
sure what it was. Not yet. It was a secret he and the
outlaw shared with only one other man, Mister Tom
Henley, a nearsighted hillbilly they’d met up at the
Nickel Pig Saloon one night not too long ago.
With a full
head of curly blond hair, a fair complexion, an eye for
older women, and a propensity to urinate indoors,
‘Little Dick’ Dilworth was actually little more than a
pubescent youth with an over active bladder and, as in
the case of most pubescent youths, a high level of
testosterone. The only thing lacking in his sexual life
at the time... was a partner; and maybe just a little
gold – ‘to bait the hook’, as the old angler would say.
Dick had signed
on, reluctantly at first, insisting that his intentions
were pure and noble: to win the heart of a high society
woman who was contemplating his affectionate advances.
And that’s where the gold came in. But his mind was not
on gold that morning, or affection; it was on the
mountain, and things he had heard. “They say there are
F-Ferals up there in them hills,” he stuttered
out loud for no particular reason. “You know…the kinds
what likes to eat people.” He had one eye on the road
before him and the other on Smiley, his boss, who had
told him of such things. Whether he was simply trying to
scare the boy or amuse himself, Dick could never figure
out. But whatever he was trying to do, however – it
worked. “Remember what happened to Mister Wainwright...”
cautioned Dick.
“Taint no such
thing as a free lunch,” reminded Alvin Webb, through his
scratchy black beard and one remaining tooth. What the
degenerate outlaw was referring to with so much
unnecessary and uncalled for exuberance was the fated
miner’s self-fulfilling prophecy that would eventually
lead to his doom, an event Alvin seemed to derive a
morbid satisfaction or pleasure from, as if he were
somehow up-lifted by the misery of others; something we
can all relate to from time to time, I suppose; like the
spectators at the Coliseum feeding on the blood of
saints and martyrs.
Rusty Horn
had heard the story before, and was well aware of the
fateful outcome as well as the Ferals spoken of
by the deputy; but he was anxious to get underway and
saw no reason in bringing ghosts from the past, real or
imagined. “Where is he?” the red beard muttered to
himself, thinking of more of the map than the man who
made it, and who they were all still waiting for. He
could do without the man, but he needed the map. He knew
it. And so did Homer.
It happened one
evening up at Pete Liddle’s Nickel Pig Saloon after many
nights of listening to Homer ramble on about a lost gold
mine, something he’d never mentioned before when
reminiscing about what happened forty years ago up in
Wainwright’s mountain. He had been drinking that night,
which wasn’t that unusual, and was in a talkative mood.
It was late in the evening, and the old man was getting
desperate. Time was no longer on his side, and he knew
it.
He would need
help, of course; if he were ever to go back for the
gold, buried as it was under a mountain of stone. He
knew he couldn’t do it alone. The Colonel was willing to
listen; he had nothing else to do at the time, and
thought he might hear some news about the aftermath of
the war and the assassination of the Great Emancipator.
Rusty was a pragmatist by design, and an opportunist by
nature, as most tyrants are.
Red-Beard
wasn’t the only one at the Nickel Pig that night; Tom
Henley was there, too. He came down from the mountain
that day to purchase some dynamite, which he was sure
Mister Horn could supply him with. He’d been dangerously
running low on the expensive explosive and was hoping to
run into the infamous colonel sooner rather than later,
but, like all misanthropes, he disliked being around
society in general for any length of time. That’s not to
say Tom was ignorant, or even disinterested. Quite the
contrary! He was actually quite intelligent, and
curious, as most real ‘Hillbillies’ are; and Tom was
smarter than most. He was also well aware of Homer’s
youthful adventures and incredible story. He’d met and
had personally known Cornelius G. Wainwright III at one
time. He also happened to be listening that night. He
had his own story to tell.
That night
Rusty Horn quickly began putting the two stories
together. It was a tiring task, a puzzle with a few
missing pieces. Force would be necessary to make them
all fit, he imagined, and force was something he knew a
little about. However, with each round of drinks, the
pieces came together a little more easily, and the
puzzle eventually began to make sense.
It seemed that
Homer and Henley were on the same track after all; only
their trains were headed in different directions, and
each in search of something else. Homer, as he saw it,
was merely looking for the lost miner; a mission of
mercy, you might say. Instead, he’d found the gold; and
perhaps something else; which was exactly what Tom
Henley was looking for, the exactness of which he was
reluctant to divulge and spoke of in abstractions,
metaphysical terms, riddles, and in a language only he
and perhaps a few others could ever understand.
Red-Beard was one of them; and he understood just enough
to form his own hypothesis on the subject. There was
only one way to test his theory. That’s why he was
there. That’s why he came.
The colonel’s
motives may not have been as pure and noble as Little
Dick’s, nor as romantic; but his desire was as strong as
any of the others, perhaps stronger. It wasn’t the gold
he was chiefly interested in, although he knew it could
never be ignored, but something else. The gold was
merely a way of persuading the others; which, of course,
it did. It was merely a means to an end. What mattered
most to Red-Beard was immortality. That what he was
after. That’s why he came. And now, with Homer Skinner
and Tom Henley finally on board, he had everything he
needed to get it. He had the experience, the knowledge;
not to mention the rank. He also had the explosives; and
he knew how to use them. He had the men too. The only
thing missing was the map.
It was the same
map Homer Skinner had drawn up as a young deputy shortly
after returning from the Mount Wainwright one day.
Coincidentally, it was at that same time when he first
noticed his tooth beginning to ache. He’d sketched out
the map nearly forty years ago, mostly from memory
(quite an achievement for Homer under any circumstances
by the way, as his memory was always a source of great
concern) and was fairly accurate. Not only did it
contain the vital information needed to get them to the
lost gold mine and back again, but it also delineated
the deputy’s own fateful and uncertain footsteps through
the tunnel itself, and beyond. As the deputy recalled,
and penciled in on the fragile yellow parchment the
following morning, the path began on the outskirts of
town not far from his little own little house on the
prairie. From there it went northwest, in the general
direction of the Silver Mountains, meandering along the
way through various valleys and streams until it reached
the foothills of Great Northern Wood. At that point, the
trail significantly narrowed through a thickly forested
wood ominously known as ‘Dark Mile Road’. Once inside
the woods, the road went on for about one mile, just as
the name ominously implies. And then it preceded dead
north, straight up into the towering peaks of the
Northern Mountain range. It was there, in the crater of
a dead volcano, where the lost gold mine was to be
found. It was also there where the map continues, in a
more detailed fashion, protracting a line straight into
the mouth of a cave located within that very crater
itself. Tunneling its way through the stone, the line
progressed in various directions, diverting at times
into many dead-ends, which are also show on the map, at
least to the best of Homer’s recollection, until it ends
up at the precise location where he’d found the last
remains of Cornelius G. Wainwright III, and the gold.
Precisely why
Cornelius had incorporated so many twists and turns into
his tunnel remained an unsolved mystery. Perhaps, Homer
had always imagined, it was done intentionally, a way of
keeping other miners away. And it worked, apparently, as
no one, as far as Homer was aware of, had ever come
close to approaching the lost gold mine of Cornelius G.
Wainwright III, the miner with the bottlebrush moustache
and a hankering for gold.
Getting lost in
a gold mine is not a difficult thing to do, as Homer had
found out so many years ago; and he never pretended that
it couldn’t, or wouldn’t, happen to him again, even with
the map, which was another reason he’d decided to bring
the others along. He knew that the map would lead him
back the mountain some day; but from there he would need
additional help, without which the mission didn’t stand
a chance. It would remain just another hopeless dream
that would have him pacing the floor of his bedroom for
another forty years, or at least until Lester Cox came
along in his black wagon and carted him off to his
funeral parlor. Homer realized all this of course, and
so did Red-Beard.
The others,
they just weren’t sure. Homer needed them as much as
they needed him. It was a mutual arrangement, strictly
business, and one that Homer and Horn hoped might prove
successful. It was as simple as that. They were
indispensable to one another, like the opposing twin
blades of a scissor. Previous experience, along with his
army training, had led Red-Beard to believe that it
would take at least a dozen able-bodied men to reopen
the abandoned mineshaft if, in fact, it was still there,
and in the condition Homer described. He didn’t have to
look far. In fact, they all just happened to be at the
Pete Liddle’s Nickel Pig Saloon that same night when the
plan came together and the puzzle finally solved. Homer
had actually thought nine able-bodied men would be more
than enough for the job; and there was still one more he
had yet to tell the others about. Besides, being a
superstitious man by nature, he had always considered
nine to be a lucky number. Only, there were eight in the
saloon that evening, four short of the original twelve
thought to be needed for such a bold and adventurous
expedition. Tom Henley was not counted among them, for
reasons undisclosed, even though Red-Beard insisted he
come along, offering him half of total profits, if the
gold was ever found. The old hillbilly said he had more
important matters to attend to at the time, as
mountain-men always do. Little did Red-Beard (or any of
the others for that matter) know at the time, but he was
there all along.
Hector O’Brien
suggested they split the gold evenly, in however many
shares it turned out to be. ‘It’s only fair’, he had
instructed the others, realizing of course, that if
everything Homer had told them that night was true and
accurate, there would be plenty for everyone, and then
some. But first they had to find it, which even the Old
Hammer knew wouldn’t be easy. Without the old man and
his map, it would be virtually impossible. And so they
all agreed on the carpenter’s terms, including Red-Beard
who, mostly through his former rank, was used to
commanding a higher commission than most. But, as
previously hinted upon, it was not so much the gold he
was interested in, but immortality.
Richard
Dilworth was the last to sign the contract which, by the
way, was written up by Mister Charles Smiley himself
who, chiefly because of his knowledge in both the
reading and writing of legal documents, was unanimously
chosen for that very specific task. He also threw in a
few of his famous profanities just to make it authentic.
It was also Smiley who’d suggested that Dick be
included, as he was getting on in years, and would need
some assistance in performing the many surveying
operations necessary to make the claim legal, if and
when they ever found it. Rusty Horn was against it from
the start, stating in his own professional manner that
“Mining’s for miners, not minors!” and no place for
inexperienced hands and meandering minds. The large
Negro agreed, having worked, and once almost perished,
in the sulfur mines of the South Florida. The Indian,
Boy, didn’t quite see it that way, however, and though
the experience would do Dilworth justice by introducing
him to people and places he should learn about sooner
rather than later, such as working alongside murderers,
thieves, and other assorted reprobates, and, more
importantly, how survive among them, just as he himself
had to.
Charles Smiley
also liked having ‘Little’ Dick around – ‘Just to make
me laugh!” as he told anyone and everyone who might’ve
had objections at the time. And for that, if nothing
else, he would get an equal share of the gold, he
further insisted.
There was one
other share Homer was taking into account, the one
previously mentioned, which the others were still
unaware of. The old man had made up his mind about the
Harlie long before he’d accepted the terms of the
contract and/or the services of Mister Horace Rusty Horn
and his four horsemen. He still wasn’t sure how they
would react when they eventually found out, which, of
course, was inevitable; but that didn’t matter, his mind
was already made up. It was settled. The arrangements
were made, and it was too late to change anything.
Harley would be the first stop on the long awaited
expedition, or there would be no expedition. That much
he was certain of; and, as far as Homer Skinner was
concerned there was still one more body missing from the
party that day, and that was the Harlie himself, Elmo
Cotton – the ‘Lucky Number’.
Still waiting
outside for the old man to arrive, and weary from their
late night activities, expectations rose among the four
horsemen like the new morning sun. Of these horsemen,
Alvin Webb, the aforementioned horse-thief from Eulogy
Gulch, deserved a word or two more at this point. He’d
served as a private in the army, along with Rusty Horn
whom he still addressed by his former rank of ‘Colonel’,
even though it was no longer protocol to do so. A
bachelor by choice, as most thieves are, and one given
to drink and womanizing, Webb’s life could accurately be
described as a series of disappointments that could all
be traced back to his lack of discipline as a youth, not
to mention a number of metal deficiencies that may’ve
accelerated the process from earlier on. Drinking at
least a quart of moonshine a day for the past
twenty-five years not only exacerbated his problems but
also contributed to his lethargic disposition and
general ill health. Ironically, he’d always claimed that
it was a woman who first drove him to drink, ‘and
something…’ he would sometimes add in the way drunks
often do whenever they feel the need to blame someone,
or something, else for their own misfortunes, ‘I never
even got to thank her for.’
And then there
was Hector O’Brien, known simply and affectionately as
the ‘Old Hammer’ by those close, and maybe not so close,
to him. His brother, Jack O’Brien, a gifted musician
who’d died earlier on in the war was, along with Homer
Skinner, part of the original search party that rode off
with Homer Skinner nearly forty years ago in search of
Cornelius G. Wainwright III and his gold.
Hector was a
carpenter by trade, and a darn good one. He was handy
with tools, especially the heavy long-handled hammer
that hung ceremoniously between his legs like a
gladiator’s sword, a phallic symbol of his resourceful
Roman strength, and forever at his side. It was said
that Hector could fix just about anything. ‘Exceptin’
maybe a broken heart…’ the Old Hammer was known to have
once uttered in a rare melancholy mood. Perhaps he was
thinking of his own damaged organ; although, as any
physician knows: a wise doctor never has himself as a
patient. There are some things that only time can mend,
if they can be mended at all. And even then, ‘the fix is
only temporary’, the Hammer was quick to point out: ‘a
patch, perhaps, and doomed to fail, as all patches do,
eventually, in this poor and patched world of ours.’
Just as the
name suggested, Hector O’Brien was of Irish and Spanish
ancestry, and of fine Caucasian stock. They were called
the ‘Black Irish’, that special blend of Latin and
Gaelic blood, descendants, perhaps, of those brave
mariners that settled on Erin’s Isle soon after the
humiliating defeat they, along with their invincible
Armada, suffered at the hands of Lord Nelson and the
British Navy. Such fine linage was evinced not only by
their brown eyes and jet black hair, as opposed to the
blue and blonde aspects of the indigenous Celtic Druids
who’d meet them on the icy beaches as they crawled from
their ships wrecked Galleons, but also by their
temperament which, if you are familiar with those two
proud and noble cultures, ranged from one end of the
spectrum to the other, and could be quite unpredictable,
and explosive, at times.
Hector liked to
read and write. He once studied History and Philosophy,
as well as great Literature, and had a special fondness
for Dante and his Divine Comedy. He was considered by
many to be fair-minded and cautiously gregarious in all
things personal and professional. He was also known not
only for his practical knowledge of things in general,
including the arts and sciences of the times, but for
his eloquent command of the English language. He was
actually well-versed in Latin and Greek, and Gaelic as
well, the native tongue was of his own flaxen haired
mother who’d taught him the different dialects at an
early age; ones he’d not only committed to memory but
practiced as well over his many long and loquacious
years. He was sometimes described as a ‘man of measure’
or ‘a man’s man’ who had retained not only his mental
facilities over the years but his physical ones as well.
He worked in both wood and stone, and was a Master Mason
of the third Order by the time he was forty. Hector
O’Brien was, indeed, a man to be reckoned with. Perhaps
that’s why they called him the ‘Hammer’.
Above all,
Hector was a shrewd and independent thinker who
preferred older men and younger women, the latter of
which he had married five years earlier, and had
fathered two children with, both boys. He’d always been
a handsome man and, nearing his seventy-second birthday
could proudly boast: ‘There’s still a little hum left in
this ol’ hammer!’ Indeed and in fact, Mister Hector
O’Brien swung a very big hammer; and no one knew that
better than his affectionate young wife, Sophia, who had
felt the full force of that instrument in the venerable
hands of the old Celtic conquistador. Hector was also a
man of keen and reliable instincts, good intuition, one
whom the miners and masons respected for his
encyclopedic knowledge of timber and stone. He was a
good man to have around, when one was needed. That why
they called him the ‘Old Hammer’.
As for the two
men keeping company in the wagon that day, the red and
the black, enough has been said of them for the time
being. In many ways, their lives remained a mystery to
all the others, as do the lives of so many other
outcasts society labels undesirable.
Last and least
of all, there was Richard ‘Little Dick’ Dilworth, the
romantic youth from Creekwood Green who’d been looking
for his fortune, and maybe even a bride, at the time of
his hiring. A compulsive daydreamer and natural nuisance
by nature, ‘Little Dick’ (a name he did not choose for
himself by the way) was probably not exactly what
Red-Beard was looking for at the time; but he needed the
work, and Smiley insisted on having him come along
anyway. And with all surveying equipment he’d acquired
over the years, consisting of so many rods, reels,
chains, levels, poles, and other measuring devices and
contrivances used in the scientific field of land
surveying, the surveyor w always glad he did. Besides,
Little Dick was the only one who knew how to make the
old moustache laugh; and that, truth be known, was
Dick’s real talent.
Charles Smiley
didn’t laugh very much (on account of most of the time
he was too busy cursing and swearing) – and even when he
did laugh, or smile, as previously mentioned in the
narrative, it was not easy to tell on account of his
whiskers. Not unlike the misanthropic mountain-man,
Mister Tom Henley, whom w have already touched upon in
detail, Charles Smiley tended to shy away from and steer
clear of society in general, which is probably why he
became a land surveyor in the first place, a profession
that afforded him not only the solitude he craved but a
place where he could curse and swear as much and as
often as he pleased. It is no wonder his wife left him.
Smiley had
little patience for idiots and fools; so naturally, he
wasn’t very fond of Alvin Webb, whom took for both, as
well as a drunkard. Upon scrutiny, he’d since modified
that negative assessment to include the adjective
‘dangerous’, and kept a wary eye on the outlaw every
since. Charles wasn’t too keen on the man they called
‘Red-Beard’ either, who, in his own analytical mind and
professional estimation was not to be trusted. He
questioned the colonel’s credentials more than once, and
wondered out loud how an army officer ever got involved
with the likes of Alvin Webb, whom he’d first introduced
to the others as an ‘engineer’. No offense, Mister Webb,
Smiley opined at the conclusion of their first meeting
in Pete Liddle’s Nickel Pig Saloon involving the
business at hand, ‘But you’re no engineer… You’re just
an idiot.’ To which Alvin merely laughed and walked
away, not knowing how to challenge such an obvious and
irrefutable truth. ‘Why, that sum’bitch couldn’t
‘engineer’ his way out of a paper sack,” Smiley was
overheard saying that same day, ‘...or a bottle, for
that matter.’ In truth, the illiterate outlaw from
Eulogy couldn’t even spell the word ‘engineer’ any more
than he could pronounce it with his many missing teeth.
But it was fun to watch him try anyway. Somehow,
whenever he tried to pronounce it, the word always came
out as “End-in-ear” It made him look ridiculous. It made
everyone else laugh.” Oh well, at least he’s good for
something,” Smiley finally concluded.
And so the
party was now complete, thought Red-Beard. All they
needed now was the old man and the map. There was a
frost in the air made visible by the expelled breath of
man and beast.
Chapter Two
Red-Beard
GOLD DRIVES A MAN TO DREAMS… or so the saying goes. Sometimes
it just drives them crazy. Red-Beard knew this better
than anyone; and had taken all the necessary precautions
to avoid such madness. He also knew he would have to
restrain the others from time to time as a simple matter
of protocol. That was his job. He was the leader. It
came with the uniform, the same one he had worn since
the end of the war.
It was an odd
mixture of blue and gray, which perhaps should have
disqualified it from being called a uniform at all. The
fabric was old and battle-scarred, not unlike the wearer
of the ambiguous colors. It was a man-made contrivance,
painstakingly spliced together by Red-Beard himself
shortly after Lee surrendered his sword at Appomattox.
It was a contradiction in colors that spoke volumes; not
only about the man, but his past allegiances as well,
which were dubious at best.
The bottom, or
trouser, half of Red-Beard’s uniform, from the waist
down at least, was dyed in solid Union blue, with a
single broad yellow stripe traversing each leg straight
down to the cuff. Above the equatorial waistline, he was
equally adorned with traditional Confederate gray,
woven, perhaps, from same cotton picked by slaves in
Alabama and stitched together so finely that the seams
were all but invisible to the naked eye.
Separating the
two competing colors, as cleanly and clearly as any
Mason-Dixon line, was a plain black belt with a silver
buckle that not only provided the proper delineation,
but did an excellent job at holding up the colonel’s
trousers, along with his pride; it also provided him a
proper place on which to hang the two remaining symbols
of his authority: his famous revolver and the officer’s
sword that was standard issue for the time. It was also
way a good way keeping the two opposing forces in check,
since borders are often a major source of conflict in
any dispute, minor or major. A temporary truce, one
might easily imagine, and a line not to be beached under
any circumstances; unless, of course, it’s absolutely
indispensable to do so, such as in times of war, in
which case it could happen at the mere sound of a bugle
or the first crack of gunfire.
Gazing at the
battle-scarred garments it would be difficult to tell
which side had actually won the battle, or the war for
that matter, and which flag the colonel still saluted,
if not both. The colors were tainted, stained and faded
in many places, like two bullet-riddled banners flying
over desolation and dead bodies. The uniforms, like the
flags and people they represented, refused to surrender,
despite treaty and armistices, and would not be taken
down so quickly, or easily. Splicing them back together
would be a monumental task, and one that would take a
great man to accomplish. But by then, most of the great
men were dead, including the Great Emancipator himself
who’d died not on a battlefield like so many of the
brave generals he commanded, but in a theatre, and at
the hands of a lunatic. Indeed, sowing the colors back
together again would actually prove to be more difficult
than anyone imagined, far more difficult than it was in
tearing them apart; and perhaps it would only weaken the
fabric from which they were both famously made. It might
even destroy them, just as it would destroy Red-Beard.
Red-Beard was
an intelligent man, as officers usually are, educated
perhaps in one of the many Northern Universities that
drew their scholars and future heroes from the Southern
Aristocracy. Or maybe he was appointed to one of the
military academies as a political favor, nepotism
dictating such favors now as then, where perhaps
Generals Lee and Grant once sat together, not in mortal
combat but at opposite ends of a chessboard, planning
and strategizing, even as mere cadets, exactly how they
would one day annihilate one another on the real
battlefield, or die in the process. Whether or not Rusty
Horn had ever graced the presence of either of these two
future Titans, he would never say; although he once
hinted that Lee was the better chess player, and that
Grant drank too much, something we all might have
guessed anyway.
Upon retiring
from the army, Red-Beard drifted for a while, carrying
on his own mercenary agenda and talking treason to
anyone willing to listen, which was by no means was
limited to his fellow countrymen. Along with his
uniform, he also retained, as previously hinted upon,
his weapons of choice: several well-maintained and
fairly modern firearms, along with his favorite sword
that presently hung from his broad black belt like the
sharply polished blade of that Turkish sultan, King
Suleiman. He was a man who knew war and saw death, and
was once wounded on the battlefield where he’d almost
perished, but was miraculously resurrected, or so it
seemed, not by the grace of God or any other
supernatural power that might have a stake in such
matters, but by the hands of some mysterious and perhaps
deranged doctor, a surgeon in fact, who’d somehow manage
to pull the half-dead colonel from the indiscriminating
jaws of death (a death which might otherwise have
immortalized Colonel Horn as a national hero, just as it
would Benedict Arnold had he been brought down in
similar fashion at the battle of Saratoga) and back into
a war he knew he couldn’t win. Whether the physician
acted out of loyalty, his hypocrite oath, or mere
kindness, no one knows for sure; perhaps all three. But
little did he know, or maybe he did, the outcome of his
actions that day would, like some modern American
Frankenstein, come back to haunt him.
Everything else
about Red-Beard seemed to be a mystery, an enigma,
including the old the blue and gray uniform that has
shrouded his body since the end of the war. The uniform,
like the man who wore it, was a contradiction in and of
itself. For some, like Red-Beard, the war never ended,
only the battle. Unlike his contemporaries, who had long
since retired their services along with their stripes
and medals, Colonel Horn clung to his uniform like a
Muslim to his prayer mat, as if his life, in both
worlds, depended on it. It was suggested by one old
general that he was only at war with himself, and still
is for that matter. Perhaps he was right, as most old
generals are in the hindsight of their war weary lives.
It was a struggle Rusty would take to the grave and,
perhaps, beyond. He had no other home.
Red-Beard
currently hung his battle-worn hat in a place called
Eulogy, a small outpost in the desert occupied by
criminals, outcasts, and other societal misfits, like
Alvin Webb, generously supplied by the War. The infamous
little town of outlaws earned its morbid name and evil
reputation probably on account of its proximity to an
old Catholic Church, Saint Sebastian’s, a mission that
once blossomed in the sands before the war like a cactus
flower in the desert, but was since converted into a
gambling brothel and saloon hall by those interested in
a more earthly Paradise.
It was rumored,
and with more than one eye-witness to substantiate the
horrible claim, that Red-Beard once killed a parish
priest there, in cold blood, who’d been celebrating Holy
Mass when the tragic incident took place, which only
added to the town’s infamy. It was said, whether true or
not, that a certain Red-Bearded colonel shot the
celibate in the back as he turned his venerable back on
his congregation to lift up the heavenly host to a life
size crucifix suspended high above the altar. ‘Behold!
the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world…’
Bang! A shot rang out. The priest fell. And the round
white wafer rolled across the floor until it came to
rest not far from the boot of the bearded gunman.
Rushing past the pews to exit his escape through the
vestibule, Colonel Horace ‘Rusty’ Horn trampled
underfoot the trans-substantiated substance of God and
was seen no more.
Not since the
fall of Constantinople to the Ottoman Turks, when the
iconic cross at St. Sophia’s Cathedral was
sacrilegiously torn down and replaced with the crescent
of Islam under that same noble and venerable dome, has
any Christian Institution been more and thoroughly
desecrated. Whatever had transpired between the two
professional men to trigger such a holocaust would never
be known, although it was often suggested that a woman
might have been involved, despite the pastor’s
unblemished reputation and solemn vow of Chastity.
There was also
speculation that the Holy Padre had somehow stumbled
upon, whether by accident or fate, some prosecuting
information that might’ve shed light on Red-Beard’s true
identity, whatever that might be, which if true could’ve
led to a court-martial. But nothing was ever proven and
no official charges were filed. It was just another
casualty, one of those things that happened during the
war.
Furthermore, it
was reported by a highly reputable and reliable source
that that Red-Beard had served, and subsequently fought,
on both sides of the grand battle during that heroic
struggle, just as his uniform would suggest, perhaps as
a double agent, or a spy. No one knew for sure. Mister
Horn spoke little of his past lives, military or
otherwise, and would only comment on the subject
whenever he became melancholy, which didn’t happen very
often, and then only in metaphors and other ambiguities
understood by those of his kind.
Colonel Rusty
Horn was a quiet man by nature and could be aloof at
times, a quality not wasted on great men and competent
leaders. He was said to have no vices of serious
consequence. His only peculiarity (other than his
attire, it seems) would to be one of ambiguity; a single
genetically induced flaw, inscrutably evidenced by a
duel personality forever at odds with itself. It may’ve
been described more scientifically as a certain kind of
schizophrenia, a dichotomy of will, or being, which most
folks found confusing, confounding, often offensive, and
sometimes even amusing, as if there were at any given
moment in time two separate beings occupying the same
corporeal host.
What was even
more disquieting was the fact that this condition could
and would manifest itself in a most awkward fashion and
on such auspicious occasions when, as it was once
reported, the two had actually be overheard conversing
with one another like two old soldiers debating the
outcome of the war while sipping mint juleps with the
governor. Lucky for the colonel, however, the governor
had a sense of humor about these things, but has since
given up mint juleps.
It was a
phenomenon better left for psychologists to explain, if
that were at all possible, and best left alone. The blue
and gray uniform only added to the ambiguity, the doubt,
and the danger of Colonel Rusty ‘Red-Beard’ Horn.
For the most
part, it was Red-Beard, being the dominant of the two
agents and thus commanding the higher authority, who
governed the mental facilities of both patients. But on
occasion, Rusty Horn would emerge as the principal,
subduing, in his own mitigating and magnanimous manner,
the brute that dwelled within. It may well be described
as a conflict of personalities, a mental deficiency of
some sorts; or, as some have suggested, simply the work
of the devil. But there is nothing simple about a
sickness of the brain, the intricacies of which would
fill a thousand medical journals; and still, there would
be no cure. Maladies such as the Colonel’s were never
cured; they were simply endured, usually until the very
end, which, in fact, was perhaps the only real
cure after all.
It is said that
a compassionate young Catholic priest once attempted to
separate the two diametrically opposes forces with an
exorcism (a practice not uncommon at the time to that
particular denomination, preformed only by those trained
in such spiritual remedies and only in the most extreme
cases) concentrating all of his most potent and
supernatural powers, of course, on the evil twin. It
didn’t work. The priest was said to have gone insane in
the process and eventually committed suicide, the means
of which was said to be too gruesome to describe even in
the most delicate detail. Although Rusty Horn appeared
somewhat remorseful over the outcome of the event,
Red-Beard only laughed when he heard what’d happened to
the exorcist.
After that, the
two became inextricably linked, physically as well as
mentally and, just as in the case of the governor, could
occasionally be heard arguing with one another over
matters of great and small consequence. Naturally,
Red-Beard usually came out ahead in such bizarre
exchanges, becoming stronger and more confident with
each and every victory; but it always left him more
aloof and detached than before, in a strange and almost
melancholy way, as it sometimes happens with tyrants and
conquerors.
Was it a
malignancy of the brain that had caused such inscrutable
and incorrigible symptoms? A disease – perhaps? A virus?
Whatever it was, it was not to be found in any medical
journal. It was not yet diagnosed and, therefore, could
not be cured. Perhaps a cancer was to blame – a tumor!
Cutting it out, however, could prove fatal, as fatal as
cutting off the head or, in this particular and peculiar
case, the beard, of the patient; and that, at least
while Red-Beard lived and breathed, would never happen.
It would be tantamount to surgically removing, say, the
antennae from ant, the claw from a lobster, the fins
from a fish, or, perhaps, if one were to ever to get so
close without being barbequed alive, the proud tail of
Lucifer himself, without which the king of Hell would
surely perish in disgrace. Remove the beard from
Red-Beard and you remove that which defines it, gives it
purpose, meaning, and life. It was simply impossible.
It was often
insinuated that the beard itself might be at the root of
Red-Beard’s psychological dilemma. And why not? It’s as
good a theory as any. Hadn’t the colonel himself
claimed, not only in jest and despite his secretive
nature that he was, in fact, born with a full face of
soft orange fuzz, the curly down of which his mother
would lovingly comb each and every night just before she
put the babe to bed. By the age of twelve, the pubescent
peach fuzz had turned to fine red strands of many manly
whiskers, bleached by the sun, thrown to the wind and
fertilized in the testosterone of youth. And he refused
to cut them off ever since. He never shaved, even under
penalty court martial shortly after he’d enlisted in the
Army. He wore his whiskers proudly, defiantly, like the
old Orthodox Jew in the company of clean-shaven Romans,
planting his bearded flag on the crumbling stones of the
Temple Mount.
In time, the
rusty strands had turned to wiry red threads of steel.
And so they remained ever since, growing perhaps lighter
and more sparsely over the years, twisting and turning,
and bleeding into one another like the tormented soul of
the man they masked. If nothing else the beard was
unique, and beautiful in its own masculinity, ascribing
to Rusty Horn a certain character that men respect and
women come to admire. The beard was as distinctive as
the man who wore it, whether it happened to be was
Colonel Rusty Horn or Red-Beard himself. It was the one
thing, perhaps the only thing, they both had in common;
and they wore it with equal distinction. It could be
said in all candor that it was not necessarily the man
who worn the beard man. Quite the contrary! It was the
beard that worn the man.
There was an
army private who had once provided a fantastic
explanation of what may’ve actually happened to Rusty
‘Horn during that time. He’d suggested, with not a
little incredulity, that the red bearded colonel had
been wounded and left for dead on the battlefield after
a long and heroic fight. It was during the Great War
when Rusty was still a relatively young man, for an
officer at any rate, and surround by the enemy. Rather
than be taken prisoner, a humiliation worse than death
in some armies, he attempted suicide with his own sword.
But Red-Beard would not die. It was not for lack of
trying or possessing that inner strength and
determination required for the drastic deed, that he
failed; but for some other reason that could not be so
easily explained. The blade simply broke on impact. It
never even breached the skin. But his wounds were fatal,
or so thought his adversaries; and he was left to die.
He was later found on the battlefield, more dead than
alive, as the private went on to explain, but
salvageable. And it was there, in the afterbirth of
Hell, where Rusty Horn was spliced back together again.
Not by any army surgeon, as the story goes, but rather
by an ingenious ship’s surgeon who’d been commissioned
as an army field doctor at the time for lack of that
much-needed medical profession, regardless of branch or
professional qualification. The operation was a success.
Or was it? The jury was still out on that crucial point.
Can God’s handiwork, however much we criticize it, ever
be compromised? Can His own creation be improved upon,
or altered in any way, to suit the needs or purposes of
any mere mortal? And to what end? Was it even possible?
The surgeon
thought so; and, apparently, so did Red-Beard who was
not only ecstatically pleased with the outcome of the
bold experiment but eternally grateful to his physician
who, as the private later suggested, was rewarded
handsomely for his altruistic efforts. But not for
Humanities’ sake had the surgeon acted. No. He had other
reasons, chief among them that of resurrecting the
lifeless red corpse, a thing so near and dear to his own
imperfect heart and diabolical brain, which was, of
course, the ephemeral condition of the human anatomy in
general in all its debilitating deficiencies. In his own
blasphemous words: ‘God’s fault… Not mine!’ he
pronounced while convalescing his post-op patient back
to health after the battle. ‘Poor design to begin with…
A mistake! It happens sometimes. But why? And what good
is a body if it only last a lifetime? See! It breaks. It
bleeds. It leaks. It cries. It cracks! And then, God
damn it! It dies,” lamented the proud physician. “We can
do better than that. Surely, man was made to outlive the
usefulness of his God. Isn’t that what any good parent
would want? And if God himself can make such a fatal
error in judgment, what then can we, in our own finite
minds, make of Him? Destined from the start, we are
doomed by our own Humanity; murdered in the womb, man;
before the champion sperm penetrates the fated egg. We
are born to die…’ the murmured wild-eyed mortal,
‘unless…’
What had
emerged from the surgeon’s makeshift field hospital that
fateful day was a new man, a new Rusty Horn, more
machine than man by then, devoid of any human
qualifications and better off for it, as far as
Red-Beard was concerned. He then pronounced the
operation a success, if not a downright miracle, and
quickly went off to exhibit his new anatomy.
Not
surprisingly, it was there and then his own troops first
began referring to him as ‘Red-Beard’, chiefly on
account of his beard having grown so thick and red
during his brief convalescence, it would be insulting to
do otherwise. The colonel would have it no other way.
Subsequent to that, not a single drop of humanity
coursed his Antarctic arteries, only oil. Blood would
naturally freeze in those icy veins; the corpuscles
would simply not survive. A new heart was in order as
well, mechanical of course, and unbreakable.
It was a
pragmatic solution to an age-old problem that has
plagued mankind ever since the first beat of the
pulmonary organ, and the surgeon’s crowning achievement.
It was also quite ingenious. The old heart was simply
replaced with a new iron pump that would, barring any
unforeseen circumstances, beat forever. It was
considered far more durable, and thus a more practical
device in that regard. And it was guaranteed not to
break.
A transfusion
was in order, oil in lieu of blood, naturally, to
lubricate the internal mechanisms and grease the gears
within the new iron man. Like a corpse lying stiffly on
the coroner’s table, the patient was drained to the
marrow of the precious life-giving substance and filled
to the measure with the finest petroleum money and
military could provide. His lungs became as two
expandable billows, stoking the fiery red furnace from
within while supplying the oxygen needed to fuel the
flames.
In the end,
Rusty Horn had been transformed into living dynamo, half
man and half machine, nothing less, and nothing more.
But that was exactly what Red-Beard wanted and, for the
present time at least, that was enough. All he lacked
now was the immortality to go along with his newly
improved body. That’s why he was there that day. That’s
why he came. Like some modern day Gilgamesh slouching
through Eden for the fabled Tree of Life a thousand
years before Eve was tempted under similar circumstance
by that old familiar serpent in the arbors of Paradise,
so too was Red-Beard fated to follow in Adam’s fatal
footsteps. Would he find what he was looking for, as the
famed Mesopotamian was said to have found in the Persian
valley of the four rivers? Or, would he lose it all in
the process, like the old matriarch of the Bible who,
with a single bite of the forbidden fruit, cursed the
entire human race. Eternity, like freedom, I suppose,
comes with a price. It was a price, that for over two
thousand years, nobody could afford. It was Immortal.
And it could only be paid in blood. But that’s just what
Red-Beard was hoping to find in the mountain,
Immortality, among other things. And he was willing to
pay the price. The only problem was: he never had it to
begin with.
Some weeks
later, it was suggested that the ship’s surgeon had
taken the liberty of providing the injured officer with
an extra brain he’d confiscated from a Union General
that was also left for dead on the same battlefield. His
reason for doing so, according to a private whom was
said to have witnessed the extraordinary
transplantation, was obvious. ‘Well, you know,’ stated
the madman, his meddling hands still covered with blood
and brain matter, ‘two heads are always better than
one!’ It made sense, and was perfect match.
And it worked,
too! Well, at least as far as doctor and patient were
concerned. It would also explain Red-Beard’s disturbing
psychological profile, which proceeded him ever since.
But perfection doesn’t come cheap, and it comes at a
price, if it comes at all; and it sometimes commands
very high premium. But in the case of Colonel Rusty
‘Red-Beard’ Horn, and in his own recalcitrant opinion,
it was all worth it. The expense came in the form of his
current biomechanical condition; a melding, or splicing,
if you will, of man and machine with all the
phantasmagorical possibilities that go along with such a
hybrid. It would prove to be a never-ending struggle,
however; a dichotomy of the being; one consisting of
flesh, blood and bone, the other made of steel, hardened
perhaps, in the heart of hell, and forever in conflict
with one another. And just like Mary Shelley’s monster,
whose Frankenstein fantasy would come to life one day
under the diabolical hands of a madman, so too would
Red-Beard be resurrected in an eerily similar fashion.
The only difference being the electricity needed to
revive the monster and, of course, Red-Beard’s
indomitable iron will which was schizophrenically at
odds with humanity in general, and that of Horace
‘Rusty’ Horn and whatever values and virtue that might
have survived the vital operation. It was a symbiotic
relationship, accompanied by a deep dark void, a vacuum,
a soulless container, and an emptiness of character that
would be with them both for the rest of their
co-existing lives, or until one the other prevailed. It
was a deleterious condition that could be fatal, and
would only worsen with time, exacerbated, perhaps, by
Red-Beard’s unquenchable and never-ending quest for
immortality. Money would not mend it. Love could not
penetrate it. Sympathy would merely aggravate it. It was
incorrigible. And it was not about gold, either. It was
something else, something dark and mysterious, something
old, and, perhaps, something beyond human comprehension.
It was an eternal conflict shared two opposing forces; a
battle of the wills, a struggle that would only be won
when one of the two combatants died. It was a war of the
wills, a struggle that began before the world came into
existence, a duel to the death. With death came
salvation; with salvation, vindication; with
vindication, victory; and with victory came immortality.
And that’s all Red-Beard ever wanted.
Along with all
of the colonel’s anatomical improvements, the ambitious
physician had also instilled in his red-bearded
experiment, for whatever diabolical reason we may never
know, the precarious notion of this aforementioned
immortality. It was a seed he’d planted deep within the
brain of the two-headed monster he’d so carefully,
lovingly, and so recklessly created. And there the seed
germinated, first into desire, then into ambition, and
then finally into full-blown obsession where it flowered
in all its ambiguities.
It was the type
of obsession that was never clearly defined and,
therefore, could not be satisfied. It was not
necessarily a desire for material wealth and all the
power it provides (although Red-Beard always knew deep
down that he would eventually have them as well) but a
quest for that which had eluded mankind since Adam was
rightfully, and rather rudely, kicked out of the portal
of Paradise. It was that power, that lost and fading
glory, stripped for all eternity, that Adam, and now
Red-Beard, so cravingly desired. Simply and sadly
stated, it was merely the vainglorious and contemptuous
attempt to regain that which was either lost or denied
so many eons ago, and to accomplish that by any means
necessary or available. It was a human desire with
monstrous consequences, and one which eventually invaded
every artificial fiber of Red-Beard’s being, every
man-made cell, until man and monster became one. It was
a cancer of the soul that was only further aggregated by
a story, not unlike the epic adventures of Ponce Deleon
trekking through the swamps of old Florida in search of
the well-documented fountain of youth, or the quest for
the Holy Grail. It was a tale the colonel had once
heard, about a mysterious black stone that, once pierced
by the human eye, would bring ever-lasting life to
whoever so possessed it.
It was called a
‘Motherstone’, a name given to it by an old prospector
who seemed to know a great deal about it, and who’d been
searching for it for quite some time now. The
prospector’s name was Tom Henley, whom we already know
something about. He’d learned about the stone from this
same wayward sailor who had confided in him many of its
deep dark secrets between sips of homemade mountain wine
and starry-eyed meditation inside a cave in the side of
a mountain that Tom called home. ‘It came down from the
deep, dark Heavens,’ the sailor enunciated in a
transcendental state of self-induced hypnosis. ‘Across
sea and sky…’ But that’s all he would say about it,
revealing, it would seem, a certain ambivalence, or
ignorance, on a subject that was otherwise so dear to
his heart. And shrouded in such ambiguities, the
Motherstone remained lost forever, mired in myths and
mysteries of the past. But there was someone else
present that night in Tom Henley’s self-described
‘home-in-a-hill’. It was Red-Beard himself who, upon
learning the whereabouts of his faithful physician, had
followed him that day into the mountains, hoping to find
out more about the his immortal prospects. He sat down
and listened.
Before the
night ended, however, the starry-eyed surgeon claimed to
have seen it himself, in a previous life. It was on an
Island, and archipelago, he informed his hillbilly host
and Red-Bearded patient, south and east, somewhere in
the Southern hemisphere. Istari-Toa was the name of the
mysterious island, better known to the sons of sailors
who frequented that vicinity as ‘The Land of the
Bleeding Rock. ‘That’s where it came from!’ he insisted.
“I saw it with my own eyes.”
Somehow or
other this inscrutable gem eventually found its way back
to the Continent, according to the ship’s surgeon, and
there it remained, hidden ever since, like a black pearl
in an dark oyster, the exact location of its whereabouts
hitherto unknown. It was said to possess the knowledge
of the deities that had supposedly created it, along
with all the unearthly and supernatural power they
brought along with them. In support of this fantastic
claim, and to serve as further proof of this
extraordinary power, it may be noted for the record that
the medical skills of this one particular ship’s
surgeon, a drunkard by nature and known among his
contemporaries as ‘the butcher’ for indeed he lacked the
requisite skills so crucial in such invasive operations,
had indeed proved to be far above and beyond his natural
capabilities, as evidenced by what happened on the
battlefield shortly after he had come in contact with
it. Was the Motherstone itself the source of his newly
acquired skills? It would seem so. But to what evil end?
And for what unholy purpose? The answers may never be
known, despite Mister Henley’s lifetime ambition to not
only find the elusive stone but to unlock its secret
power; a power, he was keen to observe, over life and
death itself, and the key to immortality.
But isn’t
death, in and of itself, exactly what some consider
immortality to be anyway? A gateway? A door, perhaps?
But to where? The Bible gives us only hints and
metaphors, as do the other religions of the world that
not only predate the Scriptures themselves but, as some
have suggested, became the source, if not the
inspiration, of the Holy text. Perhaps, we will never
know, and Salvation, along with all its eternal
implications, may just have to wait. Death may be the
only solution. Never-the-less, we are admonished: ‘the
Kingdom of God is at hand’. Be prepared! Like passing
through some fiery sieve, death itself refines us,
prepares us by breaking us down to our bare and basic
elements before… And what if, after such a proper and
necessary purging, nothing is left? Can we be purified,
in that sense, right out of existence? Or is there a
place called Purgatory? as some Catholics suggests,
where we can prepare for eternity a little more
comfortably, patiently, and at least without the eternal
flames of Perdition crackling at our heals, reminding us
of our final doom and destination. Does death deliver,
or does it merely transform? There’s only one way to
find out, I suppose; but it’s not to be found on this
side of the glory.
But the
Motherstone would challenge all that, or so Red-Beard
was led to believe. And the tale he’d been told provided
him with all the evidence he needed to prove a theory,
if only to himself, that such a miraculous thing
actually existed, and that immortality was now well
within his greedy grasp.
‘It’s a black
stone I tell you,’ the old soldier whispered as the last
jug of wine fell from his faltering hand. ‘A sailor
showed it to me, some years ago. He was a black man, a
Negro, by no small coincidence, and a genuine son of
darkness. Aye! Said it was a gift, from the queen, no
less. And I never doubted it. Not for a moment! It was
alive, I say. Alive! But don’t ask me how. Saw it with
my own eyes. It showed me...” At that point, the surgeon
balked. “Find it,” he finally stated in a strange, far
away, voice mixed with pathos and delirium, “… and
eternity is yours.’
It was those
words, along with his new physiological form, that
stirred Red-Beard’s own black heart, springing him back
to life and putting the iron wheel in perpetual motion.
He was never the same since. And it was all because of a
simple black stone, a rock, which would quickly become
the sole object of his manifest desire, leaving all
other natural longings in its inscrutable black wake.
Red-Beard became obsessed with it. He had to have it. It
was the key to his immortality, and all that was missing
from his automated anatomy. It was power, the source of
immortality, the very motor of the machine, what had
eluded mankind ever since he was first able to even
imagine it. It was the Motherstone. And he really didn’t
know what it was until someone else had told him. His
name was Tom Henley. And he didn’t know where to find
it, either; until one night at the Nickel Pig Saloon
when it was first brought to his attention. And since
then, it was all that Red-Beard thought of. It was all
he cared about. It consumed him.
Shortly after
the fated meeting, however, the doctor himself had died.
Some say that he went completely insane, and was last
seen headed towards the Silver Mountains, north of old
Port Fierce, in the direction of Henley’s Hill. Others
say he was murdered at the hands of an angry and
ungrateful colonel who wanted more than the good doctor
could, or would, provide him; something that could not
be repaired so easily: his soul, perhaps. Of course,
neither story could ever be proven; not even by
Red-Beard himself who was at the very heart of it. And
he alone would know.
* * *
TOM HENLEY was what you might call an ‘educated hillbilly’,
a man of letters as they say, but a mountain-man
never-the-less. Some called him a crazy, a little
‘teched in the head’; and they may’ve been right about
that, but in their own simple and ignorant ways. Tom had
been to college, and was actually a professor at one
time. He studied philosophy and law, and had collected
books on a wide variety of other erudite subjects as
well, including geology, physics, theology, and
astronomy. He’d had even written a few volumes himself
on the heady subjects, along with some prose and poetry,
which he shared with fellow academics and scholars that
would visit him from time to time in his Home-in-a-Hill.
They never stayed very long; and they were usually gone
by sundown, or whenever they had their fill of mountain
wine, tobacco… and Plato.
Mister Henley
held other prestigious titles as well, many of which
Red-Beard couldn’t even begin to pronounce, including a
Doctorate in Medicine, which was perhaps his highest
achievement and the one he was most proud of. His books
were piled so high in his mountain library, it was a
wonder he had time to read them all. But he did, which
naturally had caused him to become near-sighted at an
early age. It was an optical deficiency he corrected
himself by manufacturing his own eyeglasses out of a
discarded mason jar and some baling wire he’d found near
on old campsite one day. He also made his own clothing,
mostly from bear hide and goatskin, which he wore quite
comfortably.
Tom possessed
other talents as well, and was considered an authority
on gold mining and other aspects of geological
excavation. He had even invented and patented his own
sluicing machine that made panning for the precious
elements in the river obsolete. When the rivers ran dry,
which would happen from time to time, he naturally
turned to the mountains where ‘hard mining’ for gold
became his new passion. It was there, not far from Mount
Wainwright, that he claimed to have stumbled upon a
great secret, which he was only recently willing to
share with a few other men. And it had nothing to do
with gold.
Exactly why the
he was willing to share this well-guarded secret with
Rusty Horn and Alvin Webb would remain a mystery, for
the time being at least. It was certainly not in Mister
Henley’s prudent character, or interest, to divulge such
important and valuable information. Mountain men were
not that gullible. Indeed, they had a reputation for
being sly as foxes and cunning as snakes if and when
they had to be. Bu they also could be lazy, and dumb as
dishwater if you gave them half a chance, and perhaps
just as dirty.
But Tom wasn’t
your ordinary hillbilly; he certainly wasn’t lazy or
dumb. And he wasn’t about to let Colonel Rusty Horn,
Alvin Webb, Homer Skinner, or anyone else for that
matter, claim what was rightfully his. He was merely
using them, for the time being at least; all of three of
them, and to his own manipulative advantage. It was all
part of the plan; and, so far, the plan was working
perfectly, like a beaver trap that was about to be
sprung. ‘And the beavers won’t even know what hit them’,
he explained to his young son that morning, as the boy
looked up at the bearded genius with the awe and respect
he’d come to expect.
Sure, there
were others who would’ve assisted the near-sighted
mountain-man in the bearskin clothes in his mysterious
quest, and in a much more professional manner. But Tom
refused them all, choosing instead the two men from
Eulogy and the hapless old deputy to do his bidding and
help him find the Motherstone. The gold, he could take
or leave, (he’d already stashed enough of it away in his
‘Home-in-a-Hill’ to buy back Manhattan Island, which he
considered to be worth no more than a trunk full of
trinkets anyway, along with all the surrounding
boroughs) but like all ambitious men, it was never quite
enough. It was a stone he was chiefly interested in, a
plain and simple black stone, which to anyone else who
didn’t know any better would appear as nothing more
than… well, than a plain and simple black stone.
But it was no
ordinary stone. It was a Motherstone, a term Tom himself
coined early on to describe the elusive black object he
so keenly desired. He said it was worth a hundred times
its weight in gold, and then some. Furthermore, as he
would later relate to the two mercenaries in his own
lofty and sometimes unfathomable words, and in the
strictest confidence, of course, it held the secrets to
life and death; and, therefore, immortality. Naturally,
he kept his own esoteric thoughts on the matter to
himself, myopically shrouded as they were in the myth
and mystery they deserved. He had his reasons. And it
seemed he was not alone in his quest.
Red-Beard had
heard rumors of such a thing during the war, a magic
stone; and he’d heard them from a very reliable source –
his own doctor. And if anyone knew anything at all about
life and death, it would be the surgeon who had
miraculously brought him back from the grave. He spoke
of it often, but was never certain of its origins or
where it could be found. Even with a new heart, an iron
lung, and two new brains to match his old one, Red-Beard
was incomplete. Without immortality it was all for
nothing; he would die just like all the rest. And that
just wouldn’t do.
The stone would
change all that, however, if only he could find it.
Exactly what it was and where it might be found,
presently escaped him. It must’ve been stolen, reckoned
the red bearded colonel, desperately; and anything worth
stealing was worth having, even if he had to steal it
again. And the more he thought about it, the more he
wanted the Motherstone all for himself. He would kill
for it if he had to; a notion which, the more he thought
about it, seemed that much more inevitable. In fact, the
more he wanted it, the more Colonel Rusty Horn became
Red-Beard. And that’s when his problems really began.
Henley was the
first to observe the mysterious transformation, or
‘dichotomy of the wills’ as he put it in its proper
psychological terms one fine evening at the Nickel Pig
Saloon when he’d first attempted to probe the disturbed
and complicated mind of Colonel Rusty Horn. He did so
first out of pity, feeling the physician’s sympathetic
desire in him to heal a troubled soul and, perhaps, cure
him of this curious and potentially fatal aliment in the
process. It was the Hippocratic thing to do, of course;
and one he would later come to regret.
But the session
didn’t last long. Sometimes went wrong. It seems that
during the exchange both patient and physician became
equally and violently ill. Apparently, they’d infected
one another with a virus, a mutant strand of some newly
formed disease produced, perhaps, by the introduction of
one another under the rich and ripe conditions that
spawn such contagions. After that, they were mutually
infected, feeding off the same contaminated host, and
inextricably linked for eternity like the opposite ends
of the same magnet, fatally attracted to one anther but
never quite coming together. It was a terminal illness
that would eventually claim both their lives. But for
the time being they lived, and for the same reason. They
lived for the Motherstone.
What the
hillbilly doctor was actually attempting to do at the
time was simply to plant a suggestion into the mind of
his red bearded experiment. He knew Colonel Rusty Horn
to be a talented man with numerous resources, human or
otherwise, and capable of doing what the good doctor, in
his own sound judgment and failing health, was incapable
of. And that was to pluck the stone from its golden
tabernacle, just as the Jacob’s pillar, that famous
Stone of Destiny, was once pilfered from it sacred
surroundings in the Holy City and spirited off the rocky
coast of Whales where it has remained ever since in the
Saxon hands of pagan kings and princes, and claim it for
his own. But it wasn’t quite that simple, and Tom Henley
knew it. There was more to the story than that. The
mountain doctor had told his patient only enough to whet
his appetite; and, in the end, it only made Red-Beard
wanted it that much more.
After hearing
Homer’s fantastic tale on more than one auspicious,
albeit slightly inebriated occasion, both Henley and
Horn came to not only a common understanding but a
mutual and well-reasoned agreement on the whole matter:
They would share the Motherstone, no matter which one
found it first, as if such a gem could be split
in two like some Gordian knot, or the infant brought
before King Solomon with two mothers. And not unlike the
biblical account, with all its pragmatic wisdom, the
stone would eventually go to whoever loved it, or wanted
it, the most. Red-Beard wanted it the most, that much
was clear enough to Tom Henley from the start; but he
would have it never-the-less. It was all part of a plan
he’d been working on for quite some time. You see, Tom
had other ideas, and thought that he might use the
colonel’s misguided and untrustworthy greed to his own
advantage. He was actually hoping that the pathological
wonder would indeed find the stone before he did, the
exact whereabouts of the eternal object still unknown to
either of them at the time, and, for reasons he was not
willing to divulge even to his own son, Zack, surrender
it to its rightful owner, whoever that was. But it was
Homer who held the key, as well as the map; and Tom was
not yet ready to turn that key. He had some other
business to attend to first; and that too, would involve
Red-Beard.
Thomas Henley
lived in the mountains with his pubescent son,
Zachariah; where together they (although it was Tom who
did most of the heavy lifting) mined for silver, gold,
and whatever else they could stubbornly abstract from
the nearly depleted mountain. It was there also, in the
sacred solitude of the mountain, with all its hidden
secrets and deep dark mysteries, where the old mogul
waged his own private and personal war on God and
Humanity, along with anyone else who got in his way. It
was his life-long ambition to mine every inch of the
Silver Mountains before he died. And he didn’t care how
long it took or how he did it. It was more than a
challenge, and more than a job, much more. It was an
obsession, which, when you get right down to it, most
worthwhile jobs are if they are worth anything at all.
But unlike the dead prospectors of old, many whom he’d
known on a personal basis, and the spirits of the night
whose phantom bodies them presently inhabited, it was
not necessarily the gold he was looking for. Like I said
before, he already had a king’s ransom of the lucrative
yellow stuff; and, in a mountain of gold, or so they
say, copper is king.
No, it was
something much older, more precious than any earthly
element, and perhaps just as hard to find. It was
knowledge, in its purest, highest, un-eviscerated, and
most natural state; not the kind found in college text
books, manufactured by professors with too much tenure
and not enough scholarship; mired by superstitions and
prejudices of the past; calligraphically illustrated in
antiquity; tainted by Scripture with good and evil and
hung from a tree for all to see in some paradisiacal
garden that, perhaps, never existed; twisted and tainted
by self-serving historians and other egotistical
theorists; sanctioned by political sycophants, and
packaged for mere mortal consumption by those who might
benefit from such manipulative manuscripts, the volumes
of which could not be contained in all the vaulted
libraries if Alexandria; but rather, in a cave on a
hill, in its most primitive and basic appearance,
encapsulated as it were in the simple and unassuming
form of one solitary object: a stone, a black stone, the
Motherstone, that was said to exist before time and
space began and command the power of life and death,
which, when you get right down to it, is all mortal man
can ask for, and still want more.
Tom knew
something about it already, having heard of such an
object from sons of sailors that frequented Old Port
Fierce from time to time when they weren’t out
circumnavigating the globe in their own quest for
immortality. One in particular was a young black sailor,
a ship’s cook, who went by the unlikely name of Reginald
Cotton. He claimed to have ‘found’ such a stone on the
island of the Two Volcanoes, Istari-Toa, which lies
within in the Parrot Archipelago located somewhere in
the Southern Sea of the Pacific Ocean. Mister Cotton
told the near-sighted mountain-man that he’d brought it
back with him on his last voyage and, for reasons he was
unwilling to disclose at the time, hid it inside a cave,
somewhere in the vicinity of the Silver Mountains, not
far from where the expedition was presently headed. And
that was all he would say about it. Shortly afterwards,
the dark sailor disappeared, and was never seen again in
that part of the contaminated world.
Naturally, it
was something Tom Henley found irresistible, the quest
of knowledge having remained the focal point of all his
earthly ambitions, and one that could be as powerful and
explosive as any device manufactured by the mortal mind
of man, in the proper hands, of course, and at the right
time. He searched for it for it day and night, not
unlike another gold miner he once knew who’d found his
destiny to lie not in the mountain of gold as he’d once
hoped for, but rather in a boiling pot, his shrunken
head dangling at the end of a string and his last
remains scattered on the cold, cavernous floor by the
same party of pagans that had cannibalized the man with
the bottlebrush moustache, but to no avail. He combed
the foothills and hilltops, peeled his eyes, exploring
every cave and abandoned mine he could find along the
rugged way; and still, the stone eluded him.
What he
couldn’t pick and hammer his way through, he blasted;
and the sound of ‘Mad’ Henley’s thunder could be heard
for miles away, as far south as Old Port Fierce, and
beyond. And when he finally came to Cornelius G.
Wainwright III’s own unholy hill, where the fated miner
was last seen driving his feral work force deep
into the legendary volcano, he suddenly stopped and
would go no further. He never said why, although it was
suggested but never quite proven, that it was there, in
the cursed crater itself, that Mister Henley’s young
wife died in a shower of falling rocks and smoking ash
that many maintained was a direct result of Tom’s
impulsive behavior and unexplainable obsession. Some
even called it murder, or worse.
But the battle
raged on. Explosives, including a homemade concoction of
nitro-glycerin and sulfuric acid, among other
ingredients he prudently kept to himself, were Tom
Henley’s weapons of choice. He made it a point to avoid
contact with the outside world as much as possible,
except for when he ran out of blasting powders, nitro,
or any other chemicals he might need to further his
insatiable ambition, including alcohol. As it were, Tom
Henley was known to pull a cork now and then, and no
strange to hard spirits. He especially enjoyed drinking
the wine he produced from the grapes growing in the rich
volcanic soil surrounding his self-described
Home-in-a-Hill. He would drink large quantities of the
sweet mountain elixir while causally puffing away on
thickly rolled cigars he would manufacture from leafy
tobacco plants he cultivated in the same mineral
enriched soils.
Tom was not a
selfish man, and would occasionally share his
intoxicating beverages and aromatic smoke with his
brother ‘mountain-moles’ as he affectionately called
others his professional ilk, until the waking hours of
the morning. They were a hard living but dying breed,
these mountain-men, and sometimes hard to find. At
times, Tom would come down from the mountains out of
sheer boredom and loneliness, in search of the adult
male companionship he craved so much and preferred over
all others, including that of his own wife even when she
was alive. Other times he was forced to come down from
the mountains, especially when he was in much need of
mining materials, especially the explosive kind that
could only be found in the Creekwood Green, a small town
just south of the Great Northern Woods and the closest
he would ever get to civilization. Occasionally, he was
seen up at Pete Liddle’s Nickel Pig Saloon on Lazy Hill
Road.
It was there at
‘The Pig’, as it was traditionally and affectionately
known as in Creekwood Green and parts beyond, where Tom
first meet up with the infamous colonel and Mister Alvin
Webb, ‘the engineer’ which was actually a title Mister
Henley flippantly bestowed upon Red-Beard’s dim-witted
companion, if for no other reason to satisfy his own
eccentric and often dark sense of humor that sometimes
manifested itself in deadly sarcasm that usually left
its victims both dumfounded and speechless. Apparently,
and much to the chagrin and displeasure of those whom
occupied that otherwise industrious and noble
profession, the name stuck and Alvin Webb became,
whether he liked it or not, ‘the engineer’.
It all began in
a place called Eulogy, where and when Alvin was first
introduced by Horace ‘Rusty’ Horn to the mountain-man
named Tom Henley and Mister Homer Skinner. It was a
chance meeting that’d brought them all together that
night, which only goes to show you just how inextricably
linked chance and fate can be at times, and how closely
they work together, and not always for the better.
Tom Henley had
known Homer for quite some time by then, having passed
many a pleasant evening with the venerable old deputy
within the privacy and comfort of his spacious
Home-in-a-Hill. He especially noted how much Homer
enjoyed puffing on his thickly rolled cigars and
drinking his homemade wine, and made sure that he always
sent the deputy away with a handful of his famous
stogies and a jug or two of his equally famous mulberry
wine each and every time he stopped by, which happened
more frequently than Tom himself actually would’ve like
sometimes.
They first
became acquainted at Pete Liddle’s Nickel Pig Saloon.
It was there the two struck up a causal but cautious
conversation that would put the wheels into motion, the
spokes of which would eventually not only include
Colonel Horn and his toothless cohort, Alvin Webb, but
six others as well, including Homer Skinner, the four
horsemen, a big Negro named Sam and the taciturn Indian
who rode in the back of his painted wagon. Fate, as they
say, took over from there and landed them all right in
front of his house that morning, waiting for the sun,
and the old man himself.
Naturally,
Homer was intrigued and fascinated by the crazy old
prospector who’d lived up in the mountain for so many
long and adventurous years. And why shouldn’t he be? Tom
Henley never doubted the old man’s story; in fact, he
supported many of Homer’s dubious facts with evidence of
his own, especially regarding the lost gold mine, which
he himself came close to discovering once or twice while
searching for clues, or so he imparted to the curious
deputy one dark and drunken evening they spent together
in the shadow of the infamous mountains, shortly after
his wife had mysteriously died near the very same place
Cornelius G. Wainwright III was said to have disappeared
and Homer knew so well.
As the whisky
flowed and the smoke rose into the redwood rafters and
long into night, the two men talked. The aging deputy
told the mountain-man, reluctantly at first and only
after so many glasses of Pete’s famous liquor with the
double footprint brand, everything he could remember
about what had happened on top of the mountain that day,
which was more than he’d told most folks over the years.
He spoke of cannibals and caves, bones and stones, a
shrunken head at the end of a string, and an old
handkerchief with the initials ‘C.W.’ sown into the
faded and fated fabric.
He spoke of the
gold as well. Somewhere in the course of the heated
conversation, he mentioned something about a strange and
mysterious stone he’d found not far from the very spot
where poor Cornelius met his doom. It was the first time
he had told anyone about the ‘Black Eye’ he’d found in
the mountain that day (or perhaps, as he himself had
once suggested, it was the eye that’d actually found
him) enshrined, as it were, in its own ‘golden
tabernacle’. And it was at that point that the
glassy-eyed mountain-man became very, very interested.
Tom Henley was
well aware of the infamous Ferals Homer spoke of
in such horrific detail, and what had happened to
Cornelius G. Wainwright III up on the mountain. He had
once found a small tribe of cannibals still living in
the hills and hollows of the Silver Mountains not too
long ago, and not too far from Mount Wainwright itself.
But, of course, he never reported it. Ironically, it was
the mountain-man himself who’d ultimately scared the
savages away at the time and not the other way around,
as some might’ve otherwise expected. And if you ever
chance to clap an eye on a near-sighted hillbilly
dressed in bearskin clothes and a long black beard
stomping through the hills with a stack of dynamite in
one arm, a jug of wine in the other, and smoking a foot
long stogie, you would probably understand why and take
for the hills yourself, if you knew what was good for
you. With his long wild beard and Mason jar eyeglasses,
Tom Henley must’ve appeared to the frightened Ferals
as nothing less than the resurrected ghost of Cornelius
G. Wainwright III himself that had somehow grown a new
head that was even more hideous than the one that hung
from string in a cave forty years ago. Even a cannibal
knows a madman when he sees one, I suppose.
But knowing
that the gold had already been found, although never
brought back from the unholy hill, and judging from
Homer’s detailed description of the ‘Black Eye’ and the
golden tabernacle where it was first found and last
seen, Tom Henley rightly deduced that the Motherstone
might be nearer at hand than he’d previously thought. It
was then when the conspiracy began. And it was there, on
the mountain top, where it would end not too long after
that.
There was still
much the mad mountain-man didn’t know about the
mysterious black stone that, in the enigmatic words of
the ship’s surgeon ‘…fell down from the deep dark
Heavens’, and more to it than he could actually
comprehend at the time. He knew all along that in the
explosive hands of Colonel Rusty Horn, or even worse,
those of his drunken ‘engineer’, the stone would be
useless; and it could even be dangerous, which is
exactly why Red-Beard would have to find it first. And
then, all Tom Henley had to do was to find Red-Beard.
Tom had been
mining the Silver Mountains for nearly half a century.
He was old and stubborn, and riddled with eccentricities
as most old and stubborn men are; but he was also
determined. He’d confided in Red-Beard that what Homer
had accidentally stumbled upon forty years ago was not
gold, but something far more valuable. It was something
he’d been searching for himself, for a very long time,
in fact and indeed, but had yet to find.
The signs were
all there. It was only a hunch; but it was the good one.
Tom Henley may’ve been a crazy old mountain-man, after
all, with too much education on the brain and not enough
time on his hands, thought Red-Beard at the time it was
all revealed to him, but he was not stupid. Alvin Webb –
Now he was stupid. Even Little Dick Dilworth knew that
much. But for reasons the others have yet to figure out,
the outlaw was indispensable, to Red-Beard at least, and
may even have played a bigger part in the drama than
anyone could have imagined.
Chapter Three
On the Road Again
“WAIT! I THINK I SEE SOMETHING,” said Red-Beard, as the front
door slowly began to move.
A withered hand
suddenly appeared through the crack, followed by the
balding white head of slightly nervous old man.
Homer looked
out to make sure the coast was clear. He had almost
expected his wife to be waiting there for him at the
foot of the stairs with sour look on her face, and a
frying pan. He was perspiring, and slightly out of
breath. He looked restless. His eyes were glassy, but
still very much alive, like he’d just woken from an
exhausting and, perhaps, unfulfilled dream.
He stepped out
on the out on the porch, turned his back on his guest,
and gingerly closed the front door behind him, careful
not to make any un-necessary noise. He’d noticed that
his wife wasn’t in bed when he woke up that morning, and
suspected the worse. He didn’t remember the starling
that flew into the bedroom window the night before, or
what scared her down on to the sofa. He had too much on
his mind at the time; and besides, his tooth was aching
more than ever. It was a wonder he fell asleep at all.
He waved to
Hector, nodded at Red-Beard, and greeted the others with
a glance that barely acknowledged they were there. In
many ways, Homer Skinner looked like an old sailor
expecting to be buried soon at sea, which, according to
whom you ask, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
He was wearing
an old gray suit, a white shirt with a red tie, and a
pair of alligator boots that came clear up to his knees.
The clothes were out of style, perhaps; but they had
been well kept all these years and were only slightly
worn. The last time he’d put them on, his wife had told
him, in all wifely sincerity, ‘Why, you look good enough
to get buried, old man’. It was on their twenty-fifth
wedding anniversary. And she meant it, too! On top of
his head sat a tall black hat with sharp angles that not
only complimented his waistcoat, but covered many of the
small white hairs protruding from under the broad black
brim and blowing loosely in the breeze.
Most noticeable
of all, however, was the badge. It was a deputy’s badge;
the same five-pointed pentacle Homer had worn forty
years when he first rode off into the mountains with a
toothache and a dream. It was silver, of course: the
metal of choice at the time. Precisely why, no one knows
for sure, although it could be pointed out that silver
was abundantly mined in that part of the world at one
time, as evidenced by the Silver Mountains themselves
where it was first discovered in voluminous quantities.
At one time the silvery white substance was preferred
even over gold and manufactured into many fine items
such as rings, necklaces, belt-buckles, ladies broaches
and other expensive jewelry. Of course, silver was also
the main ingredient in the manufacture of badges,
particularly those worn by sheriffs, rangers, deputies,
police officers and lawmen in general who would don
sacred metal with pride. The badge was presently pinned
just above the right breast pocket of the old man’s gray
waistcoat. He’d put it there only the night before, but
not before first polishing to its former luster and
bringing it back to life after so many tarnished years
of worry and neglect. Naturally, his guns were strapped
to his side as well. They were special order forty-five
caliber six-shooters with twelve-inch barrels; blue
steel babies with ivory inlay embedded into each
handsomely carved wooden handle. And they were
magnificent! – not unlike General George S. Patton
famous ivory handled sidearm which he would proudly
display some years later in one of his many glorious
reincarnations while battling the dreaded Hun.
Homer’s bags
were packed, as they had been for the last forty years,
and stacked inside the barn. He’d stashed them there the
night before, so that his wife wouldn’t get suspicious.
He didn’t think it would work. It didn’t, of course; she
already knew, or at least suspected, what her husband
was up to. But he didn’t know that yet. “Give me a
minute, and I’ll go and fetch my things,” he said to the
red bearded colonel as he headed straight for the barn
in the back of his yard.
Charles Smiley,
who was first to notice the brightly polished metal
proudly displayed on the deputy’s chest that day, smiled
and said, “Say, what’s with the star, Homer?” before the
old man had gotten very far.
“Good luck,”
replied the deputy, stopping in his tracks and quickly
turning his head.
“We’ll be
a’needing it,” reminded the surveyor.
Homer agreed
with a wink and a nod, and then he was gone.
When, after a
short time of shuffling and silence, the old man
returned from the barn pulling a tall black horse behind
him at the end of a limp rope. He was carrying several
boxes as well, along with some bags he’d hung from his
waist like so many useless trunks on an aging elephant.
Tucked under
the old man’s right arm and covered with a thin layer of
dust, was a rather large, rugged, and very life-like
Roman crucifix; the kind that can often be seen hanging
above altars in Catholic cathedrals throughout the Papal
empire, with its victim fully intact. In fact, if not
for the actual size, which was about one quarter the
size of the genuine article, one would suspect that this
particular relic might’ve indeed been pilfered from the
vaulted archives of St. Helena’s Cathedral, by the
Knights Templar perhaps, and spirited across the
Atlantic for safe-keeping, along with Holy Grail and the
Ark of the Covenant. Did it actually contain a splinter
of wood from the original instrument of death it so
clearly represented? An organic artifact hermetically
sealed somewhere deep with the wooded tabernacle, as did
some of the earlier relics of the ancient church? It was
a tantalizing thought, if nothing else.
“A crusade?”
suggested the carpenter, blessing himself with the sign
of the sacred icon, as his Spanish ancestors might have
done while facing down the Muslins invaders as they
marched on the Pyrenees.
To add to the
authenticity of the object in question, as well as the
event that inspired such a masterpiece, the artist of
this particular icon had skillfully incorporated into
his work, in three-dimensional bronze, no less! the
unmistakable and forsaken figure of Jesus Christ in all
him transubstantiated glory, hanging naked on a tree, in
pain and perpetuity, with all the gore and anguish
associated with Golgotha (no wonder they called it the
place of the skull), richly defined and exquisitely
detailed, right down to the thorns piercing the sacred
scalp and the blood pouring forth from the four
stigmatized wounds, It was terrible! It was beautiful!
And so… so, organic! But most of all, it was necessary.
And in it, Homer Skinner thought he saw, not the graven
image others had warned him about, but the face of God
himself. He took one last look; and then, suddenly, he
noticed that his tooth didn’t seem to hurt quite so
badly. It worked every time. Maybe there’s something to
be said after all, he began to wonder, about obtaining
strength and comfort through the suffering of others.
“See
something?” questioned the carpenter who had, on more
than one occasion and with hammer in hand, knelt at the
foot of the cross entertaining similar thoughts.
The old man
just smiled.
“Maybe he’s
goin’ to church,” grinned the outlaw, eyeing the
crucifix with a certain amount of disdain that didn’t go
un-noticed by the others.
“It’s for…Oh,
never mind,” said Homer, shaking his hat and head
together as he reverently placed the rugged old cross
deep inside a bag he had strapped to his saddle. It had
actually been given to him as a gift, by a black
preacher he once met in Shadytown. He’d kept it ever
since. At one time it had hung reverently over this
fireplace where it seemed to glow above the fiery red
flames of the furnace, giving it an almost eerie aspect,
but took it down soon after one of his guests, a Baptist
minister who disapproved of the such things in general,
claimed that it was simply ‘too…too, Catholic! And it
might frighten the children,’ another young woman was
quick to observe, even though she knew damn well the
Skinner’s had no children of their own. He tried his
bedroom next. But that didn’t work either because his
wife said she felt like she was constantly being ‘stared
at!’ which she was of course; not by the holy image
hanging over the bed, but by her own guilty conscience,
which was perhaps her harshest accuser.
“Wife never
liked it anyway,” Homer sadly admitted. He was
referring, of course, to the shrouded crucifix now
tucked safely and securely in his saddle. “Too… ”
“Won’t do you
any good, old man,” Alvin hissed. “We’re all goin’ to
hell anyway. Thought you know’d that by now.”
Little Dick
interjected, “But I thought we was goin’ a’minin’.”
“Same thing,”
insisted the Negro.
“Well, wherever
we’re goin’, we better get there soon,” reminded Smiley.
“Sun’s up and we’re already behind schedule.”
And with that
said, the four horsemen stirred in their saddles. The
two oxen heaved with a snotty groan and short and sudden
jerk that caused Boy and Sam to steady themselves in the
wagon. Meanwhile Red-Beard remained alone and aloof in
his own quiet and suspicious world, the white bull
beneath him expelling small jets of smoke from its
dilating nostrils.
“Let’s go
then!” shouted Little Dick, attempting, as young men
sometimes do, to prove to the others that he could be
just as eagerly determined as the rest of them.
“So what’ll it
be Mister Skinner,” the carpenter finally chimed in,
“God, the gold…Or the Devil?”
“All three!”
sang the old man in response and with no particular
bias. “None, maybe,” he then whispered to himself.
“Huh?”
Homer
explained. “Diggin’ for gold and goin’ to church are
pretty much the same thing, I reckon. And as for the
devil,” he added in a low and ominous voice, “Well, you
can find him just about anywhere.”
“How’s that?”
asked Dick, having never heard such a thing and slightly
intrigued by the old man’s observations.
“Well, it’s
like this son,” he tried to explain. “You see, in both
cases you’re looking for something you know is there…
but you just ain’t found it, yet.”
That’s for damn
sure,” the outlaw bristled. “Ain’t never found no gold
in no goddamn church, old man.”
“Careful,
Alvin,” admonished the Hammer, “Don’t blaspheme.”
“And mind your
@#$%^&*!’ing language,” added the surveyor who, despite
his own verbal abuse of the English language, which was
known to include every profanity known to man, along
with various sexual references, would never curse or
swear in front of women and children, or when it came to
the Church, or on any other religious matters which he
deemed not only inappropriate but useless; since he knew
very well that God himself would have the final word in
all matters, and would need no expletives when he doomed
mankind to the everlasting flames of Perdition, where
Smiley himself assumed they all going anyway.
Alvin frowned,
“Well, I ain’t never found it.”
“That’s because
you never looked,” replied Homer.
“All Homer’s
trying to say…” elucidated the carpenter, attempting to
shed a little philosophical light on the subject, “is
that we all find what we’re looking for; eventually,
that is – Even you, Alvin.”
The outlaw
managed a small toothless smile, which came across more
like a sick grin. He looked satisfied, somehow; but no
one knew what was thinking about. Not even Red-Beard who
nodded at every word the carpenter just said.
In his bags,
the old man carried everything he thought would be
needed for the pending expedition, and more: an
assortment of pick axes, some hammers and chisels, and
axe, and other mining utensils he haphazardly piled on
the sagging back of his favorite horse, a black stallion
he affectionately, and appropriately, called ‘Blackie’.
The old
equestrian buckled under the unaccustomed strain of the
sudden and sizable load, the contents of which were far
more than Homer would actually be needing, and glanced
questionably back at its master one last time.
Considering the fact that both man and beast were far
too old for any of the real work, the others
simply considered it a complete waste of valuable time
and precious energy that could better be spent on the
front porch swing, or the back of a healthy young mare
in the case of the aging stud.
Homer reached
into his pocket, the one sown into his waistcoat, and
produced a pair of old, wire framed reading glasses, or
spectacles as they were sometimes called. They looked
like they might’ve once belonged to dear old Mister
Franklin himself, the metal rings of which he looped
round each ear individually until both glass and wire
conformed perfectly to the roundness of his balding
head. He then reached into another pocket and pulled out
an equally old piece of paper that appeared to have been
folded and unfolded many times and was wrinkled with
age. Gingerly, he unfolded the yellow parchment in his
steady but wrinkled hands, and studied it once more.
“The map...”
Red-Beard quietly noted, whispering to his four horsemen
as Homer’s wife chased after him with a bag of food and
some other victuals stacked up in her frail but
charitable arms. Homer looked at the map for only a
second or two, as if he’d already committed it to memory
and was merely verifying what he already knew. He then
folded it up and slid it back in his pocket, pretending
that he’d been expecting her to be there all along.
He crawled up
the side of his tall black horse like any old man would:
carefully, and with steady determination. And as he did,
Homer could already hear his wife shouting after him as
any old woman would, and should: “Now you be careful,
Homer!” she cautioned. What Mrs. Skinner really wanted
to say (and perhaps should have said under the
circumstances) was something she was already aware of.
But then again, she didn’t have to. What she had to say
that morning was could be said with nothing more than a
look. And that was enough. It was a look that spoke
louder than words; a look any husband can easily
recognize, and one Homer was quite familiar with. It was
a look, that look, which spoke volumes and
communicated in all its unspoken and simplistic wisdom:
I know what you’re up to… old man! It seemed the
proverbial cat was already out of bag. She knew where he
was going, of course; she just wasn’t sure why. “Bring
back something to eat,” she instructed, so as not to
appear too apprehensive in front of the others, “You
hear?”
Homer hadn’t
spoken about the gold lately. And he’d never told his
wife, at least not in so many definitive words; but
somehow, he suspected she knew all along. In fact, she’d
known all the about the gold, and his toothaches,
for quite some time; and it showed! After all, she’d
lived with them both for the last forty years, and it’s
been hurting her just as much. She just didn’t know what
to do about it. And so, the old woman kept quiet on the
subject, as most old women do in these situations, and
kept her opinions, and worries, to herself. It didn’t
take the sound of a whippoorwill or a frightened
starling chasing her into the sofa to know what had her
husband pacing circles on the bedroom floor all night
long and for so many long and frustrating years. She
knew what drives a man to dreams. And it wasn’t in the
kitchen or the bedroom. It was up in those hills. It was
gold.
“Be back as
soon as I can, old woman,” Homer said to his wife.
“Don’t forget to feed the chickens,” he waved. “And
don’t wait up, dear,” he finally admonished the frail
looking woman before him.
“And don't you
be troubling them poor Harley folks!” she warned her
husband with a wave of a long withered finger. She’d
heard him mention something the night before about the
Cotton family, and Elmo in particular. She could read
him like a forty-year-old book, and knew him like she
knew the veins on the back of her own wrinkled hand. But
she was too old to stop him, and couldn’t if she wanted
to. She knew it would be no use. “Elmo’s got enough to
do with Nadine and the boy,” she further admonished the
man she still loved after all those years. “You leave
them Harlies be. You hear me, Homer? Oh, and by the
way…” she added while handing a freshly baked pie
covered in a paper napkin up to Mister Smiley. “This is
for you, Charles.” He’d been sitting impatiently on top
of a brown colored horse with a mane that was almost,
but not quite, as long and as blonde his own proud
moustache. And he was hungry. “Don’t eat it all at once…
and save some for the others” she said with that stern
and customary smile the women of Creekwood Green were
famous for.
“Thank’ye,
Ma’am,” replied the foul-mouthed equestrian, with a
sincerity and politeness that caught the others
completely off guard. “Blueberry! Mm! Mm! My favorite!”
he beamed beneath his hairy mask.
As a parting
request (one she never expected to be honored but felt
obliged to ask anyway) the old woman pleaded with the
spiteful surveyor, “And promise me you won’t curse
anymore. Will you, Charles?”
“I will...I
mean, I won’t...Er, curse, this is,” he said, nervously
chewing on an exhausted wade of tobacco he was just then
getting ready to expel.
“And no
spittin’!” she added for good measure.
“Yes’um, M’am,”
he swallowed.
“And you,
Little Dick…” she scolded the boy as well, knowing how
impressionable young men are at that age, especially in
the irrepressible company of men like Mister Charles
Smiley. “What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you
be home helping your mother with the chores? You’ll be
the death of her,” sighed Mrs. Skinner, shaking her old
gray head, “poor woman...”
“Won’t be po’
for long, Ma’am!” replied the optimistic youth.
“That’s enough,
Dick,” cautioned Homer from atop his saddle, not wishing
to raise his wife’s suspicions any higher than they
already were. “Don’t wait up, old woman,” he reiterated.
“And don’t you
be late for sup…” she started to say as Homer took the
reins of his black stud. By then, of course, Mrs.
Skinner knew very well that her husband would not be
coming home for supper that night. She was beginning to
wonder if he would ever return.
“What’s that
crazy old woman squawking ‘bout now,” said Alvin to no
one in particular.
“You’ll never
know,” the carpenter replied.
But by then
Homer had stifled the wicked engineer with a cold hard
stare that properly heeled the insensitive outlaw. He
followed that by shouting back to his wife, “Don’t wait
up, dear,” for the third and last time, “And don’t
worry.”
And then
without so much as a wink or a whistle, Homer Skinner
immediately giddy-upped his horse and proceeded directly
due east towards the Redman River. The others, including
Red-Beard and his bull, followed closely behind,
slightly confused. They were whispering to one another
and wondering out loud if maybe Homer had lost his mind,
and perhaps was so old by now that he couldn't remember
east from west, or which way he was going at all. They
hadn’t even begun, and already were headed in the wrong
direction, or so it seemed.
“Where the hell
does he think he’s goin’?” questioned Smiley, knowing
quite well that they were going the wrong way. “We
should be going west – Not east! Any damn fool knows
that – even Webb!”
“Shortcut... I
think,” said the outlaw, trying to figure out if he’d
just been insulted.
“Some
shortcut,” said Dick.
“Maybe it’s
just a diversion,” suggested, Hector. “You know, in case
somebody’s been watching. There’s been talk. Ain’t easy
to keep these things a secret. Gold drives a man to…
Anyway,” he finally said, glancing over to the old man
on the black horse with mixed emotions by then, but
trying not to alarm the others, “I’m sure Homer knows
what he doing.”
Red-Beard, who
had had drifted apart from the other by then, wasn’t
listening anymore. He rode alone, on top of old Jove,
like a Muslim nomad in the Sinai without the traditional
turban. He didn’t feel the wind blowing through his
whiskers. He didn’t see the sun rising in the east. He
didn’t feel the warmth. He just stared ahead, always
ahead. He knew where he was going, even if Homer and the
others didn’t.”
Having
overheard the conversation (fortunately, Homer’s hearing
was not nearly as bad as his eyesight was) and feeling a
little disappointed by then, the old man made the
following geometrical observation: “The shortest distant
between two points is not always a straight line.”
The surveyor
agreed, of course; and thinking that he may’ve spoken a
little too hastily on the matter, added to the
conversation by stating, “And sometimes you have to take
a few steps back in order to go forward.”
“‘Specially if
you’re going in the wrong direction to begin with,”
noted the carpenter. “It’s like sinning, I suppose.”
“Sinnin’! Who
said anything ‘bout sinnin’?” questioned Sam, not quite
following the Old Hammer’s apologetics.
“I think he’s
talkin’ ‘bout Alvin,” said Little Dick, noticing that
the outlaw had fallen slightly behind and out of earshot
of the others by then.
“It’s a Greek
word – Sin,” explained Hector for the benefit of anyone
who might be interested, “It simply means ‘to miss the
mark’.”
“You mean like
an arrow?” enquired the Indian, presently sitting up in
the back of the wagon and pulling his hands apart as if
he were bending a bow. It was a good analogy, and one
the Hammer approved of. It would be important to note,
however, that in Boy’s own cultural past, the word ‘sin’
was nowhere to be found in his native lexicon. It simply
didn’t exist. It was just another one of those concepts
brought over by the white settlers he was finally led to
believe, like alcohol, guns, and syphilis.
“That’s right,
Boy. You got it!” exclaimed the Old Hammer, without
going directly into the ‘Doctrine of the Fall’, which he
felt he wasn’t equipped to do anyway.
“We all fall
short,” reminded Homer, as the sun rose up before them,
confirming the fact that were, indeed, going east, just
as they’d all suspected, and in the wrong direction.
“Keep your eyes sharp and your aim straight, son, and
you can’t miss.”
Pulling the
string of his imaginary bow just a little tighter, the
Indian responded, “You mean just like the soldiers who
killed my people.”
“Well…” began
Homer, sadly, and suddenly wishing he really was lost by
now, “that’s not going to bring them back, son.”
The Indian
lowered his head, as well as his bow, and said with a
sigh, “It won’t bring the buffalo back either.” He
turned his head the Negro.
“Now don’t
blame me!” shouted Sam, taking no blame for cruelties of
the past he was very much accustomed to, more often than
not on the receiving end of, and had absolutely nothing
to do with, “I’s just mindin’ my own business.”
And he was too!
Just like his grandfather who, through no fault of his
own, was suddenly snatched up in a net while running
from an wild African wilder-beast that he’d only moments
before attempted to sodomize, whereupon he was put in
chains, stuffed in the hull of a slave ship where he
watched his father die and his mother get raped, sold to
a farmer in New Orleans and dragged off to Richmond
Virginia to pick cotton and cut tobacco for the next
forty-five years before he was finally hung from a
sycamore tree for exposing himself to the farmer’s
daughter whom he’d accidentally but quite understandably
mistook for a wild African wilder-beast when the
unfortunate event took place.
“Never shot me
no damn buffalo, either,” growled the Negro.
* * *
THEY
TRAVELED EAST through the piney woods for a spell, and
then headed north. The air was cool, crisp and clean,
the colors of the leaves just beginning to turn from
green to golden reds, yellows and browns. The sun was a
radiant ball of fire by then, riding high in the heavens
like Ra in all his golden glory. It made Homer feel like
he did forty years ago, like all young men feel at that
time in their inexperienced lives. It made him feel
brave.
It was a young
man’s feeling, a felling he was not so sure of anymore;
he almost didn’t trust it. It only made the tooth ache
that much more. But the pleasure of the moment seemed to
balance out the pain. All in all, it was a good feeling,
he reckoned. He was finally on his way; and Harley
little more than a day’s ride ahead. He’d be there soon.
He had the map. All he needed now was the ‘Lucky
Number’.
It was early in
the evening when they reached the outskirts of Creekwood
Green where and the trail narrowed and the land became
less familiar. Homer decided to camp there for the
night. It wasn’t even dark; and they were still headed
in the wrong direction, as far as the others were
concerned. But no one objected, not out loud anyway. Not
even the inexhaustible Red-Beard who had remained
strangely quiet ever since they’d left the farm.
They would be
in Harley in the morning, thought Homer as he rolled out
his blanket on the cold, hard ground; perhaps then he
would explain things, after a good night’s rest.
Sleeping on the trail had a way of opening the mind, or
so the old man remembered. He also knew that the farmers
of Harley went to be bed early, especially around this
time of year when the bean crop was ready for
harvesting. Best wait until morning. He reckoned Elmo
was just coming in from the fields by now, and that
Nadine was probably setting the table for supper. It was
a good home, a happy home. He’d been there before. He
could almost hear Lil’ Ralph playing on the pots and
pans with that big wooden spoon. Already, he could smell
the beans.
The four
horsemen slid sorely from their saddles for a
well-deserved rest, while Sam covered up his wagon and
Boy constructed a small campfire in the traditional
manner of his ancestors. They were tired, of course, but
that didn’t prevent them from talking, as cowboys often
do when they have one of two things on their minds, or
both, which somehow always seem go hand in hand – gold,
and women.
“First thing
I’ll do is buy me a woman. No! Make it a dozen women,”
declared Alvin Webb staring into the flames of the newly
constructed campfire in a typical moment of unfulfilled
lust, and still a bachelor at the age of fifty-two,
“with big breasts.”
“Wouldn’t do
you any good,” said the carpenter, cutting to the chase
in his usual manner and getting right to the source of
the outlaw’s lonely frustration.
Smiley agreed.
“Hector’s right,” he said. “You don’t want a woman,
Alvin. Hell! You wouldn’t know what to do with a real
woman if you had one. What you’re looking for is a
goddamn whore… That’s all! That’s why you ain’t never
got hitched yet. Think about it, son.”
Alvin did think
about it, but only for a moment, which was all his
dysfunctional brain would allow; and so did the Negro in
the painted wagon who, upon further reflection on the
matter, wondered out loud, “So what’s wrong with that?”
“Ahhhhhhhh!
Marryin’s for young fellers… like Dil-pickle here,”
explained Webb, pointing a fingerless glove in Dick’s
general direction. “We older roosters prefer our hens ‘sperienced,”
he slyly winked, ‘if you take my meanin’.”
There was
something in the way Alvin pronounced the word
‘sperienced’ and the way he winked that made Little Dick
Dilworth hungry with a lust he was only beginning to
understand. He knew what the outlaw was talking about,
albeit in his own perverted and twisted way. He’d been
to Old Port Fierce a time or two, where such women of
ill-repute were known walk a colorful street known as
Avenue ‘D’ in a place called Shadytown, but never did
stay long enough to sample any of local hospitality. But
all that may soon change, he recently began to wonder,
if things didn’t work out with the widow, that is. “You
mean…” questioned the youth, innocently enough, “like
the women of Shadytown, Mister Webb?”
Alvin had been
there too; and so had a few of the others, including
black Sam who, for lack of anywhere else to call a home,
still hung his homeless hat there from time to time. It
was a special occasion, as the outlaw suddenly recalled
out loud in slow slurring words “They calls it ‘Fat Moon
Friday’… or sumpin’ like that. And it lasts all night
long.” He suddenly remembered one particular woman he
saw that night with an open bosom, a painted face, and a
rather large backside that sweetly swayed to and fro as
she sashayed down the Avenue like a boat trolling for
dolphin.
“She was a
black cat beauty,” Webb suggestively admitted, a little
hesitantly at first in view of present company. But
nothing happened that night. Sure, he had the time; and
he certainly even had the nerve, especially after
drinking enough rotgut alcohol to anesthetize the
Russian army by then. The only thing Alvin Webb didn’t
have, however, was the money. It just so happened that
he lacked the fifty cents needed to satisfy his
insatiable lust at the time. And he wasn’t the only
one.
Feeling
somewhat sympathetic towards the outlaw’s solitary
existence for a brief and bewildering moment, and having
drank himself from a similar poisoned well, Mister
O’Brien seemed to understand Webb’s sad predicament. As
it were, Hector had married late in life, so he knew
what it was like to sleep alone… but not always. Unlike
the pitiful thief who had been naturally disfigured from
birth, the carpenter had always been a handsome man,
even in his senior years when his hammer was less
employed but just as potent. But still, “Even us old
roosters get lonely sometimes,” he softy sighed.
“Cock-a-doodle-doooooooooo!” crowed the outlaw.
“But you never
know, son,” grinned the carpenter (Hector was in the
habit addressing all men under the age of fifty-five, or
whatever, with such fatherly condescension) with a full
head of wavy white hair that was once just as black and
virile that of the Redman’s and just as long, “Look at
me!”
The carpenter
was merely attempting to console the lonely old
reprobate with some sound fatherly advice he’d received
not only at his own expense but from the beautiful and
slightly manipulative hands of lady barber he’d met in
previous sometime life during the war in the town of old
New Orleans where colonel Jackson once routed the
redcoats: “I tell you something, mon…” she shamelessly
suggested through a thick black curtain of tightly woven
hair, “…for every stick there’s a bush.” She was
Jamaican woman, he suddenly recalled, a real black
beauty, a Banshee with body of Venus and the face of
Aphrodite. A witchdoctor! Or so she claimed at the time,
with deep African roots who had arranged his own
beautiful black mane that day in so many dreadlocks not
unlike the ones adorning her own Medusa-like head like
an intertwined orgy of thick black garden snakes. He
remembered she had offered him some red wine, which he
could still taste from time to time, especially in
tropical climates when those Latin lips were parched and
dry. And just as black curtain came down that day,
smothering him in palm oil and kisses, the mighty hammer
fell for the first time.
Over the years,
the eloquent craftsman had modified his first sexually
experience to suit his own professional taste, which
he’d introduced that day not only to Mister Alvin Webb,
but the virgin ears of a blushing Dick Dilworth who
found the Medusa’s metaphor not only funny but pregnant
with truth. “And remember, mon,” the carpenter
regurgitated with a twinkle in his Irish eye and a thick
island accent hanging on his lips that reminded you of
red wine and cannabis, “for every nail…. there’s a
hammer. Think about it, boys. Think… and strike!”
And Hector knew
what he was talking about. He was a good-looking man
who, as previously described, had been generously graced
by the gods with a face that, even in the autumn of
years, women naturally found irresistibly attractive. It
was a curse, as well as a blessing, and one he would
sometimes lament. It may also explain why the Old Hammer
was so late in proclaiming his nuptials, some suggesting
(quite erroneously, of course) that he was distracted at
the time, and too preoccupied in his own adulterous
bedroom to ever find his way to the altar.
‘An Irish
Adonis!’ he was once proudly proclaimed and properly
anointed by one female admirer who’d once offered to
immortalize, at the expense of her own dead husband,
that famous Anglo-Latin profile in the finest marble
money could buy. It was to be a statue, a sculpture, not
unlike Michelangelo’s David, in all its apocalyptic fame
and masculine beauty, to be ceremoniously placed, upon
completion, in her own private collection of similarly
marbled deities that graced the tomb of the family
mausoleum, including a life-size statue of brave
Achilles, the arrow perpetually piercing the great heel
of the great Geek. Apparently, this was one wealthy
widow, with exquisite taste who, despite all earthly
endowments bestowed upon her by her recently deceased
husband, would ostensibly prefer to pass through
eternity gazing upon the face of Hector, her ‘Irish
Adonis’, in lieu of any other, including that of her own
magnanimous spouse. But the old carpenter refused and,
in his own gentlemanly way, politely declined the
generous offer, thinking it best, and perhaps only
natural, to be buried alongside own lovely bride who, if
Nature and the laws of probabilities had their way,
would surely be dead long after the worms had turned his
famous face into a pile of organic mush.
The adoring
widow was not the only one to make such an astute
observation. Among the many fine and respectable ladies
of Creekwood Green (and perhaps an equal amount of the
not so fine and un-respectable ones) the ‘Old Hammer’
had became over the years not only the subject of their
envious discourse, but also the source of their
unfulfilled desire as well. And Hector knew it, as most
Adonis’ do. But like all gods and demi-gods who somehow
always come close to, but never quite reach, the
perfection we humans so selfishly seek to bestow upon
them, this Old Hammer merely considered himself a ‘work
in progress’, or, if you prefer, ‘an unfinished
symphony’, to be completed, perhaps, by artisans of
another generation, not unlike Leonardo’s famous
‘Horse’, which today stands as a bronze monument to such
an ambitious enterprise. In fact, it would not be too
difficult to imagine Mister O’Brien, himself a highly
skilled and much sought after artisan and sculptor in
his own right, staying up late some nights with hammer
and chisel in hand, completing that work in progress
which may yet one day hang in the celebrated halls of
St. Peter’s Basilica, or stand alongside Michelangelo’s
David as an everlasting testament and tribute to the
true beauty of man. It was the least he could do for his
lovely young wife.
It was not only
Adonis’s face the young woman found so irresistible and
interesting at the time. When asked one day of his
blushing young bride whom he betrothed at a ripe old age
(she being twenty-six years his junior at the time of
their engagement) to give a reason for agreeing to such
a questionable and, by all accounts, lop-sided
arrangement, her answer simple. It was as clear and
plain as a two by four stiffly and painfully delivered
to the head of anyone who was dumb enough to even ask.
Naturally, it pleased the old carpenter to no end when
he heard of what had happened the day of his betrothal
as the three bridesmaids were contemplating and
questioning, in their own envious ways, their little
sister’s decision. It went something like this:
‘Is it because
he’s such a good man?’ one of her siblings inquired only
an hour before the Holy Sacrament was to be
administered.
‘No, not
really,’ the bride sheepishly replied, adjusting her
wedding gown inside the bridesmaids’ chamber in front of
a full-length mirror.
‘It’s his money
then. Isn’t it?’ wondered another out loud.
‘But he’s only
a carpenter,’ the young woman reminded them all, as if
they hadn’t known.
‘Well, of
course!” cried the third bridesmaid who happened to be
the youngest of the three, ‘it must be because he’s so
handsome. That’s has to be it.’
To which the
bride to be simply replied, ‘Well, that’s rather
obvious, my dear sister. But still, that’s not the
reason I will to marry this man today.’
‘Well, what
exactly is it then?’ beseeched the eldest sister in
unbridled frustration and growing very impatient by
then.
Being a woman
quite used to such personal interrogations by her
jealous siblings, and being the youngest and most
beautiful of them all, the bride-to-be felt she at least
owed them an explanation, if not an apology. But it went
deeper than that. You see, her intentions had been
questioned from the very beginning. It was suggested
that she might even have had ulterior motives in
consummating a marriage that appeared, on the surface at
least, to be somewhat gratuitous, benefiting, it would
seem, no one in particular, least of all husband and
wife, and one that would undoubtedly make of her a widow
long before her time. And so, the bashful bride was
suddenly compelled to reveal to her inquisitive but
well-meaning sisters the simple, plain, naked,
unvarnished, and rather obvious, truth regarding their
concerns and the man she intended to take to the grave
with her, with or without his money. But that was her
business, as well as her future husband’s; and she would
not be gossiped about like some cheap gold-digging slut.
So in the end, and for the sake of modesty, along with
other more intimate reasons too personal and private to
mention right now, the carpenter’s wife simply choose to
keep the matter between her and her husband to be, and
wisely decided against divulging the source of her
happiness. It only made the bridesmaids that much more
determined to find out exactly what, if anything, it was
about this man that their younger sister had found so…so
irresistible!
And so, they
all cried out in unison that day, “What could it be!!!”
with such a force, and in so many ear-splitting decibels
that reached out well beyond the bride’s chamber that
day, echoing through the halls of the old Cathedral, and
lingering in the air with so much vile vitriol that the
entire congregation, including the puzzled priest and
nervous groom, stood and stared at one another, dazed
and confused, until it finally faded away in doomed
silence.
And just before
walking down the aisle, the blushing young bride
discretely shook her head and gave her sisters one last
thing to think about that great and glorious day; and
one last nut to crack. ‘You’ll never know, you silly
bitches,’ she said, as the veil came down over those
rosy red cheeks.
Speculation had
always abounded concerning the carpenter’s unprecedented
ability to win the affections, as well as the hand, of
such a pretty young woman more than half his age; and
that day on the road to Harley was surely no exception.
“I don’t
exactly know how he does it,” observed the surveyor,
wryly. Smiley seemed to have an explanation for just
about everything that happened under the sun and on
God’s green earth. “But I for one wouldn’t be
surprised,” he further extrapolated, “if the old fart
ain’t hung like a smoke-house salami!”
“Or heap big
buffalo…” noted the sleepy-eyed Indian.
“More like
Mississippi black snake!” boasted the Negro, cupping his
massive groin in his black leathery hand.
What the astute
mustachio had so keenly observed, and what the others
were so quick to confirm that day in their own cultural
vernacular, was, in fact, the correct answer to the
bridesmaids’ otherwise unanswerable question.
Hector O’Brien
found the comparison amusing, if not exactly true, and
flattering as well; but, in a gentlemanly sort of way,
of course. It made him laugh out loud. It was an
infectious laugh, the kind of contagion often found in
the fellowship of men of good will wherever they happen
to be, even when they disagree on serious matters, and
particularly in the absent of female company. It was
just a natural thing to do; and so, naturally, the
others laughed right along with him, including Alvin
Webb who looked as though there might be some hope for
after all.
The only one
not laughing at the time was Rusty Horn. How could he?
Despite the fact that he himself had once been married
to a loyal, patient, loving, and surprisingly beautiful
wife, the colonel actually knew very little of love, or
the perils and pleasures that went along with it. For
Red-Beard getting married was, and still is for that
matter, a mere formality, something an officer was
expected to do. It was all part of the protocol.
It happened too
long ago, however, to have any impact on the colonel’s
current disposition, and probably wouldn’t have changed
his mind on the matter even if it did. Perhaps it was
the conflicting personalities that hastened the imminent
divorce, providing the poor woman with the legal
prerequisite for obtaining one when she did; and not a
moment too soon, one might imagine. Being married to a
madman was one thing. Being married to two was simply
unbearable. ‘Ain’t that just like a woman’, he quietly
resigned when all was said and done and the sacred bond
was broken. He simply let her go. Whatever happened to
the disgraced woman was anyone’s guess, although it was
suggested that she eventually took refuge with a
maternally-dominated tribe of Indians who, chiefly on
account of her long blonde hair, bestowed upon her the
appropriate title of ‘Great White Goddess’. It was a
title she took quite literally, along with all the
benefits associated with such a lofty and privileged
position, including finding her way, as goddesses are
famous for, into the teepees of any unsuspecting young
man she happened to fancy. But even goddesses aren’t
safe in a world dominated by so many jealous and
desperate housewives; for it was also rumored that
shortly after her deification this particular ‘goddess’
was summarily scalped and stoned to death by a mob of
angry red squaws who’d come to the firm and natural
realization that there is room for only one goddess in
any teepee. Naturally, their hen-pecked husbands agreed.
It was also at that time when Rusty Horace Horn joined
the army, and Red-Beard fully emerged in all his
enigmatic and diabolical glory.
Talk of the
gold continued.
“They say
there’s enough gold in Wainwright’s Mountain to sink a
ship,” noted the surveyor with a visible puff of his
moustache.
“A man could
retire on that kind of money,” the carpenter concurred,
looking a little wearier than the rest by then.
Naturally, his hands were not so steady, nor his eyes as
clear, as they were in his distant youth, but he could
still swing a hammer; and could still dream. Hector
O’Brien lived his life vicariously through the eyes of
younger men, but worked just as hard, or harder, than
any of them. He shaped and molded them, blow by
hammering blow. The earth was his anvil, they were the
metal, and his was the hammer that pounded flesh into
spirit and made men out of boys. Maybe that’s why they
admired him so much. But he was getting old, and
Hector had long thought about hanging up his hammer for
good, a prospect that up until only recently had never
even entered his mind, and retiring. In fact, he’d
already made a few plans.
“Think I’ll go
to the Islands,” said the Hammer in a rare moment of
outspoken self-indulgence. “Settle down. Buy me a boat…
maybe does a little fishing. Might even try my hand at
farming. Tobacco plant grows well on the islands. It’s
the soil, you know. Just like in Ol’ Havana! You can
never have enough cigars.”
“Don’t forget
your wife, Hector” the surveyor keenly observed.
“I never do,”
reminded the Hammer. “Wouldn’t rule out another bambino,
either.”
“Even at your
age?”
Hector smiled.
“Still a little hum left in this ol’ hammer, my friend.”
Smiley was
entertaining similar thoughts of retiring to some remote
island paradise in the South Seas as well that day. He’d
been to Old Port Fierce, and had heard stories about
islands that were never mapped. The way he figured, he
would survey one of these uncharted land masses and
claim it all for himself, not unlike the early pioneers
of the Americas who quickly became governors and land
barons that way themselves at the expense, and sometimes
in spite of, of the local inhabitants. He even had a
name in mind. “Smiley-Town!” he exclaimed. “Kind’a rolls
right off your tongue – Don’t it? Hell!” he thought out
loud, “might even bring little Dick along... if it’s
alright with his mother, that is.” And being that the
surveyor’s last wife had left him by running off with a
traveling shoe salesman not too long ago, he added,
“Might even take up with one of them there island
women,” with an invisible grin. “Can’t run too far on an
island, you know… and there ain’t no !@#$%^&*!!!
travelin’ salesmen hangin’ ‘round.
“And no shoes…”
observed the youthful apprentice.
His boss
agreed. “That too!”
“I hear tell
the womens there is nec’ked,” spoke the outlaw with a
toothless grin that was all too visible. “And that means
they don’t wear no clothes,” he added, not only for the
benefit of those who might not know any better, like
Dilworth for instance, but for the sake of his own
lustful imagination.
“It’ll take
more than a naked native to cure what’s ailing you, my
insatiable friend,” acknowledged the Hammer.
“Then make it a
dozen,” gummed Alvin.
To which the
Indian celestially observed, “One for each sign of the
Zodiac.”
Hector opined,
“Now that’ll put a hum in your hammer!”
“Let’s not get
greedy now,” warned Red-Bead from a top of old Jove.
They were the first words he’d spoken since they stopped
for the night.
Little Dick
ejaculated, “Make that two for Gemini!”
“I’ll take
seven,” said the large Negro. “Any more than that would
be askin’ for trouble.”
“Women are like
cigars, my ebony friend,” struck the Hammer, “You always
want more...”
“And bigger!”
Smiley wholeheartedly agreed.
“But didn’t you
tell me you were born in September, Dick?” questioned
the moustache, suspiciously turning a large hairy ear to
the wind.
“Ha!” laughed
Webb. “Then that makes Dick a virgin.”
“Is that true,
boy?” Sam demanded to know, as if personally offended by
the outlaw’s latest observation in some dark African way
that perhaps only he understood.
The Indian
spoke up next. “Sagittarius is a Redman, you know. Did
you see how he bends the bow? And he never misses! He
aims for the Heavens…”
“And hits a
fish!” sings the Hammer. “Pisces, if I’m not mistaken.
Isn’t that you, Charles?”
The outlaw
thinks it’s funny.
“I may be a
fish… but what the hell are you, Webb?” the surveyor
wants to know.
“A crab!” said
Boy. “What else?”
“No he’s not!”
protests Dick. “He’s a goat! A toothless ol’ billy-goat.
Damn him to hell. Just look at his beard.”
Webb sneers.
“At least I got one… boy.”
Sam lit a fire
while Boy secured the wagon and tied down the horses and
two oxen. The others went about doing what cowboys do on
the trail before settling down for the night. Smiley,
always on the lookout for a free meal, caught a wild
turkey and cooked it over the open flames. Homer wasn’t
hungry. Lying down beneath the moon and stars, he fell
asleep. It was the first real rest he’d had in forty
years.
Chapter Four
The Iron Gates of Harley
(The F-Word)
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, old man Skinner awoke from his earthy bed
refreshed and alive. He’d almost forgotten just how
peaceful it was sleeping outdoors, and made it a point
to do it more often. He didn’t even notice that his
tooth had stopped aching by then.
Not long after
a quick breakfast of coffee, beef jerky, and few
leftover biscuits his wife had packed away in his bags
that was just as difficult to chew as the jerky and even
harder to digest, Homer and company found themselves
standing before a massive metal gateway known to all
those who passed that way simply as the ‘Iron Gates of
Harley’.
Naturally,
everyone knew by then where they were, and where they
were headed.
“This here is ‘feral’
country. Ain’t it?” questioned the outlaw, rather
suspiciously it seemed, as if he’d been there before.
“Harley,”
nodded the surveyor under his broad brimmed Stetson…
“And Harlies and Greens just don’t mix,” he added as a
precautionary measure, pointing the wrought iron gate
standing before in all their arresting gloom, “just like
the sign says.”
It was a tall
manufactured structure comprised mostly of long vertical
bars about one inch in diameter, spaced approximately
six inches apart, and held together by a half dozen iron
bands welded at the apex. The metal was caked with
multiple layers of flakey red rust and appeared to have
been painted many times over, the colors of which was
indiscernible. Yet, they still looked strong enough to
serve the original purpose, which will soon become
evident. There was a calcifying lock passing through one
of the metal bands where two outer bars meet just about
five feet above the ground. The gates were closed and
the door was lock, just as it always was. And no one had
the key.
Supporting the
gates on either side of this man-made barrier were two
equally tall walls that crumbled off into the distance.
They were made up of brick, mortar, and other masonry
products, patched with cement and held together with
chicken and barbed wire. The walls extended North and
South of the gate as far as the eye could see. It was an
ominous sight, like something an archaeologist might
expect to find in the Judean desert, or the bottom of
the Aegean Sea near the fabled ruins of old Atlantis.
Both the wall and the gate appeared as though they were
made of each other. Perhaps they were.
No one knew for
certain who it was that actually built the wall was; but
they damn sure knew why it was built. It had always been
suspected that the structure was first conceived and
constructed by the original inhabitants of Creekwood
Green as a visible means of maintaining their own
segregated boarders. Others, like those on the Harley
side of the gate for instance, had always maintained, in
their own quite but stubborn certitude, that Erasmus
Harley had a hand its construction, which was why many
of the local inhabitants of Harley and thereabout still
referred the iconoclastic structure as ‘Erasmus’ Wall’.
Perhaps they were both right, to one degree or another.
But it really didn’t matter. There it was and there it
stood, for over a hundred years no less, on the
threshold of a small rural community in the northeast
territory just beyond the eastern borders of Creekwood
Green. Simply put, its function was ostensibly designed
to keep the two communities apart, physical and legally.
And it worked, just like it was supposed to, regardless
of who put the first brick in the wall.
Like most
manmade contrivances, walls are created for a plethora
of reasons, some more justifiable than others. ‘Erasmus’
Wall’ was no exception. Its message was clear, as cold
as stone and as hard as iron. There was, however, a
certain amount of ambiguity attached to the structure
which some, if not many, found not a little disturbing.
Either as a deliberate attempt to segregate those within
from those without, or as some cruel joke incorporated
into the architectural design itself, the Iron Gates of
Harley swung in one direction only – inward.
It seemed that
you could enter, but you could never leave; at least not
without knowing a good deal of effort. Apparently, both
architect and engineer wanted all who stood before the
Iron Gate to know exactly where they stood. They never
explained why. They didn’t have to. At the time, they
probably didn’t even think it was necessary. You see,
back when the wall first came into existence things were
different, life was simpler, less complex; and certain
things didn’t even need to be explained. They were
simply taken for granted; like knowing which side of the
wall you belonged on, and staying there. Life, in
general, was more black and white, so to speak,
delineated along cultural and racial lines that had
existed long before the Great War itself. But the war,
among other things, would change all that, and not
necessarily for the better.
Suspended
directly over the gate, and supported by two wooden post
cemented into the tops of the columns forming the
buttress ends of either side of the wall, there was a
sign. The sign, as the surveyor previously made mention
of, was made of same metallic substance of the gate
itself, only painted with a glossy black finish that had
faded over the years while still retaining all the
admonishing gloom invested in its original design. It
spelled out one word – HARLEY. Six letters of no
particular size or shape twisted together, rather
cleverly it would seem, in order to achieve the
blacksmith’s desired objective. Where one letter ended,
the next simply began, suggesting, perhaps, that at one
time the sign itself was no more than one long piece of
rusty re-bar, the kind used for reinforcing modern
concrete. The letters were, for the most part, chipped
in places as evidenced by several layers of rusted metal
flaking off below the surface. And just beneath the
letters hung a simple wooded placard with several
numbers scribbled into the grain. They appeared to have
been painted over many times, modified, perhaps, to
reflect the number of recent births and deaths that had
since taken place in since its latest revision.
Apparently, at one time or another, the number of people
residing in the town Harley had been much higher.
Charles Smiley
was the first to notice that the gate was indeed locked
shut, and was not particularly surprised. “It’s locked,”
he said, shrugging his shoulder and moustache together.
“What do we do
now!” cried Dilworth, feeling about as helpless and
useless a young Israelite before the impassable waters
of the Red Sea with Pharaoh’s chariots in hot pursuit.
But before
anyone else could voice their opinions one way or
another, or utter even a single syllable on the subject
at hand, the old man reached under his coat, pulled out
his special order forty-five caliber six-shooter with
the twelve inch barrel and mother-of-pearl inlay, and,
with one sufficiently aimed blast, shot the mechanical
device completely from its hasp. “It ain’t no more,”
pronounced the deputy, as though he’d just brushed a fly
from his face.
And so, one by
one they passed through the Iron Gates of Harley,
although no one, except maybe Homer, knew why.
IT
WAS TUESDAY MORNING when they finally arrived at the
first stop of the old man’s long awaited expedition. The
sun was shining and the sky was pale silvery blue. There
was a cool crispness in the air, sweetly scented by a
unique odor that reminded Homer of food, family, fun,
and a full harvest moon. It was ubiquitous! There was
something sacred about it, like the freshly mowed slopes
of the Andes before the snow comes. It smelled
like…like, Heaven after the great Day of Judgment, one
might imagine. He’d smelled that smell before, and more
than anything else, it told the old man that he was
exactly where he wanted to be. Before them lay acres and
acres of fertile farmland sprawled out in a quilted
patchwork of rural greens and browns. No doubt about it.
They were in Harley.
He hoped Elmo
hadn’t changed his mind by then. It was something the
old man had worried about from time to time, especially
considering the company they were sharing. He was never
quite sure where the Harlie stood on the matter
entirely, and hadn’t really thought about what he would
do if, in fact, Elmo had suddenly changed his mind,
which the Harlie was occasionally known to do, and
backed out. It was always possible,
And who could
blame him if he did? After all, he was just a
sharecropper. He had wife and child to consider; and his
farm, like so many in that area wasn’t doing too good,
either. And then there was Ike Armstrong, Elmo’s
promiscuous and nosey landlord who did not take kindly
to his tenants running off when there was work to be
done, especially in the company six white men, a large
Negro, and one red devil mounted on an evil white bull.
And what about the contract? Ike could, and would, have
the Harlie thrown in jail for reneging on his legal
responsibilities, a fact Homer was very much aware of at
the time. But it would only be for a few days, the old
man thought in a rare moment of selfishness. One week!
That’s all he would need. And then… then, Elmo Cotton
wouldn’t have to worry about his family, the farm, or
Ike Armstrong ever again. But he would have to worry
about Mrs. Cotton, the old man suddenly realized,
thinking about his own wife, Mrs. Skinner, who was by
then more than likely writing his own obituary.
The town of
Harley was actually a peaceful settlement of ‘colored
folk’, or Negros, as they were sometimes called,
lying about twenty miles northeast of Creekwood Green in
the lower elevations of the agricultural region. The
families that lived there were mostly farmers,
sharecroppers, who tended to mind their work as well as
their own business, doing the best they could to raise
their meager crop of beans, greens, and whatever else
they could coax from the muck and mire of the silty
soils sandwiched somewhere in between the Silver
mountains to the North and the Redman River to the
east.
In reality,
Harley was not the best place to invest in a farm, or
any other enterprise for that matter. Due to erosion and
poor agricultural practices, the soil had already been
depleted of many of its natural elements, and the rain
was not always dependable. Being situated on the lower
latitudes of the historic plain, the town of Harley was
known to experience both flood and drought in equal and
disastrously proportioned measure. It was almost
impossible to know just what to plant at any given time
of the year, how long it would last, or who would even
buy it. Most of the crops failed, of course; but there
was one that somehow always managed to survive. It was a
certain type of bean, known as the ‘Harley bean’; unique
to the area since the days of Old Erasmus Harley who, as
history would have it, first cultivated the sturdy crop
when he’d arrived there shortly after the Great
Emancipation.
His wife called
them ‘freedom beans’. And they did give off a rather
sweet and pungent aroma that could be described, at
least among those who cultivated them, as nothing less
than the ‘sweet smell of freedom’ in its own natural and
un-eviscerated state. But Erasmus thought otherwise, and
would soon christen the blessed vegetable the one and
only ‘Harley bean!’ immortalized down through the ages
as that ‘musical fruit’ for reasons we are all too
familiar with. The name stuck… and so did the beans,
which were said to have a certain ‘staying’ quality
about them, along with famous flatulent sound often
associated with that potent produce which typically
occurred at the tail end of the bean’s gastronomical
journey through the digestive tract. It was a purely
natural phenomenon that brought about a variety of human
reactions, some more generous than others. In some
cultures the ‘flatus’, or ‘fart’ as it is referred to in
the contemporary vernacular was actually considered a
compliment, an audible expression of one’s approval
after a satisfying meal. Naturally, there were those who
found the sound disquieting, if not downright
disgusting, and almost as offensive as the nocuous odor
that typically, but not always, followed the flatus. And
justifiably so! one can always argue. No wonder Martin
Luther was so infatuated with the revolting sound he
would so graphically, and rather cruelly it would seem,
apply to his most vocal critics, particularly those of
the Papal persuasion and chiefly towards the end of the
Great Reformer’s celebrated life. For some it could be a
most musical experience, like the long-winded note of
trumpet, and a source of many good humored jokes. For
others, however, it was just downright embarrassing. But
ohhhhhh! What a relief! And what a bean!
Most of the
farmers in Harley were sharecroppers, indentured to the
land under the prescribed and protracted terms set forth
by the contractual agreements they made with their
landlords. They were hastily signed, little understood,
and generally unfair to the illiterate subscribers who
didn’t know any better. The Harlies owned nothing, not
even own the land they worked. But it was honest work;
and for many, it the only work to be found after the
war. Some wondered if it was worth it – the war, that
is.
The party of
eight rode slowly through the Iron Gates of Harley,
mostly wondering what they were doing there at all, and
with not a little apprehension. It was not where Rusty
Horn, or any of the others for that matter, except for
maybe Homer (and even he wasn’t too sure anymore)
expected to be on that particular Tuesday morning. It
was not part of the plan, not in the itinerary; and it
certainly wasn’t in the contract they’d all had signed
not too long ago unless, of course, it was written in
letters so inconspicuously small as to escape the
immediate attention of the human eye, which, as we all
know, is not that unusual, even in the most innocuous
agreements. It seems that duplicity knows no boundaries.
It beguiles all, and spares none.
In a cowardly
and confused whisper, almost as if they were all being
watched, Alvin sneered, “I don’t like the smell of it.”
“Don’t smell
too bad to me,” the Negro reacted, his nostrils
summarily expanding like those of a she-moose that had
just caught wind of her musky mate. There was something
familiar about it, something that reminded him…of home.
“It's them ol’
beans,” said Dilworth, wondering out loud and pointing
to the fields where the farmers of Harley were already
well into a new day's work.
“What's that
you say, Dick-weed?” interrupted Alvin Webb, in his in
own brand of sarcasm that only he found amusing.
“Kind’a sweet,
tho’...Once when you get used to it,” recognized the
Negro, “Not bad, actually.”
“Beans!”
Dilworth proclaimed once more, only this time with added
enthusiasm. “It’s them ol’ Harley beans, I tell you! I
can smell 'em a mile away. Momma use to feed em’ to me
when I was just a little Dick...‘Ceptin’ she used to
call be Richard back then. Never liked 'em much myself…
Make me fart.”
Having ingested
the potent pellets on many a long and hungry trail, the
four horsemen had to smile in unison. Why, even the
otherwise stoic Red-Beard raised a whisker or two at the
mere mention of the famous fruit, better known as Harley
beans, but more scientifically classified as a
vegetable.
They may not
please every palate; but they were nutritious, hardy
stuff, and a staple for armies since they were first
cultivated. Red-Beard had eaten enough of them during
the war to sink Old Ironsides, and could personally
attest to their life-sustaining efficiencies. They also
kept well, even under the harshest of battlefield
condition, and could be eaten baked, boiled, barbequed,
or right out of the sack, the same small burlaps sacks
they were often shipped in. They were affordably as well
as transportable, and organically preserved in their own
natural skins. It was rumored that General Robert E. Lee
had once ordered a wagonload of the highly regarded
beans to be personally delivered to J.E.B. Stuart at the
Battle of Bull Run, First Manassas. Enough said.
Harley beans
were strong medicine, too, and used in a variety of ways
in treating the ailments of soldier and sailor alike,
everything from ‘trench-foot, to shell-shock, and
historically documented as such. The sailors swore by
them, and would never leave port with them.
Point in fact,
it seems that there once was a certain naval vessel
called ‘The Firefly’ that had sailed out of Old Port
Fierce with a cargo of the famous produce known as
Harley beans, among other perishables, on-route to the
Southern Seas. The captain was a bold one, of German and
Spanish descent, named Maximilian Orlando. It is said
that he was on his way to the Island of Istari-Toa, also
known as the Land of Bleeding Rock, to supply the troops
at New Fort Stanley with some badly needed provisions
after a long and drawn out battle with the native
population there. However, as she approached the
infamous island, located somewhere in a Parrot
Archipelago, the Firefly encountered gale force winds
that hit them like a hurricane just as the captain
neared landfall. And there, in the rocky reef of the
Bitches Bay just off the southern tip of the remote
landmass, Orlando’s ship went down. The captain and crew
had all somehow survived the calamitous event, which
many on board considered nothing less than a miracle
delivered by St. Elmo himself in the mist of the boiling
tempest. But the ship and her cargo were lost, forever.
Or were they?
As it turned
out, the Harley beans stowed on board the doomed vessel
had been hermetically sealed in small wooden containers;
the kind used for storing large quantities of beer at
the time, which also constituted a generous portion
Captain Max’s inventory. The only discernable difference
between the two containers was that the beer had been
distinctively and appropriately marked with Charlie
Kessler’s Double Footprint signature, which indicated
not only content of the container, but what was inside
and, more importantly perhaps, where it came from. And
as any self respecting connoisseur of fine adult
beverages could surely tell you, that meant only one
thing: it was brewed at the Lazy Hill distilleries which
was first established by Ezra Kessler and his five sons,
the family who first invented that famous rejuvenating
elixir more commonly known as ‘Creekwood Cornbrew’, or
beer. But that’s another story altogether, and one that
will have to wait.
Anyway, after
the grand old ship had capsized and sank, the precious
cargo of beans and beer simply floated back up out to
surface, buoyed by their natural tendencies. From there
they floated along the ocean current until such a time
that the containers were, in fact, swallowed by a nearby
passing sperm whale – a very hungry one at that. Now,
exactly how all of this happened is difficult to
explain. However, to lend credence to this otherwise
incredible tale, and add to the accuracy thereof,
captains of certain whaling ships that’d have sailed
those very same oceanic currents supply ample testimony,
along with written documentation, as to what might’ve
actually occurred.
As one of these
whale men, a young bright-eyed mariner with a flair for
fiction and a taste for pathos who just happened to be
in the general vicinity of where the unfortunate event
was said to taken place, so descriptively entered into
his journal one
day:
‘… And lo and
behold! We observed a great spermaceti whale cruising
off our starboard bow as we neared the Japanese coast.
On captain’s orders, and a half empty hull, we
immediately gave chase. The solitary bull didn’t notice
us at first, appearing totally ignorant of our position,
as well as our oblivious intentions. He had a
magnificent spout, the signature of that much sought
after species, flukes like twin spinnakers, and a great
hump that rose out of the water like King Kufu’s great
pyramid from the sands of the Sinai.
We proceeded
east at about five knots off the southern coast of
Japan; and just prior to lowering the boats, the
creature suddenly stopped, turned towards the boat,
fan-tailed fin-out, and let loose a great burst of gas
that shrouded the ship like a suffocating cloud of black
smoke. And then something strange happened. God as my
witness, the fishy fiend then looked straight up at the
captain, who was by than climbing into one of the boats,
pistol and spear in hand, and, and… grinned. That’s
right – the whale grinned! And as he did so, with a
crooked jaw and so many bolts of ivory white teeth, the
mammal upped those magnificent flukes high in the
heavens as if beckoning pursuit. And then, just like
that, he was off again like a shot, heading south, me
thinks, cruising in the general direction of the
Philippine Archipelago and leaving us in a fecal plume
of its wasteful wake. Naturally, this only infuriated
our brave captain, an old mogul with a short fuse and a
long memory who, owing perhaps to the fierce reputation
ascribed to captains of whaling industry in general,
seemed to hold a personal grudge against leviathan, and
this one in particular who appeared to have crossed his
wrathful wake on previous voyages. The orders were
given. We gave chase.
And so, we
manned the rigging, putting every inch of canvass to the
wind and pursued the indignant leviathan for two days
and a night, hoping to harpoon the great fish and fill
our hull in record time with enough spermaceti to light
up old Manhattan for the next twenty years, and enough
ambergris, the full Heidelberg Head, mind you, to scent
all the perfumes of Paris. But alas, that was not to be,
as yet another flatus forcefully burst forth from the
warm-blooded brute proved too strong for both captain
and crew to negotiate. The nocuous fumes filled the air
so odorously that even the scavenging sea-gulls were
afraid to light upon our nesting spars, and were of such
a magnitude that we were finally forced leeward as the
breaking wind turned suddenly and sourly against us.
Overcome as we were in the ubiquitous stench of defeat,
of which the flatulent whale, for whatever unfathomable
reason, seemed entirely indifferent to, we thus gave up
the chase. Even the captain was holding his nose by
then, hurling every curse and blasphemy he could think
of at the fleeing fish, the profanities of which, as the
pious boatswain later had confided in me, would ‘peel
the paint off the Sistine Chapel!’ as well as the
barnacles from our own hulking hull.
Buoyantly
bubbled up in a nocuous pool of his own gastronomical
juices, the wayward whale merely seemed to laugh (if
such a countenance could indeed be ascribed to a
creature whose eyes and ears are so infinitesimally
small, as compared to the rest of his massive hulk that
is, that they can only be detected from viewing the
mammal sideways, owing perhaps to the enormity of its
bulky head, the length and berth of which has been
measured to take up approximately one third of the
fish’s overall dimensions) whereupon it suddenly
up-lifted its titan tail for a second time that day in
the same horizontal salute affording both captain and
crew a parting shot, a final gesture, it would seem,
before plunging into the unsounded depths of its own
polluted grave. But not without one last death-defying
spout, the jet of which shot up – straight up! in one
long vaporous fountain which hung in the air for what
seemed like an eternity before showing down on captain
and crew while cleansing the blood-stained decks in the
process, and extinguishing the try-works where once the
blubber boiled. Through the misty prism that followed,
there suddenly appeared a great and glorious rainbow,
not unlike God’s mighty bow so colorfully set to rest in
the heavens on the very first day of the New Covenant.
‘Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus
Sancti…’ Aye! Saint John the Baptist could not have said it
better… and our decks never looked so clean!
And so, waving
goodbye to the grimacing god which we bid adieu with
bewildering relief and good riddance, we settled instead
for a half dozen or so humpbacks playing in the nearby
atoll that proved a far more favorable game; less
rendering in the commodities we had shipped for,
perhaps, but more pleasant to pursue and easier to kill;
and without that god-awful smell… that smell!’
And here the
whale-man’s journal abruptly ends. Whether or not the
lowly Harley bean was, in fact, to blame for the
leviathan’s gastro-intestinal manifestations – the
flatus, that is. Maybe it was just a bad case of
indigestion, a poisonous patch of plankton, perhaps, or
a disagreeable Jonah (surely, the old fugitive was not
the only mariner to suffer such a fishy fate) that
caused the whale’s dyspepsia. We may never know. But
then again, there are a great many thing we may never
know, including those things we are not yet equipped to
know, at least not on this side of Paradise. But it’s a
good story and, for all we know, both the hunter and the
hunted lived on for many long and happy years doing what
hunters and hunted do best; or maybe not.
Little Dick was
right, of course: Harley beans do make you fart, as
would any food with a high concentration of
carbohydrates and protein; adding beer to the menu only
intensifies the effect, like throwing gasoline on a
fire, I suppose. In fact, at times they were ingested in
large quantities for the sole purpose of producing the
familiar and sometimes comical sound. It’s no wonder
that Harley beans became so famous and were in such high
demand. And best of all, they grew in such quantities
that you could find them just about anywhere, at any
time; if not in the produce section of your local
grocer, then perhaps sitting in a bottle on the counter
of your local pharmacy.
From its humble
origins, beginning perhaps in the soupy soil of some
pre-historic swamp when all the continents were one, the
Harley bean had long since proved itself, from a
biological standpoint at least, to be one of Mother
Nature’s most reliable champions; for it has survived
not only draught and pestilence, but Mankind itself!
along with so many wars, revolutions, an ice age or two,
and perhaps even the Great Flood itself, the waters of
which have been documented to have at one time reached
the very rim of the Americas, and beyond. Through it
all, the bean survived, unlike the woolly Mammoth in its
entire insulated splendor that perished, along with the
dinosaurs, under such adverse conditions. It’s a Harley
bean, I say. And with any luck, it may one day make it
through a nuclear holocaust and, just like the lowly but
durable cockroach with its own natural body armor, will
sprout its shell-shocked head and come crawling from the
wreckage only to start the whole ugly process of
evolution all over again, perhaps to a more peaceful and
productive end. We can only hope.
But getting
back to the pharmacological aspects of this potent
little pill, the Haley bean also proved to best medicine
of choice when it came to purging the bowels or,
metaphorically speaking, removing the waste of Humanity
from the system. And in this congested and constipated
world in which we are all forced to live with one
another, whether we like it or not, and without killing
one another in the process I might add, what more could
you ask for? What better remedy could find? And they
were cheap, too.
“Strange how a
bean that taste so good can produce such a bad smell,”
the surveyor noted, rather academically. Not only did
Charles Smiley possess a keen and discerning nose for
odors, most notably of the outdoor variety, but he also
boasted a botanist’s knowledge of natural herb and plant
remedies far superior to that of your average Amazonian
witch doctor, which, if you have chanced to explore the
deep dark interior of those famous jungles with all
their teeming tributaries supporting a vast array of
herbs and plant-life, the like of which would not only
fill a thousand or so volumes and stock an equal number
of pharmacy shelves, but have Darwin’s head spinning on
a stick, is really saying a mouthful. It was an acquired
taste, and talent. It came with the surveyor’s
profession, a job in which a keen sense of smell could
be a curse as well a blessing; depending, of course, on
what was being smelled at any given moment. “Mighty
peculiar,” observed Smiley. “Might peculiar…”
“They do put
the pepper in your gumbo tho’,” acknowledged Hector
O’Brien, whose own young and resourceful wife would
sometimes use the remedial beans to flavor her husband’s
favorite stew, “…if you know what I mean,” he smiled.
She’d claimed them to be a powerful aphrodisiac as well,
and may’ve been proven right in that amorous regard, if
the Hammer was any evidence to her fertile claim. They
were also said to have promoted more regular bowel
movements, which, at Hector’s age, came as an added
bonus and a welcomed relief.
Little Dick
could not agree more. “Big Dick… I mean daddy, would eat
em’ all the time with his mustard greens, and beer. His
show’ loved those beans. Momma said they make him fart.
She was right about that. Ooooo-Weeeee!” recalled the
youth with one hand still pinching his nostrils for
effect, “that smell! Why, one night it got to stinkin’
so bad that momma chased him clear out of the house. I
think daddy slept out in the barn that night. But he
sure loved those beans… almost as much as he liked his
beer.”
Hector O’Brien
wasn’t surprised, naturally; and he seemed to
understand. “God bless your momma,” he said
half-jokingly, standing tall in his stirrups to get a
whiff of the odorous bean crop. And he meant it, too.
Webb was not so
easily amused, however. “I don't know much about beans,”
he glibly admitted, “but I do know what trouble smells
like. And it don't smell like any farts. Smells more
like e’wals to me,” he suspiciously added, unable
to produce the word correctly absent the aid of
his many missing teeth, particularly those in the front
of his foul mouth required for such speech. Naturally,
and perhaps predictably, whenever the toothless outlaw
attempted to enunciate words with ‘f’ in them
(and, to a lesser degree, those with ‘r’) it
always came out sounding funny, a little awkward, and
perhaps even embarrassing. Deprived as he was of those
missing front teeth that had since dropped from his
skull like so many diseased and worm-infested apples
from the tree, it was simply unavoidable, That, combined
with a sudden state of anxiety that presently overcame
the toothless wonder, made it even more comical to
watch. He was referring, of course, to the slaves, those
wild aborigines, considered savages by all account,
imported at one time from the mysterious islands of the
South Seas that, despite their docile, and sometimes
timid, appearance, and were thought to be cannibals at
heart.
“Tain’t no
Ferals left in these here parts,” insisted the
surveyor, knowing his history as well as he did his
botany.
“Hasn’t been
since the days of gold rush, and Mister Cornelius G.
Wainwright III, confirmed the Hammer who was indeed old
enough to have personally known the infamous prospector
with the bottlebrush moustache at one time or another.
“And besides,” he added with a hint of pitying sympathy
uncommon for those of his seasoned and prejudiced years,
“we don’t use that word anymore. Ain’t polite, you
know.”
“Well I still
uses it,” challenged Webb, as if he were somehow
personally offended by the carpenter’s unsolicited
apology. And to prove his wicked point, the outlaw
sprang up in his saddle and vomited out the word in
question: ‘Eeee’wallllllll!!! he howled, with gooey
stream of spittle running down his tortured cheek.
“There! You see? I just said it.
Being the only
one present with any formal education, other than Hector
perhaps, Little Dick Dilworth felt obliged to remind his
fellow seniors of what he’d recently been taught in
school. “They’re called ‘colored folk. Where’ve ya’ll
been? I thought you knowed that by now,” he interjected
with an air of superiority, which he probably shouldn’t
have, that often comes with youthful arrogance and
inexperience. “Used to be called nig…” And here the
young man stopped in mid-sentence, as he caught the
towering black frame of Sam looming a little too close
for comfort.
“Niggers,” said
the Hammer, completing the sentence as if extracting an
unwanted nail from a green piece of wood.
And here the
large Negro, who was still sniffing the air, turned his
hulking head towards the old gray head. At first he
appeared to grimace, but then he smiled; not because he
approved of the carpenter’s careless choice of words (he
knew O’Brien better than that) but simply because he’d
had long ago come to the realization that words, like
sticks and stones and other weapons of personal
destruction, could no longer harm him. By now he was
scarred all over with them and, like the Perth the
blacksmith once said, ‘you cannot scorch a scar’.
“Well, I don’t
care what you call ‘em,” gummed Alvin. “I call ‘em likes
I sees ‘em. And I damn well know an e’wal when I
sees one. They’s can’bals, I tell you! Just like the
ones that ate up poor Cornelius. And that’s what I
smells now – e’wals!”
The truth of
the matter was that Alvin Webb simply could produce the
sound the letter ‘F’ without making a bigger fool
out of himself than he already was. Actually, he did
have one tooth left in his gingivitis gums. It was
broken and brown, protruding loosely from his lower jaw,
like a post that has been rotting in ground from too
long. It pained him at times but, short of extraction,
which as far as Alvin was concerned was out of the
question, there was really nothing he could do about it;
and he was too much of a coward to have it removed
himself.
“They call
themselves Harlies, Mister Webb,” instructed Smiley, in
the proper vernacular of the day. “And if you ever get
your head out of your ass, or at least out of that
@#$%^&*! bottle for a little while, you would know that
Ferals ain’t the same as Harlies. They never
were! That’s why Wainwright brought them along with him
in the first place. Ferals are…how do you call
it? – of the cannibal persuasion.
The carpenter
concurred with the surveyor’s astute, if not charitable,
observations in regard to the outlaw: Webb was an idiot,
and a dangerous one at that. He also agreed with Smiley
on another fine point. “The slaves Mister Wainwright
took along with him up into the mountain were indeed
Ferals. “I know. My brother, Jack, was there. He
told me so. They were Ferals, alright, not
Harlie. There’s a difference, you know.”
Sam knew, of
course; but he didn’t want to start the battle all over
again; one war was enough and, in many ways, he felt
like he was still fighting the first one. So he remained
silent on the subject, which was probably the most
prudent thing he could do at the moment.
But the outlaw
persisted. “I still say Harlies and e’wals is the
same thing. Just look at ‘em. Black as sin! All of em’!
Inside and out.”
The Indian
could see the anger, as well as the growing resentment,
in Sam’s big brown eyes. In many ways, he knew what was
going on inside the black man’s soul. In a comforting
gesture of solidarity and friendship, he too remained
silent on the awkward and sensitive subject the outlaw
had intentionally stumbled upon. Besides, there was
really nothing left to say on the matter, not in the
presence of men like Alvin Webb anyway. It could get
ugly. And it would. And so, for the moment at least, the
Redman held his tongue, as well as his arrows.
Alvin didn’t
like being called an idiot. Most idiots don’t, you know,
at least not the smart ones. And he wasn’t going to let
it go so easily. There was one other person that day
that could clear up the matter once and for all but, for
whatever reason, he too had remained silent on the
subject he himself was probably most qualified to
discuss. And that was Homer himself. After all, he was
there that day, along with the carpenter’s brother. He
knew what happened. He saw it with his own eyes. “Tell
him, Mister Skinner,” he begged the man riding out front
on the big black horse. “You was there. Tell ‘em what
you saw. They’re all the same. Ain’t they?”
Homer shook his
head, no. He’d heard this kind of talk before, and was
aware of the many pejoratives and prejudices that
existed in that regard. He didn’t appreciate it; and he
knew Elmo wouldn’t like it either. He wished the outlaw,
and everyone else for that matter, would just shut up
and ride. The war was over. “Let it go,” he loudly
whispered.
But Alvin Webb
couldn’t resist one last insult. “Hawies... E’wals…
Niggers… They’s all the same to me,” he repeated to
himself, as idiots usually do, even in the disinfecting
light of the truth manages to penetrate their untenable
lies, refusing to make any clear distinction between the
cannibalistic slaves imported from the Islands, unfairly
tainted as they were with that horrible appellation, and
the good and otherwise civilized ‘colored folk’ of
Harley.
There was a
difference, of course. The farmers of Harley were, for
the most part, freed slaves turned sharecroppers who,
ironically enough, had been put into that questionable
position by the Great Emancipation himself when he freed
the Southern slaves, excluding, for political reasons it
would seem, their black cousins to the North. Harlies
were actually much darker in skin tone than the Island
Ferals spoken of so egregiously by the bigoted
outlaw, and were generally more civilized and accustomed
to the ways of the South. In realty, the Harlies had
been living in that area long before the Ferals
who were first introduced into the
region by the renegade pirates who’d bought and sold
them regularly on the black market, had ever arrived.
But unlike the Islanders of Mister Wainwright’s
generation, who were actually of Oriental origin and by
all accounts brought here illegally, the Harlies were a
people whose perennial roots were clearly and ostensibly
nourished in African soil, the sands of the Serengeti.
They couldn’t wash it off if they tried.
As for
appellation in question, ‘Feral’, it was a term
originally applied to those same aforementioned aliens
brought over from the Islands of the South Seas to mine
the Silver Mountains of the South, which, as it turned
out, proved to be a Bonanza. They were brought over by
pirates and sold indiscriminately to anyone who could
afford them. The price for the human contraband was
reasonably low at the time of the exchange, which, on
account of where it originated form and who was
supplying it, was quite understandable. By then, the
transportation of slaves, from any part of the world,
happened to be against the law. But that didn’t stop
those who still profited from the illicit enterprise,
and it didn’t stop people from purchasing the
contraband. That’s why they’re called pirates. And
that’s why they did the things they did. They were only
acting accordingly.
As for the
Ferals themselves, they were not actually as wild as
the term would clearly suggest, such as in ‘ornery as a
feral cat’ or ‘wild as a feral pig’. In
some cases, and under the right circumstances, they
may’ve been described as downright mild and easily
domesticated, a trait rare among more common slaves of
that era who, as evidenced by countless insurrections
and mutiny, as in the case of the famous slave ship,
Amistad, were considered less desirable by those who
were willing to pay a higher premium for the domestic
tranquility offered by the more docile Islanders.
Apparently, and
appropriately some may say, they were labeled with the
feral appellation for one particular reason,
which is as bewildering today as it was at the time of
its inception. You see, they all seemed to share, to one
degree or another at least, that one dehumanizing
characteristic that set them apart from all other races,
free or slave. It was like this: From time to time,
particularly when the darker forces of their natural
instincts took over, and for whatever genetically
encoded reason, the Ferals, or at least those
inclined to such behavior, would do to the
unthinkable. They would resort to practice Cannibalism.
That is to say, they would partake of human flesh. It
was a gruesome diet, and one not limited to the feral
flesh itself, as witnessed by none other than Homer
Skinner himself some forty years ago at the end of a
long dark tunnel. They were cannibals alright, with all
the superstitions and ambiguities attached to the
subhuman title, but civilized in all other human
aspects, or so it was said.
At first, their
forbidden cravings were thought to be an anomaly, a mere
cultural habit of a people who simply couldn’t, or
wouldn’t, comprehend the difference between right and
wrong; or perhaps, they just didn’t know any better.
Cannibalism was, and still is under almost all
circumstances, a barbaric aberration diametrically
opposed to civilization as a whole and limited to the
Ferals themselves, or so it would appear. And, in
some cases that may have been true; but not always.
For the most
part, the Ferals were considered hybrids,
something slightly less than human, but a little more
than animal, or a mixture of both, perhaps; and,
according to some anthropologists, a sort of ‘missing
link’ in a long chain of human evolution that began in
the primal soup of the dinosaurs and will end,
presumably, when all animals, including man, will either
become extinct or evolve into beings we could not
neither recognize or imagine. God knows where, and in
what diabolical form, these changes will occur, and what
new life form will emerge from such a progressive
transformation. But as one old English professor, a
self-described ‘dinosaur’ destined to outlive his time,
once observed, ‘new does not necessarily mean improved,
and progress if not always for the better’. Old habits
die hard, I suppose, just like dinosaurs and old English
professors. And if not for that one particular and
peculiar habit of eating human flesh, mortal or
immortal, the Ferals might’ve eventually joined
the ranks of civilized society along with the rest of
Humanity, and be equally doomed. Naturally, the slave
traders had other plans for these fated and feral
creatures, God and Nature not-with-standing.
As it were, the
importers of the flesh-eating commodity tried their best
to conceal this one singular detail regarding the
feral menu from their potential customers (at least
until the sale was procured and they were miles away
from any legal recourse and reprimand the illegal
transaction demanded) and were often successful, such as
the case with Mister Cornelius G. Wainwright III. But
for that one abominable trait, hideous as it was by all
reckoning, these Islanders were actually quite civilized
in their own peculiarity and, as some would even go as
far as to suggest, gentile ways. They neither drank nor
fornicated, and appeared modestly content in all other
natural aspects, exhibiting a shyness that, at times,
would bring out the bully in those of us who were
inclined to that kind of rude behavior. In some ways
they may’ve even been considered ‘dainty’ by those
ascribing to such toiletries, modestly picking the flesh
from their sharply filed teeth after a fine Sunday
supper.
Another curious
aspect setting the Ferals apart from their
African counterparts, along with their even more
civilized Caucasian cousins, were their tattoos: those
dark inscrutable lines indelibly etched into their skin
in so many geometric patterns unique to their own
cultural taste and environment. They, the tattoos,
seemed to tell a story, each in its own dark and
disturbing way, from savage head to cannibal toe in
extreme cases, but always with a certain dignity
attached to them that would somehow look inappropriate
and out of quite place stitched on the ivory arm of any
English sailor. In fact, it might be considered
downright offensive to savage sensibilities, and just as
insulting. It would be, in reverse, like a Zulu warrior
donning a Scottish highlander’s kilt and go marching off
to war across the Serengeti plains of Africa playing
Amazing Grace on Angus MacDougal’s bagpipes; which come
to think of it, would strike fear into the hearts of the
most fearsome warrior, and quite a scary thought at
that. But it just wouldn’t do. Besides, it didn’t make
any sense. And neither did the tattoos.
Some were more
pronounced than others, depending, I suppose, on various
factors such as the age and sex of the living canvass on
which they were inscribed, but owing more, I should also
suspect, to the importance placed on that particular
individual in a previous existence. On some Islanders,
these same tattoos were hidden almost entirely,
intentionally, shamefully in would appear in some cases,
beneath colorful layers of contemporary clothing they
wore either by choice or coercion, preferring them over
the grass skirts and coconut palms of their tropical
past, which they customarily wore, if they wore anything
at all, in more mild and temperate climates, such as
Tahiti and the lesser Antilles. And for all the weird
and wonderful wildness ascribed to these so-called
‘savages’, they seemed to have adapted quite easily,
almost naturally, to their present subservient
condition. But alas, any attempts at converting them
from their pagan beliefs were usually met with abject
failure. But as one suspecting mariner once so
eloquently observed: “Better a sober cannibal than a
drunken Christian.”
Unfortunately,
for the Harlies at least, the feral pejorative
was not limited to the man-eating variety. At one time,
the word was equally, and quite liberally, I might add,
applied to the peoples of Harley themselves, having
enough in common I suppose, at least from a purely
visual aspect, with the wild islanders of the west to
make such a presumptuous claim. But alas! Discrimination
paints with a broad brush, and prejudice knows no
boundaries. And so it was with the Harlies who, through
no fault or desire of their own, were tagged with the
dehumanizing label that so many had come to fear and
distrust. Calling it unfair certainly didn’t help.
Feral – The word is bad enough when applied to
those for whom it was originally and erroneously
assigned; how much more insulting when pejoratively
attached to, or even associated with, those thought to
be above and thus beyond its feral application, which
included, of course, anyone who happened to be a shade
darker than your average pale-faced Caucasian? Prejudice
comes in all colors; and it crosses many lines.
Naturally, the good folks of Creekwood Green who’d lived
and worked with the Harlies (at a charitable distance,
of course) were not at all immune to similar
discrimination either. In fact, many of the poorer white
farmers of European descent residing in those rural
parts of the territory have been tagged with pejorative
labels of their own, such as: ‘Greens’ or ‘Crackers’,
the former more often associated with those who tilled
the soil for a living, the latter of which was said to
have derived the appellation from the distinctive sound
made by the long whips of cowboys as they drove their
herds across country. It was said by many a
self-respecting ‘Green’ farmer or ‘Cracker’ cowboy whose
God-fearing sympathies did not necessarily preclude the
plight of his black brethren, even though slavery, at
least in their own keen but sometimes jaded eyes, was a
Biblically accepted concept, that given the choice
between the whip or the word (that is, the insult) nine
out of ten of them would choose the whip. And if you
were to ask any one of these nine proud and independent
agrarians for a reason behind such a painful preference,
they would more than likely smile and say in all
characteristic candor, ‘the whip just sounds better, I
reckon. And it don’t hurt so much’.
Naturally, that
same familiar cracking sound could also be produced by
applying, in equal measure, that same tortuous device to
the bare backs of slaves and criminals, achieving, and
with similar effect, the same desired punitive results.
Sometimes, it worked, other times it didn’t, just like
the word itself. No one knew that better than the
Harlies themselves who were certainly no strangers not
only to vicious verbal attacks, but the physical ones as
well. They cut just as deep; the wounds were still
visible. And they had the scars to prove it. But even
they were not immune from inflicting such atrocities on
their fellow man, and would occasional use the f-word
themselves, on one another no less, with equal force and
disparagement, and justify the abuse simply because they
just happened to share the same skin pigmentation,
which, of course, makes it alright in the eyes of the
abuser. The same could be said for the ‘Greens’ and the
‘Crackers’. Oh well, one bad turn deserves another, I
suppose; and no good deed goes unpunished. Black or
white we suffer from the same self-inflictive and
un-healing wounds, and are equally doomed.
In either case,
the pejoratives were generally ignored and the insults
easily dismissed by all races, and on both sides of the
Harley Gates. Reacting to such insensitivity and
maliciousness only seemed to exacerbate the problem.
Many simply tried not to. People are just cruel, I
suppose, some more so than others. Ignoring them is not
always the worst thing you can to do; but sometimes you
have to make a stand, even if it hurts, or kills. There
are always those that just can’t resist stirring the pot
of cultural diversity now and then; not to mix the
ingredients into some kind of cohesive building material
that would surely benefit the structure of society as a
whole, but merely to aggravate the aggregate, to make
things even worse by fanning the flames of hatred all
over again. Alvin Webb was just one of these. He
actually seemed to enjoy it when he could make someone
as miserable as himself, which wasn’t an easy task by
any means. But Red-Beard was different. He saw no
colors, made no distinctions, cast no aspersions. He
merely hated for hates sake; an infectious phenomenon
that respected no borders and knew no boundaries.
Despite a
barbaric proclivity towards consuming the flesh of their
fellow man, and as previously hinted upon, the Ferals
in question were said to have otherwise been most
accommodating in all other areas of human Endeavour, and
easily domesticated by those who’d purchased them for
their own selfish reasons and ill-gotten gains. At one
time, they were in very high demand, particularly among
the miners whose profits were directly related to the
amount of tunnels they could dig at any given moment;
and Ferals were, for reasons that defied human
reckoning and according to the miner with the
bottlebrush moustache, ‘Best goddamn hole diggers money
can buy!’ And considering how cheaply he’d purchased
them for, and how easy they were to maintain, even that
was an understatement.
They ate very
little, as far as we know, and sleep even less. The
women were known for their vicious and voracious
appetites, as well as their voluptuous bodies. They were
gruesomely groomed with pointed rows of pearly white
teeth sharply filed in the fashion of their customs and
tastes. The male Ferals, being typically thinner
than their female counterparts in all nonessential
aspects, required even less sustenance and possessed a
reputation for being diligent and hard workers;
although, left to their own natural devices and pagan
proclivities, they would just as well sit comfortably in
their smoke-filled huts discussing, among other things,
how fat and lazy women are in general, while their wives
labored at home or toiled in the fields, gossiping, no
doubt, about how stupid, weak, and thin men, in general,
are. Well, at least it’s nice to know some things never
change; and that men will always be boys, and women will
always be girls, no matter where you go in this wild,
wonderful, and ever-evolving world of ours; and that
things like chivalry and chauvinism, although they may
take a leave of absence now and then, never really die.
But getting
back to the subject at hand, and the source of a problem
that was that was still being debated on both sides of
the Iron Gates of Harley, even until this day. And that
was whether or not the two displaced subjects, the
Harlies and the Ferals, were actually related by
blood, chromosome, or any other biological matter that
could prove a common ancestry. The answer might best be
left for the anthropologist or genealogist to decide;
for they were, as a matter of physical observation, as
similar as they were different, neither one appearing to
be particularly indigenous to the same continent. In
fact, it was difficult to say, if the Ferals were
indigenous to any continent at all, as they appeared to
possess the attributes of several distinct races, not
least of all, the Oriental variety. But who ain’t an
alien? Tell me that! And except for maybe the native
Indians – Who came first? Who knows where any of us came
from. And who cares! And if this same anthropologist
knows anything at all about the evolution and history of
man, as he should, then he would certainly have to
conclude that we are all Feral – Harlie, Green,
or otherwise; and that we are inextricably linked to
each other, whether we like it or not, and that have
been since Adam. Furthermore, he might come to know, or
at least speculate that, indeed, we’ve been
cannibalizing one another throughout history, for the
last four thousand years at least, mentally and
physically, as well as mortally and culturally, ever
since we first figured out just how to do it, and get
away with it. It’s only human.
Of course, if
our Darwinian friend happens to be a Christian, and if
he’s an honest one, then he would be forced to concur
that we are all equally in need of a little redemption
now and then, along with the Salvation it provides. Who
is to say were God, or evolution, will lead us? Or in
what form we will be ten thousand years from now? Could
it be that in the grand scheme of things we are only
zygotes in our present state, embryonic wannabes, mere
organic matter, little more than fetal tissue with no
viable signs of intelligence or life, waiting for the
next reproductive stage in the process of evolution to
begin? And if that’s the case, what do we make of the
abortionist? Perhaps the next step of the evolutionary
ladder, if that’s what it truly is, will not be physical
at all – but spiritual! Maybe what God has in store for
us mere mortals is a metaphysical metamorphosis, if you
will, a quantum leap that goes beyond the physical laws
of nature, a vital transformation that transcends not
only science but religion as well, an awakening of the
soul that no one would have or could have ever
predicted. The new man! And why not? It could
happen, you know; just like it did a millions or so
years ago when suddenly, and for reasons we shall never
fully comprehend, a monkey in a jungle stood up on its
simian hind legs and realized, perhaps for the very
first time in its young transitional life, that it was…
was – naked! But that’s a matter of opinion, and
something for all of us mortals, feral or
otherwise, to come to terms with, if we haven’t done so
already.
Still there
were those who insisted, as appearances would clearly
suggest, that Ferals were not really ‘colored’ at
all, at least not by their own definition, but were
actually more closely related to that Asian race of
Mongrels; perhaps, descendants of the Great Khan himself
who went from Nomad to warrior overnight and conquered
two continents in the process. They may’ve been more
right than they were wrong, however; for in reality, the
Ferals spoken of so ambiguously up until this
point were, in fact, of Oriental origins, born and breed
on the Eastern steps of Asia Minor; but not entirely,
having made their way by boat, canoe, or whatever other
migratory means available at the time, to the very ends
of the earth, not unlike their Hunnish ancestors who
ruled the world before them. In fact, they were of mixed
blood and lineage; but more about that later.
Exactly how and
when they’d arrived on the tropical Islands of the South
Seas and beyond, where they were first discovered by
seafaring missionaries in search of new souls to
salvage, was a mystery for inquisitive minds to ponder
and for anthropologists to debate. Consider also, the
fact that these same aboriginal tribes had somehow
managed to traverse the mighty Pacific from Madagascar
to the Hawaiian Islands in little more that make-shift
out-rigger canoes, isolated as they were from any other
civilized shores, and you will indeed gain a certain
respect, if not reverence, for these tropical nomads of
the sea with their tattooed faces and naked bodies. But
that’s a story as old as antiquity, and for another time
and place perhaps. Here we are concerned with the modern
era and current state of affairs, namely, the Harlies
and the Ferals.
Further
separating, and thus dividing, the two aforementioned
progenitors were more obvious and distinctive physical
characteristics such as skin tone and eye color; the
Island faction being graced, for the most part, with
light brown eyes, fair olive complexions, and other
physical features more common to those of the
Mediterranean or Middle Eastern persuasion; but not
quite. Considered by some to be the more civilized of
the two imports, and despite their carnal inclinations,
the Island Ferals were also know to exhibit
qualities above and beyond their own savage reputation,
although some might disagree on that.
Of the two
specified groups, the Harlies had always considered
themselves the superior race, if only in the sense that
they were here first and, well…because, because they
said so! But who was here before them…or the Greens? Or
any of us for that matter! Of course, the Indians, or
‘Redmen’ as they are still called in many regions of
Americas, were here before anyone. But even they had to
come from somewhere. Perhaps, in that sense we are all
natives, no matter who we are or where we come from. So
where does the argument end? And does it really matter?
It was often suggested that it was the Harlies
themselves who’d first coined the infamous f-word;
but that’s never been entirely substantiated, either, as
is sometimes the case in the uncertain and ever-evolving
world of philology.
Prematurely
proclaimed the inferior race, regardless of any
similarities or genealogical connections, the Ferals
were quickly relegated to the minority status they
presently enjoyed, which was rarely ever challenged.
Prejudice? Perhaps. It depends on your point of view, I
suppose, and perhaps one’s own insecurities; and it
happened to everyone at one time or another, even the
Greens and the Crackers whose parents and grandparents
had suffered the same tyrannical whip, usually because
of their religious beliefs, in the brave New World as
well as the Old, which they’d fled from in the first
place to escape such injustices.
The Harlies
knew how it felt, which is why it seems just a little
disingenuous (some have even suggested that it was the
Harlies themselves who’d created the f-word,
perhaps as a way of mitigating their own shame by simply
displacing it on the shoulders of another) on their
part. ‘Guilt transference’ might be one way of putting
it put it, in more modern terms. And if that were the
case, it simply didn’t work; as the Harlies themselves
quickly found out when they realized that they were no
better, and perhaps a little worse, off for becoming the
very enemy they’d fought so hard to escape from. Ironic…
Ain’t it? It may simply have been a matter of pride on
the part of those who considered themselves, either
rightly or wrongly, slightly higher in the pecking order
of societal evolution at the time. We’ve all experienced
it. But there was a time, of course, when pride was all
that the Harlies had. Some things never change. And for
that, they may be excused; but only for a while, and not
without remorse.
In time, the
Ferals had all disappeared, their own cannibalistic
nature suggesting the instrument of their demise. As
recalled by older generations that still spoke of such
things in bewildering, if not downright disdainful,
tones, it was a welcomed departure that could not have
occurred a moment too soon. No one knew for sure
whatever became of these feral subjects of servitude;
but one would have to agree, or at least surmise, that
Cornelius G. Wainwright III must’ve played a significant
role in their strange and sudden
disappearance which, in many ways, remained almost as
mysterious as his own. Although the Ferals had,
by all accounts, totally disappeared by then, the word
remains even until this very day, the f-word,
lingering within and without the Iron Gates of Harley,
as it did for over a hundred years.
FERAL:
Pronunciation: (fēr'ul, fer'-) —adj.
1. existing in a natural state, as animals or plants;
not domesticated or cultivated; wild. 2.
having reverted to the wild state, as from
domestication: a pack of feral dogs roaming the woods.
3. of or characteristic of wild animals; ferocious;
brutal. 4. causing death; fatal. 5. funereal; gloomy.
FERAL.
The meaning,
except perhaps in the last two definitions, is perfectly
clear. It’s a wild word; make no mistake about
it. It speaks to us on a primitive, almost personal,
level. It’s wild, untamed, regressive, and animalistic
in every sense. It barks. It bites. It howls. It stirs
the imagination, conjuring up images of rabid dogs
running wild in the streets, foaming at the mouth;
diseased cats with overgrown claws and matted fur,
eyeing us from the alleyways; pigs that once rolled
mildly in the mud suddenly charging at us like
Hannibal’s elephants; or any other animal, having once
been properly domesticated by its master, reverting
back, for any number of reasons, to its original and
natural state. And it’s at this crucial juncture the
animal forfeits all its former value as either pet or
livestock, perhaps both, and whatever privileges it had
attained in the elevated position it had once occupied,
for what it once was – a beast. It is then deemed
incorrigible, out of control; whereupon it is summarily
shot and killed by any and all means necessary.
FERAL?
The word mocks
us. It mauls us, making us do what in our own natural
minds we dare not do, and makings us less than we are in
the process; like an African lion recently escaped from
the local zoo, whose basic instincts to survive are, to
one degree or another and depending on the
circumstances, really no different than our own; and
perhaps a bit more merciful since, man, as it has been
proven time and again, kills for the sake of killing,
with ever increasing efficiency and more tortuous
methods. And it comes back to haunt us: for we, as
humans, having been granted dominion over all other
creatures by the Creator of all living things, are
directly responsible for the recidivism in the first
place. In other words, we have failed. But we have a
right to fail; animals don’t. It’s what separates the
species. And with those rights comes responsibilities.
It’s the price we pay for being human, I suppose.
FERAL!
It’s a painful
word, especially when applied to humans. It hurts
because it’s supposed to hurt, like a kick in the
stomach or a punch in the nose. It’s an insult, a slap
in the face, a strap across the back. It’s a word that
has crossed that irreversible barrier from adjective to
noun, the original meaning of which has since
prejudicially morphed into that which it no longer
represents. Better if it had simply vanished from the
lexicon of man altogether, along with so many other
pejoratives etymology supplies us with through no fault
of her own. It hits hard, goes straight for the jugular;
and it never misses. It discriminates on levels be may
not even be aware of; for like all pejoratives with
their derogative connotations, it was a word use often
enough by those it is meant to target who, out of anger
or sheer frustration, are known to apply the same
appellation to one another, quite liberally in fact, and
with equal condemnation and hubris, which by the way
should not surprise anyone. For instance, it is one
thing for a Harlie to use the f-word in reference
to another Harlie, and understandably so. It is
something else, however, for anyone else, especially a
Green or a Cracker, to make the inference or use
of the offensive word in a likewise fashion, at least
from the Harlies’ point of view. You see, in the first
case, the f-word may by harmlessly applied and
taken as a term of recognition or even endearment (such
as an older brother calling his sibling a ‘nitwit’ or a
‘numbskull’) with little or no malice attached to it, or
in a comical sense. In the second case, however, this
very same five-letter word is taken in its more literal
context, and with every negative connotation attached to
it. It is the ultimate insult, the height of
condescension, patronization in its worse form. But
don’t be fooled. There’s a serious difference in the two
applications that should be carefully considered. In
one, the use of the f-word could be easily
excused, or even ignored, by all parties concerned. But
when used in any other manner, the manner in which it
was designed, it becomes the unpardonable sin.
The Islanders,
the Ferals for whom the word was originally
coined, for the most part ignored the f-word.
What else could they do? They often joked about it… but
in a strange and self-deprecating sort of way, which
some found amusing as well as bewildering. When
confronted with the offensive two-syllable word, either
publicly or privately, they merely smiled and went about
their business, which was usually something menial, like
cooking, cleaning, or emptying chamber pots. They simply
didn’t seem to care, even after they’d found what the
word, with all its bestial implications, really meant
and stood for. In a strange and sadistic way, something
students of Nietzsche might understand, it only seemed
to make them stronger and even more resolute in their
own stoic convictions. It also made those who lorded it
over them that more suspicious of them in general, which
only added to the confusion. They simply could not be
trusted. And they weren’t.
They were
slaves, after all, who’d worked the mines and fields in
that part of the world from sunup to sundown, all year
round. They were first brought over from the Islands of
the South Seas and sold by pirates in Old Port Fierce
who participated in the outlawed practice of
transporting and peddling human flesh, despite the New
Abolition. Exactly where the pirates found this new
labor force is still open to debate, although many had
long suspected that they were sold to them by their own
feral king, King Bobo, on an Island called Istari-Toa,
or the Land of the Bleeding Rock. Who were they? Where
did they come from? They weren’t white, but they weren’t
exactly black, either. What were they? might be a better
question.
But it was all
a thing of the past. Freedom was the Law of the Land and
the will of the people, or at least the people who
counted, that is to say, the ones that won; and it would
remain that way, for the time being. It was written in
the Declaration of Independence and addressed, albeit in
its own ambiguous and ambivalent way, in the
Constitution itself. But wait! Didn’t many of the
Founding Fathers, Christians all, own slaves against
their own moral consciences, better judgment, and even
their better angels? Then why did they allow it to exist
at all after July 4, 1776? you may as well ask. Anyone
with half a brain and half a heart would surely see the
hypocrisy here.
The answer to
the slavery issue, at least at that time, was quite
simple: Without it, the young Nation simply would not
have survived. It would have died in the egg, its
infancy, along with the chick pecking at its
revolutionary shell. The Southern block was simply too
strong. It would be a problem for another day, another
time, and for someone else to deal with. Pass it on to
the next generation – it’s the American way! But by that
time the answer to the slavery question was quite the
opposite, and so was the question: How could the Nation
survive – with slavery? The answer came this time, not
with a capitulation, but with BANG! And History was
changed forever.
Little did
anyone know, or even suspect, that new forms of slavery,
which were far worse than the old ones, were already
waiting in the wings to fill the vacuum left by the war,
and the emancipation that had precipitated it.
Indentured servitude was one of these, and the working
conditions were even worse. Whichever way you choose to
look at it and whatever else you may like to call it,
the practice of slavery was just plain wrong, morally
and intellectually, and at last – legally. It was even
wrong economically, as many of the landowners themselves
would quickly learn, although you would never get them
to admit it, at least not I public.
Slavery was an
abomination, a calamity, a curse, an evil spirit that
would haunt the land and poison the soil forever. Its
demise was foretold in the crystal balls of sages, the
counsel of the wise, and the tealeaves of gypsies.
Slavery, like the great Dodo, or the giants of
Patagonia, was doomed to extinction and relegated to the
ash-heap of History were they no doubt belonged. It was
a bloodstain on the fabric of Humanity that would never
be fully expunged or expurgated. It was a disgrace. It
was a debt that could never be paid; and thus, one that
would never be collected; at least, not in Confederate
dollars. Nor should it be! – the sins of the fathers
notwithstanding. The Harlies seemed to understand.
Slavery simply was something that was, even if it
were not of their choosing. The legacy of these
forgotten folk lived and died behind the Iron Gates of
Harley. And that’s why they called themselves Harlies.
That’s who they were. But what about the Ferals? surely,
they should have benefited as well. They were, after
all, human – Weren’t they?
By the time of
the Great Emancipation there were no more Ferals
to be found, anywhere, or so it was thought. A common
assumption of what became of these man-eating mammals
was that they simply cannibalized themselves into
extinction; an ironic way to go, if nothing else. A more
realistic account was that they finally escaped their
mining masters by means of their own nautical knowledge
of the sea, which, despite their mountainous
surroundings, they never fully abandoned. It’s always a
good idea never to forget past professions, the
knowledge of which could someday prove indispensable,
especially when a quick get-a-way is in order. The tools
just might come in handy.
As it turned
out, the Ferals were natural navigators and
anglers, having proven themselves on the high sea in
many regards and on many occasions, not least of all in
battle. It was in their blood. It was also suggested,
with evidence to prove it, that these same native
islanders had once hunted the great Leviathan. And the
fact that it was done in dugout canoes and bamboo
harpoons only added to their prowess. And that’s not
all! A documented account existed of how a mutinous band
of Ferals once commandeered their own slave ship
from its Spanish owners off the coast of Peru. It is
said that they piloted the fated ship all the way back
to the Islands where they were absconded from; and they
accomplished this, or so it was logged, with nothing
more than the wind, the currents, the stars, and a
bloodthirsty taste for Freedom to guide them through the
perilous waters they seemed to be so familiar with. What
they did to the captain and crew of the doomed vessel
would soon become evident. For it seems that for the
duration of the voyage, which spanned no less than
fifteen hundred nautical miles, the Ferals never
once lacked for food. But that, of course, is another
story.
Whether or not
the Ferals might’ve been freed along with the
Harlies as a result of the Great Emancipation was a
subject of scholarly debate. No one would ever know. But
one thing they did know was that not all things had
changed for the better, not even for the Harlies who,
according to who you ask, were still at the epicenter of
the conflict and fighting their own battle.
It seemed that
shortly after the Great Emancipation both the Harlies
and the Greens became even more distrustful towards one
another and, perhaps, more spiteful in their own unique
and discriminating ways. This may have occurred for a
number of reasons. Wounds of the past heal slowly, if
they heal at all, and some prejudices never dies; they
simply takes on other forms and find new targets for
their hatred. It was a gap that could never be
successfully or completely bridged. There were those who
suggested the gap was never meant to be bridged at all,
relying on Scripture and their own prides and prejudices
to back up their antiquated and unjust reasoning. Others
simply wished that slavery never existed.
All worthwhile
things take time, and Freedom’s no exception. In a
strange, ironic, and almost prophetic sort of way, it
was the most vocal proponents of Emancipation, many of
them slave owners right up to the end of the war, who
may well have been responsible for making matters even
worse by either breaking or bending the new laws to suit
their own hypocritical agendas (with the help of a few
good lawyers) before the ink was even dry on the paper
they were written on. Jim Crow was alive in well,
especially in Dixie where, as we all know, things happen
slowly – like courtship and conversation – if they
happen at all. It was a gap that could never be totally
bridged; and one that would only grew wider with each
passing generation, despite all efforts to narrow it.
Old prejudices
die hard, and some wounds never heal. Just ask the
Harlie. All the talk about Freedom...and the rights of
man! Did it really work? Perhaps diversity is for crop
rotation and pie baking contests after all, integration
being a necessary evil at best. But that’s what makes it
so difficult. That’s the problem. They’re all just
words, and words can be misconstrued. They hurt. They
mislead. Sometimes, they kill. And they never fully
convey what’s really going on inside human heart, where
wars really begin.
The problem was
plain as black and white, but the blood on the
battlefield is always the same color red; and it doesn’t
really matter whose it is or where it came from. It
may’ve flowed voluntarily, as it did from the proud
veins of the Confederate soldier from Alabama who
couldn’t understand exactly why anyone would want to
make him change his way of life, denying him his
Constitutional and unalienable rights in the process. On
the other hand, that same blood could’ve easily been
drawn, and in equal measure, from the icy arteries of
New York City Yankee, drafted and spliced into the Union
Army by the cooked politicians of Tammany Hall and the
Five Points, like that of the poor Irish immigrant who
could barely feed his family, much less himself, and
marched off to fight Mister Lincoln’s war with a musket
in one hand and a John Brown’s Bible in the other.
Or perhaps it
was merely the inferior blood of a poor slave that
nourished the cotton fields of old Virginia, like it had
for so many years, who was fighting for nothing more
than an acre of land to call his own and, perhaps, a
little peace of mind. Either way blood flowed, red. It’s
the color of Ahab’s pennant, the color of war, the
primary pigment dyed into the fabric of both standards,
whether it was the stars and strips of Old Glory or the
Southern Cross of Old Saint Andrew.
It was Yankee
Doodle Dandy and Dixie, together, as they should’ve been
played all along. They really don’t sound very
different, you know. Think about it! Or better yet, if
you happen to be musically inclined, try this little
experiment sometime: Simultaneously, if you can, play
both tunes together, ‘Yankee Doodle’ and I wish I
were in ‘Dixie’ at the exact same time, and see
what happens! If you are a good musician and as skilled
on your instrument as you should be… well then, you will
perhaps learn something you might’ve known all along.
For when you play the two old songs together, as one,
you will quickly notice something strange and wonderful
happening: a brand new song has emerged. That’s right!
You got it! It’s ‘Yankee Doodle Dixie! Of course.
And it’s beautiful, man! Listen to how naturally it
sounds: how north and south blend together, in perfect
harmony, as if scored by the same musical mind. It’s the
way they’re supposed to be played; the way it was meant
to be all along, like the black and white keys of a fine
old piano, in perfect time and in perfect tune. It was a
marriage of necessity as well as convenience, as most
successful marriages are, and one that should last,
despite the occasional conflicts that arise now and then
is such great and noble Institutions, forever.
Not all
marriages end in divorce, of course; some just separate,
temporarily, we should hope; but not without the grief
and pain that goes along with it which, in one sense, is
a the best reason for not getting divorced in the first
place. Sometimes it’s simply unavoidable, as in the case
of Yankee Doodle and Dixie, that famous couple whose
marriage also got off to a very rocky start. It was a
bitter divorce – most usually are – predicted by some
over a few arguable lines in the original contract,
something about all men being created equal. It
was enough to put the honeymoon on hold, for a while at
least, until they would meet again under different
circumstances in places like Gettysburg and Appomattox
which, in more charitable times might have provided a
pleasant platform for two young lovers to meet; a place
where gentlemen could sit and sip their mint juleps in
peace, tell long stories and smoke even longer cigars
under a mild Maryland sky rather than trying to murder
one another over something they really didn’t understand
and had very little to do with. And the banners that
draped the bodies at Gettysburg were not so different
after all: stars and bars; red, white and blue; cut from
the same course cloth, dyed in blood, spliced together,
and ran up a flag pole in Baltimore Maryland one star
spangled evening at Fort McHenry.
At the end of the battle, the flag was still there, and
so were the stars and bars, arranged a little
differently, perhaps; but they were still there. And no
one died in vain.
So, show some
gratitude and perhaps a little respect for those bloody
banners and broken bodies. They fought for what they
believed in, rightly or wrongly, and just as bravely and
boldly, as all good soldiers do; they would expect
nothing less. They fought for freedom. They fought for
their families, their country and king. But most of all,
they fought for each other, these battered, bloody bands
of brothers; and for an uncertain future they could only
seen darkly through myopic clouds of war. Some fought
for themselves, selfishly, perhaps. And what’s so wrong
with that? Hey, at least they fought. And that’s the
reason we celebrate them, no matter what colors they
wore, or whose banner they flew. And for Christ’s sake,
never forget them, any of them, black and white, ‘Johnny
Reb’ or ‘Paddy P’tayda-head’, wherever theses great
souls now rest in God’s Eternal Fields. Was it worth it?
Well, let’s just say that’s for you to decide. You be
the judge. And while you’re at it, say a prayer, for all
of them – Will ya? That’s what brothers do. And they
were your brothers, too.
Homer once
tried to explain the sad and simple truth to the boy
from Harley, the ‘Lucky Number’ he was hoping to find
that day. ‘Takes a might getting use to,’ he told his
Harlie friend one day shortly after they’d met, ‘...this
Emancipation thing.’ What the old man was trying to do
at the time was instill in his new young friend a sense
of worthiness, which, as any old man can tell you, comes
only with time, experience, and maybe a little
forgiveness. ‘Pride goeth before the fall’, warns the
prophet. ‘And the meek shall inherit the earth’,
preaches the minister. ‘A little humility never hurt
anyone,’ the wise man reminds us. And ‘the only free man
is a dead one’, both cop and criminal might add as the
hammer comes down and the bullet meets the bone. Of
course, they’re all right, in their own judicious
self-serving way.
‘It's kind of
like a new pair of shoes…’ Homer once elucidated from
the saddle, referring, of course, to the black stud
between his tired old legs, “this Emancipation thing.
Got to be broken in proper like... like ol’ Blackie
here. See what I’m gettin’ at, boy”? he beseeched his
newly emancipated friend in a firm and fatherly tone.
“Takes a might gettin’ use to… freedom, that is. And it
ain’t that easy. Some folks find it more difficult than
others. But that’s the price we pay for being human, I
‘spose. We’s all sinners, son. And we all have our
crosses to bear. It’s just that some are bigger than
others,’ he continued, referring, perhaps, to the very
large and life-like crucifix he’d kept inside his barn
all these years, and one he planned to put to good and
proper use one of these days, in all its gory glory.
‘And that goes for Greens and Crackers, too! As well as
Harlies. Am I getting’ thru to you, boy? I say – am I
getting’ thru!’ he would enunciate in the familiar
‘Fog-horn-leg-horn’ style gentlemen of the South often
come to rely on when confronting the innocence,
ignorance, and oblivion of youth.
Had Homer been
more inclined to incorporating parables in his awkward
and sometimes illogical apologies, the way many great
teachers do (and often with great success, as evidenced
by a humble carpenter from Nazareth) he might’ve tried
something along the lines of: Freedom might very well be
described as an incredible thirst. Think of a man dying
in the desert from dehydration. He’ll drink his own
urine, and it just might save his life; but it’s hard to
swallow. A sailor at sea adrift in a lifeboat knows from
practical experience that even a mouthful of salt water
will drive him insane and, sooner or later, kick him;
and so, he wisely resists the temptation. But let either
of these two unfortunate souls be suddenly and
miraculously presented with the Holy Grail itself,
filled to the brim with the cool, clear, life-giving
water of salvation, and he will undoubtedly (if not
prevented from doing so by some metaphysical power
beyond his control or comprehension) drink himself into
an early and un-necessary grave if he didn’t know any
better. For as any good doctor who knows anything at all
of the human anatomy, will surely prescribe: ‘Small sips
at first, if you please. Dink and live! But do it
slowly, moderately; and drink it to the dregs! Ask any
veterinarian if it is wise to kennel a wild animal from
birth in the benevolent but ignorant hope of
domesticating the poor creature, and he will laugh in
your face. Then try asking him if suddenly returning
that same wild animal back into its own natural
environment (among predators it’d never learned to
defend itself against) in a mistaken moment of mercy and
regret, and he will (if he doesn’t report you to the
authorities and have you thrown in jail first for
cruelty to animals) tell you that the only way it can be
accomplished, if it can be accomplished at all, is
slowly, and with great care and consideration.
But wait! We’re
talking about people here – Ain’t we? Not animals! Well,
yes; but, like I said, it’s just a parable. And when you
get right down to it, we’re all animals anyway, at least
according to the Evolutionists. The point here is:
Freedom takes time. And it ain’t cheap. Nor is it always
desirable, as Moses found out while herding a half
million stiff-necked Israelites through the Sinai who
realized that they may have been better off baking
bricks for Pharaoh, where they at least were fed,
rather than dying in the desert with a old and a staff
who they would just as soon stone to death. Freedom, as
the songwriter says, may be just another word for
nothing left to lose; but it sure don’t come easy. And
it certainly isn’t free. That’s all the old man was
really trying to say that day, albeit in his own
bumbling but benevolent way. It was something Elmo had
already suspected but never quite understood. It should
never for granted, either; no matter how great or small
the measure. And he was right about that, too.
‘Freedom is not
something we deserve, but rather something we earn’,
explained Homer. ‘And sometimes it comes with a price
tag; a price that, more often than not, has to be paid
in blood. Liberty is not to be taken lightly. It is not
an entitlement; and it is never guaranteed. Freedom
brings with it certain rights, and those rights bring
responsibilities, which is the real difference between
man and animal; the only thing an animal is responsible
for is survival. Freedom’s not for the weak or faint of
heart; and it may not for everyone. And it don’t happen
overnight, either.’ What the old man was really trying
to say was that, like all altruistic things, Freedom
takes time, for everyone. ‘Not so fast, son. Not so
fast! he warned in typical fatherly fashion. ‘Just give
it some time’. Whether or not Elmo Cotton actually
agreed with the old man is hard to say. Old men say
strange things sometimes and, like everyone else, I
suppose, they don’t always say what they mean. But he
loved him just the same; and that that’s what really
mattered, of course, to both of them.
The Harlie was
always patient and polite with the old man, as he was
with most older folks, just like his grandmother would
wanted him to be; if he only knew who she was. ‘And
Watch your step, son! Better a chain around your leg’,
further admonished the kindly old man on an issue he’d
always feared might one day tear the two of them apart,
‘than a chain around your heart.
‘Or a whip
‘cross yo’ back...’ the Harlie would often remind him,
having been whipped himself not too long ago and for no
other reason than being born on the wrong side of the
Iron Gates of Harley, although it really wasn’t
necessary. Elmo knew what Freedom felt like. It felt
like pain. It bled. It hurt! And for the most part, he
still wasn’t sure what it was.
Homer Skinner
was one of the first ones to embrace the new
Emancipation Law when it finally was introduced to the
Southern states, much to the confusion and consternation
of friends and neighbors who were not so accommodating,
along with the entire Confederate army. Needless-to-say,
it did not apply to the slaves residing north of the
Mason-Dixon. It was understood, at least among his
constituents, that Mister Lincoln’s new Law was aimed
like a cannon directly at the Southern states, primarily
a political tool, rhetorical propaganda to swell the
Union ranks with fresh blood, even if it was only the
blood of slaves. In his own masterful and strategic
mind, the Great Emancipator reckoned the Negro would
fight just as bravely for his noble and altruistic cause
as any damn Yankee, if for no other reason than revenge.
He was right about that. The slaves did fight! But they
fought on the Confederate side as well, if the truth be
told. Oh well, I guess, in the end, we pick our own
fights, and our own enemies. And you can’t squeeze blood
from a turnip, as Mister O’Brien would say.
Homer never
did hold a grudge against those that resisted abolition,
and remained friends with many a young southern soldier
long after the war ended, handing out cider and cigars
to the wounded rebels as the picked up their dead and
headed home; not with their tails between their legs, or
wearing a dress as Jefferson Davis was caricatured at
one time, but with their pride, and their manhood, fully
intact. Homer applauded them all. It was the right thing
to do; the gentlemanly thing to do. And besides,
residing as he did in a border State, it was also the
wise thing to do. For a while there were those who
choose to ignore the new Law, like the miners for
instance, who’d maintained and kept alive a bitter and
bloody feud that only ended shortly after they were
forced to free their human contraband or face military
reprisal. In the end, they capitulated. But they never
forgot, or forgave, those who took away their own
‘free lunch’, along with their property and,
perhaps, a little bit of their Southern pride. And they
weren’t the only ones. After they had gained their
freedom, the Harlies reacted accordingly by holding some
grudges of their own, which were manifested in
occasional hostilities directed towards the Greens
whenever the two would sometimes congregate in churches,
courthouses, and other social arenas open to the general
public… with separate facilities, of course. It was a
mutual distrust, as relationships sometimes are, healthy
or otherwise. And it was still there.
Homer Skinner
always had a kind word and a helping hand for any
hard-luck story that chanced to pass his way, Harlie or
otherwise. He realized, of course, that Negroes were
still very suspicious of the white man in general,
perhaps more so now than ever; and he really couldn’t
blame them. One of those stories was Elmo Cotton, the
Harlie whom the old man had befriended one day shortly
after the war when they were first introduced to one
another by Joe Cotton, Elmo’s uncle who would sit in his
rocking chair on his front porch catching horseflies in
his big brown hands with a speed and agility that amazed
just about everyone. He came to love Elmo almost like
the son he never had. Despite public criticism and
prejudice that still existed on both sides of the Iron
Gates of Harley, Homer always treated him as such. The
old man didn’t call him a Harlie either, and he
certainly never called him a Feral. He just
called him Elmo, because...well, that’s who he was.
As the party of
eight rode through the muddy roads of Harley, they
watched with bewildering pity as the poor farmers worked
the land with bent backs and black faces. These were the
farmers of Harley who lived on the other side of the
iron gates. They wore stitched overall jeans with no
shirts. The ones that could afford them had shoes. The
women of Harley were there as well, gathering up the
famous beans in long white aprons while sweetly singing
‘In the Color of the Lord’, an old hymn they’d been
singing since… well, since they were old enough to sing,
which for a Harlie is usually as soon as they can open
their mouths.
It was harvest
time in Harley, and so the women were naturally more
busy than usual. They hardly noticed the eight strangers
coming down the road that day; and even if they did, you
would ever know it. And so, they just kept right on
singing and toiling, as if the two were one of the same.
And they were doing it all ‘In the color of the Lord’,
just like they always did. It sounded almost… almost,
like a prayer:
In the house of the Lord, I’m a’prayin’!
In the light of the Lord, I see!
In the fields of the Lord, I’m a’singin!
In the color of the Lord, I’ll be!”
Chapter Five
The Lucky Number
THE HOUSES OF HARLEY were small, shacks actually, simple
wooden structures held together with little more than a
few two by fours, some rusty nails, and a tin roof. They
had no basements, of course; only a few had windows.
Many of these homes had been constructed – rather
hastily, it would seem, on brick stem-walls rather than
solid foundations, especially those nearest the swelling
banks of the Redman River.
During the rainy
season, which typically lasted from April thru the end
of July, the streets of Harley would often flood, making
travel all but impossible; if you ruled out boats, rafts
and anything else that might float. At times the water
level would reach such alarming proportions, flooding
not only the streets but many of the homes as well, and
washing away much of their meager bean crop in the
process. It was just one of those things you learn to
live with, I guess, like your in-laws coming to visit
once a year.
The good and
decent folks of Creekwood Green helped as much as their
conscience and resources would allow; and the Crackers
as well, if they weren’t too busy driving their hungry
herds cross-country, which took up a great deal of time.
It was usually too little and too late, but appreciated
never-the-less; and what little they did receive, the
Harlies would, for the most part anyway, always pay
back, either with a good strong back if and when one was
needed; or better yet, a sack of Harley beans. And if
that weren’t available, a good old ‘Harlie handshake’
would always do.
With very few
exceptions, almost all of the farmers in Harley were
sharecroppers. They had little or nothing to call their
own, except for maybe the clothes on their backs, which
someone else had probably owned before them. They didn’t
even own the shacks they lived and died in. Everything,
it seemed, belonged to the landlords, including the land
itself, which the farmers worked from sunup to sundown,
and sometimes, depending on the time of years, beyond
that. They bought what little they needed to survive,
mostly dry goods and food, from these same greedy
landlords who sold them at inflated prices at makeshift
general store or behind closed doors. What they couldn’t
buy, they borrowed; what they couldn’t borrow, they
simply went without. Unless…
At times, the
landlords would loan the farmers the money they needed
to sustain themselves, but with interest rates that
would make a New York loan shark blush. Not being able
to pay them off would only drive the sharecroppers
further into debt, which, in a strange and paradoxical
way made them even more valuable, to the landlords
anyway. It was a never-ending cycle of dependency,
poverty, and despair that made the landlords richer and
the farmers poorer. Like they say: some things never
change.
Expressing little
or no interest in the general welfare of the indentured
bean farmers, the landlords (whom themselves had been
slaves at one time, albeit of a higher class and order
than, say, your typical Negro in a previous existence,
but slaves never-the-less) were in many ways no
different from their former task-masters who, obviously,
had taught them well. Through extortion, fear, and
perhaps a little favoritism, they became just as rich
and twice as cruel as their evil predecessors under the
new system known as ‘Indentured Servitude’. It was
really nothing more than legally sanctioned extortion
disguised as free enterprise and masked in unattainable
rewards. It was all stick and no carrot. But it worked!
And it worked rather well; at least within the Iron
Gates of Harley.
Historically
speaking, the town of Harley was first settled by one,
Erasmus Harley, shortly after the war. It was for him
that the town was properly named, and deservingly so
many would certainly agree. It happened at the time when
slavery, was officially abolished from the land and
became a thing of the past. Old Erasmus was awarded a
generous parcel of land (forty acres to be exact) and a
mule, shortly after the war.
Of course, there
were those who’d claimed that Emancipation was merely a
convenient excuse to centralize political power at the
expense of the farmers, miners and anyone else who
profited from the whip and chain in the pursuit of ‘free
labor’ which, when you get right down to it, really
wasn’t ‘free’ at all.
Slaves were
considered a valuable commodity at one time, a natural
resource, and a great asset to those who purchased them,
feral or otherwise, and were treated, for the
most part, with great care and respect; just like you
would treat any piece of personal property, such as a
prize bull or a good stud. It didn’t make it right; but
it made sense. Some were eventually freed in return for
their many years of faithful, if not so voluntary,
service; and they were grateful for it, too. Despite the
evil institution that was responsible for bringing them
together, albeit not in the ways they would have
preferred, many a friendship was said to have developed
between master and slave during that time; and
friendship, no matter how it comes about, is a thing to
be cherished, and not to be taken lightly. In some cases
it might have even called considered… affectionate. But
there are always exceptions. Cornelius G. Wainwright III
was just one of these exceptions. He treated his slaves
cruelly, right up to the cruel and bitter end. And for
that alone, he became infamous. He only got what he
deserved, as many would agree.
But there was
hypocrisy to be found in all quarters. It had always
been a curious fact that those who cried ‘Injustice!’
the loudest were always the first to flee whenever a
Harlie happened to cross their self-righteous path. In
fact, it was the abolitionists themselves, many of them
die-hard Unionist, that somehow managed to hold on to
their human chattel the longest, right up until the end
of the war in many cases, claiming they were only doing
so out of fear of being put out of business themselves
if and when their altruistic cause was finally realized.
They were the biggest hypocrites of all, of course,
hiding behind their white sheets of anonymity, and
certainly no stranger to Jim Crow and his many
illegitimate children. But at least they were honest
about it, which is more than could be said for some
others who were no more than sanctimonious carpetbaggers
with political axes to grind.
When the great day
of Emancipation finally arrived, Erasmus Harley wiped
the surly dirt of Old Port Fierce from his bare muddy
feet and never looked back. Some say the old manservant
cried that day, on account of he and his former master
had been, in spite of popular misconceptions and perhaps
even themselves, the best of friends for so many years.
In many ways the
Emancipation, and the end of the war it precipitated,
was a sad time for Harlies as well as Greens. The chains
were gone, literally if not figuratively, but the
memories remained; and not all of them were bad. Some
bonds can never be broken, nor should they. I’m taking
about the good ones, of course. They live on through
trial and tribulation, through the good and bad, even
under the weighty yoke of injustice. They may even have
existed between slave and master at one time, growing
only stronger with each passing year, mutually
benefiting both parties, despite the circumstances they
were forged under. What begins in sin does not
necessarily have to stay that way. Love has a way of
seeing through such disguises. It has many faces, and
comes in many colors. And of all the faces of love, is
there any more pure and noble, more pleasant, more
comfortably reassuring, more understanding, more real,
or more lasting than the familiar face of friendship?
It’s a simple bond, but made of the strongest stuff.
It’s thicker than blood and, unlike mischievous Cupid or
unpredictable Eros, you can always count on Friendship.
Friends know where they stand: not in front of or behind
one another, the way lovers often do, but side by side,
shoulder to shoulder, always equal to themselves. True
Friendship has no jealousy and holds no grudges; and in
that sense, you might say that it’s the most innocuous
and inclusive love of all. It can be found almost
anywhere and at anytime – where we work, play and pray;
often when we least expect it, and sometimes between the
most unlikely of bedfellows, including the slave and his
master. Would it be anything less than a sin to break
such a formidable and sacred bond? The Bible doesn’t
think so. And whether those bonds are forged on friendly
front porch step where neighbor meets neighbor over a
friendly game of checkers, in the halls of academia, in
churches and playgrounds, on the bloody fields of battle
where the weld is considered virtually inextricable, or
even in the dark and dirty dungeons of slavery, the
union holds. The bond cannot be broken, or compromised
for that matter, despite position and protocol, politics
and religion, master and slave. And in the case of the
later, severing such a bond would surely be more evil
than the Institution that initiated it in the first
place. It’s no wonder the master of Monticello was often
seen in the company of a beautiful young black girl who,
if history was to have anything to say about, which it
usually does, was not only Mister Jefferson’s mistress
but the mother of at least one of his many children.
And such was the
case with Erasmus Harley when, with the gentle but
resolute stroke of a pen, the old slave suddenly found
himself free, for the first time in his long hard
memory, and on his own. And it happened so quickly that
it frightened poor Erasmus at first, so much so that he
actually doubted his own freedom for many days to come,
suspecting that is was merely a temporary condition to
bring the war to a much needed end, at which point he
and his family would be put in their proper place, where
they belonged. But it was not temporary; and it was
real, at least from a political standpoint.
Erasmus left his
master’s farm one day with a fat wife, five daughters, a
son, one mule, a pig, a few chickens, and the clothes on
his back. Along with him, he also took a name, Harley,
which was all he would accept from his former master,
Mister Buford Harley. He was actually offered much more
for his faithful years of service, but Mister Erasmus
Harley was a proud and stubborn man; and he didn’t want
to be obliging to anyone, not even Buford Harley who had
always treated him and his family with kindness and,
need-less-to-say, a great deal of respect.
“Thank’ye… But no,
Mister Buford,” Erasmus was known to have proudly stated
on that glorious day of Emancipation. “But I must be
gettin' on my way now. You’s done me right, treated me
fairly, and I respects you for that. I surely do. You’s
been good to my chil’runs, too. But look’ye here, Mister
Buford,” explained the old Negro that same sad day, “I’s
been obligin’ to folks my whole life. And I ain’t
a’gonna be obligin’ no mo’. I’s on my own now. And
that’s the way I likes it. So, let’s just calls it even
and goes our separate ways. I’ll be seein’ you, sir. So
long, Mister Buford. Goodbye now. May the Heavens bless
you.” So with tears in his cloudy blood shot eyes, the
old slave departed his master. Needless to say, Buford
Harley cried on that day as well.
Well within the
confines of Iron Gates of Harley, in the front of a
small wooden shack stood a young, dark woman slowly
pumped her churn. She was wearing a long red dress that
came clear down to her ankles beneath an equally long
white apron tied tightly about the waist. It made her
mid-section appear a little too small for the rest of
her delicate frame, which only added to her natural
feminine beauty. There was a kerchief tied neatly in a
knot in the front of her head exposing just a hint of
her tight black hair. She looked both serene and sad
while softly singing a haunting melody in rhythm with
each stroke of the churn. She was a barefooted beauty
with strong but subtle arms, large dark eyes, and the
proud profile of a Nubian princess. Her legs, or what
could be see of them, were long, powerful, and
seductive, like two lovely dark pillars gradually
tapering down from a well rounded backside riding
characteristically high off the ground. It was a
distinctive quality, common among those of her race,
particularly the women of Harley who could, as the
saying goes: “…can raise a blister on a brick with just
one look!” It was just something engineered into their
African gene pool, I suppose, a special kind of
sexuality intended promote reproduction and ensure the
survival of the this ancient and noble race. It worked.
At her feet sat a
little brown boy. He was playfully teasing a
black-spotted rooster with a carrot he was supposed to
have feed to the mule. He was laughing, with that
mischievous smile common to all little boys. He almost
looked as though he was born with a grin.
“Mornin', Miss
Nadine,” smiled Homer Skinner, climbing slowly down from
his overburdened horse. “Up a little early – Ain’t
you?”
“Mornin' to you,
Mister Homer,” she politely replied, glancing up with a
slightly uneasy but welcoming smile. “My husband’s
inside. I go gets him for you.”
“Take your time,
Nadine. Ain’t no hurry.”
While waiting
outside, the old man rested his hand on the boy's nappy
head. Lil’ Ralph stared quietly up at the familiar white
ghost with dark inquisitive eyes. The others stirred in
their saddles and watched as the woman pumped herself up
the stairs in a way that appeared strangely inviting,
the halves of her buttock rising and falling with each
seductive step. They couldn’t help but stare. It was not
an unpleasant sight. It was the kind of walk that
reminds a man of where he came from.
In less than a
minute there appeared at the door a bare footed young
man wearing no shirt and dressed in a pair of old soiled
overalls, and nothing else. He was a poor man, as most
Harlies are, with curly brown hair, a slender build, and
a soft growth of whiskers around his mouth and chin, the
sides of his face not yet developed enough to grow a
proper beard. Some may’ve considered him a boy, as more
than one of the four horsemen had already decided upon
first impression, despite any evidence that might have
suggested otherwise. He was sharecropper, of course;
that much was obvious. But he was also a Harlie, which
wasn’t so obvious. You see, this Harlie was different.
His eyes were unusually bright, with that bluish green
tint you sometimes find in the African eyes of Mulattos
residing in the Lesser Antilles, or thereabout;
inherited through one of their aboriginal ancestors, or
perhaps a former slave-master; either way, they were
both striking and bold, and reminded one of the sea. And
he had a rather light complexion; for a Harlie, that is.
And his hair was not quite right, absent the tightness
and thickness of curl commonly found on your average
Negro head. Some found this confounding, confusing and,
in an ambiguous sort of way, most disturbing, especially
the bigoted outlaw who was about to fire the first shot
through his one last tooth, when Homer cut him off him
off with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Well, boys,” said
the man on the black horse with a sudden surge of
confidence that had been suspiciously absent from his
countenance up until just then, “Now we’re ready to
begin.”
There was no
immediate response; only bewildering looks of confusion,
mixed, perhaps, and a hint suspicion. Only one of them
looked genuinely angry.
The wiry surveyor
was the first to break the silence. “This what you
dragged us all the way out here for, Homer? Is this what
you wanted to show us? A damn Harlie!”
Homer pretended to
look surprised. He’d been expecting just such a reaction
all along, although not necessarily from Smiley, whom he
thought would be more open minded on the matter, in the
Socratic way he was famous for. “Not just any Harlie,”
he challenged the moustache. “He’s our… our, lucky
number – Number nine!”
It was something
he’d been waiting to say for quite some time now, never
quite sure exactly how he was going to say it, or when.
The idea of a’ lucky number’ first popped into his head
not too long ago when, after carefully examining his
henhouse one morning after a late September frost as he
was want to do, Homer noticed that all but one of the
chicks he’d placed there the night before had died. It
wasn’t out of the ordinary; things like that happened
all the time; and besides, no one had predicted the
freeze. To add to the tragedy, it seems that Mrs.
Skinner had, through no real fault of her own and with
no malice towards fated foul, killed the mother hen for
supper the night before, leaving her orphaned avian
brood with no mother to protect them from the chilling
winds that suddenly came down from the mountains that
very evening. The chick that lived was one out of nine.
And it was black.
‘Just one of those
things…” Homer sighed in the cool autumn air that day.
“Can’t be helped.”
Since then, Mrs.
Skinner refused to kill any more chicken, leaving the
grizzle task to her husband instead, who, being no
stranger to the pains of remorse and perhaps feeling a
little more guilty than he should have over the
unfortunate incident, had trouble digesting his southern
fried chicken ever since. But the miraculous survival of
‘number nine’, a little black chick with a solid patch
of white across its newly born breast, seemed to take
away the sting of the shame. Over time, the little black
chick developed into the full grown rooster, tall and
proud, with a stalk of bright red tail feathers. It was
the same bird Little Ralph was presently playing with
out on the lawn that day, and making such a fuss over.
It was number nine, the same little chick that had
survived the winter wind, along with Mrs. Skinner’s
frying pan; and the same number nine Homer had been
contemplating ever since; the one he hoped would explain
to the others his unalterable intentions of bringing the
Harlie along on his final journey. It was a good a story
as any. And it was actually true!
Red-Beard wasn’t
at all surprised. In fact, you might say he’d been
expecting something like this all along from the old
man. He knew Homer was up to something, ever since
they’d left Creekwood Green; he just couldn’t put his
mechanical finger on it. Earlier that day, he’d
suspected that the old man might’ve lost his nerve, as
well as his mind, along with his senses, and maybe even
his taste for gold; and was now merely attempting to
extricate himself from a situation he would just as soon
abandon for whatever reason old men do such things.
Red-Beard would just have to wait and see, along with
the others whom, by all appearances, might’ve been
having similar thoughts by then.
The young man
standing in from of them was no stranger to at least one
of the four horsemen that day. Little Dick acknowledged
the young man from Harley with a nervous glance, then
quickly turned his head. It seems they’d met once
before, but under different and more trying
circumstances. It was an awkward moment, for both of
them; and only they knew why. They suddenly found
themselves wishing they were somewhere else at the
moment… Anywhere!
Elmo returned the
young man’s glance with one of his own, and then looked
away just as quickly, the way estranged lovers sometimes
do when confronting one another in unexpected places and
under unpredictable circumstances. There was nothing
left for them to say to one another. It was over and
done with. They might forgive one another someday for
what’d happened; but they simply couldn’t forget. How
could they? The damage was done. All that remained were
the scars, which, like some old war wounds would never
quite heal, physically or emotionally. And they were
still there, like those still visible on the naked back
of the Elmo Cotton, the Harlie.
Dick Dilworth
could still see those scars, even now, beneath the blue
denim straps of his overalls as Elmo slowly turned his
back on the one man on earth he could never, ever,
forgive, or forget.
The scars were put
there to remind the Harlie of a crime that, in his own
self-righteous judgment, and perhaps that of a few
sympathetic on-lookers who where the day of the trial,
was never committed. And it was for that one specific
criminal act, the details of which were never quite
adjudicated, that had linked the two young men together
in an inextricable bond. It was a crime that had not
only put the Harlie behind bars for the first and only
time in his young and inexperienced life, but one that
earned him his stripes as well. And they were right
there for all to see, placed on the broad of his back,
to serve as a bold and visual statement, an example, a
deterrent, if you will; a firm and forceful reminder to
anyone, especially Harlies, who might be predisposed to
committing similar acts of aggression against anyone,
especially Greens, that crime just don’t pay. And even
if it did, it simply wasn’t worth it, as evidenced by
the bloody red stripes that were sown into the skin of
the Harlie that day, as bold and red as the Scarlet
Letter itself, and just as difficult to bear. But of all
the scars traversing the young Harlie’s back that day,
one in particular stood out from all the others. It was
a long straight line about two feet long and an inch
wide (depending on where you measured it) with a deep
purplish hue to it. It began at the back of the neck and
ended just above the base of his spine. It was a wound
that never healed, and it was branded right there on the
bare back of the sharecropper, raised about a quarter
inch above the living epidermis, like blister on a brick
or a pile of dog manure on the sidewalk for all to stop
and stare at but never actually touch; not that they
ever would, of course.
It was a scar
that, not unlike the mark of Cain, would follow the
Harlie the rest of his life, and beyond; just it did the
biblical murder whose famous forehead, even in death,
bears the shameful stamp for all eternity. And it was
still there for all to see; most notably whenever Elmo
happened to be out in the fields, striped to the waist
and driving a plow through the muddy bean fields of
Harley under a hot and hostile sun that made allowance
for no modesty. It was difficult not to notice. It
worked, just the way scars are supposed to. He would
take his strips to the grave, the sharecropper always
imagined; and he would take the shame, too. But he
wouldn’t take the guilt, which, in his own unrepentant
and irreproachable heart, simply wasn’t there, because,
because…well, because as far as he was concerned, there
was no crime to be guilty of. He did what any other
innocent man would have done under the circumstances. He
committed no sin; but still the scars remained. He often
wondered, sometimes right out loud when he was out in
the bean fields and knew no one could hear him (except
for maybe his mule who was accustomed to such
monologues) if St. Peter would think any less of him for
doing what he did and refuse him entry through the
Pearly Gates on account of his scars. Or perhaps the old
fisherman would simply heal them, with a miraculous wave
of his hand, as Jesus once did in the garden of
Gethsemane. And wasn’t the venerable old saint known to
have a temper of his own, as well as a sword? To the
point of slicing off the ear of the high priest’s
servant in anger and contempt. How could the ‘Rock’
refuse him? The Harlie could only imagine. With God, all
things are possible, I suppose. Elmo thought so; and so
did the mule.
Alvin Webb was
next to voice his concern on the subject at hand; and he
seemed to speak for the others that day who appeared
almost as confused, albeit in far more civilized manner,
as he was. He couldn’t speak for Red-Beard, however. No
one could do that. No one dared. “Lucky?” questioned the
outlaw, aiming a long, loaded finger at the exposed head
of the Harlie. You call him lucky,” he sneered.
“Why, that there’s a E’wal... unless I’m a’going
blind…Which I ain’t! And E’wals ain’t lucky.
They’s just plain dumb… and stupid! Ask anyone. They’s
ugly! And they smells bad too!” he added just for
spite.
“Sounds familiar,”
observed the surveyor’s apprentice.
“Likes the pot
callin’ the kettle black,” noted the Negro.
“Whadaya think,
Mister Skinner,” begged the hammer.
Homer shrugged.
“If the shoe fits…”
“Don’t wanna hear
‘bout no !@#$%^&*!!!ing shoes,” Smiley insisted.
If the Harlie knew
that he had just been insulted, it didn’t show. He’d
heard talk like that before, and from men more evil and
sinister looking than Alvin Webb, whom he’d actually
seen before prowling around the muddy streets of Harley
on more than one occasion. What the outlaw turned
engineer was looking for at the time, the Harlie would
never know. But he had his suspicions, which was only
one reason he began keeping his shotgun close at hand,
even though he was afraid to use it. In fact, lately he
kept it under his bed, when it wasn’t outside in the
barn where it belonged. It was an old firearm, actually,
inaccurate but very powerful ‘– like a musketoon!’ as an
old soldier once observed.
“Too dark to be a
Feral, Mister Webb,” the Old Hammer confidently
stated while eyeing the Harlie up and down as if Elmo
were some foreign specimen of timber or a piece of
exotic stone placed before him for personal examination
and his professional opinion. “Ferals come from
the Islands… Besides,” he added with no measurable
amount of uncertainty, “Tain’t no Ferals left in
these here parts – Just Harlies.”
With the keen and
cleaver eye of a surveyor, Charles Smiley was next to
observe, “Too damn light… and look at his hair,” he
added, noting the curly brown locks sprouting atop
Elmo’s uncovered head. “And get a load of them eyes,
will ya!”
Unlike most of the
other farmers that lived in and around Harley, this one
particular sharecropper, Mister Elmo Cotton, had eyes
that were not brown at all. They were actually blue and
green, or a combination thereof, it would seem;
depending, perhaps, on how you looked at him, and in
what light of day. As to the surveyor’s other astute
observation: the hair on this particular man’s head
couldn’t really be described as ‘nappy’ – a term
generally used to describe the spring-like qualities of
the hairs typically found on your average African,
which, chiefly on account of its thick, untamable
texture, has sometimes been compared to the steel wool
employ at times by housewives in cleaning their pots and
pans – and it wasn’t even black! In fact, Elmo’s curls
didn’t appear very much different than the fair
follicles adorning the juvenile head of young Dilworth
that day; suggesting, in a sort of sly and sinful way,
that the two might actually be related; although getting
either one to admit to such a scandalous relationship
would be like getting Thomas Jefferson to admit he had a
fathered a child through one of his own female slaves.
There were other similarities as well, which we need not
go into right now.
At that point, the
two horse drawn passengers began to take notice of
Homer’s ‘Lucky Number’ as well. “Just ‘cause a man come
from Harley don’t necessarily mean he be Harlie,” noted
the big Negro, with an authority in his voice that
seemed to speak for an entire race. “Lots of folks come
from Creekwood. That don’t necessarily mean they’s
Green. Now do it?”
“Don’t mean they
ain’t,” countered Webb.
“Man’s got a
point… I think,” the Hammer hesitantly agreed, not quite
sure what to make of the outlaw’s tormented logic, or
double negative for that matter.
“The only point
Alvin has,” insisted the surveyor, “is the one on top of
his head,”
“Maybe if we drill
a hole in it, Mister Smiley… we can let the evil spirits
out!” suggested the young apprentice. “And then he just
might make some sense.
“You hear that
Hector? The boy may have something there. Quick...
carpenter! Where your drill?
Sam obliged, “I’s
hold ‘im down, Mister Smiley.”
“Take more than a
drill bit to get through that thick skull,” observed the
Hammer. “Mighty tough nut to crack.”
“Then use your
hammer, man…”
The Indian stirred
in his blanket. He was sitting up in the back of the
wagon by then, clearly interested in the business at
hand, as if some great secrete had suddenly been
revealed to him. And then, from somewhere on the dark
side of the moon perhaps, he verbalized his concern.
“Maybe he’s not of this world. Ever think about that?”
Smiley laughed.
“Go back to bed, Geronimo. You had too much whiskey!
You’re seein’ things, Boy.”
“I see what I
saw,” replied the sleepy-eyed Somnambulist.”
“Gotta be from
somewhere,” observed Dick.
“Or, nowhere…”
suggested the Redman. He was talking about the Harlie,
of course. And then he went back to bed.
“Ah, shucks! Ain’t
no one from nowhere. Everyone’s gots to be from
somewhere. Don’t be so ig’nant, Boy,” scolded the Negro
perched high on the buckboard. Sam made a habit out of
correcting his passengers whenever he thought it was
necessary, which was not as often as he would have
liked, and more than Boy would have it. The wise Indian
wasn’t as ‘ig’nant’ as his driver suspected; and so, he
simply responded in the usual way. He ignored Sam, for
the time being at least.
“You’re right!”
rang the Hammer, in the mood for a little philosophizing
himself, present company not-with-standing. “Even
Socrates had home… and it wasn’t ol’ Athens.”
“What’s he talkin’
’bout now,” wonder the outlaw out loud.
“Read your
History, damn it! And learn something,” exclaimed the
surveyor, who had not only heard of the ancient Greek
philosopher, but put much of what he’d taught into
practical use, especially when confronting idiots and
morons, like Alvin Webb, whose miniscule brain was, in
the surveyor’s professional opinion, “… ‘bout a half
bubble short of level’.
“It’ like this…”
Hector extrapolated. “One day, when ol’ Socrates was
giving one of his famous lectures, a young man, much
like yourself, I suppose, came up to him asked where he
came from; or, in other words, where he lived. And do
you know what ol’ Socrates told him?”
The blank look on
the outlaw’s face, along with a long impotent pause,
told the Hammer what he, along with everyone else, had
long suspected: Alvin Webb didn’t have a clue.
Hector himself
supplied the answer.“Well, I’ll tell you then, my
ignorant friend. “Ol’ Socrates told him the truth.
That’s right – the truth! Nothing more and nothing less.
He told him that the entire world was his home.”
It was something even Little Dick
Dilworth could understand. And why not?” Wasn’t it the
youth of Athens, the very one Socrates was accused of
corrupting with his revolutionary thoughts and ideals
who, though their own wide-eyed wonderment not only
elevated the great Greek to the heights he so richly
deserved, but went on to… to change the world in ways
even the great Plato could not have imagined? Sometimes
it takes a great man to see one. What Mister O’Brien
might have added to his eloquent definition of greatness
that day is this: that it is sometimes earned
posthumously, which, in some ways only adds to the
greatness of the man, or woman, it is bestowed upon.
It’s called immortality; and it can be achieved in a
variety of ways, I suppose. Some attain it through
music: Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn,
Mozart, Handel, Shubert, Chopin, the list goes on and
on, like a never ending symphony. Others achieve it
through their art: Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, and
Rembrandt, just to name a few. Of course, there are
those who seek immortality through great literature,
Homer, Shakespeare, Bunyan, and find it! And greatness
is not limited to the arts, either. Think of all the
great scientists throughout the ages, Christians for the
most part, despite their heretical views and
revolutionary ideas: Sir Isaac Newton, Galileo Galilei
Nicholas Copernicus. Sir Francis Bacon, Johannes
Kepler, Robert Boyle, Michael Faraday, Gregor Mendel,
William Thomson Kelvin, not to mention Georges Lemaître,
the Roman Catholic priest who went on to prove even the
great Einstein wrong, among others. It’s no small wonder
there are so many great Christians and so few great
atheists. Just as Christians tend to transpose their
Faith into great works of art, and succeed famously in
the process, atheists tend to turn theirs into a
science; a science based on, in their own ambiguous and
convoluted language, ‘falsifiable evidence’ which, by
definition, is evidence that, in the end at least,
cannot be trusted simply because it is always changing,
evolving, and not based on truth. It’s not even real
science! Just an empty stack of theories and hypothesis
put forward by atheists to help advance their own
politically funded careers and agendas, or impress their
fellow scientists with their genius, probably both. At
least the artist earns his loaf of bread, and has
something to show for it.
As for the war…
well, they don’t call them war heroes for nothing. If
not for a military career, which in his younger years
was questionable at best, General George Washington
would never have made it onto the dollar bill, and would
probably have been hung on the tree of Liberty as a
traitor to the crown, along with all those other rebel
rousers. And if you happen to be one of those
self-righteous pacifists who think war and poetry just
don’t mix… well don’t tell that to King David. He’ll
probably send you off to the front lines, along with
Uriah the Hittite, to fight the dreaded Philistines, and
then go home and write a psalm about it. Remember: In
the land of the pacifists, only the tyrants are kings.
Nobody, I suppose, knew that better than Peter
Muhlenberg, a patriot who was born to an Amish family in
Pennsylvania where he and his brother, Frederick, grew
up to be Ministers. George Washington asked him to take
command of the 8th Virginia Regiment in 1775. His
brother persuaded him to reject the appointment. Soon
after his church was burned down by the British, he
joined the Continental Army on his own. Muhlenberg was
first stationed in the south defending Georgia and South
Carolina with the 8th Regiment. In 1777, the 8th
regiment joined Washington's main army. He was promoted
to Brigadier General of the Virginia line and
participated at the end of the war in Yorkville. In
1783, he was promoted to Major General. He also had a
successful political career as he was elected to the 1st
congress as at-large representative where his brother
Frederick was the Speaker of the
House.
He also participated in the 3rd and 5th Congress. Thomas
Jefferson appointed him Supervisor of Revenue in
Pennsylvania in 1801. And in the words of the Great
Emancipator himself who was no stranger or war or
religion: ‘Without the assistance of that Divine Being,
who ever attended him, I cannot succeed. With that
assistance I cannot fail.’"
There are scores
of politicians who have been called great, most often by
themselves, and usually not until long after they are
dead and unable to baste in the glory of their own
greatness. Unfortunately for some, greatness is only
realized once they are deceased; Our Lord and Savior
being the prime example, I suppose. But there are
others, of course: the one that comes most often to
mind, at least to the novelists among us, is great
Herman Melville who, as some many know, died in virtual
obscurity, after having been declared a botched author
at best, and a madman at worst, chiefly on account of
his propensity for putting into the written word those
things that simply could not ne comprehended, or
condoned, at the time he wrote them. At the time of his
death, the New York Times who, by the way, spelled his
name incorrectly in the obituary section of the ‘Old
Gray Lady’, listed Mister Melville’s official occupation
as that of ‘Customs Inspector’ at the New York Harbor,
badge No. 75, a title held by the great man, and one I’m
certain he took great pride in, right up until the day
in died in his Manhattan home. One can only imagine,
knowing what we know now about the great author, how it
would have felt, especially after a long and arduous
voyage across the Atlantic, when we are then greeted at
the dock by an old man with a white square cut beard and
ledger in his hands, asking us for our passport,
realizing all the while that this same old tired looking
clerk in the wrinkled shirt and the baggy trousers is
none other than the author of Moby-Dick himself! How
honored and amazed we would be! Perhaps just as honored
and amazed as the Mister Melville himself, wherever the
grand old mariner currently resides (on some island
paradise, perhaps, working away on a new novel, no
doubt, among kings and counselors) who once commented on
his many great works the critics would come to
cannibalize like so many meal-bound missionaries: ‘All
my books are botched…”
Reputations don’t
always precede us; and genius is sometimes ahead of its
time; which is precisely why it’s often so difficult to
find. And as the poet reminds us: ‘Hope springs
eternal…’ And that hope, the old philosopher would
surely come to agree, would lie chiefly in the future,
however uncertain and shaky; hope in that brave new
world, unshackled by the prejudices of the past; hope in
two green young saplings, like Dick Dilworth and Elmo
Cotton. Socrates could not have asked for a better
audience.
“And he died with
truth on his side,” struck the Hammer with one last
confident blow. It was a fitting end for a great man, he
had always maintained, albeit not one he would have
chosen for himself under similar circumstances. “But
isn’t that the way it always is…” he mused out loud, not
unlike the great Geek himself, “with all great men? They
don’t seek greatness. Greatness seeks them. Often it
finds them, whether they like it or not. Sometimes it
even kills them…” just like it did ol’ Socrates.”
“And Lincoln…”
sighed the old man.
Dick interjected,
“They say he was killed by a Yankee soldier, at
Garrett’s farm…in a barn, I think.”
Smiley observed,
“Now that takes some balls!”
“Say he was a
eunuch.”
“’Scuse me?”
“His name was
Booth… John Wilkes,” Hector elucidated. “One of those
actors. Good one, too! Ford’s theater, if I’m not
mistaken. They say he had it all: good looks, fortune,
fame… and women.”
Dick chimed in:
“Some say it was a conspiracy.”
“They were all
hanged… including a woman,” noted Smiley.
“Her name was Mary
Surratt,” sang the hammer. “Had to tie down her skirt
so...well, modesty, you know. She ran a boardin’ house.
I was there once. And so was Booth.”
“You knew him?”
questioned Dick..
“Had it all
planned out, boy. Right down to the get-a-way. And it
wasn’t just the president. Headed south… to ol’
Virginia. Made it clear across the Potomac… with a bad
leg. Almost got away with it.”
“I’ll drink to
that,” replied Webb, literally.
Hector continued,
“They cornered him in a barn…. Place called Garret’s
farm. Never had a chance. Died the next day from a
bullet wound. They burned down the barn.
“Sho’ they gots
the right man?” wondered the Negro out loud.
Red-Beard, who
had been strangely quiet up until then, suddenly looked
up as if he might have known something the others
didn’t, and reminded them all.” They both did.”
As evidenced by
his two tone attire, it was never quite clear exactly
where Colonel Horn stood on the war, or the outcome
thereof; although it was always suggested that his true
allegiance, along with his sympathies, belonged to the
South, despite his Union credentials.
Elmo and Dick were
about the same age, and at that awkward and sometimes
confusing stage in life where they were too young to be
called ‘boys’, but not exactly old enough to be
considered ‘men’. Both had beards, alright; but they
were sparse and not fully developed, the kind of beards
most boys first notice upon entering puberty, those same
soft whiskers their grandmothers usually sprout at about
the same time, and are just as reluctant to shave, but
for different reasons, of course.
And the
similarities did not stop there. If not for a few minor
but noticeable details these two ‘boys with beards’
might actually have been considered brothers by those
with more discerning and less discriminating eyes. In
fact, it might even be said that this particular Harlie
was not a Harlie at all! That would be a lie, of course;
but not entirely, and not without some merit. Aside from
the obvious, there were other, more subtle, physical
characteristics that may’ve further extricated the man
in overalls from his Harlie heritage; but they were too
few to mention and too inappropriate to properly
identify without getting too personal. But for all
intents and purposes, Elmo Cotton was in fact a Harlie,
if he was nothing else.
Angered and
dismayed over the sudden display of solidarity among his
fellow equestrians, and getting back to his own
gratuitous concerns, the mentally challenged Webb
obstinately spoke out: “Well then…just what the hell
is he anyway? Hummmm?” he gummed.
No one knew the
answer. Perhaps there was no answer, which, come to
think of it, is an answer in and of itself. Even the Old
Hammer, who seemed to have an answer for just about
everything, wasn’t quite sure at that point. Obviously,
the Harlie, or at least this particular specimen, was of
mixed blood, black and white, genetically speaking. But
which was the more dominate? That’s what we all would
like to know. Did it show? Could you measure it with a
ruler or weigh it in so many pounds? What was it made
of? Could you identify it? And if so, could you mitigate
the matter simply by removing the inferior part, or
ripping it out like some unwanted rusty old nail?
Perhaps it could be covered with a good coat of paint.
Or what about just sawing it off, like a rotten limb
from an otherwise healthy piece of timber? Was it
practical? Was it even possible? Even Hector didn’t know
the answer to that one, as much as he would have liked
to. But he was old and wise enough to know how fickle
and mysterious Mother Nature could be while molecularly
molding the many faces of humankind, along with all the
subtleties and variations contributing to each and every
individual characteristic from a balding head to tapered
toe. And when at last these same molecules, originating,
perhaps, from two distant and distinctly unique races,
are mixed and intermingled in a loving embrace, not
unlike that which can be witnessed through the
microscopic lens of the biologist in all its
complexities and spiralings, forming what we now know as
the famous double helix of the genetically encoded DNA
molecule, who can predict the outcome? Who can prove it?
Who can prevent it? And who cares! The other three
horsemen, along with Boy and Sam, simply choose to hold
their judgment, along with their noses, at least until
they knew more about what was going on. Red-Beard was
still thinking about it.
Alvin Webb had
already formed his own opinion of the Harlie, and all
others like him for that matter; and so did Colonel
Horn. But he was keeping his opinion, as well as his
thoughts, to himself, for the time being. All Red-Beard
would say regarding the so-called ‘Lucky Number’, which
he considered not only a fateful and factual error on
Homer’s part, but self-evident right from the start, was
this: “You’re wrong, old man,” he insisted, with one eye
on the Harlie and the other on Homer, “Nine is not the
lucky number.”
“But seven is!”
noted the superstitious Negro. And Sam was absolutely
right; for as Scripture clearly states: ‘Seven is the
perfect number’, spiritually speaking, of course. It
also happened to be Sam’s favorite number, seven;
especially whenever he gambled, a vice he’d picked up in
the sulfur mines of north Florida when, usually
in-between shifts when there was little else to do, the
miners would engage themselves in games of chance, most
notable that of throwing dice, or, as it as sometimes
called ‘rolling bones’, which not only occupied their
time, but emptied their pockets as well. And even if he
did lose more times than he won, seven was still the
Negro’s favorite number. Ironically, it also happened to
be the exact number of years he was sentenced to the
mines in the first place for a crime he had never
committed, or so he claimed. Lucky?
As for Red-Beard’s
more sensible but less palpable alter ego, Rusty Horn
was an firm disbeliever in superstitions, lucky or
unlucky, along with all the metaphysical manifestations
associated with them, whether they benefited him or not.
It was against his instincts, as well as his better
judgment, to dabble in such vices. It was also
unbecoming of an officer. Besides, it was just bad for
morale. And it wasn’t in the army manual. But even that
would not prevent him from allowing his evil twin to
voice his opinion on such matters, which, was bound to
happen now and then, regardless of who was right or
wrong. “And that’s what I count here,” insisted
Red-Beard, “Nine! If you want to include the Harlie
here, which I for one don’t. Besides, nine’s an odd
number. Ain’t that right, Mister Webb?” Red-Beard
officially questioned his self-appointed ‘Engineer’.
It was an easy
enough question, even for someone like Alvin Webb.
“That’s right, Colonel,” the outlaw agreed. “Everyone
knows odd numbers ain’t lucky. Besides, they just don’t
add up.”
“Add up to what?”
asked the bewildered moustache.
Alvin paused, “How
the hell should I know. They just don’t… That’s all.”
“That true, Mister
Smiley?” questioned Dick, “I mean, the part about odd
numbers being bad luck.”
Before the
surveyor could answer, Webb jumped back in. “‘Course it
is! They calls it ‘rithmatic! he exclaimed. “Everyone
knows odd numbers is bad luck. Look’ye here, boy, and
I’ll show you.” Slowly, almost painfully it would seem,
he began peeling off his gloves, one at a time. It was
like watching a snake wiggle out of its own skin. He
then counted out each number on his deformed but
unusually long fingers 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8… until he finally
came up with the number he was looking for. “You see?”
he proudly professed, holding out both hands for
everyone and anyone to examine, as though he’d just
single handily deciphered some mathematical wonder,
like the celestial calendar of the ancient Mayan that
predicts the end of the world to occur precisely on
December 21, 2012 (Of course, it’s too bad they won’t be
around to witness the cataclysmic event, on account of
they were completely annihilated by the Spanish
conquistadors long before it is suppose to take place)
or the Code of Hammurabi itself. “See! Nine is
an odd number,” insisted the engineer. “It’s evil, just
like the colonel’s says. Count ‘em if you want.”
“No thanks,” said
Dick, feeling a little sorry for the witless outlaw by
then.
“Congratulations,
Mister Webb. You can count!” noted the Old Hammer,
sarcastically praising the dim-witted thief on his newly
discovered mathematical skills.
“I can keep goin’…
ifin’ you wants me to,” said Webb, pretending to ignore
the carpenter’s last remark.
“Can’t neither,”
the Negro quickly calculated. “– Not ‘nough fingers...”
“Well then I’ll
just have to count my toes. Won’t I?” said Alvin,
reaching down for the muddy heel of his boot.
Red-Beard
interjected, “That won’t be necessary, Mister Webb,”
“Some engineer you
got there, colonel,” laughed Smiley.
Red-Beard wasn’t
particularly amused with the surveyor’s observation, no
matter how much the sarcasm rang true, but felt obliged
to defend his fugitive friend for undisclosed reasons.
It was the least he could do considering the fact that
Webb had served under him, quite obediently in fact, in
army at one time. He was only a private, and not a very
good one at that, the colonel would finally have to
admit. But Alvin was a loyal soldier, and he knew when
to keep his mouth shut, which was exactly what Red-Beard
was looking for at the time. “He ain’t had much
education,” the colonel apologized, “Cut him some slack
– Will’ya?”
“I’ll cut him some
slack,” said Smiley, squinting daggers at the toothless
engineer who he never liked, or trusted, from the start,
“… but only at the end of a rope. And not until I know
for goddamn sure the @#$%^&*! is good and dead!” he
added just to make it stick.
Hanging a man was not only distasteful
but, to the Indian way of thinking at least, a most
dishonorable and humiliating form of execution; as it
still is for most warriors who, if by chance or design
the opportunity presents itself, would take their own
bullet over the rope under such a mortal conviction.
Hanging was typically reserved for cowards, criminals,
traitors, horse thieves, and other incorrigibles, all of
which Alvin Webb had already been accused of at one time
or another but could never be proven in a court of Law;
unless, of course, that court just happened to be
presided over by one US District Judge Isaac C. Parker,
the famous ‘Hanging Judge’ of the Arkansas
who, on his twenty-one years on the bench, handed down a
hundred and sixty death sentences; or, the other famous
‘Hanging Judge’, Roy Bean, who held court sessions in
his saloon along the Rio Grande River in a desolate
stretch of the Chihuahuan Desert of West Texas.
According to the myth, Roy Bean named his saloon and
town after the love of his life, Lily Langtry, a British
actress he'd never met. Proclaiming himself the ‘Law
West of the Pecos, he is reputed to have kept a pet bear
in his courtroom and sentenced dozens to the gallows,
saying ‘Hang 'em first, try 'em later.’
“Why not just
shoot him…” suggested the practical Redman, sincerely
enough, “and be done with it?”
“I would…”
responded the Hammer, with a half-cocked smile.
“I’ll give you the
gun,” said Homer, offering Hector his own special order
forty-five caliber six-shooters with the twelve inch
barrels and the mother-of-pearl inlay, the ones he’d
already put to good that day by blowing the lock off the
Iron Gates of Harley.
“Waste of a good
bullet, if you ask me,” said Smiley, spitting a juicy
wad of used tobacco through the corner of his
hair-covered pie-hole.
“Easy now,”
insisted the colonel. “If anyone does any shootin’
‘round here, it’ll be me. I’m responsible.” And he meant
it, too. Red-Beard was still pondering what Alvin had
said earlier, about nine being an unlucky number; and he
wasn’t too sure about eight, either, which would be the
total number of men if they did not included the Harlie.
Seven was out of the question as far as he was
concerned, no matter how lucky or consequential it was
purported to be. It was the Negro’s number; and besides,
he simply didn’t like it. Not too long ago, Rusty had
actually entertained the idea of leaving the Negro and
the Indian behind, considering them indispensable at the
time; but he had since changed his mind, having grown
respectful, if not downright fond, of the two ‘colored’
cohorts. Besides, that would’ve made it six all
together; and six, as any Evangelist will tell you, is
an evil number.
While the others
debated among themselves as to what role, if any, the
Harlie would play in their monumental plans, Elmo simply
stood there in front of his little house in Harley
wondering what he could, or should, be doing at the
time; or if he should be doing anything at all.
Occasionally, he would look over to Homer with
soul-searching eyes for advice, a sign… something.
Anything!
But the man on the
black horse remained strangely silent. Although he’d
already made up on the matter, sealing the Harlie’s fate
for good and forever, he wanted the others to decide for
themselves. He just thought it would be better that way.
“Best just take
him along,” cautioned Little Dick. “You know, for good
luck… like Homer says.”
Sam agreed
wholeheartedly. “He’s right, Colonel, sir. It’s true!
Like the man say: You should always bring you at least
one nigger along for good luck’. Say so in the Bible!
And now…well, look’ye here! You done gots yo’self two
good niggers! Now you just can’t gets more lucky than
that, I ‘spose.”
Smiley was not so
easily convinced. “We don’t have room for luck, Sam.”
“Or Bibles,” said
Webb.
“He can sits here
in the wagon… with Boy. See?” returned the Negro,
reaching a big black paw in back of the wagon and
rearranging a few loose items to accommodate the ‘Lucky
Number’. “Gots plenty of room!”
The Indian didn’t
seem to mind; in fact, by then he would’ve enjoyed the
company of another rider, even if it was just an
odd-looking Harlie he’d never met before. For three days
and two nights the big Negro was the only one he’d held
a conversation with for any length of time. And although
he appreciated Sam’s congeniality and gregarious nature,
Boy thought the Harlie would be more suitable company,
especially considering the fact that Harley was not very
far from the Redman River and the old Indian camp where
Boy’s own father was once proclaimed high priest and
king, not too long before he and his entire tribe was
murdered in cold blood by a renegade troop of Union
soldiers who knew they would soon be out of a job and
had nothing else to do at the time. It was no secret
that the Harlies and Redman Indians had more in common
than just enemies with pale faces. Many long suspected,
and may very well have been correct, that they even
shared the same savage blood and ancestry; as it
sometimes happens when two persecuted races are placed
in close proximity of one another, either by choice or
design, and discover such genetic similarities, real or
imagined, just as the modern Ethiopian claims such
legendary linage to the ancient Israelites, whose scared
Ark they claim to have in their possession to this very
day. “Get on board, number nine,” motioned the Indian
with no immediate objection.
Again, the old man
smiled.
“No so fast,”
cautioned Red-Beard, growing increasingly and
uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “My engineer
here says nine’s an evil number…”
There was no one
else Dilworth feared more than Red-Beard, that day or
any other; but he somehow found the courage just then to
correct the colonel on a subject he knew something about
– the Bible. Despite his youthful indiscretions and
lustful peccadilloes, which usually occurred only in his
dreams or imagination, Little Dick had been born and
raised a Baptist, which meant, if nothing else, he would
learn the word of God in its most primitive and literal
interpretation, or be barbequed alive in the fire and
brimstone of hell, if Deacon Donnelly didn’t get to him
first, that is. It was on that authority alone, and
perhaps just because he felt that he still had something
to prove to the others (although he still wasn’t quite
sure exactly what that was) he thus spoke out in the red
face of Colonel Rusty Horn that day: “No sir, Mister
Horn,” he began with a gulp of air, “Not nine... Six is
the evil number. The Bible says so. Look it up, colonel.
It’s in the Book.”
“Hold the weddin!”
exclaimed Smiley with a proud but invisible smile. “Six
is the evil number, come to think of it. The
boy’s !@#$%^&*!!!’ing right!”
“Make that a third
right,” observed the righteous old Hammer, having
studied the Scriptures long enough to know the numerical
formula to which the young man was alluding to at the
time. “Six-six-six, to be exact. It’s the number of the
beast. At least that’s what Saint John the Divine has to
say about it.
Homer Skinner
wasn’t a superstitious man by nature; and he didn’t take
the Bible quite as literally as perhaps he should have.
The other, he sometimes imagined, didn’t take it at
all; except maybe Hector, who always kept a small copy
of the Holy Text tucked away in his apron; and perhaps
Dilworth who, as we have already found out, could quote
Scripture. The others, he’d always assumed, believed
only in luck, or the lack thereof. And Homer knew from
the start that the success of the mission would depend
on more than just luck, the Harlie not-with-standing.
Red-Beard knew that as well; he just didn’t want to
admit it. The old man stood firm. “I still say he’s our
‘Lucky Number,” Homer persisted, reassuring the Harlie
with a nervous nod and a reassuring wink that seemed to
say: We’re almost there, Elmo!
“Lucky or not,
he’s still a Harlie,” said the Surveyor, feeling by then
there were already too many greedy hands in the pot; and
one more would only make matters worse.
The colonel, the
man in charge, remained suspiciously quiet. There was
obviously something on his mind. You could tell by the
way he looked. You could almost hear the tiny gears and
cams clicking and turning in his mechanical brain, like
a finely tuned grandfather clock, the springs of which
were perhaps wound a little too tightly. He wasn’t
thinking about numbers, lucky or otherwise; and he
certainly wasn’t thinking about Bibles and beasts. Nor
was he thinking about the smaller portion of gold one
extra share would cost him or the others. No. Red-Beard
had bigger things, more important things, to consider at
the time. He was thinking about himself and, perhaps,
eternity. As for the Harlie in question, he really
didn’t give a damn any longer.
Webb reiterated
his protestation. “I say he stays.”
By then some of
the others seemed to be leaning in the outlaw’s
direction, albeit reluctantly and not without feeling a
little nauseated in doing so. Even the Old Hammer was
having some reservations by then, and thought that maybe
it might not be such a good idea. “Too many cooks…” he
wisely cautioned.
Not being the type
of man to vacillate on any particular subject once his
mind was made up, Smiley simply shook his head. No!
Meanwhile, Colonel
Rusty Horn was still thinking it over. He didn’t know
much about Harlies, or Homer Skinner for that matter
whose acquaintance he’d made not more than three months
ago; but he did know one thing by now, and that was
this: once the old man made up his mind, there was
little he or anyone else could do to change it.
There was some
back and forth shuffling of hooves and whispering among
the horsemen. Sam and his native passenger seemed to be
holding some kind of secret Pow-Wow in the back of the
little painted wagon as the Harlie just stood just stood
there, barefooted and bewildered. Apparently, Dick and
Sam were on Homer’s side regarding the matter of taking
the Harlie along with them. Smiley and Webb were
squarely against it, although the surveyor wasn’t giving
any particular reason for his dissention.
Homer looked to
the Hammer who, despite a reputation for making quick
and wise decisions, appeared hesitant, as though he were
still weighing all options, for an answer. He was
staring curiously at the Harlie, in much the same way
Don Quixote might’ve gazed down at Sancho Panza while
leveling his lance at the windmill.
As evidenced by
his own ambivalent attitude, Red-Beard appeared he could
still go either way. And whichever way that was, or so
Homer would soon come to realize, the others would
surely follow.
“Well, wha’daya
think, Hector?” said Homer, wisely seeking the advice of
the friendly carpenter who had always been known as a
fair and honest man who, although you would never get
him to admit it (Vanity and Virtue are not are not
always mutually exclusive, you know) was perhaps closest
in years to the old deputy. Not that it mattered, or
would make any difference, of course; but it did make
him feel obliged to ask, just out of respect.
But alas, after
thinking it over a bit more, the Hammer could not bring
himself to acquiesce, not even at the behest of Homer
Skinner, an old and dear friend who had confided in his
judgment on many occasions in the past. He simply didn’t
think it was the right thing to do at the time.
Naturally, he was only thinking of what was best… for
everyone.
Having no
reasonable objection to the old man’s request, however,
and actually looking forward to the company of someone
closer to his own color, Sam smiled down and repeated
his earlier offer, “I’ll keeps an eye on him, Mister
Homer, sir. He can ride in back…with Boy. See? Gots
plenty of room!” he added, turning his bulky brown frame
a hundred and eighty degrees towards the back of the
wagon.
It seemed like a
done deal; that is until, for whatever reason and
despite his earlier acquiescence, the young Indian
suddenly reversed himself in mid-stream with a simple
but definite: “No.” And what was it that made the savage
suddenly change his mind that day? Well, maybe it was
something he saw in the Negro’s eyes that day. Or
perhaps, in his the soul; something akin to what his
father must have seen in the pale blue eyes of the first
settlers he’d encountered on the prairie who were, no
doubt, just as strange looking and alien to him. Maybe
the stars were just quite right. No one would ever know.
Except maybe the savage himself. And he wasn’t talking.
When Sam gently
pressed his reluctant passenger for a reason why the
Harlie, who in all probability had suffered the same
indignities and injustices as they themselves had, and
in equal or maybe even greater measure, should be denied
to share the back of his wagon, the Redman would only
replied with all the sublime solemnity attributed to
that Oriental race of physicians: “Bad medicine.” And
that was all he was going to say about it.
Sam shrugged. He
still didn’t know much about the man occupying the back
of his wagon that day, other than he’d paid his fare by
magnanimously supplying the two long-horned oxen
presently pulling the over-packed vehicle; but he did
know this: Custer and all his Calvary could not deter
the will of a single Redman once the Great Spirit has
spoken to him, particularly when there was medicine
involved. It was a sacred subject, not to be taken
lightly, if taken at all. It was something no arrow, or
bullet, could penetrate.
Tallying up the
score in his now uncertain and aching head, Homer became
a little dismayed, if not disappointed, at his finding.
Apparently, only the Negro and Dick Dilworth were for
allowing the Harlie to be counted as one of their
company. Webb, Smiley, Hector, and now, quite
un-expectantly, the Indian, whom he was certain would
have no objections to his sincerest desires, were now
against him. The score presently stood at three to four
against poor Elmo. The only one that could change the
outcome of the vote in the old man’s favor was Colonel
Horace ‘Rusty’ Horn, better known as Red-Beard. And it
didn’t look promising.
All eyes were
suddenly cast upon the lone figure sitting on top the
white bull so ambiguously clothed in the gray and blue
uniform. It seemed that, for all intents and purposes,
Red-Beard would have to decide, for better or for worse,
the fate of the Harlie and maybe the entire expedition.
“Good luck - Eh?” he mused beneath those famous red
whiskers as if weighing the scales of Justice in his own
infallible hands. He paused, looking down upon the
Harlie the way fathers sometimes look down on their own
wayward and prodigal sons just before they foolishly
squander away their inheritance by trading the safety
and security of their homes for the dungeons and pigpens
of a forsaken, incorrigible, and fallen world they never
should have wondered into in the first place, and said
with what might actually have been considered a smile,
“Extra hand wouldn’t hurt, I ‘spose.”
And so it was
decided. The Harlie would go.
“And his hands
will do just fine,” smiled the deputy in return, happily
rubbing the Harlie’s head for additional luck, as was
the custom of senior citizen worldwide, regardless of
race, creed, color, political or religious affiliation.
“You’ll see,” Homer insisted. “You’ll all see. He’s our
lucky number!”
“Well, he’s still
an odd one,” noted the surveyor, spitting in his hand
and preening the tips of his moustache with his own
tobacco tainted saliva, suspecting that the esteemed
colonel had perhaps just made his first mistake of the
campaign.
“He’s your boy,
Homer,” acknowledged the Hammer, thinking along the same
lines, although not as pessimistically.
Assuming that the
matter was finally settled to everyone’s satisfaction,
Homer Skinner turned to the Harlie and asked, “Well,
number nine? Are you ready?”
Feeling very much
out of place, and anything but lucky, Elmo Cotton just
stood there that morning, barefooted and blue, appearing
not too sure about anything at that point. He didn’t
like what he was seeing, particularly whenever he
happened to clap an eye on the two-toned colonel sitting
on top of a massive white bull, not to mention the ugly
outlaw with the one tooth who was never far from the
colonel’s side. He’d never seen a Brahma bull before, or
any other animal for that matter with such peculiar
looking hump; or one so white. And he especially didn’t
like the way the man with the red beard kept starring at
him, and without blinking, just like he’d been doing
ever since their eyes first met, or so it seemed. It was
almost as if he had no eyelids at all, imagined Elmo
from a respectable distance, which he found disquieting,
as well as disturbing.
Apparently, the
colonel had seen something in the Harlie he thought
might be useful, or perhaps indispensable. Officers are
trained to think that way: to look beyond the ordinary,
and find in men what otherwise might be overlooked, or
discarded; what they themselves, either through fear,
ignorance, or out of sheer laziness, are incapable of
finding out on their own, and whittling it into
something not only useful but far superior to what they
had to work with in the first place. And like any mortal
masterpiece, it was always a work-in-progress. Words
like adapt, improvise, adjust, and make-do were not only
part and parcel of the military lexicon, they were
uniquely American.
It was something
the Harlie picked up on immediately, this distinctly
American attitude exuding from the colonel’s cool
lidless eyes. And it really wasn’t that unique at all.
Elmo had seen it, or at least something like it, before;
whenever he looked into the tired blood-shot eyes of his
Uncle Joe, which, now that he actually thought about it,
never seemed to blink either, or at least not as much as
they should have. There was a coolness in his uncle’s
eyes, a calm, that certain serenity that penetrates,
like an x-ray, not only the body and soul, but the
spirit as well, that secret and sacred part of a man
usually reserved for God’s eyes only. It was almost
irresistible, like looking into Red-Beard’s eye, only
not as cold and blue. You might even say he was drawn to
it; in the same way, perhaps, that a moth might be drawn
to a flame. And from that moment on, and without really
knowing it himself, Elmo Cotton was determined to get
that same look in his own eyes someday.
It was Homer’s
idea from the start that Elmo Cotton should go along. He
had decided a long time ago, long before he’d ever heard
of a man called Red-Beard and his four horsemen, that it
would be that way. Elmo was aware of that as well;
although he was never quite sure whom, if anyone else,
would be involved. He never even asked. Up until then,
he’d always assumed that he and Homer would go back for
the gold alone, all by themselves, just like always;
although he never fully understood the magnitude of the
project or scope of the work involved in accomplishing
such a monumental task. But Homer did. It was just too
much work for one Harlie and an old man with a
toothache. Like the chicken too weak to peck itself out
of its proverbial egg, the plan was doomed before it
even hatched. But this chick wouldn’t die so easily, not
if Homer had anything to say, or do, about it. Salvation
finally came, in all its enigmatic glory. It showed up
one night at, of all places, inside a saloon: the Nickel
Pig Saloon, to be exact, up on the hill, in Creekwood
Green. It arrived in the form of a questionable army
officer named Horace ‘Rusty’ Horn, otherwise known as
Red-beard. The others were soon to follow.
It seemed that
going back and finding the lost gold mine of Cornelius
G. Wainwright III was something Homer had been planning
to do for years, decades, in fact; hopefully, before it
was too late. It was a scheme long in the making, the
inception of which actually began forty years ago when,
as an inquisitive and overly ambitious young deputy,
he’d stumbled upon the yellow hoard, quite accidentally
it would seem, at the end of a long dark tunnel.
Elmo had heard the
story many times before, with some variations, of
course; and by now, he was almost weary of it; so weary,
in fact, that he sometimes wished Homer would just
forget about the whole idea, and they could both just go
coon hunting, or fishing, which would at least out some
food on the table. All he really wanted to do was please
the old man, make a few dollars and, perhaps, buy his
wife the new bathtub he’d been promising her ever since…
well, we’ll get to that later.
Despite the fact
that that it had been rehearsed a hundred times before,
Homer wasn’t exactly sure how the Harlie would react
when the question was finally put to him in the faces of
those who would be accompanying them to the unholy hill
known as Wainwright’s Mountain; faces he suddenly found
distasteful as well as distrustful. Maybe he should’ve
warned the Harlie first, the old man was suddenly
thinking to himself. Homer didn’t like to lie, to
anybody; unless, of course, it was simply to make a good
story even better, or to avoid hurting someone’s
feelings, which, as we already know, he was not only
capable of, but was actually very good at. He was also
wise enough to know that a lie, even a very small one,
can travel half way around the world before truth has
its boots on. But he didn’t want too scar him away,
either. And so, all he told the Harlie was that he’d
hired a few extra hands to help them along the way.
Little did Elmo Cotton know, or suspect, at the time,
that the hands Homer had spoken of so matter-of-factly
would actually turn out to be attached a toothless
alcoholic, a foul-mouthed surveyor with a tobacco
stained moustache, a carpenter with a hammer for a side
arm, the biggest black man he’d even seen his life (and
he’d seen plenty) plus a suspicious looking Indian with
dark eyes and even darker thoughts; most of whom didn’t
want him there in the first place. Not to even mention
the blue and gray army colonel with the lidless eyes and
mechanical stare.
The bean farmer
both looked tired and confused; not at all like himself,
thought the aging deputy. It was almost as though he
really didn’t want to be there. Homer suddenly began
thinking of calling the whole thing off. Maybe it was
wrong to go back after all, he reluctantly imagined.
Perhaps the time still wasn’t right. And who were all
these strange men on horses he had surrounded himself
with anyway? Looking around, he suddenly realized that
he didn’t recognize any of them; not even Hector
O’Brien, whom he’d actually known for over twenty-five
years, the ol’ Hammer himself. He’d lived with the
toothache for so long now... “Hell! I’ll be dead in a
year or two anyway,” he said to himself, as the others
looked on in quiet desperation. And just as he was about
to voice these and other concerns that’d suddenly
overwhelmed him to a point of resignation, the Harlie
shrugged and simply said, “Alright then. I’ll go.”
The old man
smiled, even though he would’ve done so just as easily
and naturally had Elmo answered in the negative. He
patted the Harlie gently on his bare brown shoulder and
said in a voice that sounded almost twenty years
younger: “Alright then. Let’s get a’goin’.”
“Well that settles
that,” sighed the surveyor with a great globular mass of
tobacco spittle dangling precariously off the upper edge
of his whiskers.
“What’s your name,
son?” asked Mister O’Brien in a sincere tone of voice
the Harlie found pleasingly sweet and low, not unlike
that of his own Uncle Joe. It was the tone some men
reserved for women in distress, and other creatures
prone to hysterical dispositions.
The Harlie turned
to the old man with a hung-dog look, as if asking
permission to speak.
“Go ahead, son,”
said Homer. “Tell the man your name.”
The Harlie
hesitated at first. “C-cotton,” he nervously stuttered.
It was the first
time that anyone present, besides Homer and Little Dick,
of course, had heard the Harlie utter a single syllable.
The others were
beginning to wonder if this particular Harlie was a
mute, as some of the older slaves were at the time.
They’d heard of criminals having their tongues cut out,
along with other body parts, for telling lies before the
local magistrate; and they suspected slaves owners were
no less reluctant or more merciful in that same regard,
especially considering the consequences of an educated
and out-spoken Nigger. And they knew from personal
experience what happened to slaves at one time who had
tried to escape the plantation, and failed. It’s
shuttering to think of what happened to them in more
serious cases, such as rape and fornication.
“Cotton’s my
name,” repeated the Harlie after a brief and deliberate
pause.
The outlaw, as
well as a few of the others, was still questioning the
Harlie’s ambiguous appearance. “Where I come
from…cotton’s white,” he sneered from the top of his
high horse.
“He’s right,” the
surveyor was forced to agree, as much as it displeased
him to do so.
Exposing two even
rows of perfectly formed gums, Alvin Webb attempted to
grin. “Well now, Mister Cotton, you ain’t white…but then
again, you ain’t ‘zackly black, either. But what I wants
to know is this,” he said as Homer looked on in
frustrated umbrage, “is you is, or is you ain’t, a
Feral?”
The Harlie looked
a bit perplexed, like he did whenever his wife scolded
him for reasons he could never quite understand, which
happened more often than not, and could do nothing
about.
The Negro tried to
explain, even though he knew it was a question that
should never have been asked in the first place. “Man
just wants to know if you’re colored, boy. That’s
all.”
Standing before
him barefoot and bewildered, and wearing nothing more
than an old pair of patched overalls strapped loosely
about his shoulders, the young man from Harley answered
the outlaw as honestly as knew how: “I’s… just Elmo,” he
spoke in voice that sounded as innocent as it did
ignorant. And he said it with such sincerity, such
naivety, that everyone, including Alvin Webb, believed
him.
“What’s it gonna
cost? Smiley demanded to know. It was something he, and
maybe a few of the others, suddenly began wondering
about.
“Eh?” said Homer,
fingering a large hairy earlobe, as if he’d heard the
question but wasn’t quite prepared to deliver the answer
he knew they were looking for.
Red-Beard
elucidated. “His cut, old man. He wants to know how much
we’ll pay him.”
“Oh…that,” replied
Homer. And then he paused, thought for a moment, and
said with no further apology. “It’s none of your damn
business. That’s how much!” He looked both pleased and
angry when he said it.
Contrary to what
Homer may have been thinking at the moment, and despite
the fact that he alone held the map, and the keys, to
the lost gold mine, it was Red-Beard’s business,
as well as all the others. And he knew it. It was only
fair, he finally conceded even though he probably didn’t
have to; besides, it was in the contract. “Same as the
rest of us, Charles,” he finally stated out loud, “same
as everyone else.”
While attempting
to do the arithmetic in his head, which, as we have
already seen, was asking quite a lot of the mentally
challenged outlaw, Alvin sternly objected. “Tain’t
fair!” he gummed out as out as he could. “No one said
anythin’ ‘bout an extra man, least of all a Harlie! That
wasn’t part of the deal.”
Combing through
his moustache with tobacco-stained fingers, Smiley had
to agree with the outlaw, for a change. “Mister Webb’s
got a point, I reckon… much as I hate to admit it,” he
said, addressing Alvin with the courteous title for the
very first time, even though they both knew it was
something he didn’t deserve. “And it ain’t the one on
top of his head this time,” he added just for laughs.
“Whadaya say, Colonel?”
For whatever
reason, Red-Beard had dismounted his bull by then and
was presently standing alone and aloof, like a blue and
gray Paul Bunyan besides his beloved Babe; only in this
case it was not a giant blue ox, but a great white
Brahma, which, in many respects, was just as large and
legendary as the mythical beast of burden that plowed
the American frontier and altered the course of the
might Mississippi. “He’ll get what he deserves,” said
the colonel, reaching over to wipe a handful of snot
from the nose of the great humpback. He sounded almost
sincere at that point. “Just like the rest of us.”
Elmo didn’t know
what to make of the colonel’s latest remark, and neither
did any of the others. It sounded almost, almost
threatening. Red-Beard would often speak like that, in
riddles and subtle innuendos. It was something he’d
learned in the army, and perhaps from Tom Henley, the
erudite mountain-man, who would speak in similar fashion
(although he always referred to such speech as
hyperbolic rhetoric or some other heterogeneous
descriptive unheard of outside the cloistered halls of
Academia where he once wrestled with minds as deeply
penetrating and eclectic as his own) in a collegiate but
forceful manner, especially when he didn’t want others
to know exactly what was on his mind, which was usually
most of the time anyway. It was Tom’s way of way of
judging people’s character, solely by the responses he
received from his rhetoric and how they reacted to his
purposeful ambiguities.
The Harlie’s
response spoke volumes. There simply wasn’t any.
Apparently, Elmo Cotton wasn’t very interested in the
gold anymore, which was perhaps the only thing he and
Red-Beard might’ve had in common at the time; at least
not as much as he once had been, or as much as the
others might have guessed. He was more concerned about
Homer at the time, and the way he’d been acting lately –
like he wasn’t sure about himself anymore, or anything
else for that matter. Something just wasn’t right; or as
they say in Harley – ‘It just don’t boil the beans’.
Red-Beard had
noticed it as well, but was not saying anything to the
others. He could see that the Harlie was a little
worried, and justifiably so, he thought. He could also
sense a certain bond between Homer and the young
sharecropper that went well beyond loyalty and
friendship. It was a bond that might have escaped anyone
else who wasn’t as perceptive about such things as he
was. It was a strong, too, and old; a bond familiar to
those who’ve serve in the military that actually had
little to do with position and protocol, and more to do
with survival. It was something Red-Beard knew and
recognized at once. It was something Rusty missed most
of all after reluctantly turning in his resignation. He
even thought that he might come to like the young man
from Harley. Surprisingly, or maybe not so surprisingly,
Elmo’s thoughts were not so very different than those of
the red bearded colonel that day, only not as
mysterious, or regimental.
Maybe he was the
‘Lucky Number’ after all, imagined Red-Beard.
And just what was
it about the number nine, this little enigmatic and,
perhaps, insignificant single digit that had caused such
a sudden and disquieting stir on a bean farm in Harley
that one fine and fateful day? There may be more to the
number nine than meets the eye, not unlike our own
Harley hero, which demands further investigation.
Dee Finnery tells
us nine is composed of the all-powerful 3x3. Nine – the
result of 3x3, nine represents an even greater holiness
found in three. It is the Triple Triad. It represents
completion; fulfillment; attainment; beginning and the
end; the whole number; a celestial and angelic number.
Nine represents
the Earthly Paradise. Nine is seen as an incorruptible
number. It is the number of the circumference, its
division into 90 degrees and into 360 for the entire
circumference. Nine is symbolized by the two triangles
which are a symbol of male, fire, mountain and female,
water, and cave principles.
In Egyptian
mythology nine represents The Ennead. The goddess
Sekhmet is always portrayed wearing the solar disk,
surmounted by the Uraeus, or right Eye of Ra, on her
head, which symbols immediately connect her with both
the Twin Lion gods and their disc, and therefore the
balance and evolution of this planet. In her role as
Divine Warrior, she wages war against the enemies of Ra,
just as her feline brothers and sisters did against the
evil of Apep. Masters writes of the war in Heaven which
is 'intruding ever more fully and terribly upon this
earth'. It is this intrusion, he tells us: ...which has
given rise to the re-entry into human time and space of
the Great Mother, in these Mysteries manifesting as
Sekhmet. To Chaos She brings terror and a swathe of
destruction. By means of Love She comes to re-establish
those conditions which alone can preserve the human race
and provide for the harmonious development and
fulfillment of human beings as individuals, but also as
parts of the Great Cosmic Whole that The War in Heaven
is about – the eventual outcome: either Being or
Nothingness.'
A Prayer to the
God RA
O Amen-Ra, the
gods have gone forth from thee.
What flowed forth from thee became Shu, and
that which was emitted by thee became Tefnut;
thou didst create the nine gods at the beginning
of all things, and thou wast the Lion-god of the
Twin lion-gods.
In the mythology
of the Mayan civilization, there existed nine levels in
the underworld. Metnal, the ninth level, was a place of
eternal darkness, cold, and suffering. The Christian
Bible is divided into nine subsections. One of the most
famous legends in Celtic mythology tells the story of
nine magical hazel trees at the center of the
Otherworld. They hang over the Well of Wisdom and drop
their nuts into it, importing wisdom and inspiration to
all who drink from the water or eat the salmon of the
river. The ninth astrological sign of the Zodiac is
Sagittarius, identified by the Greeks as a centaur.
Centaurs are magical creatures known for their skills as
archers, philosophers, and predictors of the future.
To the Chinese,
nine is a celestial power. It is 3x3 being the most
auspicious of all the numbers. Nine also signifies the
eight directions with the center as the ninth point
known as the Hall of Light. There are nine great social
laws and classes of offials. In land divisions for Feng
Shui there are eight exterior squares for cultivation of
the land by holders and the central, and ninth, square
is a ‘god's acre’, dedicated to Shang-ti, the supreme
ruler. It is also known as the Emperor's Field, giving
homage and respect denoting the position of heavenly
power. Nine is an important number in Chinese culture.
It is considered lucky, and is strongly associated with
the Chinese dragon, a symbol of magic and power. There
are nine forms of the dragon, it is described in terms
of nine attributes, has nine children.
In ancient Chinese
philosophy, the heaven was Yang or masculine
while the earth was Yin or feminine. Since
numbers were considered a mystical part of the universe,
the ancient Chinese regarded odd numbers as masculine
and even numbers as feminine. Nine, as the largest
single digit, took on the meaning of "ultimate
masculinity" and implied the loftiest reverence for
heaven. Therefore, the number nine symbolized the
supreme sovereignty of the emperor who was the Son of
Heaven. For this reason, the Son of Heaven would
naturally communicate and offer sacrifices to heaven
from a world composed of nines. Hence, the number nine
(or its multiples) is often employed in imperial
structures and designs. Ancient palaces were usually
designed as nine-section architectural complexes related
to the number nine in number or size, with doors,
windows, stairs or fixtures also multiples of nine or
otherwise related. Nine is also considered a good number
in Chinese culture because it sounds the same as the
word ‘long-lasting’.
The Japanese
consider nine to be unlucky, however, because it sounds
similar to the Japanese word for ‘pain’. In Thai
language, the word for nine, 'gao', is the same as the
verb for 'to develop or progress'.
Important Buddhist
rituals usually involve nine monks.
Norse mythology
recognized nine realms of existence. Eight of the realms
were embodiments of opposites: fire and ice, heaven and
hell, creation and destruction, and light and darkness.
These realms all converged on the center realm where
humans lived out their lives.
The ancient
Egyptians believed that a person had to earn the right
to enter the afterlife. Before an individual could pass
into the next realm, nine great gods known collectively
as the Ennead had to judge his worthiness.
In Greek
mythology, there are nine patron goddesses of the arts,
daughters of ZEUS and Mnemosyne, a TITAN who personified
memory. They were: Calliope (epic poetry and eloquence),
Euterpe (music and lyric poetry), Erato (love poetry),
Polyhymnia (oratory or sacred poetry), Clio (history),
Melpomene (tragedy), Thalia (comedy), Terpsichore
(choral song and dance), and Urania (astronomy). In
ancient Greece, nine was the number of the Muses, patron
goddesses of the arts. They were the daughters of
Mnemosyne (‘memory’), the source of imagination, which
in turn is the carrier of archetypal, elementary ideas
to artistic, realization in the field of space-time.
Graeco-Roman:
There are nine Gods and later nine muses.
Hebrew: Nine is
pure intelligence (eight was perfect intelligence) and
also represents truth, since it reproduces itself when
multiplied.
Kabbalism nine
symbolizes foundation.
Hindu: Nine is the
number of Agni, fire. The square of the nine forms the
mandala of eighty-one squares and leads to, and encloses
the Universe.
Pythagorean: The
nine is the limit of all numbers, all others existing
and coming from the same. ie: 0 to 9 is all one needs to
make up an infinite amount of numbers.
Scandinavian:
Odin/Woden hung for nine days and nights on the
Yggdrasil to win the secrets of wisdom for humankind.
Skeldi, the northern Persephone, the goddess of snow,
lives in her mountain for three months and by Niord's
sea for nine months. Nine is the sacred number in
Scandinavian-Teutonic symbolism.
The number nine
relates traditionally to the Great Goddess of Many Names
(Devi, Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Artemis, Venus, etc.) as
matrix of the cosmic process, whether in the macrocosm
or in a microcosmic field of manifestation. The reason
for the suppression of her image by a clergy interested
in the claims only of a divinity heavily bearded,
therefore, can be readily surmised; but why the same
company of priestly doctors so artfully concealed in
their document an unmistakable notice of their own
knowledge of her power awaits interpretation.
Buddhist tradition
holds nine to be the supreme spiritual power, and a
celestial number. Celtic legend symbolizes nine as a
highly significant number. It is a central number with
the eight directions with the center making nine. The
Triple Goddesses are thrice three.
There are nine
Celtic maidens and nine white stones that symbolize the
nine virgins attendant on Bridgit. Nine is connected
with the Beltane Fire rites which are attended by
eighty-one men, nine at a time.
Nine is one of the
numbers that appears scantly in Christian symbolism.
There are the triple triads of choirs of angels and nine
spheres and nine rings around hell. The angelic beings,
or celestial intelligences, are divided into three
triads, containing the nine orders, and whose names, as
we shall see, represent the divine attributes that they
manifest to all below them. Continuing from the fine
introduction to the work, Dionysius says these divine
attributes also have an inner relation with every human
soul, for through their ministrations the aspiring soul
becomes liberated from the bondage of material things,
receives knowledge of that soul's purpose, and is
enabled to live its true life, ultimately attaining its
divine likeness to the full.
The first order of
the first triad is seraphim. They are described in the
passage already quoted from Isaiah as the ‘burning’ or
‘fiery’ ones, from whom the stream of super-essential
grace flows (God transcends all essence). Like fire, the
seraphim consume all that separates the human from God.
The second order is cherubim. The name "cherub" means
"fullness of knowledge". Through cherubim, the energy of
God streams forth as a transcendental light that
perfectly illuminates the soul and unites it with the
divine wisdom. It imparts a full and lucid understanding
to the universal divine immanence. In the Bible, cherubs
are depicted as great winged creatures – for instance,
in the construction of the Ark in the wilderness, King
Solomon's majestic temple and the visions of Ezekiel. In
one passage, the cherub is portrayed as a flying
creature on which God traveled in order to help King
David. All this shows how hard it is for the human mind
to avoid conceptualizing a formless energy The third
order of the first triad are the thrones; these are
divine seats through which the soul is lifted up to God
and becomes established in the constancy of the divine
service. This first triad is closest at all times to the
divine presence.
In the second
triad come first the dominions, or dominations, that are
free from all earthly passions, from all inward
inclination to the bondage of discord, and from all that
is low; they display a liberal superiority to harsh
tyranny, and an exemptness from degrading servility.
They are true lords, perpetually aspiring to true
lordship, and to the Source of Lordship. The second
order of the second triad are the virtues, that have a
powerful and unshakable virility welling forth into all
their God-like energies. There is no weakness in them:
instead, they ascend unwaveringly to the super essential
virtue which is the Source of Virtue, and flow forth
providentially to those below. The third order are the
powers, or authorities, that are invested with a
capacity to regulate intellectual and super mundane
power which never debases its authority by tyrannical
force, but is irresistibly urged onward in due order to
the Divine. This order beneficently leads those below
it, as far as possible, to the supreme power which is
the Source of Power. It re-directs the forces that
fetter the human mind to earthly things. Through this
second triad, the soul is liberated from all that is
below, and assimilated to that which is above.
The third, and
lowest, triad is concerned with the final execution of
the work of providence, which is God's beneficent care
for his creatures. The principalities exhibit divine
lordship and true service; through them, the soul may
turn from attachment to earthly activities to the
service of God, so as ultimately to become a co-worker
with the divine ministers. The archangels imprint the
divine seal on all things, whereby the universe is the
written word of God. They impart to the soul the
spiritual light through which it may learn to read the
Bible, and also to know and use its own faculties
correctly. The lowest order of this triad is the angels,
who minister to all things of nature, including humans,
by purifying and uplifting them.
In this triadic
scheme, the higher orders inspire those lower than they,
but not vice versa. Thus it is clear that the third
triad is nearest the world, and transmits the
illumination received from above. The end of the process
is the transfiguration of the whole of the universe in
the glorious light that proceeds from on high. This
whole hierarchy spreads the divine light through the
cosmos, that vast realm that includes the universe, as
far as human understanding can define it, and also the
psychic plane where we may meet the spirits of the dead
and also the communion of saints and the ministry of
angels. The great work of the angelic hierarchy is to
praise and glorify God. This praise is not a rational
acclaim so much as a great paean of joy that the world
is as it is and that the angels are privileged both to
know it and to participate in it. This is how we should
say the Gloria of the Eucharist: that we are privileged
to partake of the body and blood of the Savior If the
whole cosmos could resound to that praise, and move
beyond prejudice and emotional bonds, we would pour out
peace and goodwill to all creatures. The angelic
hierarchy, with its enlightened will turned resolutely
to the divine presence, helps to bring forward the
Kingdom of God on earth - and elsewhere in our
unimaginably glorious cosmos.
In Roman Catholic
Europe, when the Angelus tolls (at morning, noon, and
evening), it ring nine times, in celebration of the
Virgin's conception of the Savior. The recited prayer at
those junctures, ‘The Angel of the Lord declared unto
Mary, and she conceived by the Holy Ghost...and THE WORD
WAS MADE FLESH...’ is in recognition of this miracle at
the opening of a new world age. There is a nine days'
private or public devotion in the Catholic Church to
obtain special graces. The octave has more of the festal
character; to the novena belongs that of hopeful
mourning, of yearning, of prayer. The number nine in
Holy Writ is indicative of suffering and grief. The
novena is permitted and even recommended by
ecclesiastical authority, but still has no proper and
fully set place in the liturgy of the Church. It has,
however, more and more been prized and utilized by the
faithful. Four kinds of novenas can be distinguished:
novenas of mourning, of preparation, of prayer, and the
indulgenced novenas, though this distinction is not
exclusive.
According to Dr.
E.W. Bullinger, who has written extensively on the
Biblical significance of numbers: the number nine also
has a great deal of spiritual significance attached to
it. It is held in great reverence by all who study the
arts sciences and to a lesser degree, the occult. In
mathematical science it possesses properties and powers
which are found in no other number. Among others may be
mentioned that the sum of the digits which form its
multiples are themselves always a multiple of nine. Nine
is the last of the digits, and thus marks the end; and
is significant of the conclusion of a matter. It is akin
to the number six, six being the sum of its factors, and
is thus significant of the end of man, and the summation
of all man's works. Nine is, therefore, the number of
finality or judgment, for judgment is committed unto
Jesus as ‘the Son of man’. It marks the completeness,
the end and issue of all things as to man—the judgment
of man and all his works. It is a factor of 666, which
is 9 times 74. The solemn amhn (ameen), amen, or
‘verily,’ of our Lord, amounts also to 99, summing up
and ending His words. Nine is not yet the full or
complete number; that distinction goes to its
well-rounded follower, the number ten, but it does mark
the ending. It is the last, but not least, of the single
digits in our decimal numbering system; thus it can be
said to represent the conclusion or ending of matter.
There are a
variety numbers that hold secret significance within
occult circles. Among the most common are 3, 6, 9, & 13.
The number nine holds powerful significance for many
occult groups. Satanists take delight in the number nine
for a couple of reasons. First, Satanists enjoy
reversing, mirroring and inverting symbols, letters and
numbers. When you turn the number ‘9’ upside down you
get ‘6’ which makes up the number of the Beast (666) as
revealed in Revelation 13:18 in the Bible. Satanists
also take perverse pleasure in commemorating the death
of Christ and the death of Christ is associated with the
number nine. Mark 15: 34-37 reveals that Christ spoke
his last words on the Cross of Calvary at the ninth
hour and ‘gave up the ghost (died)’.
Another good place
to see the occult art of numerology within architecture
is at the Temple of Heaven where emperors of the Ming
and Qing dynasties prayed for a good harvest in the
spring and offered sacrifices to heaven in the winter
The number nine is ubiquitous in the architecture of the
sacrificial temple, especially at the Circular Mound
Altar (Huanqiutan). There are three tiers of staircases
made of white marble, each with nine steps respectively
on all four sides. The white marble balustrades around
each tier equal nine or are multiples of nine. The upper
terrace is made up of nine concentric rings of slabs
with the innermost ring consisting of nine fan-shaped
slabs; each outer ring consists of slabs arranged in
increasing multiples of nine. The final or ninth ring is
made up of eighty-one or 9 x 9 slabs. The sum of all
diameters of the three tiers of the Circular Mound Altar
is 45 zhang (an ancient unit of measurement). Along the
steps up the Circular Mound Altar in the center is a
round stone slab called Tianxinshi (Center-of-Heaven
Stone). During each ceremony the shrine of god was
placed on the Center-of-Heaven Stone to symbolize that
god lived above the ‘nine heavens.’
According to the
book ‘Numbers: Their Occult Power and Mystic Virtues’
by W. W. Wescott nine holds great significance among
many Masonic orders and secret societies. He said,
‘There is a Masonic order of Nine Elected Knights in
which nine roses, nine lights, and nine knocks are
used.’ In fact the number nine is the number of ‘the
earth under evil influences.’
In music theory, the ninth
note of a
musical scale or the
interval between the first note and the ninth. A
ninth chord is a chord with a ninth. In
classical music the
curse of the ninth refers to the popular and
journalistic notion that some 'mortal' significance
attaches to the composition of a 'ninth'
symphony, which prevents the composer from
writing another.
After Beethoven died leaving his
Tenth Symphony unfinished, many composers were
superstitious about writing Ninth Symphonies for the
rest of the nineteenth century. Following the composition of his
Eighth,
Gustav Mahler tried to ‘cheat death’ by disguising
his next symphony as an orchestral song cycle entitled
Das Lied von der Erde. Although he went on to
complete a work called the
Ninth Symphony (which he considered his Tenth), he
died before he could complete his
Tenth (or, strictly and in his mind, his Eleventh).
Perhaps
Antonín Dvořák was also superstitious about the
number nine, because he wrote no symphonies after his
New World Symphony, which is nowadays
considered his Ninth, but which he thought of was his
Eighth because he considered the score of his
early C minor symphony lost forever. He lived for
seven more years.
In the twentieth century, a handful of
composers, such as
Dmitri Shostakovich, have written a
Ninth Symphony and lived to write more.
Ralph Vaughan-Williams wrote nine complete
symphonies, and the last symphony of
Anton Bruckner is recognized as his ninth.
Nine is
the number of Valkyries in
Richard Wagner's Die Walküre.
In sports, a batting lineup in
baseball consists of nine players. In
addition, nine represents the number of innings in a
game.
In
chess, the maximum number of
queens one side could possibly have after queening all
pawns.
Nine ball is the standard professional pocket
billiards variant played in the United States.
In
association football a forward/striker
commonly wears the number nine shirt. For example,
Alan Shearer is a famous English footballer who is
known as a number 9.
Another famous number nine is
Mia Hamm, who has scored more international goals
than any other player of either sex.
In
rugby union the scrum-half wears the 9 shirt. In
baseball, nine represents the
right fielder's position. In
ice hockey the number nine is one of the most
prestigious sweater numbers.
Nine is also the highest single-digit number in the decimal system. Nine
is the number of musicians in a
nonet.
Nine babies born into a single birth are called
nonuplets , although not one baby born into a set of nonuplets has ever survived infancy.
A
novena lasts for nine days.
Nine judges sit on the
United States Supreme Court.
There are nine members of
The Fellowship of the Ring in
The Lord of the Rings saga, to balance and combat the nine
Nazgûl, or Ringwraiths.
There are nine basic personality types represented on the
enneagram.
In
astrology,
Sagittarius is the 9th
astrological sign of the
Zodiac.
Joel Garreau identified nine different ‘nations’
of North America.
Nine months is approximately the
gestation period for
humans.
A standard work day of 9 to 5 begins at 9 a.m.
Stanines
are measured on a scale of 1 to 9.
The name of the area called
Kowloon in
Hong Kong literally means: nine
dragons.
Someone dressed ‘to the nines’ is dressed up as much as they can be.
There are nine planets in the
Solar System.
Nine, as the highest single-digit number, symbolizes completeness in the
Bahá'í Faith. A simple nine-pointed star is a Bahá'í
symbol.
Legend has it that that a
cat has nine lives.
Chapter Six
The War-Child
“WELL, I STILL SAY he’s an e’wal,” repeated Alvin Webb,
with little or no regard for the truth by then, and
still unable to pronounce his ‘f’s’ on account of
his many missing teeth.
Unlike many of
his friends and neighbors living in and around Harley at
the time, Elmo Cotton might very well have been mistaken
for a Feral, or whatever it was the insidious
outlaw was accusing him of, given previous descriptions
and despite any discriminating evidence indicating
otherwise. But depending on the light of day, and one’s
own prejudices, this particular Harlie could just as
easily have been mistaken for a resident of nearby
Creekwood Green solely by the color of his skin, which
was after all not very different from theirs,
particularly on hot summer days when skin tones in
general are known to a shade darker than they normally
appear, bleeding and blending into one another in the
most interesting and integrated ways, whatever
pigmentation they were originally prescribed.
You see, Mister
Cotton was not nearly as dark as your average Harlie;
but then again, he was not quite as light as your
typical run-of-the-mill Creek-man either and, depending
on your discerning perspective, he was probably a little
more of one and less of the other, or visa-versa;
although, as you may have guessed buy now, he was
actually, and in equal measure, a combination of both.
To some it was simply a question of balance, the mixing
and mingling of the races, a matter of little
consequence and even less concern, which, at another
time and under different circumstances might easily be
overlooked To others, it was freak of Nature, an
ambiguity… a mistake. To many it was plain as Black and
White and just that simple, as clear as crystal, as old
and cold as the stones in the iron gates of Harley
itself, and just as definitive. Still, there were those
who thought of it as something more complex, more
subtle, perhaps. They looked at Elmo, and others like
him who seem to be cropping up more and more since the
end of the war it seems, through myopic, and sometimes
blinded, eyes that would glance at him for a moment and
just as quickly turn away, clouded with integrated
thoughts of doubt, sympathy, curiosity, confusion,
prejudice and, perhaps, even anger. It was all very
disquieting; at times it could be dangerous. It seemed
that that all who clapped eyes on Elmo Cotton saw
exactly what they wanted to see, nothing more and
nothing less. And that, dear reader, includes your own
discriminating self. You see, it all depends on your
point of view, the angle of observation, and how you
look at things in general. It’s a matter of perception,
I suppose, and how we were taught to deal with such
ambiguities.
Naturally, and
predictably, I suppose, there were individuals on both
sides of the Iron Gates who’d always maintained, and
with no definitive proof, I might add, that Elmo Cotton
was possibly a hybrid: the by-product of a mixed (and
therefore illegal) relationship, illegitimately
conceived in a private moment of forbidden passion and
born out of wedlock; or, if you will – a bastard. But
not all bastards are beggars; many come from wealthy and
famous families, some even from royalty. Rumor had it
that the young sharecropper may very well be a direct
descendant of Mister Buford Harley himself, who, even as
an elderly man was known to have fathered more than one
illegitimate child from any one of Erasmus’ many
beautiful, and willing, daughters. Of course, this was
never substantiated and pure speculation. But rumors
remained and the similarities seemed to speak for
themselves; and so did the gossip. Whatever the case may
be, the evidence could hardly be refuted, or ignored,
regards to the Elmo Cotton, the Harlie: light brown skin
that appeared almost orange under the sun; thick, curly
brown hair; eyes that could’ve been either blue or green
depending on the light, or lack thereof; not to mention
a face that bore no immediate trace of any one race in
particular. Or maybe, just like the ever-perplexing
platter-puss, or any of Darwin’s other natural
curiosities that continue to confound our sensibilities,
so too was this poor specimen doomed to mere
speculation; or worse yet, to the scientist’s laboratory
where, like a two headed toad, it could be dissected
right down to its bare and basic components; and we
still wouldn’t know what the hell it is! Any more than
did before the vital vivisection, any more than we would
the Harlie himself. Exactly what was he anyway? Well,
perhaps medical science could help.
It seemed that
some folks would never be satisfied; unless, of course,
the subject at hand were to be turned over to the proper
medical authorities, cut open for examination, much like
the aforementioned frog undergoing vivisection, to find
out once and for all whether or not the Harlie bled
black blood, in which case he might instantaneously be
declared normal, at least for a Harlie and from a purely
hematological perspective, and sent back home… or
whatever mutant lair he crawled from in the first place.
If, however, the same life sustaining liquid turned out
to be otherwise… say, red, purple or orange; well then,
he might just as well be systematically tossed into Nietzsche’s
evolutionary trash can reserved for such freakish fools
and anomalies – but only after every attempt to cure the
patient had been exhausted – and disposed of in the
usual manner. Or perhaps, if the false prophets have
their wild and wicked way, he would be thrown into
Nebuchadnezzar’s famous fire, along with Shadrach,
Meshach and Abednego, and be barbecued alive without the
Son of Man to rescue him from the king’s fiery furnace.
It was almost as if they actually expected poor Elmo’s
blood to be something other than red. One drop. That’s
what they said. One corpuscle! That’s all it would take
to convince them he was of the wrong race; or, as one of
these sanctimonious simpletons so erroneously and
ignorantly stated at the time, in a metaphorical analogy
he would later come to regret when his own pedigree,
which turned out to be not nearly as genetically pure as
he proudly proclaimed it to be, was brought into
question: ‘One drop of manure spoils the whole damn
well!’ It seems that this fellow’s well was poisoned
long before he knew it; and by the same ‘manure’ he was
born and bred in.
They say the
misguided and misinformed orator died one day at the
hands of an angry mob who discovered, much to their
chagrin and bewilderment, the naked truth his own dark
and inscrutable past, which was said to have including a
nubile slave girl, and his father’s unbridled lust for
women of dark complexion. He was found lying at the
bottom of the same contaminated well, quite literally
one day, with a woman’s garter-belt wrapped around his
hypocritical neck and castrated like a bovine steer. And
for the record: his blood was definitely not black. But
his body stank just the same; ‘… like the left wing of
Judgment Day’, as the mariner poet so eloquently stated
when describing the famous whaling ships of old
Nantucket, whose try-works with their boiling blubber
fill the air with such an evil and unctuous odor. As far
as other bigoted minds of that judgmental generation
were concerned (there were plenty to go around, now as
then, and they come in all shapes, sizes and colors)
Elmo Cotton was indeed and in fact a Harlie; and that’s
all there was to it. He had to be. After all, he lived
in Harley. Didn’t he? And that’s all that really
mattered. It was as plain as black and white. It was as
simple as that. Case closed.
Not all agreed,
however, and said so. And when asked his own opinion on
the ambiguities surrounding his clouded genealogy, which
happen more often than he liked and on both sides of the
Iron Gates of Harley, Elmo would merely shrug his
shoulders and walk away. It was his way displaying
indifference to the subject he knew so little of, and
simply didn’t care about. Homer Skinner didn’t care
either; yet his own prejudices, as well as those of
others, betrayed and beguiled him at times.
“And another
thing…” the old man was quick to point out to any
remaining doubting Thomases, Horns, Webbs, Smileys,
Dilworths, or O’Briens that day. “There’s more to this
here fer… I mean Harlie… I mean Elmo here,” he
quickly corrected himself after unintentionally exposing
his own prejudices, “than meets the eye. Something you
boys don’t know much about, I reckon.”
They all just
looked at one another.
“Anyone know
what that is? Hummmm?”
Pause
“Care to take a
guess?”
By then, the
others had accepted the old man’s proposition, as well
as the extra share of the gold it would afford them.
Even Alvin Webb, who could be as stubborn as a three
legged mule on its way to the glue factory if it would
advance his warped agenda a quarter of an inch in his
favor, was resigned to the fact that they were now a
party of nine.
A practical and
impatient man by nature, and who was famous for keeping
to a tight schedule, Colonel Rusty Horn wanted to get
back on the road, hopefully in the right direction this
time, and back to the business at hand as quickly as
possible. He felt they had already wasted enough time in
what turned out to be a trivial matter anyway. And now
this! It was mid-morning, and the sun was already
beginning to burn a hole in the back of his neck. He
didn’t suppose anyone knew the answer to the old man’s
riddle anyway. “We give up, old man,” he finally said in
regard to Homer’s last minute inquiry, acquiescing on
behalf of his four horsemen, soldiers all at one time or
another, and the two mongrels in the wagon.
“I thought so,”
said Homer with a triumphant but uncertain smile. “Well,
then... It’s like this…’ he said, forcing the words from
the back of his throat. “Any of you boys know how to
cook?”
“What?” said
Smiley, knotting his bushy eyebrows.
“I say…”
repeated Homer, “do any of you boys know how to cook?”
“Cookin’!?” the
outlaw sourly whined, “that’s woman’s work.”
“Well,
someone’s got to do it,” noted Hector, already
suspecting what the old man was up to by then.
Homer pulled
the Harlie forward. “And I know just man for the job,”
he proudly stated with one hand resting on Elmo’s naked
shoulder.
“The Feral?”
motioned the outlaw.
“The Harlie,”
corrected Homer.
The colonel
hadn’t thought about it. Food was usually the last thing
on his mind, or agenda, leaving such amenities for lower
ranks to deal with. He was thinking about the real
business, which, as previously hinted upon was not
necessarily about the gold.
And what
exactly was that business? It was the business of the
Motherstone, of course; that mysterious black object
that had eluded Tom Henley for so many years, maternally
referred to at times simply as – ‘Mother’ by the old
prospector. That’s what Red-Beard was chiefly concerned
about. It was something that’d been shielding from the
others for quite some time, ever since he first met
Mister Henley and Homer Skinner up at the Nickel Pig
Saloon.
Webb had been
made aware of ‘Mother’ while Tom Henley and Red-Beard
stayed up one night discussing the ‘real’
business at length. Alvin had apparently fallen
asleep at the bar, or so the two late night conspirators
imagined. He didn’t hear everything; but he’d heard
enough, enough to question the colonel the following day
about the subject of the previous evening’s discourse.
He gathered
from the clandestine conversation that what lay at the
heart of the matter, as well as the mountain, was
something far more important, more precious, than gold.
He was right, of course; although he had no idea what
that might be. Red-Beard told him as little as possible,
knowing Private Webb as he did and the outlaw’s
proclivity towards professing knowledge on subjects
(like engineering for instance) he really knew very
little, or nothing at all, about. It was part of his
character; and Alvin Webb was certainly a character…
without any character, that is.
There were only
two other men who may’ve known something about the
real business that day. That would be Alvin Webb,
whom Red-Beard had confided in, perhaps more than he
should have, and Homer himself. Tom had mentioned it
only once, almost by accident, and in his own imaginary
and ambiguous manner, which was usually shrouded with
half-truths and innuendo. It quickly became obvious to
the colonel that what the old man was really talking
about and, moreover, what he was actually trying to
hide, was not the gold at all, but something else. It
all began to made sense.
Whether or not
Homer was trying to satisfy his own private ambitions in
regard to the Motherstone was something Red-Beard had
become increasingly wary of. There was always something
suspicious about the way the old man would become
strangely quiet or avoid the subject altogether whenever
Red-Beard pressed him on what else he might’ve found in
the lost mine, besides the gold; not to mention the last
mortal remains of Cornelius G. Wainwright III, which was
what he went looking for in the first place. Homer had
seen the stone before; that much was evident by the old
man’s silence, if nothing else, thought Colonel Horn
who’d interrogated enough prisoners during the war to
know when someone was simply lying to him, or hiding the
truth for more devious reasons. He was there alright,
Red-Beard concluded; even though it happened forty years
ago. Homer was there. And now the old man was going
back. But for what? Why? the colonel kept asking
himself. Was it is really for the gold? He
couldn’t take any chances. Red-Beard knew by then what
he had to do. He just didn’t know how to do it yet, or
when. He would deal with Tom Henley later, along with
Alvin Webb.
“The real
business,” reminded Red-Beard in a voice so low that
only the man seated on the horse next to him could hear.
“Remember, Mister Webb?”
Having been
properly and discretely reminded of why they were there
in the first place, the man from Eulogy acquiesced, as
if on cue, by quickly changing the subject without
really changing it at all, as only he could do. “Did
some cookin’ in the army, I did! But ‘course, that was
before I become an En-in-neer’,” he boasted, gumming up
his words in the usual manner. Apparently, Alvin had
gotten the message. “The infantry! Ain’t that right,
Colonel? Cooked for the whole goddamn regiment! Most of
‘em dead now, ‘course.”
Smiley laughed.
“Ohhhh! So, that’s what killed ‘em …”
Private Webb
frowned. “It was those damn Yankees! Piss on all of
them!” he protested, spitting out the words in several
misguided directions as if he were being falsely accused
of committing the murderous act himself. “They killed
‘em…those sum-bitches! They killed ‘em all!”
“Easy,
soldier,” warned Red-Beard. “Keep your powder
dry.”
“And your mouth
shut,” added Dick who’d been standing close enough to
the outlaw to catch some of the outlaw’s foul spray.
The cook
cursed, “Go to hell!”
“War is
hell,” reminded the young romantic, whose loyalty to the
Union cause was never in serious doubt. “They only got
what they deserved.”
“What do you
know about it, Dick-head?” snapped the outlaw.
Dick paused. “I
know this,” he thought out loud after some careful
consideration: “The world is a very dangerous
place….”
As if suddenly
awakened by the universal implications of the young
man’s last statement, the Indian named Boy peered out of
his long black curtain and begged the obvious. “Compared
to what?” he asked.
What had set
off the private’s short fuse that day, among other
things, was something he and his superior officer would
just as soon forget, shameful as it actually was. You
see, what private second-class Alvin Webb failed to
disclose that day in Harley was the fact that he was
eventually court-martialed from the military with a
dishonorable discharge, and for reasons unspecified;
although not to Red-beard.
It had always
been suspected that the outlaw’s sudden dismissal had
something to do with stealing, which, in the army, was a
court-martial offense, punishable by the whip, and/or
imprisonment; and in extreme cases, such as the one
suggested in the case of the pilfering private, hanging.
Being the preferred method of execution at the time, it
a sentence Alvin reluctantly but eventually accepted,
firing squads reserved for more honorable criminals,
such as cowards, horse-thieves, and child molesters. And
to make matters worse, the thievery in question seemed
to involve weapons, firearms and munitions to be exact,
that somehow had found their way in to the hands of the
enemy. This was serious stuff, which should by all
accounts have earned Private Webb more than just hanging
to death, if that’s possible. But there a last minute
reprieve. It was long suspected that Red-Beard had a
manipulative hand in mitigating the outlaw’s lethal
sentence, and that he might have been equally charged
himself, had the investigation reached his own level of
responsibility and its logical conclusion. Private Webb
made sure that that didn’t happened, of course; his
testimony precluding the red bearded colonel from all
wrong-doing, which he would have denied anyway,‘…on the
grave of Andrew ‘Stonewall’ Jackson’, as he so often
solemnly swore.
In the end, and
despite his cowardly inclinations, Private Alvin Webb
did what any good soldiers would do in a similar
situation: He fell on his sword; as they say in military
jargon, just like Cato and King Solomon’s servant. It
was never brought up again. The incident died a quick
and painless death, not unlike the poor Southern
soldiers who were later found shot to death on the
battlefield with Confederate bullets buried in their
brains – their own bullets that might otherwise have
found their proper place in the bloated bellies of dead
Yankees. There are times, as the Samurai warrior knows,
when surrender is simply not an option. Many wondered
but no one asked. No one dared. Rumor had it that
Colonel Rusty Horn, his outlaw partner, and perhaps a
few other renegade soldiers that were likewise being
instructed to ‘keep your powder dry, boys,’ remained
confederate sympathizers long after the war – never mind
the outcome or which side they had actually served on –
and were secretly planning an insurrection. Of course,
there were those who didn’t seem to have a problem with
that, soliciting their services even to a point of
plotting against the current Administration and
assassinating its leader.
Most agreed,
however, that it would only be a matter of time before
the new central government extinguished the last few
rebel flames remaining in the deep, and not so deep,
South. These things are to be expected, and dealt with
accordingly; or so Lincoln himself acknowledged,
refusing, for the most part at least, the security
measures offered to him at the time, which were far from
adequate and more often than not refused. “If they want
to murder me…” the old Emancipator was once overheard to
have whispered in the ears of his hysterical wife one
day, “they know where to find me.” Apparently, many
rebels agreed. The holdouts had militarized their forces
shortly after the War in one last desperate attempt to
rally their forces, along with their cause, in one final
insurrection and one last heroic battle that would be
the South’s equivalent of Gideon’s revenge. But one that
would never take place... thanks to a man named Booth.
It was a
courageous act, noble in purpose and design, reminiscent
of General Gate’s defeating the British forces in the
Carolinas during a previous and, perhaps, even bloodier
occupation of the South. But alas, it was a plan doomed
to failure from the start. There was no General
Washington crossing the Delaware, or marching on the
Manhattan this time, to save the day; no French war
ships sailing into the Chesapeake Bay; no Lafayettes or
Baron Von Steubens lending a sympathetic ear and
experienced hand; not even a Benedict Arnold in the
ranks who, despite his ignominious ending, was once
considered among the greatest of American patriots at
the time. Nothing! No one. The war was over and things
would never be the same. Unless… Some say it was
Red-Beard’s idea from the start, which might make sense
considering his bravery and velour on the battlefield;
but that could never be proven, not in a court of Law
anyway. And besides, as so many other Confederate
officers had done after the war, and in the true spirit
of the warrior, Colonel Rusty Horn simply traded one
sword for another and did what he had to do. He joined
the Union Army, which may explain, among other things,
his uniform of the day.
As it were, the
South had been out-numbered, out-gunned, and doomed to
defeat from the start of the war, despite the fact that
they’d actually killed more northern troops than they
lost. It was a good fight, however; one Alexander would
be proud of. Brave men died on both sides. Half a
million – Dead! History is written by the winners, of
course; and the losers, well, they just lose. But not
all is lost; and, as the poet warrior says: ‘Old
soldiers never die…’
They called it
a ‘civil’ war (if, as some of our pacifist brothers
might suggest, there is civility at all to be found in
any war) and one that simply could not be avoided. But
actually, when you think about it, it may not have been
a ‘civil war’ at all, if, by applying the conflict with
that specific appellation, you are attempting to suggest
that either side had as its chief goal and objective the
total annihilation and takeover of the other, which, as
we all should know by now, simply was not the case.
Succession, as
originally proposed by the Southern Aristocracy in all
its humble and hospitable charm, was the preferred
outcome; and one that might have actually been achieved;
peacefully, perhaps, and without the predictable
bloodshed. But of course, we will never know. It all
ended with the same old government and a new way of
life. But no one died in vain, which is more than can be
said for contemporary wars that are fought for political
reasons rather than patriotism and principal, and may be
its only redeemable asset. They were buried side by
side, in most cases, and on the same battlefields;
facing one another, clasping hands, perhaps, beneath the
bloodied soil for all eternity in a final gesture of
resolution, forgiveness, and maybe even a little
brotherly love, despite the orphans and widows they’d
left behind. Defeat was predictable, given the unlimited
resources of the North and the iron-fisted resolve of
its leaders, if not inevitable. Victory, on the other
hand, was neither blue nor gray. It was red, the color
of the blood still fresh on the fertile fields in places
with names like Gettysburg, Antietam, Mannoses, and
Turkey Creek. It was a terrible war that took many young
lives. But it was the right war, fought at the wrong
time, perhaps, and for reasons the politicians and
historians will never understand. Maybe that’s why it
turned out the way it did. One thing was for certain: It
was a war no one would ever forget it; which, I suppose,
is the ultimate purpose of all wars.
Hector O’Brien,
the carpenter, would know. He was there. He’d served in
the Southern army as a sergeant but seldom, if ever,
spoke of it. Most veterans never do, you know; not only
for personal reason, but sometimes just because they
want to forget, however impossible they know that to be.
Unlike the dishonorable and cowardly private who’d acted
strictly out of self-interests, the Hammer’s regrets ran
much deeper; and his sorrows were shared with an entire
nation. What made the old war-horse weep at times,
although it didn’t happen very often and was always done
in privacy, was not so much that they’d lost the war,
but rather that a way of life had been sacrificed in the
process. Good brave men can get over defeat and live to
discuss it honorably, in the company of their captors,
perhaps, like gentlemen should, and live to fight
another day; but as far as Sergeant O’Brien was
concerned, there was nothing honorable about losing a
culture. It was, as the writer says, ‘gone with the
wind’, destroyed forever; although there are some who
will argue that there are times when a thing, or a
nation, has to be destroyed in order for it to be saved.
Naturally, many of the Founding Fathers would have
agreed, as they drained the last drop of blood from the
British Crown. Losing a war is one thing, but losing a
culture, an identity….well, that’s something entirely
different. That was the real shame. People can be
replaced, eventually; but once a culture is destroyed,
it is gone for good, especially in a place called Dixie
where life is all about sipping mint juleps on soft
summer evenings and eating fried chicken on the front
porch as the band plays ‘Old folks at Home’, and where
things like loyalty, modesty, and chastity, are the
staple. And nothing can bring it back, no matter how
many swords are broken, and no matter how many
armistices are signed.
It was a sore
subject for the old sergeant, the wounds of which were
only just beginning to heal. For years, he’d tried to
keep his feelings to himself; buried, deep down, in the
dirt, along with a good number of brave young men who’d
once served with him so heroically. ‘They were just...
boys’, he privately wept from time to time. ‘Just
boys…’
It seemed that
after the war, and particularly after his ‘operation’,
Colonel Rusty ‘Red-Beard’ Horn couldn’t have cared less
about the war, or how it turned out. He blamed both
sides equally for the uncertain outcome of the conflict,
which in and of itself was still a little bewildering to
him, and had always maintained that it, the war, should
have continued until one side or the other (it really
didn’t matter to him which one) won by completely and
totally annihilated the other. ‘The way all wars should
end’, he once boasted after an unusually long and hard
fought battle that’d ended, much to his own frustration,
in a draw. He didn’t believe in truces, peace treaties,
reconciliation, or even ceasefires for that matter; they
only prolonged the inevitable he’d always maintained.
And in a strange and almost prophetic way, he might
actually be right about that.
In the end,
Red-Beard burned all of his uniforms, except for the odd
hybrid of blue and gray clothing he was wearing in
Harley that day. Likewise, he buried his medals along
with the deeds and the dead that had procured them. He
had no need for of them, any of them, anymore. It did it
not out of spite, but simply because they reminded him
of the man he used to be. They simply reminded him too
much of Colonel Horace ‘Rusty’ Horn, a man he would
later come to say ‘never existed’; present company
notwithstanding.
As for the
complicated and controversial issue of slavery, which
many still insist was not only the chief proponent of
the Great War but may’ve very well ignited the conflict
to begin with, Red-Beard cared even less. He had always
been ambivalent about the whole idea of Emancipation,
vacillating from one extreme to the other, considering
the debate a mere distraction to the real issue,
whatever that was in his own delusional and dichotic
mind, at hand. And whenever the subject came up, which
was all too often as far as he was concerned, the
colonel became strangely silent, as though the issue had
already been settled, at least in his own mechanical
mind, and was no longer worthy of gentlemanly debate.
He’d always thought it a shame and a sin that good men
should have to die over a matter so trivial and
inconsequential as slavery; although he knew they would
always find ‘…something to fight over’; one cause being
as good as another in that respect, which was all the
true war child can hope for, what he lives and breathes
for: – the next battle, of course. What else?’
‘War should
always be about something big – real big!’ the colonel
contended. It should be about something more just than
ideals and convictions, more than ambition, more even
than glory. As far as Red-Beard was concerned war was,
in its own mutually destructive and self-perpetuating
way, a necessity. ‘’Good for the circulation’ he would
preach in whispered tones of red, the color of war by
the way ‘…and mankind in general.’ And who could
disagree? Didn’t one of our own distinguished
forefathers once enunciate, quite eloquently I might
add, that ‘the Tree of Liberty’, still in its most
experimental, infantile, and fragile state, ‘needs to be
nourished now and then with the blood of patriots and
tyrants’? He was taking about war, you know; and he knew
what he was talking about.
War! ‘It’s the
purest of all professions,’ Red-Beard would proselytize
from his bully-white pulpit on top of Old Jove, ‘There’s
something religious about it’. And in some ways, he was
right about that, too. But wars are usually more secular
in nature and, despite what some may claim, are seldom
fought over religion matters; although religion has
been used from time to time, chiefly as propaganda, to
fuel the furious flames. Praise God… and pass the
ammunition! Saying that religion is the cause of war is
just a poor excuse put forward by sophomoric
intellectuals and cowards who are too afraid to fight
and too lazy to think. Life is not quite that simple,
and neither is death. The true war child knows why he
fights. He fights to win! He has no religion, at least
not in the way we know it; his gods are captains and
generals, men he seldom sees. He answers to them alone,
if he answers at all. He worships at the altar of Mars,
the feet of fleet-footed Achilles; he bows before Aries
the Archer; and, not unlike his Christian brethren, he
drinks the blood of his deity to the dregs. He is the
war child.
War is what he
lives for. ‘Let the other poor bastard die for his
country,’ as one old warrior-poet so aptly once put it.
War is in his blood, in his genes. It’s a relationship,
in that respect, like father and son, an
inextinguishable and self-consuming flame that burns in
perpetuity from one generation to the next. He’s the
war-child who drinks from his father’s fiery cup and
vomits it back to him like a true god of fire. And when
there is no more war, there will be no more gods, and no
more fire. And there will be nothing left to fight for.
Then, and only then, will the true warrior come into his
ultimate glory by executing the final order. And he will
carry it out to the end; whereupon will stand, salute,
and then simply cease to exist by putting the last
bullet in his own brain. Mission accomplished, Sir!
For men like
Red-Beard, war was more than a profession; it was an
art, his passion, a way life Sun Tuz would surely
approve of, and something to make Nicolo Machiavelli
proud. ‘War! Live it. Learn it. Love it!’ the colonel
once commanded his troops. ‘And that’s an order!’ It was
more precious than life itself. War! Without it,
Red-Beard was nothing; with it, he had a purpose, and a
pulse. War! It didn’t matter who started it, or even
why; one excuse being as good as another. It only
mattered who finished it – and who won. When and where,
of course, were always negotiable.
War’s a
science! And it’s fought for a variety reasons, the last
one being no exception; if not slavery, it would’ve been
be fought over something else. When pressed for an
opinion on the final outcome of the continental
conflict, Red-Beard had always maintained that the wrong
side had actually won. But he never specified which one;
at least, not in so many words. Never-the-less, he did
finally concede that it was all probably for the best,
and that, in the end, poor Johnny Reb never really stood
a chance, being out-numbered and out gunned as he was,
and however heroically he may’ve fought. From a more
personal perspective, however, and despite his military
metamorphosis, Rusty Horn still sided with the defeated
by agreeing with them on the central and critical issue
that had ignited the war to begin with, which,
regardless of what you may or may not have heard, was
not what History proclaims it to be. The war was
actually less about slavery and more about State’s
rights, which, as most clear thinking folks would later
come to agree, was always at the heart and soul of the
matter. It was an economic problem as well a moral
crisis, and one that even Colonel Rusty Horn knew would
have to be resolved sooner or later. He’d only wished it
was later. He had his reasons, but would not speak of
them out loud; not publicly, anyway. He was a war child;
and this was a private, and perhaps personal, war. It
was his war.
Having lived
long enough to know the true history of the human drama
leading up to the great conflict that pitted brother
against brother, the carpenter had to agree with
Red-Beard’s assessment that day, as much as it disturbed
him to do so, and despite how little they actually had
in common, then or now. “We were only doing what we said
we would do… what we were supposed to do!” banged the
Hammer for the sake of anyone willing to listen. “And
legally, mind you. Hell! that’s all we really wanted…
pure and simple. And it could’ve been done peacefully,
too, I reckon. It’s in the Constitution, you know. Look
it up!”
“You’re talking
about secession, aren’t you, Mister O’Brien?” questioned
Little Dick for the benefit of those who weren’t aware
of what the old soldier was alluding to, historically
speaking; and specifically for his boss, Charles Smiley,
who still might not have realized what his own brother
died fighting for.
“Hector’s
right,” agreed Colonel Rusty Horn, putting aside his red
bearded alter ego for a rare moment of introspection.
“Johnny Reb never wanted a war, civil or otherwise; and
neither did those damn Yankees for that matter. And when
you get right down to it, there was really nothing
‘civil’ about it. Civil War, as far as I can tell,” he
continued, as if lecturing a classroom full of new
cadets, “is when one part wants to take over another
part. And that was the last thing on Johnny’s minds. He
wanted to be left alone. That’s all! And if that didn’t
work, he just wanted to leave.”
“Secede! Leave!
What the hell’s the difference?” pounded the Hammer in a
rare display of emotional outburst. “We were just
minding are own business, and our own property. Who
knows?” he added with a blow that would’ve driven home a
ten-penny nail in one strike, “Things would’ve worked
out sooner or later...with the slaves, that is. They
always do, you know. It was all just a matter of time, I
suppose, before they got what they deserved. Hell, maybe
the war wasn’t necessary after all. Who knows? Don’t ask
me. I don’t know. But you know those politicians.
Anything for a dollar...”
“Freedom ain’t
Free,” reminded Homer, serving no particular alliances,
and holding no grudges.
“Tain’t cheap,
either,” Smiley sadly agreed, having lost his own
brother at the Battle of Bull Run; whose death he’d
witnessed fighting alongside his older sibling on what
many still considered the ‘wrong side’ of the war.
At that point,
Sam slouched down in the front of the wagon, wary, it
seems, of the confrontational conversation by then, and
not particularly fond of the direction in which the
carpenter had suddenly steered it, intentionally or not.
He knew Hector, as well as Webb, and maybe a few of the
others who he’d only recently made the acquaintance of,
were from that part of the South that didn’t necessarily
agree with the outcome of the war, nor the sad and
pathetic attempts at reconstruction and reconciliation.
He could tell by the way they talked. It was in their
blood, like a malignant virus infecting their bodies and
brains, one that simply refused to die. And he knew
there was nothing he, nor a thousand Union armies, could
do to stop it. “But that’s just the way life is… for
some folks,” was all the Negro would say on the matter,
referring to the white man’s recalcitrant behavior.
Boy was not so
reticent, for a change. “Cost us plenty, too,” lamented
the Redman in the back of the wagon, equating, in his
own Native-American way, the decimation of his
heterogeneous tribe and the fate of the entire Indian
nation to the plight of the black man; as he would often
point out to anyone willing to listen, regardless of the
color of their skin, the size of their genitals, or the
choice of their weapons. But unlike their African
brethren who, against their own free will were dragged
from their ancestral homes in chains and forced to
suffer the injustices a new and ignorant world where
they would wait in sorrow and shame for another hundred
years before they could call that land their home, the
Redman could not wait. He didn’t have to. He was already
there. In the end, it was the American Indian who paid
the ultimate price for freedom; not with his life, as
pure and pagan as it was, but with extinction… just like
the buffalo.
“We fought
because we had to fight. There was no other way,” Hector
hammered home. “Man can’t serve two masters, you know.”
“Try serving
just one,” noted the Negro, growing bolder in his
assertions, as well as his rhetoric.
The surveyor
acknowledged, and rightfully so, albeit from a purely
humanitarian perspective, “Never did get what they was
promised, either,” he observed, referring, of course, to
the final settlement granted to the slaves who’d fought
for their own freedom, which came, as a matter of fact,
to the grand total of five acres and a mule. But some on
the winning side of the war thought it wasn’t nearly
enough and so, along with ‘Reconstruction’ which they’d
grudgingly acquiesced to knowing full well that it was
never going to happen anyway, especially now that the
Great Emancipator was dead and Johnson, and his Northern
alliances who still had a bone to pick with old ‘Johnny
Reb’ as well as a few debts of their own, held the
purse-strings; and so they came up with another idea
novel, a compromise. They called it ‘Reparations’.
As part of
Mister Lincoln’s ‘reconstruction’ efforts, soon to be
abandoned by his predecessor (as many suspected it
would, and perhaps should) proposals had been made to
compensate not only the plantation owners whose mansions
and fields were left in ruins after the war, along with
the cities and towns they supported, but the freed
slaves themselves who, though no fault of their own some
would argue, were left with even far less. ‘Reparations’
was only one of those magnanimous gestures put forth by
those whose sympathies lie in that general direction. It
was a topic of heated debate that would survive for many
years, revived by now and then by lawyers and
legislatures who saw it not only a sound legal
instrument for undoing injustices of the past, but as a
way of lining their own depleted pockets while at the
same time procuring the ‘sympathy vote’ needed to keep
them in office where, in their own political way of
thinking, they could ‘make a real difference’. It was to
be, and still is for that matter, the largest
class-action law-suit ever devised by these self-serving
hypocrites.
Forty acres and
a mule was a good and fair starting point, they all
would argue. But for the more liberal minded of that
post-war generation, even that wasn’t enough; and they
said so. Not so much for the sake of those they so
magnanimously sought to defend, and indeed had shed
their own Caucasian blood to liberate, but more so out
of guilt and shame, which, as we all know, is not best
motive to adopt when carrying out such humanitarian
efforts, however altruistically applied. Some called it
political indulgence; other saw it for what it really
was – secular absolution.
Whatever it
was, it seemed to take hold; and like a poisonous plant
whose roots run as deep as a Samarian fig tree in search
of moisture, it spread until something finally had to be
done about it. But the remedies needed to make up for
the egregious offensives of the past, which were said to
have put some at a greater disadvantage than others,
simply weren’t there. For if they were, then every slave
since Adam would rightfully have a legitimate claim to
Eden, along with all the other conquered territories he
was either thrown out of, forced to flee, or remain
there as mere slaves. And if that were the case, the
Jews would have to give up Jerusalem, the British Empire
would never exist, Rome would revert back to a safe
haven for wayward Etruscans, and we would have Geronimo
sitting in the White House. It simply wasn’t going to
happen; at least not without a fight.
‘Fixin’ things’
was the logical, if not so eloquent, argument in defense
of Slave Reparations; or, as others in the
ever-expanding legal community would’ve liked to put it
in the vernacular of the day: ‘Levelin’ the cornfield.’
It would come in the form of new taxes, the lawmakers
agreed, levied against those that may, or may not, have
benefited the most from the evil institution itself.
Satirically, but quite accurately, referred to as ‘a
re-distribution of wealth’, which all taxes are when you
get right down to it, by conservatives whose political
leaning tend to be slightly right of Attila the Hun,
‘Reparations’ were, and still are for that matter,
doomed from the start; as well they should be.
‘But it’s for
the good of all mankind!’ progressive thinkers would
further elucidate, hoping to gain support for their
ideological cause, particularly among those now eligible
to vote and who would stand to gain the most from such a
proposition. It was a noble idea, but a bad one, as most
ideas are that spring from the heart and not the head;
emotions like hope and change, and done for all the
wrong reasons. But it’s the thought that counts. Or is
it? Once you politicize Charity, it is no longer
Charity. It’s… it’s… Well, whatever it is, it’s not
good. ‘Render to Caesar…’ the Good Book tells us. And
leave salvation to God.
Needless-to-say, the issue of ‘Reparations’ died a quick
and painless death, which is more than can be said for
the soldiers who died fighting for something entirely
different, as well it should have; but not after so many
days of legal haranguing over a subject that proved to
be just as divisive and destructive as the Institution
it sought to prosecute – namely, slavery. Reparations
were a mistake from the start, many would come to agree,
albeit begrudgingly. It was really nothing more than
legalized extortion in the guise of political
correctness gone amuck; another liberal disaster done
with all good intentions. But as most good intentions
eventually do, it backfired! the effects of which only
exacerbated the problem by opening up old wounds that
should’ve healed naturally, and permanently, over time.
Even bigots know when to give up and throw in the towel.
You can’t hate forever... I don’t think.
Justice comes
swiftly for some, and slowly for others. But it comes,
never-the-less; and sometimes it comes not with the
strike of the gavel in the hands of some angry and
activist judge, but rather by our own better angles and,
perhaps, the grace of God. Forgiveness and Freedom are
no exceptions. Both have to be earned; and once they
are, there’s no looking back. Look at Lot’s wife, all ye
Sodomites; look and learn.
Reparations?
There was simply no justification or legal precedent to
support such a concept, or any other remedy for that
matter that would right the wrong the Founding Fathers
once tried to ignore not too long ago in the
fly-infested halls of the Continental Congress. As one
bright young lawyer once observed and later argued as he
presented his very first case before the American Bar:
‘Why should I allow the government to legally pick my
pocket just because my daddy once robbed the bank? Who
can put a price on sin? Where’s the arbitrator, man!
Will Egypt mortgage the pyramids, along with all the
treasures of the Pharaoh, to pay back Moses and his
suffering Jews? Would that be Justice? I think not, sir.
And neither would Solomon!’ And thus he rested his case.
Considering his
own personal relevancy on the subject, and his stake on
outcome of the war, the Harlie, who although he’d been
listening intently to the preceding discourse with great
and growing interest, had remained strangely, but not
uncharacteristically, quiet on the matter at hand. He
disagreed vehemently with much of what had already been
said on the divisive subject of human subjugation, as
well as the injustices suffered both before and after
the war, and was going to say something about it; but he
just didn’t know how. And besides, how could he? The
gentleman from the South was right, of course. No one in
Harley, or anywhere else that he knew of, had ever
received their allotted ‘five acres’; in fact, most,
didn’t own soil they walked on. The mule they could
always take or leave.
The wealth of
Harley (relatively speaking, of course) was held mostly
in the form of real estate that had been magnanimously,
and for reasons no one could comprehend, granted to a
chosen few newly freed slaves shortly after the war.
Some considered it fair, the right thing to do, a down
payment, a form of egalitarianism, something like… like
Reparations! But as in all social experiments, some are
‘reparated’ more than others; and to each is not always
according to his needs. And that’s why Reparations
eventually failed, leaving the land in worse stewardship
than it ever was, and the people of Harley just as poor;
maybe even poorer, than before. Oh well, so much for
Socialism.
And as for the
mule, Elmo already had one, albeit a sorry old jackass
given to him by his good friend and neighbor, Mister
Sherman Dixon, not too long ago as a wedding present. It
was a stubborn animal a with a healthy appetite, a nasty
temper, and a bad habit of kicking in the barn door
whenever it was hungry, which just happened to be most
of time; or just to annoy and aggravate Elmo, whom it
would kick just as regularly and just as hard, sometimes
for no good reason at all.
Naturally, Elmo
would kick right back, and curse the animal right out
loud… whenever Sherman wasn’t around, of course (after
all, it was a gift from the fat farmer; and besides, it
just wouldn’t look right) which only seemed to
exacerbate the problem and prolong the untenable
situation. He would occasionally try to talk sense into
the malicious mule, which never seemed to do any good,
while attempting to engage the dysfunctional beast in
honest dialogue, which at times could be lively and
quite revealing, knowing all along, of course, that he
was only arguing with himself. At times, the poor animal
would even talk back, not unlike Balaam’s Biblical
jackass that was forced to verbally admonish its rider
in the presence of the angel of the Lord, which it was
severely beaten for. It was merely a safe and imaginary
way of amusing himself at work, where there was actually
very little to be amused about, and letting off a little
steam in the process; and besides, it made the day go by
faster. And being strapped behind the infernal beast for
such long periods at a time, it was sometimes only
conversation he would have all day. But then again,
imaginary friends can sometimes be just as annoying and
aggravating as the real thing, or worse. The mule was no
exception. On one such occasion, Elmo almost shot the
ornery orator for kicking him in the shin-bone, and
would’ve gladly returned the mule to its original owner,
Mister Dixon, had he not already known about Sherman’s
voracious and insatiable appetite, which included
everything from apple armadillo to broiled zebra-fish.
Surely, he thought at the time, the poor animal would
only end up in Mrs. Dixon’s stew that evening, which was
a fate unfit for man or beast, and ultimately in the fat
farmer’s famous stomach. Elmo had seen Sherman eat on
more than one occasion, and it still frightened him to
think of it.
And so, the
Harlie mercifully decided to spare the poor animal a
death it probably deserved and would one day certainly
get; but he just couldn’t afford it at the time; not
with fields that still needed plowing, and a hungry
family to fed. Not even a dumb jackass with a large
appetite and a bad temper deserved the unwarranted fate
of winding up on the business end of Sherman Dixon’s
fork. And besides, the mule kept him company,
anthropomorphically speaking, and could still fairly
pull a plow; when he wanted to, that is. And even bad
company is better than no company at all, Elmo wisely
reckoned. He would miss the conversation as well, even
if it was only his own. In the end, I suppose, as it is
with most symbiotic relationships, the Harlie found out
that he needed the mule as much as the mule needed him.
They complimented and confounded each other, like Lewis
and Clark, despite their harsh disagreements; and, in a
strange and almost bewildering sort of way (the way
lovers sometimes do, and which is, perhaps, something
only they can ever understand) actually loved one
another.
The mule was
actually one of the few possessions the Harley bean
farmer could actually call his own. Other than the
clothes on his back, a few pigs and chickens and a
sickly old hound dog that couldn’t even catch a coon,
Elmo owned nothing else except for a rusty old shotgun
his uncle gave him as a birthday present, which he was
actually afraid to use. He liked the dog, however, which
was more than he could say about the mule and most of
his neighbors. At least it didn’t try to kill him, or
talk back way the jackass did from time to time; and
besides, he could always shot the dog.
As usual, Alvin
Webb was either forgetting, or intentionally leaving
out, the one thing that the Harlies, along with
thousands of others like them, did get. That was their
Freedom, if nothing else. And for most, that was enough,
barely; it was all they ever really wanted anyway.
“Dumb
bastards,” cursed Private second-class Alvin Webb under
his foul and festering breath. “What good’s freedom to a
goddamn e’wal anyway? You can’t eat freedom.
They’s cannibals, you know.”
“That reminds
me,” said Little Dick Dilworth, feeling a little
frustrated by that time, “We ain’t had any breakfast.
And I’m hungry.”
Homer was
getting a little impatient by then as well, feeling they
had wasted enough time already. But he was glad the
young man had brought the subject up. “Thanks for
reminding me, son,” he said with grateful nod. “That’s
brings me right back to what I was getting’ at. Let me
put it another way. Do any of you sons of bachelors,
besides Mister Webb here, know how to prepare a proper
meal?”
The question
was answered in the same ambivalent manner as before:
with heavy sighs and the shuffling sounds of hooves and
leather.
“You mean
cook?” the Negro reluctantly questioned.
“That’s exactly
what I mean, Sam.”
“Well…” began
the outlaw, whose culinary qualifications had already
been expanded upon, much to everyone’s dissatisfaction.
“Well then…”
interrupted Homer, proudly touching the Harlie once more
on his bare brown shoulder, “He does!”
Having spoken
his mind on the matter and then some, hopefully for the
last time, Homer Skinner finally rested his case. He
then turned to the newly commissioned cook and said to
him, “Ready, Elmo?”
The barefooted
bean farmer simply looked up at the old man sitting on
the tall black horse and nodded, yes.
Chapter Seven
It’s About Time…
ELMO COTTON HAD KNOWN about Homer's long awaited expedition
for quite some time now, having discussed it at length
and in detail with the old man on more than several
occasions. Even then, he was never quite sure if they’d
actually be going; Homer had made plans before that
never materialized. And if they were going, he’d
always assumed they would going alone, just like they
always did; just the two of them, just the way he liked
it. Perhaps Homer never really made that clear… up until
now, that is.
As it were, the
young man from Harley was the only one Homer Skinner
ever really confided in to any significant degree with
his secret. The others only knew what Homer wanted them
to know, which was just enough to persuade them that he
wasn’t as crazy as everyone said he was, and that there
might be some truth to his ambiguous and sometimes
incredible story. He trusted Elmo, not only with the map
but with everything else, including his toothache, which
the Harlie had always responded to with sympathy and a
certain bewildering pity that only Homer could
understand.
On account of the
Skinner’s biological failure to produce any offspring of
their own, and for sentimental reasons perhaps, Elmo
Cotton had been legally designated and documented as
Homer’s sole heir and beneficiary; providing, of course,
his wife was also deceased by then, which, considering
her healthy constitution and the fact that women
generally outlive their husbands in most cases, wasn’t
very likely. It was all in Homer’s last Will and
Testament…if only he could remember where he’d put it.
The old man had
always held a special affection for the Harlies, the
Cotton family in particular. Nadine was a good woman,
and even a better wife, he would remind Elmo on any
given day and under no particular circumstances. She
also happened to be the mother of Homer’s godchild,
‘Little’ Ralph Cotton, Elmo’s only son who would often
sit on the old man’s lap and comb his thinning white
hair with his delicate brown fingers. Even in his
declining years, Homer would make the long trip into
Harley, sixteen miles thereabout, at least once a week
just to see how the Cottons were doing, and maybe buy a
bag or two of Harlie beans, which he was never in short
supply of and consumed on a regular basis, baked,
boiled, or right out of the sack, as most folks
preferred.
Elmo was the only
one, besides Homer of course, who’d actually touched the
thin yellow paper that showed the way to the
Wainwright’s Mountain and the exact location of the
hidden gold mine Homer had stumbled upon over forty
years ago, along with the tomb of the dead prospector.
The others, including Colonel Rusty Horn, only knew of
the treasure’s approximate location, which was assumed
to be somewhere in the foothills, at the base of the
Silver Mountains, just like all the other mines of that
time. They were wrong, of course. For as it turned out,
the entrance to Cornelius G. Wainwright III’s lost gold
mine was actually located at the top of a live
volcano, deep inside the crater of Mount Wainwright
itself. Geographically speaking, it was a rather small
crater, and not place where one would expect to find any
precious minerals, like the ones Mister Wainwright was
so desperately searching for; most of ore having been
spewed out in ash, or carried down the mountain side in
streams of hot flowing magma by then. Never-the-less,
that’s where it was.
At the time of the
Gold Rush, most prospectors (at least the ones that knew
anything at all about gold mining, which by the way were
not very many) panned for their fortunes in the shallow
streams and river beds at the base of the Silver
Mountains, collecting the precious golden nuggets one at
a time from the bottom of their copper bowels. It was
hard and tedious work, and not for those who are easily
discouraged. But with lots of patience and perhaps a
little luck, it did pay off. Later on, when the streams
ran dry and most of the miners had packed up their pot
and pans and left, a few of the more ambitious
prospectors, like Mister Wainwright for instance,
remained behind. They turned their attention and tools
to the hills, where ‘hard-mining’ became the business of
the day. It was more difficult than panning and required
a great deal more effort, along with the proper
resources needed to extract the golden reward. In some
cases, it was actually worth it.
Not surprisingly,
however, it was inside the great mountain where
Cornelius was most successful. It was also there where
he meet his fate, in the very same mine Homer and
company were presently headed for that day. It was
abandoned, of course; sealed shut with Mister
Wainwright’s own dynamite, within the cavernous crater
itself And it was there where the tunnel began,
meandering deep down into the rock in a labyrinth of
twists, turns, dead-ends, forks and false starts, which
were obviously placed there for reasons of obscurity. It
was a vast subterranean maze that Homer, knowing how bad
his short term memory actually was, wisely included on
his map, in painstaking detail, shortly after he made
his escape. He knew he would eventually need it, if he
ever came back; although it was never really a question
of if, only when.
Having long since
been covered up by nature or contaminated by
unsuspecting trespassers, the original site of the old
gold mine would be almost impossible to find without
Homer’s map. The stone crucifix left by the original
search party marking the grave and bearing the dead
man’s name had long since faded into the surrounding
rock like an old Gaelic cross in a graveyard, and was by
then as indistinguishable as all the other slumbering
stones breaching the earthy soil like so many forgotten
tombstones.
Elmo had only
enough time to pack a small bag that day, on which he
hung a few copper pots and pans along with some kitchen
utensils that he hoped his wife wouldn’t miss too much.
He brought along several burlap sacks of beans of
course, some coffee, sugar, and a few bundles of collard
greens, all of which he strapped on the back of his plow
mule. The old man never did say exactly how long they’d
be gone, so he just wanted to be prepared. He was
thinking it could take well over a week, which was
longer than he’d even been away from his family and
farm, just to locate the lost gold mine; and longer than
that to unearth the hidden treasure, if it was still
there, which the Harlie himself was always suspicious
of, knowing Homer the way he did. And so he threw on a
few more bundles and bags just in case. He also brought
along some carrots for the mule. Not that he deserved
any after kicking him in the backside not too long ago;
but he knew that there would be very little for the poor
animal to eat once they were on the trail, and even less
when they got into the mountains. Nodding to the old man
on the tall black horse, Elmo simply said, “I’s ready
now.”
Homer nodded back
and gave Elmo a wink, his usual way of reassuring the
Harlie, or anyone else for that matter, that all was
well; or at least as good as they were going to get
under any particular circumstance. He knew how the Elmo
must’ve been feeling just then; he’d felt the same way
forty years ago when, as young and hopeless romantic,
the heart raced and the blood began to boil; it was also
at that time when the tooth first began to ache. It was
a strange and exhilarating feeling, he suddenly
recalled, hot and cold at the same time, the kind of
feeling experienced by all young men at one time or
another with too much time on their hands and not enough
brains to know what to do with it. But it was a good
feeling, as most feelings are for young men of any
generation, even the unpleasant ones.
“I’s almost
forgot!” cried Elmo, looking as though he might be
having second thoughts on the matter, “I’ll be right
back.” He then ran quickly around the back of the house
and into the barn where he kept his shovels and rakes, a
plow, and a few other faming tools left there by the
previous tenant. He was gone for on only a moment or
two.
When he returned,
slightly out of breath and looking somewhat anxious, the
Harlie was carrying with him an old shotgun, so rusty
and worn as to suggest that it that it very well have
been pried and pilfered from the venerable old hands of
Rip van Winkle himself as he lie in slumbering ignorance
for the last one hundred. And just think of how
surprised the Ol’ Rip would be upon finding out, years
after he was eulogized in legend, whatever happened to
his famous firearm, and whose hands it finally wound up
in: the hands of Harlie… and that it actually still
worked.
It was a rather
queer-looking firearm, a cross between a shotgun and a
long barreled pistol, if you can imagine that, and just
as lethal. It was called a ‘blunderbuss’, actually. It
had a short wooden stock at one end and the trademark
flared end section at the other for expelling a wide
range of munitions. It was an odd and old weapon, from
an earlier generation, preferred by pirates and other
criminals of the time who’d come to depend on the wide
spread of their gunshot, which usually consisted of so
many small metal projectiles, or anything else that
could be rammed down the gaping barrel of the gun at a
moment’s notice, and seldom missed their target. It
especially came in handy at close range, which, despite
what you may’ve heard, is how much of the real fighting
is done on board ship; or whenever these same sea-sick
sailors were too drunk to hit the broad side of Admiral
Nelson’s flagship on a calm day, which, knowing their
fondness for rum, was always a distinct possibility. His
uncle Joe had given it to him as a birthday present when
he turned sixteen years old. He told Elmo it was good
for hunting coons. ‘And you can’t miss!’ Joe Cotton said
with a great grin at the time of the presentation. Elmo
had tried it only once. He missed.
The four horsemen
looked at the Harlie and his antiquated weapon, and
laughed. They had the right. It was a sight worthy of
ridicule. Why even Red-Beard, whose face was forever
frozen in an everlasting frown, seemed to crack a smile
that day. Sam and his Indian companion simply shook
their savage heads in simultaneous disapproval. Homer
looked just as surprised as everyone else, and even
slightly embarrassed. But in a strange and almost
complimentary sort of way, both the Harlie and his gun,
the man and the machine, looked as though they were made
for one another, being equally odd in many of the same
bewildering aspects, and just as much out of place.
Having served in
the military not too long ago, Hector O’Brien was
familiar with most types of modern weaponry, including
firearms. He’d fired everything from pistols to cannon,
and could still handle them as well as any hammer. But
even he couldn’t recall ever seeing such an old and
out-of-date firearm, at least not one that he thought
might actually work, like the one the Harlie was holding
that day. “Say, just what you gonna do with that thing,
son?” enquired the old sergeant-at-arms after the
laughter had died down to a mere snicker or two, “…shoot
yourself a Pterodactyl?” He was referring, of course, to
one of the larger prehistoric birds common to the
Jurassic period that are now long extinct; although
there were some who claimed they still exist and can be
seen on moonlight nights circling high over the Silver
Mountains, looking for gold... or gun-toting Harlies,
perhaps.
“How could he
miss!” noted the surveyor.
Elmo often
wondered that himself. He simply shrugged as he placed
the blunderbuss in a burlap sack on top of his mule
along with all his pots and pans. It was just a
precaution, he reminded himself, just in case… “Might do
me a’ little ‘coon huntin’,” said the Harlie for lack of
a better answer and feeling somewhat inadequate by then.
The comical
incident gave Homer pause to think for a moment about
what he was getting Elmo, as well as himself and the
others, into that day. He wondered if he was doing them
all a disservice by bringing them along in the first
place. He had often thought about going it alone, as
ridiculous as it sounds and as difficult as it would
actually be, and no matter what the outcome. After all,
there were no guarantees; and the road into the
mountains was not an easy one to follow, if it could
still be found at all. It would be long hard slough, as
the General would say. And that was long before the
dirty and dangerous work of excavation began; a
monumental undertaking even under the most professional
standards and favorable conditions. Men have died up in
those hills, Homer often imagined; good men, better and
more capable men than the ones he’d chosen for the
expedition, including Red-Beard and the experienced Old
Hammer. And what right did he have dragging the Harlie
along anyway? Surely, Elmo had more important things to
do at the time. He still had a farm to take care of, not
to mention a wife and child that needed him there more
than ever. What if something went wrong? It could
happen, the old man was presently considering. It did
once before. And what would Nadine say? What would she
do? And what about the boy! These, along with a myriad
of similar soul-searching questions suddenly descended
upon the old man like a ghost knocking gamely on the
front door of a house that was due for a good haunting.
Homer cursed himself for not thinking about these things
earlier, and thought about calling the whole thing off
right then and there. He imagined that he could always
tell Red-Beard and the others that he suddenly had
change of heart; that he was too old and too sickly; or
maybe, he thought at length with smile, he could tell
them that he’d made the whole thing up, just like
everyone said he did; just like he always did. Hey! It
was all a joke, he might say to them. And what a joke! A
real knee-slapper! A regular gut-buster! Why, it would
probably make him even more famous than he already was,
or so he gloried in a greedy moment of self-indulgence.
It was a tempting idea, but one that was born too late
and probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. Hell! he
finally thought to himself without ever believing it:
maybe I won’t say nothin’; just go on home and come back
some other time… when I’m not feeling so poorly. He had
the right, you know. And he also had the map. But before
the old man had time to think it over any further, Elmo
had the mule packed and ready to go. He’d made the
decision for him.
“Something wrong?”
questioned Colonel Horn, noticing for the first time
that Homer’s hands were trembling as he put on his
reading glasses and unfolded the map for one last time.
Elmo noticed it as
well. He’d seen it before, but never so pronounced. It
looked like Homer was actually shaking. He looked old.
“Nothin’ to worry
about,” insisted the aging deputy, noting a slight
crease on the Harlie’s otherwise smooth, unwrinkled
brow. “Just a little rheumatism. That’s all. Comes and
goes... like the weather, I ‘spose.”
He then slowly
began studying the map, again, even though he’d
committed it to memory many years ago. It seemed the
more he looked at it, the more uncertain Homer became,
and the more his hands shook. The four horsemen just sat
and stared, wondering what was going through the old
man’s mind at the time. He looked a little scared,
thought Smiley, with a keen and discerning eye for
trouble, whether in the physical or environmental sense.
He looked at the Harlie again. Perhaps he wasn’t so
lucky, after all. No one said a word.
As previously
hinted upon, it was rumored that Elmo Cotton was perhaps
a direct descendant of old Erasmus Harley; his daddy, it
that were the case, being just one of Mister Harley's
original twelve children; the first to be exact.
However, this could never be verified, much less
documented, due to the simple fact that historical
records of genealogical events were rarely kept in back
then, especially in Harley, except for by word of mouth,
perhaps, which was unreliable at best and sometimes
downright duplicitous.
It was also
commonly misconstrued that all Harlies, however remotely
removed and wherever they eventually wound up, were
related to one another, either directly through Erasmus
Harley himself, or by one of his many offspring,
creating, if you will, a sizable and protracted
community of incestuous village idiots. Mathematically
speaking, of course, this would be impossible, for the
numbers alone simply would not add up, much less support
such a ridiculous theory. Mister Harley’s gene pool
simply wasn’t that deep. It would’ve taken a lot more
sperm, not to mention stamina, than his aging body could
afford to produce such noble numbers. Fortunately, most
Harlies couldn’t count that high. But facts, stubborn
things that they are, really didn’t seem to matter when
it came to speculation on such matters (never mind the
fact that ‘race’ is something no one has any personal
control over anyway) and probably never will. But
Harlies, in general, were used to speculation and
gossip, along with the pain and embarrassment that
sometimes accompanied it.
Things only seemed
to have gotten worse after the war. It was a difficult
and confusing time for everyone, including those who
resided in nearby Creekwood Green. But the Harlies bore
it like they bore everything else in life – with pain,
suffering, humility, and maybe even a little laugher.
And no one laughed longer, or louder, than Erasmus
Harley himself who, despite whatever else might’ve been
said about him over the years, happened to be not only
the richest and wisest of the Harlies, but also one of
the humblest.
Actually, the name
‘Harley’ was quite common among Harlies; and still is
for that matter, despite the fact that it was not a name
they would have likely chosen for themselves. But names,
like the people who bear them, can be deceiving. And
least we ever forget: few ever get to name themselves.
If the good folks of Harley were, as previously
mentioned, related to one another more so than anyone
would care to admit; well then, so be it. As far as the
Harlies were concerned, it really didn’t matter. And if,
in fact, this particular Harlie, Mister Elmo Cotton, was
indeed a direct descendant of the venerable old Negro,
he would never admit to any such lineage; to do so would
not only be presumptuous, it might even be a lie.
Besides, Elmo had always maintained that his own father,
whoever he was, was just another Harlie bean farmer
among all the other sharecroppers and, by all accounts,
not even a very good one at that.
Many say Reginald
Cotton was in trouble with the law from the day he was
born; and that was just on his mother’s side. In any
case, Reginald, or Reggie, as he preferred to be called,
was a sharecropper, a fate befitting someone not only of
his race but of his questionable character. He worked
for Ike Armstrong at one time, just like everyone else
in Harley; albeit when both he and Mister Armstrong were
much younger, and stronger, men. In many ways, Reginald
Cotton was a strange and mysterious man, even to his own
wife, or so the Harlie was told on many an unsolicited
occasion. He wasn’t a particularly good farmer; and he
especially didn’t like working for a landlord,
especially Ike, which may’ve been the one thing, the
only thing, he and Elmo ever had in common, and perhaps
one of the reasons he ran away in the first place. And
run he did, as fast and far as his Harlie feet would
take him. Exactly where he went or where he wound up,
was anyone’s guess. But something happened to him along
the way. Some, including Joseph Cotton, Elmo’s uncle,
who enjoyed reminiscing about such things while sitting
on his front porch in his favorite rocking chair and
catching horseflies in his big brown hands, said it
happened in Old Port Fierce. ‘It was befo’ the war…’ Joe
would say in a frog-like voice that was as thick as
molasses and just as sweet; and that, for reasons few
would ever know, was all he would say on the subject.
But he would tell other stories, stories of faraway
places he’d heard about from the sailors in Old Port
Fierce, tales and adventures so incredibly Homeric
(pardon the pun) that many folks though he was just
making them up. Reginald Cotton was a big part of those
stories, of course. However, when questioned about what
might’ve actually happened to the old fugitive, Joe
Cotton clammed up like a New England oyster. Some waters
are just too deep to fathom.
In the end, they
say that Reggie Cotton simply ran away; a little insane
perhaps, but with a burning desire no hearth or home
could satisfy. Some suggested there was another woman
involved. Or maybe even another man; a soldier, perhaps.
No one knows for sure; nobody knew what happened to him
after that, including Elmo’s mother, Daisy Cotton. No
one knew why; and no one really cared. Some still claim,
with scattered bits of evidence and here say to support
their story, that he headed down to Old Port Fierce, as
Joe suggested, where he eventually gained passage
onboard a slave ship headed for the islands. But that,
along with other stories about him, such as taking to
the hills to go a’minin’, joining the army, or running
off with a wealthy white woman whom he was also said to
have murdered, were only stories, tall tales, mere
words; but they were words Joe would neither confirm nor
deny, even until this very day. Mining, especially for
gold, was typically reserved for more adventurous young
men, with paler complexion, and a lot of money than
Reggie ever had. ‘Not too many Harlies took to mining in
those days’, his uncle would say… ‘unless, of course,
they be woikin’ for someone else’. As in the case of
poor Sam, I suppose, who had worked as both slave and
prisoner.
No one knew for
certain what happened to Reggie Cotton: not his wife,
not even his own brother, Joseph Cotton, who was known
to most Harlies simply as Ol’ Joe, and whom Elmo called
‘Uncle’ Joe. It was just one of those things all too
common in Harley after the war. Families that hadn’t
been scattered as a result of the divisive conflict were
lucky enough to have merely survived. It was a time of
confusion and uncertainty, everywhere, even in Creekwood
Green where the affects of the war could still be seen
on the lily-white faces of widows and orphans alike.
Need-less-to-say, husbands and fathers were as scarce as
hen’s teeth in those days, and just as difficult to
identify.
It was said that
Reggie Cotton’s wife died not long after her husband
left town, making Elmo a complete and utter orphan at
the tender young age of seven. For a while, his uncle,
Joe Cotton, took care of the boy; but only until Elmo
was old enough to, as his uncle was famous for saying in
his own eloquent accent: ‘...drives a plow and woiks the
dummy-end of a spade’; although Elmo was never exactly
sure what his uncle meant by that, or which end of the
shovel he actually belonged. And it all began on his
tenth birthday. It also happened to be the same day he
finished school, which he always thought to be no mere
coincidence.
He didn’t even own
a mule at the time, and his father had left behind
nothing but a grieving wife and a lonely and confused
little boy. It was something he would never forgive
Reggie Cotton for, not even if he out-lived Old Erasmus
Harley himself, who was said to have survived long
enough to see his hundred and thirteenth birthday. It
was a hard life for a little boy with no father, and few
prospects. And he never expected things to get any
better.
When Elmo reached
the respectable age of sixteen, Joseph Cotton talked his
landlord, Isaiah ‘Ike’ Armstrong, into allowing his
young nephew to farm a small piece of bottomland as a
sharecropper. It was actually a swamp that flooded so
often that the only thing it was ever good for was
frog-gigging and, depending on the time and tide,
fishing. Joe also gave his nephew the previously
mentioned shotgun, or blunderbuss, as a birthday
present. It looked more like a small cannon, he
remembered thinking at one time, and just as dangerous
to operate. ‘And remember, son,’ he could still hear his
uncle saying at the time in his big, bull frog voice:
‘…you can’t miss.’
Elmo Cotton hated
farming. He especially hated sharecropping, and
considered it just another form of slavery, which, it
actually was, and in more ways than one. He hated the
long hot summers and the cold hard winters. He hated the
little shack he was forced to live in. He hated the
muddy soil of Harley that stuck to the soles of feet and
could never be completely remove no matter how hard he
scrubbed them. He hated his plow; and he wasn’t too fond
of the mule, either. He hated the beans he harvested and
ate almost every day of the year. Needless-to-say, he
hated his landlord, Ike Armstrong, whom he blamed for
many, if not all, of his current problems, as well as
his Uncle Joe for introducing them in the first place,
in a forgiving sort of way; although it was something he
would never say, or admit, to the old black man with the
big hands and even a bigger heart who, other than Homer,
was the closest thing he ever had to a real father.
Besides, he knew it would only hurt the old man’s
feelings.
In fact, Elmo
hated so many things about his life at the time that he
hated just thinking about them. And he hated Harley,
too. He hated the stone walls and the Iron Gates that
keep him in, and everyone else out, especially the white
folks, the so-called ‘Greens’ from nearby Creekwood
Green who would sometimes ride right up to the iron
gates, but seldom any further, at times just to stop and
stare at, before heading on their worldly way. He hated
them as much as anyone, even though he actually knew
very few of them. He hated them almost as much as he
hated the Harlies. He hated them all, black and white,
Harlie and Green, and for the same reason: namely,
because they all hated him first. But most of all, he
hated Reginald Cotton. Elmo hated his father not so much
for what he did, but what he didn’t do; and especially
for what he did to his mother. He always suspected that
she would still be alive today if not for her husband’s
unpardonable sin of abandonment; and perhaps he was
right. Whenever the name Reggie Cotton was mentioned, he
would merely spit in the dirt and step on it, like he
was extinguishing a fire ant or some other loathsome
insect. And he didn’t care if anyone had seen him do it,
either; not even his Uncle Joe, whom Elmo always liked
and admired despite the shortcomings and failures of his
older brother.
Elmo was only a
boy when he scribbled a shaky and thin ‘E.C.’ on Isaiah
Armstrong's long piece of paper. Not being able to write
out his full name at the time, Joe Cotton taught his
nephew how to sign his initials on the doomed document
the night before the contract was legally executed. It
also had to be read out loud, on account of Elmo
couldn’t read at that time, and the law demanded it. Not
that it really mattered, of course; it was just a
formality. Never-the-less, it was a binding contract,
and would be upheld by any magistrate. And so, like
everyone else in Harley, Elmo cotton went a’farmin’ that
day for Isaiah ‘Ike’ Armstrong and regretted it ever
since.
But he was young
and green at the time, and would surely have put his
‘E.C.’ on his own death warrant if it meant a roof over
his head and a bowl of beans. How was he to know? Isn’t
that what everyone did back then? put a mark on Ike’s
long piece of paper, pick up a shovel and, if they were
lucky enough, stare at the rear end of a mule for the
next ten years, or at least until they died (I’m not
talking about the mule here), whichever came first.
It gave the
Harlie a place to live, even if he couldn’t call it his
own for at least ten more years (not that he ever really
wanted to anyway) and a place to hang his hat, even
though he didn’t one of those either. But it was a roof
over his head, and he was at least thankful for that. He
hoped things would get better; but, of course, that
never happened either; not he actually believed they
ever would.
The house the
Cottons lived in was little more than a small wooden
shack in the middle of a mud-hole with a door, one
window, and a rusty old stove. There was also a small
barn located on the property, which Elmo used to store
his mule and his plow in. Actually, the only difference
between the barn and the farmhouse was that the barn was
bigger.
At one time Nadine
Cotton suggested they keep the mule inside the house,
and they sleep in the barn. Elmo disagreed, of course;
and he told her so, harshly, in what turned out to be
their first real argument. Needless-to-say, Elmo slept
in the barn that night; but without his wife. It would
not be the last time. The mule was there, too. ‘Peoples
live in house,’ he admonished the mule that cold and
lonely night, ‘… not barns!’ Naturally, the mule did not
agree, and said so. It was the first of many
conversations he would have with the ornery animal; it
would certainly not be the last.
The house was
actually so small that it was often mistaken for an
outhouse by passing strangers, which, understandably,
resulted in more than a few embarrassing moments, one
involving the Harlie’s own wife as a matter of plain
fact. The incident occurred not too long ago. It had not
only landed Elmo in jail for a lengthy period of time,
but also got him whipped as well for taking matters,
along with a rusty bucket, into his own ‘Harlie’ hands.
He had always considered the whipping he got in exchange
for breaking another man’s leg the lesser of the two
punishments he received that day, and would do it all
over again – only next time he would break both of
Mister Richard ‘Dick’ Dilworth’s leg instead of just
one. He never forgave the young man from Creekwood Green
who had urinated in his bathtub that day and invaded his
wife’s privacy both at the same time…but more about that
later. Back to the farm.
Elmo’s only
consolation for signing away ten years of his uncertain
life to ‘Woik da fields’ as Ike would say in his own
dialectic drawl, was in knowing that he was now
considered a properly ‘made man’, which gave him access
to the only thing he really cared about at that time:
marrying Nadine Simpson, a local farm girl with a pretty
smile, a voluptuous body (or, as they say in Harley –
‘all the right tools!’) and all the ancillary delights
that went along with them. The Harlie knew, of course,
that without a steady source of income, however small
and meager, Farmer Simpson simply would not allow it to
happen; marriage, that is. And neither would Mrs.
Simpson; or Nadine for that matter, who, as any good
farm girl knows, if she knows anything, would never –
Ever! go against the wishes of her parents; at least not
with a mother’s size thirteen shoe, her father’s
twelve-gauge shotgun, and a dowry to consider. Despite
what you may have heard about farm girls (and I’m sure
you’ve heard plenty) they are not shy about these
things; and they certainly ain’t dumb.
Elmo Cotton just
had to get married. It is what every young man in Harley
did, sooner or later; despite the looks and fortunes of
the bride-to-be, and sometimes against their better
judgment. Besides, it was simply the right thing to do;
even if it’s sometimes done for the wrong reasons.
“Getting’ ‘hitched,” as an old black farmer who happened
to be a rabbi of the Jewish faith once told Elmo in all
candor and confidence, “is kind’a like… like ‘getting
coi’cumcised (what old Semite was actually referring to
at the time was the Hebrew tradition of removing the
foreskin of every male child not long after they were
born, which in his case was the day he turned thirteen.
He said it was done down at the creek, with a hollowed
out reed and a butcher’s knife. Naturally, it was
something the Harlie would not soon forgot... as much as
he tried to.) ‘We calls it a ‘Bris’… And I’s the Mohel!”
exclaimed the old Ethiopian with a slicing gesture that
reminded Elmo of his wife cutting off the head of a
chicken, in one swift, accurate, and deadly motion. “It
may not be all that necessary; and it may not be for
everyone; but, you sees, the truth is,” the high priest
went on to explain that day, “…the sooner you gets it
over with, the better! Thinks about it, son.” Talk about
cutting to the chase; and with such eloquence… and
orthodoxy. Ouch!
When Nadine
Simpson finally agreed, reluctantly at first, to marry
the young man from Harley with the strange complexion,
curly brown hair and blue-green eyes, it seemed to
somehow make it all worthwhile. Elmo was happy for the
first time in his short, un-ambitious and ambiguous
life. His neighbor, Sherman Dixon, gave him the mule he
presently owned as a wedding present; and his landlord,
much to everyone’s surprise, gave him a day off for the
honeymoon. Miracles do happen, I suppose; and they
sometimes come from the most unlikely places. He was
happy, and thought that, perhaps, he and Ike might
actually become friends. It was a thought that died the
very next day, however, when he was told by the same
greedy landlord that he would have to work the following
Sunday, which just happened to be Christmas day, to
make up for the time off. It was cold that day, and
lonely. It was the first Christmas Elmo Cotton ever had
to spend in his overalls; it wouldn’t be the last. Not
if Ike Armstrong had anything to say about it, which he
always did. But, hey! at least Mister Armstrong gave him
a chance, the Harlie had to grudgingly admit as he drove
his plow through the frozen mud and rain while the
presents were opened and the pumpkin pie was passed
around the humble houses of Harley that bright December
morning. It was more than most folks gave him at the
time, including his own father. It was enough, for now
at least.
They were married
in ‘The First Congregational Church of the Holy Ghost’
and had a son eight months later. They named him Lil’
Ralph because…well just because Nadine liked the name.
As for Elmo, he would’ve settled for any name; except
for ‘Reginald’, of course. He still hated that name,
almost as much as he hated the man himself; and he would
still spit in the dirt and step on it every time it was
mentioned or brought up in conversation which,
fortunately for everyone concerned, did not happen that
much.
Things suddenly
looked brighter for the young sharecropper, and even the
plow didn’t seem as heavy as it used to. He even began
taking a liking to his mule, especially when they were
forced to share the barn together, usually during
certain times of the month when, for reasons the Harlie
would quickly find out, were those special times when
Mrs. Cotton was going through her menstrual period (or,
as she herself so delicately put it: ‘when I has my
little guest…”) and sexually activities were definitely
out of the question, as well as the bedroom.
But he still hated
his job. He hated farming more and more with each
passing day, and cursed the soil he stood on. Knowing
that one day his own son would be standing on that same
silty soil, driving the same stupid plow behind the same
dumb mule, and ‘woikin’ the same muddy bean fields for
the same old greedy landlord only made him want to,
against all his better instincts, follow in his father’s
shameful and forlorn footsteps by running away for good.
Some things just never change, I suppose; and the apple
doesn’t fall far from the tree. It only made him bitter
and sick.
And through it all
Elmo Cotton plowed and planted his muddy little bean
field from sunup to sunset with little or nothing to
show for his efforts other than a few sack of beans, a
broken back and a handful of blisters. ‘Oh well’, some
would say, observing the angry young man from a
respectable distance with little help or sympathy to
offer, ‘at least you is E-mancipated!’
Elmo was never
quite sure if he was being pitied or praised by the
remark. It sometimes made him laugh, which was its only
redeemable value, but not for very long. For a free man,
Mister Cotton felt about as ‘E-mancipated’ as a raccoon
caught up a tree, and just as frustrated. And the hounds
were always waiting for him, right below, ready to pull
him apart, limb from limb, at the slightest sign of
surrender. Somehow, he found that amusing as well, but
only in a melancholy sort of way.
Before long, he
wanted nothing more than to wipe the muddy soil off his
feet and leave Harley for good; and he actually came
close to doing it at one time. But that was before he
was married; and now, with a wife and child to support,
it was simply out of the question, if not altogether
impossible. Besides, Elmo swore he’d never do what his
father did by simply running away. It was too easy, and
far too risky; especially with a knife-toting farm girl
at home going through her monthly cycle who knew how to
cut the head off a chicken. And the mere thought of
abandoning his family made him shamefully ill, as well
it should. Still, he needed to get away, if only for a
little while, he thought. But where would he go?
He needed some
time to think, to sort things out, something he always
did best when he was alone. He was tired; it showed. And
it wasn’t necessarily from work – he knew himself better
than that. There was something else bothering him,
something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something
more intangible, and more personal. He felt yoked, like
the mule pulling the plow in front of him day after day.
It weighed him down, like an anchor; it was a weight he
felt he could no longer bear. And there was nothing he
could do about it; there was just no relief in sight. It
frightened him at times: that strange and bewildering
combination of anxiety and hopelessness that would come
over him, suddenly it seemed, and without warning. It
was a sinking feeling, as if he were drowning in a sea
of deep muddy water. And the more he tried to get out of
the water and mud, the deeper and muddier it became. He
would think about what his Uncle Joe had told him about
his father, which was never enough; and about how his
mother died after he ran away. Needless-to-say, it only
made the water deeper and muddier; and he sank even
more.
His wife often
suggested, in the way farm girl sometimes do in times of
trouble and despair, ‘Why don’t ask the Lord for help,
Elmo?’ She was right to do so, of course; and she would
pray for her husband, in spite of himself.
Although Elmo
still believed in God, he never saw the point in asking
God, or any other elusive deity, for assistance when, in
his own unsophisticated but otherwise sound and logical
mind, he had always assumed that: if God was God,
and He knew what everyone needed, even before they asked
for it, and He was as merciful and benevolent as
everyone claimed Him to be…Well then, why should anyone
have to ask for anything in the first place? It didn’t
make sense; or, as they say in Harley: ‘It just don’t
boil the beans’. Wouldn’t God already know what he, or
anyone else for that matter, wanted, or needed, before
they even asked for it? It was a paradoxical dilemma,
with critical consequences, and not for Elmo’s
uneducated brain to solve at the time. It was the kind
of problem that has perplexed the mind of man since Adam
donned his first fig leaf and starred at his wife,
wondering, out loud perhaps: ‘What the hell went
wrong!?’ He never could figure it out. And neither would
Elmo. Nobody would, or could, he recently began to
think. The answer was to be found somewhere else, if it
ever existed at all.
And perhaps that
is why he decided to go along with Homer and the others
that day. And then there was the gold. He’d heard about
it before (Who hasn’t?) and not only from Homer. People
talk, you know; and on both sides of the Iron Gates. It
was no secret that Mister Cornelius G. Wainwright III
did, in fact, locate and excavate some of the most
lucrative mines in all the Silver Mountain range; and
that he did have stubborn streak in him as wide as the
Grand Canyon; and that he very well may have been as
greedy and treacherous as most folks claimed him to be;
but no one ever accused Mister Wainwright of being a
stupid man; quite the contrary. He knew exactly what he
was doing, and precisely what he was looking for. Some
say he eventually found it: Death, and immortality.
Other say it never existed at all… whatever it was.
It was Mister
Wainwright’s methods they chiefly questioned, more than
his motives. He just didn’t know when to stop, they
sadly say. And in the mining business, a foot or two,
even inches, could very well be the difference between
life and death. Elmo sometimes wondered if Homer would
make the same fatal error; if, in fact, that’s what had
doomed the famous prospector. He didn’t think so. But
what did he know? He was just a Harlie, a sharecropper,
a famer; and the first thing Harlies were taught from a
very young age, whether they understand what it means,
or not, was that Harlies belong in Harley. It’s as
simple as that. And if they ever forgot it, which is
known to happen from time to time as it does for
everyone born under a wandering star…well in that case,
all they have to do is cast that same wondering eye on
the old Iron Gates before them, and be reminded… just
like the ancient Israelites were reminded every time
they gazed up at the towing towers of Babylon.
Talk of gold
didn’t happen too often in Harley; and even when it did,
it only surfaced behind closed doors, in smoky back
rooms and empty barns where liquor flowed and the men of
Harlie would sometimes congregate to discuss such
forbidden subjects while pitching pennies, playing
cards, or emptying a few whiskey bottles. Gold, like so
many other desires of the flesh, has a way of finding
its way into the hearts and minds of men, regardless of
where they hide and what color they happen to be. Elmo
was no exception.
For a long time
Elmo pretended, like so many others, that the gold never
even existed at all. It was just an old man’s dream; a
wish, something Homer made up, as old men often do to
amuse themselves and perhaps a few others along the way;
the way his Uncle Joe would sit in his rocking chair on
his own front porch catching horseflies and telling
stories, mostly to the children who could stop by just
to see a big black man in a rocking chair catch
horseflies on his front porch. It was perhaps the one
thing the two old gentlemen had in common, Elmo
sometimes imagined; and the fact that they were born
opposite sides of the old Iron Gate; perhaps it was the
only thing. But whatever it was, it was a good thing. It
was something Elmo came to realize later on in life; and
it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It seemed that some
folks would prefer to make up a good yarn rather than
tell a bad one. And what’s wrong with that? And who
could blame them? Especially when their own ‘true’
stories were too short, too long, too sad, or just too
boring to hold an audience for any length of time. Facts
are not always stranger than fiction; sometimes they’re
just plain dull. If a man can’t dream, then what the
hell can he do? And when dreams become more preferable
than reality, it says more about the reality than it
does the dream. Just ask Homer.
Folks had always
considered Homer Skinner a little strange, ‘teched in
the head’, as they would sometimes say, rather cruelly
and erroneously, I might add; especially in his senior,
and what some considered his more ‘senile’, years. ‘No
fool like an old fool!’ they would howl at him as he
rode by on his big black horse, usually on his way to
Harley to pick up some beans. And they would say it
right to the old man’s face at times. Homer always
seemed to understand; and he took it all in stride,
waving to the crowd as he passed by with a wink and a
nod only he seemed to understand. Of course, that didn’t
necessarily mean he agreed with them. He didn’t. He
would simply smile, wave, and walk away if he had to,
the way Harlies sometimes do when there’s nothing else
they can do under similar and even more humiliating
circumstances. And it worked! just like it worked for
the Harlie.
As previously
mentioned, Elmo had recognized only one of the four
horsemen that day, Richard Dilworth, who was better
known around Creekwood Green as ‘Lil’ Dick’, and not for
the reasons one might come to suspect. The others,
including the two men riding in the painted wagon,
remained totally unfamiliar to him; and Elmo planned to
keep it that way, at least as long as he could. He’d
heard of the old man with the heavy hammer from his
uncle Joe, on several occasions, and wondered if it was
the same individual the old man spoke of with such awe
and reverence that was presently standing in front of
him that day in Harley. It sure looked like it. The
hammer said so; it seemed to speak for itself. Likewise,
he’d also heard of a man called ‘Smiley’ who would,
whenever his professional skills were called for on that
particular side of the Harley Gates, practice his trade
in the same accurate measure he would anywhere else, and
at the same reasonable rates; not unlike Mister Lester
Cox, the Creekwood County coroner who also happened to
be a close and dear friend of the foul-mouthed,
pie-eating, tobacco spitting, surveyor. And everything
he’d up until that point regarding to the magnificence
of the surveyor’s famous moustache, at least from his
own personal point of view, certainly did not do it
justice; it only made him feel more insignificant. For
it was indeed spectacular sight to see. As far as
Red-Beard, it was the Harlie’s first introduction to the
man Homer had already warned him of, and whom he was
already having mixed feelings about. The other one, the
one they called Webb, he didn’t even want to think
about.
‘Little Dick’ (a
name actually given to him by his mother) Dilworth was
approximately the same age as Elmo Cotton, with similar
height and weight measurements. The two young men had
actually met not too long ago when, quite un-expectantly
it would seem, the Harlie returned home one hot summer’s
day to find his wife in a bewildering state of shock.
She was five months pregnant at the time, and she was
crying. And no wonder! For standing right there with his
bare backside exposed to the open door, and with his
pants still dropped down around his boots, the young man
from Creekwood Green had just finished doing his
business. And right in front of Elmo’s wife! He had
urinated in the bathtub.
He didn’t even
have a chance to pull up his pants, before Elmo picked
up a rusty water bucket that he’d specifically placed
there for the sole purpose of accommodating certain
bodily functions that need not be mentioned here, the
contents of which had already approached an alarming and
unhealthy level, and began mercilessly beating the
perpetrator over the head with it. And he didn’t stop
there.
In the end, Little
Dick Dilworth was sent away in shame and disgrace, and
without any clothes. All Elmo would allow ‘The Urinator’
to take home with him that day was a broken leg, a
bruised ego, and a newly found respect for other
people’s property, even if it was only their bathtub,
and nothing else. As for the Harlie…well, after a short
trial and speedy conviction, he was summarily stripped
to the waist and whipped in public, at the Redstone
Tree, for the role he’d played in the unfortunate
incident, however justified he might’ve been in his
actions, and sent promptly to jail. But he had always
felt he had done the right thing; even after he got out
six months later and people were still talking about it.
And so did his wife, of course, who was perhaps the only
innocent victim in the whole sorry and sordid affair,
having personally witnessed the disquieting event up
close, and personal. Naturally, due to her relationship
with the defendant, her testimony was considered biased
from the start, and therefore inadmissible at her
husband’s defense and long awaited trial. And since
there were no other witnesses – besides Elmo, that is –
to collaborate her story, the case over before it began.
It took the jury a minute or two to reach their verdict
– Guilty!
To this day Nadine
Cotton could still count the number of scars on her
husband's back. They were the same ones he had received
shortly after being charged with the crime of beating
Richard P. Dilworth, better known as ‘Little Dick’, with
a bucket and breaking one of his legs. During the trial
not a word was mentioned about Mister Dilworth’s
trespassing on private property, maybe because the
property didn’t belong to the man on trial to begin
with. Elmo reckoned it probably wouldn’t have made any
difference anyway. He was right, of course. It was as
plain as black and white, and as clear as the scars on
his back.
Elmo confessed
that he would do it all over again, even if it meant
getting another whipping and going back to jail. Little
Dick Dilworth deserved what he got, and then some! He’d
always maintained. And the fact that he was from Harley
and Dick was from Creekwood Green didn’t help the
Harlie’s case, and no doubt had something to do with the
severity of the sentence. Need-less-to-say, there were
no Harlies on the jury that day. But that was to be
expected. Uncle Joe seemed to be the only one who
understood at the time, and privately told his young
nephew that he would’ve broken more than the Urinator’s
leg.
As further
punishment for his terrible crime of passion, Elmo
Cotton was incarcerated in the infamous Redstone Tree (a
device that served conveniently as both prison and
gallows, and quite efficiently, I might add) for ninety
days.
The prison cell he
was thrown into was actually an old petrified tree
trunk, appropriately christened the Redstone Tree
chiefly on account of a deep reddish hue embedded in the
smooth surface of the petrified wood, which was indeed
from that same specific species, Sequoia sempervirens
and, as many have suggested over the years, tainted with
the actual blood of those who were most acquainted with
it. It was located in the center, the very heart, of
Creekwood Green, in a place called Middle Square Park in
Creekwood County. As previously described, it was
actually the solidified remains of old dead redwood that
had stood there for time immemorial, with a razor sharp
crown of splinting timber jutting straight up into the
sky like so many barbs placed on top of a wicked
chimney. Its lower extremities consisted of a smooth
finish, making it impossible for anyone with such an
inclination to climb up or slide down the phallic red
obelisk. There was also a single dead branch jutting
straight out over the grassy green lawn below that, for
obvious reasons, became ominously known as ‘Hangman’s
Knee’.
For ninety day an
equal number of nights, this was Elmo’s home and
sanctuary. Alone he sat inside the redwood cell looking
out through a small opening at the base of the organic
structure, which was properly fitted with a small iron
grate through which food and other vital necessities
could be passed to the prisoner.
It was a shameful
and lonely existence; and one that would creep into the
Harlie’s brain, usually when sleeping, and haunt him for
the rest of his days. The punishment he received at the
end of a whip, which had actually lasted for no more
than the five minutes, as prescribed by Law, was not
nearly as bad as being incarcerated, and a lot less
painful. He really didn’t mind the solitary confinement,
however; which, in many ways, was a vast improvement
over the little shack he currently resided in thanks to
Mister Ike Armstrong, or sleeping in the barn with an
ornery old mule. But he did miss his wife, of course;
even though he knew we would have to spend many more
nights in the barn before she finally got over the
horrific events that landed in jail in the first place,
if she ever did at all. And if not for the fact that he
was an innocent man, at least in his own unrepentant
mind, he might’ve enjoyed his incarceration, considering
it nothing more or less than a well-deserved
convalescence, a vacation, after the terrific beating he
had just experienced. In a strange and almost
pathological sort of way, he found the confinement
soothing, even peaceful. The only thing he didn’t
appreciate was the time; it passed by much too slowly;
and time, along with a host of many other things, was
something the hardly simply couldn’t afford. He still
had a wife to support, fields to plow, and a baby on the
way, which was perhaps the only thing that kept him
alive inside the tiny red prison after all...
The only ones who
ever came to visit him in his lonely little dungeon
during that time were his wife Nadine (of course), his
uncle Joe Cotton, Homer Skinner, and Sherman Dixon, who
was kind enough to bring Elmo a hot apple pie Mrs. Dixon
had made, which was half eaten by the time it arrived,
naturally. Oddly enough, Little Dick Dilworth showed up
as well one cold and lonely night with a blanket, a
mending leg, and maybe even an apology. Guilt ridden
over the unfortunate and, as Dick himself would later
come to admit ‘unnecessary incident’, and seeking
contrition for his despicable act, the self-described
‘Urinator’ peered in at the Harlie one moonlit night
through the old iron bars of his petrified prison and
smiled. He actually came to apologize, and tell the
Harlie how sorry he was; and that, if it were in his
power to do so, he would gladly change places with him.
And he said it with such honesty and sincerity that the
prisoner almost forgave him that night, right there on
the spot, just out of bewildering pity. But he didn’t.
To his credit, not
that he actually deserved any, Little Dick finally did
apologize to the Harlie for not only trespassing on his
property, but violating his wife’s privacy in the
process, which is what really made Elmo act as violently
as he did; ‘…and understandable so’, Dick would come
to agree. And he tried to explain that night,
unsuccessfully it would seem, that he was in Harley the
day the unfortunate incident took place to buy a sack of
the famous Harley beans from Mister Dixon, when, all of
a sudden he was overcome by an irresistible and
unstoppable urge to relieve himself – and as quickly as
possible. ‘I just couldn’t help it!’ he openly
confessed, admitting only then that he was just too… too
embarrassed, to relieve himself in the woods that day,
as anyone else might’ve done under similar
circumstances, and was afraid that someone might see
him. And it just so happened that Elmo’s house was the
only shelter available at the time that would afford
Dick the modesty he so desperately desired. ‘I didn’t
think anyone actually lived there!’ the perpetrator
tried to defend himself, which only made the Harlie
angrier at the time. And as for Elmo’s wife…‘Well’,
Little Dick went on to explain in his own penitent way,
‘I’m sorry ‘bout that Mister Cotton… But she didn’t see
much.’ To which the Harlie naturally agreed, but
without absolution.
And finally,
Little Dick Dilworth cursed himself in front of the
imprisoned young man for being such a coward and not
taking full responsibility when he’d had the chance to
do so before judge and jury. It was a humble and
humiliating experience, for Dick anyway. But in the end,
and after careful consideration, Elmo simply could not
bring himself to forgive the young man from Creekwood
Green for doing what he did; although he did feel a
little less angry, and a little more remorseful for
having broken the Urinator’s leg.
Promising never to
pee in anyone’s bathtub again, Little Dick left the
Redstone Tree that night a sadder but wiser man, with a
contrite heart and a feeling that he’d done the right
thing after all; despite Elmo’s unwillingness to forgive
him. In a pool of tears, heavy sighs and mixed emotions
that were about as convoluted as the muddy soil of
Harley, the Urinator said goodbye, and good luck, to the
Harlie that night, and never looked back.
“Well, just don’t
let it happen again,” Elmo warned the penitent burglar,
as Little Dick limped off into the dark of night with at
least one good leg, and a clearer conscious than he ever
had before. “And don’t you be comin’ round Harley no mo’
either. You hear! Or the next time you go peein’ in
someone’s bathtub, you’ll be doin’ it like a woman…
Standin’ up!” he shouted in the moonlight. Elmo thought
for sure that it would be the last he would ever see of
the young man from Creekwood Green. He was wrong about
that, too; of course.
Little Dick’s leg
still hurt from time to time; it never did heal
properly, and probably never would. There was a limp in
the young man’s walk from that day on that perhaps only
Elmo ever noticed. It sometimes made him look slightly
lame, gimpy, or like he was carrying a stick in his
trousers; so much so that his new employer, Mister
Charles Smiley, once observed in his usual callous
candor, ‘is that a stick in your pants, boy – or have
you been hangin’ around the widow Jones again?’ But that
was all in the past now, except for the part about the
widow Jones of course; and they both wanted to keep it
that way, one of them perhaps just a little more than
the other.
The Harlie never
spoke of the incident again after that, and neither did
Little Dick Dilworth for that matter; which was more
than could be said for some other nosey-bodies in both
Creekwood Green and Harley who, upon learning of the
vulgar act, falsely began turning it into something far
more sinful than it actually was. One account had
actually placed Mrs. Nadine Cotton in the tub, and
naked, at the time the unspeakable deed occurred. It was
further suggested that she might’ve even initiated the
crime herself by shamelessly arousing the young man’s
sexual curiosities in the first place, and in a way that
would make any Madam blush. The fact that she was seven
months pregnant at the time only made it that much more
scandalous. Nothing could’ve been further from the
truth, of course; Nadine Cotton simply wasn’t that kind
of woman. It only made Elmo angrier ever time he thought
about it. So he tried not to.
It was shortly
after his incarceration when the old deputy from
Creekwood Green took the young man from Harley under his
weary but willing wings. He did so first out of pity,
for the unjust punishment of a crime that was probably
never committed, and then finally out of compassion for
a fellow human being who just needed a friend at the
time. It was a friendship that would last a lifetime, he
hoped, as all real friendships should.
It was about that
same time when Homer first told Elmo about the gold and
his long anticipated plan to go back and find it
someday. He’d made it clear from the start that the
Harlie was part of that plan. And he never let Elmo
forget it; not for one golden moment. It was also at
that time when the friendly old curmudgeon first
introduced Elmo to culinary art of cooking, a skill
Homer had acquired from his own father, Horatio Skinner,
shortly after his mother deserted them both for a life
of sin and debauchery. Ironically, she’d ran off with a
drunken sailor, a fisherman by trade, who’d somehow
stumbled into her parlor one day while Horace was out
fishing with his boy.
When they both
returned that day for supper, there was only a note:
‘Gone fishing – Love Alice’. And that was all it said.
She never did return, which was just fine with Horace
after he’d found out what really happened from a young
Negro sailor, a cook, he’d met one day who, as it turned
out, not only knew the adulterous mariner who’d made-off
with Mister Skinner’s unfaithful wife, but witnessed him
throwing the poor woman overboard one dark and drunken
night after a long argument they’d been having over …
you guessed it – another woman. And just like Elmo’s
father, she never did return. But Horatio Skinner never
went hungry for her, or his supper, again; and neither
did her son… or the sailor.
Many years and
many toothaches later, when Homer Skinner was getting on
in years and could no long stir a pot or hold a spatula,
the Harlie would often come by fix the old man’s supper
when his own wife was away, or sick on the sofa. He
helped with the other chores as well, such as chopping
wood, mending fences, washing, fetching and fixing
anything else that might need fixing. It was mostly
woman’s work, but Elmo didn’t mind. Besides, the old man
had always paid the Harlie handsomely for his work,
which was more than it was actually worth, and a whole
lot more than Elmo could ever make growing Harley beans
in the mud. And with a new mouth to feed, Elmo could
always use the extra money. They had remained close
friends ever since.
And so, Elmo
Cotton hugged his wife and child goodbye on the steps of
his little house Harlie that day, right in front of
Homer Skinner, the four horsemen, the Indian and the
Negro, and a man called Red-Beard. He didn’t know when
he’d be back; and Homer didn’t offer any specific time,
either. “I’ll be back as soon as I can…” was all he said
to his wife after a long and soulful kiss.
“I'll keep an eye
on him, Miss Nadine,” said Homer Skinner with a familiar
nod and his trademark wink of reassurance. He then
walked over to the little boy and patted his nappy black
head. “Don’t worry, Lil’ Ralph, I’ll bring your daddy
back home soon… real soon,” he promised.
“And do what your
momma say, boy!” the Harlie admonished his little boy
for the first and last time, even though he knew it
wouldn’t do any good. “You hear?”
“Time’s a’wastin’!”
cried the wiry surveyor, spitting out his last red wade
of chewed tobacco into the muddy soil of Harley. “Let’s
get a’goin’.”
“Now you be a good
boy, Ralph,” warned Homer Skinner one more time, as he
walked away from the stump and mounted his tired black
stud. “And when I get back...I'll tell you the story
about the Apple Tree.”
“He like that,”
replied the boy’s mother, leaning wearily against the
churn.
The child looked
up at his mother and smiled in agreement. After hearing
what he wanted to hear, Lil’ Ralph Cotton quickly ran
off to play with spotted rooster again.
“Let’s go, Elmo,” Homer Skinner said for
the first and last time that day. “It's about time...”
Chapter Eight
Dark Mile Road
(The Spirits of the Night)
THE HARLIE WAS MUCH OBLIGED when Homer Skinner offered to
share his saddle with Elmo that day, as he’d done on
previous occasions. Blackie didn’t seem to mind, either;
and Homer… well, he just liked the company. The old
stallion actually nodded in agreement when Elmo suddenly
produced a carrot from his pocket and fed it to the
horse before climbing up its side. The mule, of course,
was not so impressed.
In single file, the nine pilgrims made
their way back west through the muddy fields of Harley
with Homer leading the way and the painted wagon
bringing up the rear. Red-Beard was walking somewhere in
the middle, towing the humpbacked Jove behind him at the
end of a short rope tied through a brass ring piercing
the vaporous nostrils of the beast like an African nose
ornament.
More than once Boy the Indian looked over
at the beefy Brahma with a tantalizing mixture of awe
and suspicion, as he would any other great white god, or
meal. He had seen buffalo just as large and majestic
roaming the great western plains, but never one so
wondrously white, or easily tamed. He mused over how
many mouths such an animal would feed, and what a
wondrous white coat he could make of its hide.
The large Negro, on the other hand, gazed
suspiciously at the magnificent animal from a
respectable distance and with a visible amount of
trepidation in his otherwise fearless black eyes. Not
only was he suspicious of bulls in general, a condition
that was only exacerbated as a result of being chased
through a cotton field one day by a bull he’d somehow
mistaken for a cow one foggy and hung-over morning which
he attempted (unsuccessfully, of course) to milk, he was
naturally quite wary of them. To put it more succinctly,
he simply hated the horny bovines, particularly large
white ones like the one striding so defiantly in front
of him that day. It was as if he and the bovine held a
secret and mutual animosity towards one another, albinos
of all species being consider a bad omen in certain
parts of the colored world, and one that he knew would
eventually lead to the extinction and total annihilation
of one or the other; perhaps, both.
There was something strange and sinister,
thought Sam, about the color of the beast; something
that stirred in him all the forlorn feeling he, and
others like him, I suppose, had towards that particular
color, or non-color, as white is often and accurately
describes as. But there was also something sweet in its
countenance, like the milky white substance virgins are
made of, like breast mile, perhaps, or seamen. And
topping it off was that great white Hindu hump, swaying
so lazily, like a whole shock of wheat in the autumn
breeze just before harvesting. There was something
un-natural about it as well, something old and taboo,
like Voodoo. He didn’t know what to make of it. He
didn’t even know what to call it. It was something the
Negro had heard of in old New Orleans, by a Catholic
priest, that he couldn’t quite comprehend. It was
something he just couldn’t get his hands around it.
Perhaps, a knife might help.
The farmers of Harley were all out
‘woikin da fields’ by then, just as Ike Armstrong would
have them, looking not very different than the Harlie
himself, had he been working alongside with them that
day as he should have been. They were already well into
their laborious daily tasks which, at that time of year,
consisted chiefly of harvesting what appeared to be a
typically poor crop of Harley beans. Some were bent
behind plows, already preparing the muddy soil for next
year’s crop, which was actually something Elmo should
have been doing that very same day instead of riding off
into the mountains looking for gold with six white men,
an Redman, and one suspicious looking Negro who looked
about as out of place as he did.
A few of the farmers acknowledged the
travelers with turned heads and squinting eyes. Most of
them, however, pretended not to take any particular
notice at all, and went right on with the work at hand
as if they weren’t even there. A few spat on the ground
as the men from Creekwood Green leisurely passed by.
Only one of them, a short dark man who resembled, in
more ways than one, a fat brown turtle, acknowledged
Elmo with any trace neighborliness. “Howdy, Mister
Cotton! Where you a’goin?” he smiled and waved with a
wide suspicious grin. He was wearing baggy black
trousers, a yellow shirt and, oddly enough, a pair of
shoes. His name was Sherman Dixon.
Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention
to his unannounced departure, Elmo pretended not to
notice the fat man in the bean field, hoping Sherman
would not be offended at the unavoidable non-gesture. He
did not wave back. But the fat brown turtle kept right
on smiling, and waving, anyway. It seemed he was born
that way, smiling and waving. It was as unique to his
person, and just as inextricable, as the dark brown skin
that covered most his gloriously naked body. Remove
either one, smile or skin, and the fat man most
certainly die.
There were a number of women laboring in
the fields that particular morning as well, along with a
few of children who were obviously still too young to be
at school. Graciously adorned with long white aprons,
similarly fashioned about the waist, the women of Harley
appeared almost as soft white angels with solid black
faces ushered from above to tend the never-ending
business of the Lord, gathering up the grains, along
with the righteous souls of men, to be counted and
stored in the voluminous vaults of Heavens. They were
all wearing the same red kerchiefs, too, wrapped around
their heads as they toiled among the beanstalks of
Harley. Of course, they were all singing, sometimes in
unison, other times in harmony, but always, always, in
the color of the Lord.
One of these black angelic beings of
considerable age, as evinced by her goitered back and
gray head, glanced up from her work and rested for a
brief moment as the party of nine passed through the
beans fields. She recognized the young man riding on
back of the black horse along with the old man driving
it. She wondered what Reggie Cotton’s son was up to now.
“Umm-Umm-Umm… just like his daddy,” she sighed, leaning
on the end of her rake in a rare moment of
self-indulgence. “Take me Lord, fo’ now I done seen
everythin’.” All she could do after that was shake her
old gray head and smile a toothless grin. She was right,
of course. By the time the horsemen and the wagon had
reached the Iron Gates of Harley, she’d laid down her
rake and died in the muddy fields of the Lord. They
passed through the gates without a sound, without a
word.
Meanwhile, back inside the little house
in Harley, Nadine Cotton sat in the kitchen as her son
played outside in the yard. She was sad, and worried
about her husband; she was also crying. The little boy
didn’t hear her, of course, as it is with most little
boys. He was too busy climbing bean stalks, breaking
broncos, shooting Indians, and killing giants in the
golden years of his own adolescent imagination, in a
place where the lemonade springs and the blue bird
sings... in that big rock-candy mountain,
When the riders were well beyond the iron
gates and old brick wall, Elmo could still hear the
women of Harley singing in the fields, just as they
always have done, in the color of the Lord.
Already he missed his wife more than he
should have, perhaps, and wondered when he would see
her, and the boy, again. Looking back over his shoulder,
he could barely see the farm anymore. What he did see,
however, made him just a bit little suspicious. There
was someone standing at Gate. It was a man. But not just
any man; and he was definitely not a Harlie. He was
white, or at least he appeared to be; and he was just,
just standing there beneath the old metal sign, as if
trying to decide whether he was coming in or going out.
He appeared to be dressed a long dark coat that looked
like it was made from the hide of some kind of wild
animal. It had no sleeves. Thinking that it might be
someone Homer would’ve known, Elmo tapped on the old
man’s shoulder. When Homer turned his head, the man was
suddenly gone, like he was never there at all. Whoever
it was, he moved fast, real fast, like, like a raccoon
on the run, the Harlie imagined.
With the additional weight of an extra
rider, along with so many pots, pans, pick-axes,
shovels, and other accoutrements, Homer’s horse soon
began to buckle under the strain. It made the others
laugh; even Red-Beard, whose face, it seemed, was
usually as blank, cold and cheerless as slab of freshly
quarried granite and as ominous as the dark red clouds
seen just before a storm.
Feeling slightly inadequate, and useless
as ever, Elmo whispered into the hairy ear in front of
him, “Still think I’m lucky, Mister Homer?”
“Nope…but I am,” Homer reassured his
doubtful passenger without even turning his head.
Elmo looked over the old man’s shoulder
and noticed that his hands, which were tightly gripping
the reins of old Blackie, were no longer shaking. It
made him feel a little less worried than he was when
they were all still in Harley wondering what to do with
him.
Elmo laughed, even though he wasn’t
exactly quite sure what Homer meant by his last
statement, if anything. “Them ol’ Greens don’t think I’m
so lucky. Do they Mister Homer?”
“Never mind them, Elmo. They don’t mean
nothin’ by it. Just actin’ foolish. It’s the gold
talkin’, that’s all. It sometimes does that to a body,
you know. They’ll settle down, once we’re on our way.
You’ll see.”
Again, Elmo
wasn’t sure if he understood exactly what Homer was
talking about. “What’s the gold sayin,” he just had to
ask.
It was a question Homer had been asking
himself for the last forty years. Sometimes he thought
he knew the answer; other times, he wondered if there
ever was one. He was just never quite sure. ‘Oh, the
usually things,” he said, looking straight ahead at a
mountains range looming in the distance like the humps
of a herd of green and brown elephants floating through
the clouds, “lots of things! Gold’s like a woman, son.
Never really know what’s on her mind. That’s make makes
it so... well, interesting,” he paused. “Yep! Gold’s a
woman, alright. Just ask anyone who knows her. Yes sir,
Elmo, that’s just what she is – a woman. And sometimes
she can be real ugly. But most of the time she’s just
beautiful, like a bride, I ‘spose… like Nadine!”
Nadine was a beautiful woman; and Elmo
knew it. He only wished he had told her so more often.
In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he told wife
that he loved her. Maybe the gold would make up for it,
he thought to himself. Buy her some of the things woman
want, sweet things, fancy things… maybe even a new
bathtub! It suddenly occurred to him that he never even
bought her an engagement ring. Even the dress she wore
at the wedding wasn’t hers. She borrowed it, from Mrs.
Dixon. It was five sizes too big, of course; but she
never looked more beautiful,” Elmo had always imagined.
“Does the gold ever talk to you, Mister Homer?” sounded
Elmo from the back of the saddle?”
“Gold talks to everyone,” replied the old
man, turning his wondering attention to the four
horsemen who were trailing behind them just then,
“that’s the way women are. Look! She’s talkin’ to ol’
Smiley right now. Tellin’ him how smart he is. She knows
just what to say to get a feller’s attention. Now she’s
whispering something in Webb’s ear. Don’t ask me why.
She ain’t shy; and she ain’t particular, either.
“Must be somethin’ dirty,” the Harlie
observed.
“I Reckon so,” agreed Homer. “Otherwise,
why would Alvin be droolin’ at the mouth and stirring in
his stirrups so much? Oops! Don’t look now, son; but I
think the poor bastard’s actually got a hard one!”
When the profanity of the old man’s humor
finally set in, the Harlie laughed so hard he almost
fell out of the saddle. “Who talkin’ dirty now!” he
exclaimed. Elmo loved it when Homer talked that way,
especially when he was poking fun at those he didn’t
like, like Alvin Webb. He could take a joke, as well as
dish one out; and he could be very sarcastic when he
wanted to. He would occasionally make fun of himself,
too; in the innocuous and self-deprecating way men of
intelligence and good will do when they are among their
peers. It was this special kind of humor pleased him
most of all. Steering his attention to the more sensible
victims of those long golden tentacles, absent the
sarcasm he usually reserved for outlaws and idiots,
Homer further observed as the pained wagon suddenly
rolled into view, “My God! She’s going after big Sam
now! Poor woman…Wonder if she knows what she’s getting
into. Watch out for that black feller,” he attempted to
warn her. “He’s a big one! wings a mighty big hammer,
too.” he added, mostly for his own private amusement.
“Bigger than Mister O’Brien’s?” Elmo
wondered out loud.
Homer laughed. “Well, maybe not that
big.
“That there gold… she sho’ do a’lot of
talkin’ – Huh, Mister Homer?”
“She do that, son.”
“But Mister Hector….”
“He’s spoken for,” reminded Homer.
“Pretty young gal, too! Don’t ‘spose she stands much of
a chance with ol’ Hector – the gold, that is. But I
can’t say I blames her fo’ tryin’. Man like that…”
The Harlie agreed, even though he was
still a little confused and slightly offended over the
carpenter’s earlier remarks regarding not only outcome
of the war, but Harlies in general, and his insistence
that he not come along. Never-the-less, Elmo couldn’t
help but admire the man they called the ‘Old Hammer’,
and not only for his wisdom, but his level headed way of
thinking in times of uncertainty. He’d also been taught
from early on to respect his elders, as well as his
betters. There was something reverential about the
venerable old gentleman with the wavy white hair, a
certain godliness about him that even a Harlie could
understand, appreciate and, perhaps, even learn
something from. “What’s she doing now?” he egged the old
man on.
Homer took the bait. “Well, let me see…”
he mused, eyeing the wagon and its lethal contents with
a no small measure of fear and cautious trepidation.
“They say the Redman has many squaws. That’s why he
sleeps so soundly at night. He doesn’t dream of gold
like the rest of us. His mind is bent on others things,
wild things, dark and deep, like the moon and the stars,
things not of this world. No, Elmo… the Redman has no
need for gold. He can take it or leave it… just like his
squaw.”
Elmo was still confused. “But if he
didn’t come for the gold…then why did he come?”
Homer had to think about that for a
moment. “That’s just the way Injuns is, son. Maybe he
wants to find out if the white man is just as crazy as
everyone says he is.”
In his own wide-eyed and wonderful way,
Elmo tried to digest what the old man was saying. And he
was just about to say something when Homer suddenly
sprang up on his spurs. “Oh-No!” he exclaimed, standing
straight up in the saddle like a frightened prairie dog
so as to get a better look at the situation, “Now she’s
really getting’ desperate. She’s going after the boy!”
“You mean, Lil’ Dick…I mean, Mister
Dilworth?” questioned Elmo, feeling a little less
indignant towards the young man from Creekwood Green
than he did before they’d started.
“No one’s too little for her, son… Or,
too big. She takes ‘em as she finds them. The young ones
are just a little easier. That’s all. They don’t know
what a harlot she really is. But they’ll find out
alright. Just you wait and see. Gold’s a whore, I tell
ya.”
“A what?”
“Never mind.”
“Let’s just say some men can’t live
without her – the gold, that is. Just a spoonful, they
say. That’s all it takes. Some even dies for it.”
“Why?”
“Because that what men do, son.”
“We ain’t a’gonna die – Is we, Mister
Homer?
It was a question the old man had often
thought about himself, without any clear or definitive
answer. He just thought it sounded a little strange
coming from the Harlie. He knew the possibility always
existed; after all, mining wasn’t like going fishing or
coon hunting. It was serious business, for serious men;
and not everyone who tries it survives. The mountains
were full of graves; and one in particular stands out
most of all. Homer should know; he was there. Still, it
was an honest question, and one that deserved an honest
answer. And so, the old man answered it as honestly as
he could… without causing any un-necessary alarm, of
course. “We’re all gonad die, Elmo, sooner or later. But
not today!” It was probably the most honest thing Homer
Skinner ever said in his life, simply because it was
true.
Of all Homer’s virtuous attributes,
telling the truth was never one of them. No one knew
that better than Elmo Cotton. But in this case, the
Harlie was making an exception. He knew what the old man
with the aching tooth was talking about, albeit in his
own metaphorical but convincing way; and he knew it was
the truth. He was talking about the gold, of course, and
how dangerous it can be when sought after for the wrong
reasons, if, in fact, there were any right reasons for
being so enamored to it. Men have died digging for gold.
Case in point: one Cornelius G. Wainwright III, perhaps
the greediest and most self-motivating miner to ever
plant a spare in the ground.
Was it the gold that drove him to such an
early and horrifying grave? Or was it something else?
Elmo was beginning to suspect it was the latter,
although he wasn’t quite sure why. He was about to ask
Homer what else the gold might be saying, particularly
to the big Negro driving the wagon, someone he might’ve
had a little more in common with and, perhaps, his
red-skinned passenger. But he didn’t want tax the old
man’s imagination any more than necessary, which, as
everyone knew, was as deep as the Gulf of Mexico and as
wild and wide as the Louisiana Purchase. He was also
curious to know exactly what the gold was saying to the
red bearded colonel, if anything; but he didn’t ask.
Instead, he simply smiled and asked the old man one more
question; one he’d been meaning to ask all along.
“Mister Homer,” he said, in a voice that sounded not too
familiar, “The gold…what’s she sayin’ to
you?”
Homer saw it coming. Unlike the previous
one, however, he already knew the answer. He knew
because he’d heard it a thousand times before, from the
spirits of the night; usually at night while he was
pacing circles on his bedroom floor, just before he fell
asleep. And it really wasn’t an answer at all. It was
actually more of a warning, like an omen… or something.
In fact, he really didn’t know what it was. But whatever
it was, he whispered the words exactly the way he’d
heard them a thousand times before, and just loud enough
for the Harlie to hear: ‘Thems that want don’t get….’
It was a good answer; but not the one the
Harlie wanted to hear, or even expected. They were
strange words, which he never understood. He’d actually
heard them before, when they were alone in the woods,
camping out as they would do from time to time, and
usually when the old man thought he was asleep by the
campfire. ‘Thems that want don’t get’. It didn’t make
sense. It just didn’t boil the beans, Elmo thought at
the time, as he did just then. They seemed to contradict
everything the old man said; about the gold, anyway.
After all, that’s what this was all about – Wasn’t it?
The gold? That’s what he came for. Why else were they
there? Of course, he wanted it. And he would get it,
too! The Harlie had no doubt about it – ever! And yet,
somehow, the prize itself, the gold, even when it was
well within their own greedy grasp, became all but
attainable to these, these spirits of the night. Who are
they? The Harlie wondered out loud, as he fell asleep
beneath the moon and stars.
It’s the ultimate paradox, I suppose:
‘Thems that want don’t get’. Maybe, Elmo often imagined,
that’s why the spirits were always at odds with those
who sought to follow in their own invisible and
gratuitous footsteps, no matter how ambitiously they dug
themselves into early graves. They were doomed before
they even started, by their own admission, it would
seem, and by their own ominous words; the same words
whispered into the ears of a tired old man as he paced
circles on his bedroom floor late at night when the mind
wonders and the tooth aches.
‘Thems that want don’t get!’ That was
their mantra, their slogan, the creed their code, all
wrapped up in one simple, irresistible sentence. It was
the eternal admonition of these spirits of the night
that would haunt and hound the old man to his grave, and
beyond; even as he slowly progressed towards their own
hallowed graves, like an old Indian chief slouching off
to his own burial ground. But it was more than that, he
couldn’t help but wonder. Sometimes, like today for
instance, it sounded more like a dare; a wicked wager, a
ghoulish gamble, as if the spirits were saying to him:
‘Go ahead, old man. Throw the dice! Go for the gold,
Homer. Go for it! We dares you. We double-dog dares you!
And then they would laugh, all through the night, until
the sun came up. Sometimes, it scared him; other times,
it only made him angry. One time, it almost killed him.
To pass the time of day, and make the
journey a little less dreary, Homer thought of a few
things the young man from Harley should know before they
penetrated the wilderness that was still miles ahead of
them. It was sound advice, good common sense; what some
might call cowboy logic. He called it ‘horse-sense’; the
things Homer had learned along life’s long,
unpredictable, and often dangerous trails and highways:
lessons he’d learned the hard way, which, of course, is
always the best way to learn them; sometimes, it’s the
only way, ‘That way, you never forget em!’ he once
confided in his young Harlie friend.
It’s the sturdy stuff cowboys are made
of, rooted in the western wilderness, hardened in the
saddle, frozen in time, baked in the sun and soaked in
the rain, found in the flames of a lonely campfire, or
at the bottom of an old tin cup; some coffee, perhaps,
and a little beef jerky; and maybe even a shot of
whisky, ol’ red-eye, of course. It was branded in the
hearts and on the backsides of all real cowboys, young
and old, like the brands burned into the living flesh of
cattle they drove across the expansive wastelands only
to be butchered at the end of the trail by hands that
never held a whip or heard the lonely cry of the wolf.
They would never savor the meat, or taste the special
kind of life, and death, the cowboy chooses for himself;
a life he wouldn’t trade for all whores in Babylon, all
the whiskey in the world, or and all the tobacco in West
(By God!) Virginia. It’s a place and a piety only the
cowboy knows, and can thus understand. It’s what gods
are made of; but only if those gods are equipped with
whips, spurs, chaps, six-guns, ropes, whips, and a
ten-gallon hats. It’s the stuff cowboys are made of, and
lesser men are not. It’s the kind of things all
buckaroos, no matter where they come from or what they
looked like, should be taught when they’re old enough to
understand and still young enough to learn. It’s what
every little boy knows, almost instinctively. And momma,
you may not want your babies to grow up to be
cowboys…But hear me now. Boys will be boys! Let them be;
because if you don’t, how can you ever expect them to be
men?
And so Homer did what he had to do, what
all old cowboys do before riding off into a dark,
uncertain, and imminent sunset. And like all old
buckaroos, too frightened to die and too weary to live,
he did it in the only way he knew how. He did it with a
wink, a twinkle in his eye, a smile, a simple nod,
perhaps, and a word or two just to help the Harlie along
the trail he had only just begun. “Remember, son,” he
admonished his young apprentice that day, as they walked
side by side giving Blackie a well-deserved break.
Feeling the years creep up on him like an old ghost he
was soon to meet but would rather not, he spoke the
words of wisdom so familiar to all cowboys: “Don’t ever
drink up-stream from the heard… And don’t look straight
up at a bird. And never, never, EVER!” he vociferously
remonstrated, like an elderly Sampson lecturing a young
King David on the duplicitous nature of lady barbers,
“squat with your spurs on!” And don’t let this happen to
you,’ he may as well have added in that same traditional
Jewish vein. “Life’s a long and winding road, son. Lots
of twists and turns, mountains and valleys, you know.
Some things you can change, and some things you can’t.
Just try to remember the difference between the two
and…well, I reckon you’ll be just fine.”
The Harlie was aware of many of these
things already. In fact, he’d heard them many times
before: sweeping the old man’s floor, fixing his barn,
peeling potatoes, or sitting by the campfire late at
night, usually just before the spirits of the night
showed with their transparently mocking faces. He just
smiled and tried to look surprised, as if hearing these
western pearls of wisdom for the very first time. It
always made the old man happy; and his teeth didn’t seem
to ache as much. They were on their way. There was no
turning back, the spirits of the night
not-with-standing.
* * *
THE SUN WAS
SHINING, the birds were singing, and there wasn’t a
cloud in the sky. As they slowly approached the
low-lying foothills to the north, with the sun blazing
boldly and brightly over their heads like a golden coin
tacked to the pale blue sky, Elmo suddenly realized, for
the first time perhaps, that it was all the old man ever
really wanted, or needed. It did them both a world of
good. He saw only good things ahead, for the both of
them, and he wasn’t even thinking about the
gold.
They traveled north and west, for about
forty miles, before Homer and his fellow treasure
hunters found themselves in a thickly wooded area where
the tail became noticeably narrower. It was late in the
afternoon by then. He hadn’t taken out the map once; he
didn’t have to. The old man knew where he was. And he
was exactly where he wanted to be.
Surrounding the base of the Silver
Mountains like a green leafy belt, the Great Northern
Wood served as a mile wide buffer delineating the lofty
highlands in the north from the lower woodlands to the
south. It formed a natural barrier made up mostly tall
pines and other evergreens that knew no fall. There were
also a good number of cedars, oaks, firs, and even some
tall redwoods, growing in the green girdle that gave the
forest its unique and unchangeable character. On account
of the tall timbers and their interconnecting canopy of
branches, little light ever penetrated to the carpeted
surface of the forest floor, even in winter when all the
leaves had fallen.
It was always dark in the lower
elevations of the mountains, or so it seemed; and there
was only one road that ran through it. It was called
‘Dark Mile Road’, and for good reason. It was the same
dimly lit serpentine trail Homer Skinner had once
traveled forty years when the tooth first began to ache.
And come to think of it… it was just as dark back then,
he suddenly imagined.
Turning due north and traveling for about
another two miles, the old man found a place in the
clearing where the perimeter pines gave way to a small
dirt road leading directly into the undergrowth of the
Great Northern Wood. They rode in single file, Homer
cautiously leading the way with Hector right behind.
Red-Beard followed, along with Smiley and Dick, with Sam
bringing up the rear, as Boy fell asleep in back of the
little wagon. Having decided to dismount and walk for a
while, the Harlie was somewhere in middle, along with
the four horsemen, pulling his mule along at the end of
a long thin rope. They were entering Dark Mile Road, one
of the oldest and most thickly forested trails leading
up into the mountains.
Once they were in the thick of it, the
road suddenly and surprisingly widened, slightly,
allowing the ponies to maneuver more freely than they
would otherwise and had upon first entering the deep
dark wood. Apparently, and quite naturally, by the time
the sunlight had filtered down through the thick
evergreen umbrella hovering ubiquitously overhead, there
was hardly any energy left to sustain the smaller
plants, or any other vegetation for that matter, that
might have otherwise thrived under such lush and
tropical conditions. There was hardly any underbrush: no
shrubs or bushes; not even a wild flower or weed could
be found in that enveloping gloom. The ground underfoot
quickly became hard, almost like rock or concrete,
covered with a thin blanket of dead pine needles. There
was a stillness in the air, a sacred silence, like that
which hung over Balin’s tomb in mines of Moria long
after the Orc invasion, with its vaulted ceiling
supported here and there by great green obelisks. Slowly
they passed, like crusaders entering the sacred shrine
of Saint Sophia after the Persians lay to ruin that
iconoclastic cathedral. All that was missing were the
stars, and the crescent moon of Islam.
When they were about half way into the
dark green corridor, the sun began to set. Naturally,
and for reason previously touched upon, it was a
phenomenon hardly noticed from within by any of the
highwaymen. Homer knew it would be nightfall by the time
they arrived on the other side of the Northern Wood, and
just as dark, or darker, than it had been since they
embarked upon Dark Mile Road. There was little time to
waste.
From there, the journey would really
begin and, needless to say, so would the climbing. There
was still a mountain range in front of them, which, for
the time being, was completely blocked from their view;
but first they would have to get out of the woods. Homer
recalled the first time he’d came that way, subsequently
followed by other excursions into the Great Northern
Woods, which he spoke of quite often; at least to Elmo,
who he always knew would be with him that day. And he
spoke of how frightened and confused he was at the time,
which was something that only now Elmo could really
appreciate.
To ease the anxiety, and perhaps the
tension, Homer reminisced about one of the cowboys he
knew and had been traveling with the day they went
looking for the doomed prospector, Cornelius G.
Wainwright III. “His name was Jack,” the old deputy
suddenly recalled, forgetting the last name of the
famous ‘singin’ cowboy’. “Hell of a crooner! Played a
mean Spanish guitar, too,” he added, earing the woods
for the familiar sound produced by that golden throat
and those silvery strings he once knew so well.
By then, the old man’s eyes had suddenly
sprung to life, darting from side to side, this way and
that, tree to tree, limb to limb, as if half expecting
something, or someone, to jump out of the forest or
swing down from one of the branches like the dreaded
North American Sasquatch, or ‘Big Foot’ as he was
sometimes called by more contemporary frontiersmen,
which even the brave Indians would run from at the
slightest foot fall or rustling of leaves. “Yes! Now I
remember!” he gleefully exclaimed, nearly falling out
his saddle in the process. “It was O’Brien. That was his
name…Jack O’Brien, although most folks called him
‘Slim’, on account of his weight, you know.”
“Three hundred and seventy-five pounds
the day I planted him in the ground,” sighed the
carpenter. “He was my brother.”
As it were, ‘Big Jack’ O’Brien was just
another casualty of the war. He was known not only for
his instrumental and vocal skills that were said to have
expanded five octaves, but also for his voracious
appetite, which, if comparisons are permitted here, was
said to rival that of ‘Big’ Tiny Brogan, another famous
and similarly endowed gentleman from nearby Creekwood
Green whose measurements, as well as his reputation,
preceded him in excess of four hundred pounds. Whether
or not the two great men had ever meet in person is not
known; however, they were said to have shared similar
tastes in their gastronomical pursuits, whose menus
included, among other palatable delights, generous
servings of bangers and beer, the former being thickly
stuffed sausage (typically served up with a mountain of
mashed potatoes) the latter of which needs not further
description. These were two big men – giants of their
time! In a time when big men were a healthy commodity.
Homer would never forget the words to the
song Jack would sing so sweetly and so often, especially
when traveling the melancholy trails of the Great
Northern Woods; and neither would Hector for that
matter, whose own blessed instrument came not in the
shapely fashion of a six-string guitar, but rather in
the more masculine form of a sixteen pound hammer, on
which he would pound out his own private symphonies in
his own passionate pleasures. But unlike ‘Big’ Jack
O’Brien, wherever in the Heavenly choir of angels and
saints that great soul currently resides, and in
whatever celestial capacity, Hector could still be heard
singing; with a less forceful voice than that of his
king-sized sibling perhaps, and at about half the
weight; but he could still sing! And so, that’s exactly
what he did. Taking his cue from the reminiscing deputy,
he began by softly humming the melody to the song Homer
was just then thinking of, as if his vocal chords, being
invisibly struck by some phantom finger, suddenly began
vibrating all on their own accord, like the noisy old
harp in the famous nursery rhyme of ‘Jack and the
Beanstalk’ whose Celtic charm and sudden alarm not only
stirred the giant from his golden slumbers only to have
him cast down to earth in one perilous plunge, but made
Jack a very wealthy man in the process. It was a low,
slow, rhythmical sound, with a certain silvery quality
about it that echoed through the sacred woods, just as
it did forty years ago. All that was missing was the
strum of the guitar, the old Spanish six-string Jack
loved so much, and was subsequently buried with after
the war, as a husband is buried with his own beloved
wife, I suppose; or soldier, his favorite rifle. The
melody, if not the memories, came easy to the Old
Hammer, and so did the lyrics.
“Dark Mile Road, hear the lonely wind blow
From the echoes of the Wastelands
Through the Valley of the snow
In the mist of indecision, I will find a way to go
There is one fact, you can’t turn back
On dark, Dark Mile Road.
The moon shines like a madman's face
The stars seem strange and out of place
I hear soft whispers in the Trees
As if they are a'warning me
Of days gone by, in times of old
When many tales remained untold.
Which way to go is never clear
The winding road is old and queer
Up and down then underground
Through the woods without a sound.
Even when the end is near
The breath of death is everywhere.
Dark Mile Road, hear the lonely wind blow
Through the echoes of the wasteland
Cross the valleys of the snow.
In the mist of indecision, I will find a way to go.
There is one fact, you can't turn back
On dark, Dark Mile Road...”
Shortly after nightfall, they’d arrived
on the far side of the Great Northern Wood, at the north
end of Dark Mile Road. The air was cooler, cleaner; and
the stars came out, one by one, to welcome their early
evening guests, along with a full moon that shone not
unlike the disturbing and sometimes familiar face of a
madman.
“We’ll camp here for the night,” Homer
declared, sliding off the side of his horse in the
middle of a small clearing surrounded by pine trees and
live oak that he thought looked vaguely familiar.
“Here.”
They had been traveling all day. Homer
needed a rest, and so did the others who hadn’t slept
much in the last three days. Rusty Horn was still
restless, however, and did not want to stop just yet.
“Let's get on with it,” he bristled from beneath his
wiry red strands. “We’ve wasted enough time already.” He
paused. “Sure it’s dark. But it ain’t that dark.
And look’ye here! We even got us the man in the moon to
keep us company. What more do you want, men?”
They all looked up, and then at each
other, each with his own critical suspicions.
“I said…what more do you want?” repeated
Red-Beard.
Smiley, yawing: “About forty winks,
Colonel. If you please.”
Dick, stamping his feet on the ground:
“How about some grub! And maybe a soft warm bed.”
Webb, as usual: “A good woman would do
nicely.”
Sam, gazing at the stars and mulling it
over: “…The bad ones are better.”
Boy, eyes wide shut: “Whiskey!”
Hector, still thinking about his dear
dead brother: “I’ll drink to that…”
Homer, trying to light a fire: “Damn it!
Forgot the matches.”
Elmo, reaching into his pocket: “Me,
too.”
Red-Beard was still looking up at the
lunar lantern, quietly contemplating the Heavens, and
beyond. He appeared like a man lost in a thought. There
was look on his face no one had noticed before. It
looked like insanity; but in the calm and calculating
sense of the word, which, of course, is the most
dangerous. There was method to Red-Beard’s uniquely
disguised madness, and a purpose as well. No one knew
what that was, yet. “I still think we should keep
going,” he whispered into the bull’s branded ear, as if
it shared his deepest and darkest thoughts, and
understood.
Overhearing, just barely, the Red-Beard’s
quiet consultation with his beloved Jove, the surveyor
suggested, “You go ahead, Mister Horn. Give my regards
to Mister Wainwright, if you happen to run into him. And
take that goddamn bull with you. Will ya? It ain’t
natural, I tell ya.”
Homer responded, “Gotta agree with you
there, partner.”
“Spooks me a little sometimes, too,”
confessed the outlaw.
“It’s evil,” said Sam, privately
comparing the creamy white coat of the beast to that of
the moon with its cratered face and pale blemishes,
which for all intents and prejudicial purposes, may very
well indeed be made of the same sinister substance. He
could see little difference.
Boy, who’d become even more silent than
usual since exiting the shadow of the forest, was
entertaining similar thoughts that evening. From his
typical horizontal position, he gazed straight up into
the starry night sky with his hat pulled back over his
head, exposing for the first time the Oriental features
of his full face hitherto hidden behind that jet-black
curtain. “The devil had many faces, son of darkness,” he
softly spoke, “Sometimes white, sometimes black. I’ve
seen them both.”
“Well, don’t look now”, replied Sam,
suspiciously eyeing the four legged specter more
contemptuously than ever, “but this one has horns.”
“You’re both wrong,” insisted Smiley,
gazing longingly and lovingly at the lofty white orb
drifting deliciously through the starry sky as if it
were a great ball of goat cheese, a giant macaroon
pastry; or, better yet! a big, round, juicy, honeydew
melon. “That’s no devil. Why, that’s a, a…. Pie!” he
emphatically shouted while jumping to his feet in a
frenzied state of gastronomical excitement brought about
by something he’d just then suddenly remembered. “That
reminds me… Dick! Dick!” cried the moustache, “Bring me
my pie!”
“Ain’t got it, boss,” Dick sheepishly
shrugged.
“What the –?”
“Tain’t here, Mister Smiley.”
“You didn’t eat it on me – Did you,
boy?”
“Nope,” replied the youth, feeling
slightly offended at his employer’s false but rational
accusation.
It was no secret to the others that Dick
had been whining about food ever since they had left
Creekwood Green, as young men who aren’t accustomed to
such expeditions usually are, and were equally
concerned. They were also painfully aware that all the
food had been rationed, chiefly due to the fact that no
one, including Homer, knew for certain exactly how long
they’d be gone.
“Well, where the @#$%^&*!!! is it then!”
roared the moustache.
“Right where you put it…” replied Dick
after a brief and biting pause that was intentionally
aimed at the surveyor for his unwarranted remark.
Earlier that day he had actually watched as his employer
ate half of Mrs. Skinner blueberry all by himself,
rather greedily Dick thought at the time, while hiding
the other half in his own saddlebag for future
consumption, as evidenced by tiny blue food particles
incriminatingly clinging to outermost hairs of his
famous moustache. Needless-to-say, it wasn’t entirely
out of character for Mister Charles Smiley to engage in
such beguiling behavior, especially under such uncertain
conditions. “In your pie-hole!” added the youth,
somewhat disrespectfully, and in a manner Smiley was not
exactly accustomed to, and certainly did not
appreciate.
“Ohhh…” was all the moustache could
muster at the time. And he left it at that.
As they all settled down under a deep
purple sky, Dilworth tied down the horses and oxen while
Red-Beard put his bovine brother bed.
“Best get some shut eye. But first we’ll
have us a bite to eat,” sounded the carpenter, taking a
cue from the hungry youth. “Man don’t live on gold
alone, he mused out loud. “That means you too, Colonel.
It was the first time (at least up until
then, thought the Harlie who had, by then, located the
missing matches in Homer’s saddlebag and began to light
the fire) that anyone directly told Red-Beard what to
do. It just didn’t seem right, or natural. But Elmo
could tell that Red-Beard valued the carpenter’s
opinion, as well as his hammer, on such matters, and
would not question his prudent judgment; unless, of
course, it was indispensable to do so.
The others acquiesced, of course,
including Red-Beard who realized by then that he was
outnumbered, and maybe even out-gunned. It was not an
admission of defeat, merely a retreat. It was something
he’d learned to do in the army when the odds were
stacked against him, or he needed to apply a different
strategy. And besides, he wisely concluded: Who wants to
pick a fight with a man they called the ‘Old Hammer’? It
was perhaps the wisest decision he ever made in his
life, militarily or otherwise.
Elmo took his time preparing the evening
meal under Homer’s ever-watchful eye and helping hand.
Together, they cooked up a bubbling broth of Harley bean
stew, boiled greens, and some piping hot coffee. While
stirring the pot, the man from Harley kept wondering to
himself why Homer had taken him along. He knew that the
old man didn’t believe in lucky numbers, or any other
superstitions for that matter. He also knew the Homer
didn’t really think that much of his cooking, either;
which only made him that much more suspicious from the
start. As the beans began to boil, Elmo wondered what
his wife was doing just then.
Nadine had warned him not to go. It was
harvest time; and there still twenty-seven acres to
unearth before winter frost set in. “What have you
gotten yourself into now, Mister Cotton?” he said to
himself while no one else was listening. These thoughts,
among others, crossed the Harlie’s mind when suddenly he
heard someone shout: “Hurry it up!”
The sound he heard was coming from the
same young man that landed him in jail by urinating in
his bathtub. Little Dick Dilworth was, as predicted,
crying for his supper that night. It made Elmo want beat
the young man from Creekwood Green all over again, with
something much larger and heavier than a water bucket,
and fracture more than just his leg this time, despite
any previous acts of contrition. It quickly became
clear, to the Harlie at least, that Little Dick hadn’t
really changed at all.
“I want some supper!” ejaculated Little
Dick, who could be heard shouting over the silent and
somber spirits of the night.
Elmo was indignant (Who wouldn’t be?) and
would’ve undoubtedly peed in the Urinator’s soup that
night if no one were watching, that is; and if it didn’t
make Dick so sick that he would become a burden to
everyone else, which, of course, he would somehow be
blame for as well. And it would have served him right,
the Harlie imagined. Maybe Dilworth was just teasing
him, maybe not. Whatever the case, the cook didn’t
appreciate it. And so, when it came time for serving up
the victuals, Elmo Cotton simply, and gratuitously
perhaps, spat on the beans and smiled before handing the
plate to Little Dick Dilworth. It didn’t even the score;
but it did make the Harlie feel a little better, for a
while at least. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t even say
‘thank you’, he noticed.
As was the custom of cowboys everywhere
out on the trail, they ate in silence; filling their
bellies with beans, greens, and as much fresh brew
coffee as their saddle-sore bladders could hold. And as
for Homer Skinner, an old man with an aching tooth and a
severely enlarged prostate, it didn’t take much; as he
was observed on more than one occasion later on that
night, dropping his pants in the near distance, and in
utter relief. Much to Elmo’s surprise and delight, they
all begged for seconds, Smiley the surveyor diving into
his beans like a bear into a honeycomb. All that was
missing was the growl; and all that could be heard just
then was the sound of spoons scraping the metal bottom
of bowls, the gulping of gizzards, and the occasional
smacking of the lip which, in Sam’s case, was
extraordinarily loud; and could actually be quite
dangerous, if you happened to be sitting next to a
Neanderthal Negro with a healthy appetite. But it was a
sound not unpleasing to the young cook’s un-complimented
ears, and one he was more than happy to hear.
The food was satisfying, and actually
quite tasty! It was also the kind that will sometimes
came back to bite those who indulge in such
gastronomical adventures, particularly in older men, and
especially late at night when the digestive system is
inclined to rebel against the volatile mixture of the
three main ingredients resulting in a mild form of
dyspepsia known as heartburn. It was times like those
when Homer was most susceptible to sudden attacks of
indigestion. Despite the many medicinal benefits the
famous beans were known to offer, in their own highly
publicized way, they didn’t seem to help the old man
very much and were, in fact, more than likely the main
culprit in that regard. What he really could have used
at that time was a younger body, and perhaps a little
bicarbonate of soda.
At the end of the meal, Homer reached
into one of the many oversized pockets lining his
equally oversized coat and, like some old magician with
one more trick left up his sleeve trying to pull a
rabbit out from his hat, produced instead a fistful of
finely crafted handmade cigars, which he summarily
passed around to the satisfaction and amazement of his
round-eyed audience. He had brought them along thinking
it was least he could do to show his appreciation,
especially if everything thing went as planned. “I was
saving these beauties,” he ceremoniously began, “for
when we found the gold. But… Oh, what the hell! No time
like the present, I ‘spose. Here you go, Hector,” he
said, passing one of the torpedo-shaped stogies to the
man on his right. “They’re from a place called Cuba,” he
boasted. “That’s an island, you know, somewhere in the
Antilles, I think.”
The wrinkled eyes of the carpenter
suddenly lit up like a fine old Latin lantern. “Si,
senior…Habana! Gracias! Gracias!” he spoke in his
mother’s native tongue, which he hadn’t totally
forgotten after all the years since she passed away.
Accepting the hand-rolled treasure with the graciousness
of a Spanish matador as he bends down to pick up a rose
thrown from the balcony of the ring by a pretty young
senoiretta, Hector smiled in chivalrous appreciation
and eternal gratitude. Had Homer produced a bottle of
Irish whiskey from out of that same magic pocket to go
along with the celebrated Cubans, he may very well have
been kissed on the cheek by the Old Hammer right on the
spot, in the tradition, perhaps, of old Don Fuentes.
“How ‘bout you, Rusty?” said Homer,
addressing the red bearded wonder in a more familiar
tone while waving the last and longest cigar in the
direction to the lonely figure leaning against his
Brahma in the near distance. His eyes were still fixed
upon the ubiquitous night sky as if contemplating the
Universe itself, and all the mysteries thereof. If he
saw something there the others did not, no one would
know. Red-Beard was not speaking that night, or so it
seemed.
“I’ll save yours for later, colonel,”
suggested the old man, placing the precious stogie back
in his pocket, not knowing what to make of Red-Beard’s
sudden, but not quite unexpected, transformation.
In a ritual rivaling that of the Olympic
torch being lit on the steps of the Acropolis, Homer
reached into the fire and retrieved a long glowing
ember, which he used to ceremoniously ignite each man’s
cigar in turn.
When the torch was finally put out, and
the exhaled smoke rose to mingle with the spirits of the
night, Homer relaxed like a sultan before his harem
trying to decide which one would have the pleasure of
sharing his bed that night.
“Good smoke,” puffed the Indian brave,
sending great clouds of smoke signals into the wide-open
air. And coming from someone accustomed to inhaling the
fragrant aromas of the potent tobacco leaf, it was quite
the compliment; although, in truth, Boy would have much
preferred his own special home-grown blend, which
included several other ingredients commonly found in the
wild plants of the parries he so longed for. It is said,
and with much pharmacological evidence to support such
findings, that many of these same species of plants
spoken of and cultivated by such celebrated tribes as
the Seminole, the Apache, the Pequod, along with various
other Indian Nations accustomed to such addictive
indulgences, were the source of great power, strength,
and boundless energy, as well as the madness and disease
which naturally accompanies such addictions. ‘Big
Medicine!’ the partakers of the sacred herb would
proclaim it, with a reverence befitting its metaphysical
properties, which at times were known to produce such
hallucinogenic affects that would, in Boy’s case at
least, allow him to, cross the oceans in a single night,
scale the mountains of the moon, and return safely
before his squaw ever realized he was gone.
Sam, on the other hand, was not
interested in crossing oceans, moving mountains or
soaring into the stratospheric heights his Indian
companion took so much delight in reaching. He simply
enjoyed the calming affects of the intoxicating weed,
and lazily puffed on his own, thinking he would much
prefer lying naked on the white sands of some
paradisiacal island in the Pacific, with two or three
brown-skinned beauties at his feet, feeding him
pineapple, peacock and coconut wine until his belly
burst in one throbbing orgasmic explosion. “Gold drives
a man to dreams…” he said as his black head was
enveloped in a vaporous white cloud of smoke. “It surely
do.”
The Harlie innocently sucked on the end
of his cigar that night the way he’d once seen his Uncle
Joe do back in Harley when, either out of boredom or
adventure, or both, the old man traded his precious pipe
for one of the long brown stogies. Elmo looked strangely
out place among the older gentlemen sitting around the
campfire that particular evening who, or so it would
appear, had imbibed in the sacred art of tobacco smoking
many times before, as evidenced by manly manner in which
they conducted themselves and the protocol observed;
although he had personally known some women,
particularly the older women of Harley, who would suck
on the phallic brown tubes with as much gruff and gusto
as any manly man, and with equal satisfaction, if not
more so. It seems that when it comes to the sinful
pleasures of indulgence, especially where and when they
are most forbidden, vice, like its virtuous twin, knows
no gender. Women may ultimately own such pleasures, and
do with them as they will; but always remember, my fine
feminine friends: it is man who found them in the first
place, and perfected them. It was evident in the
dexterity by which they handled their instruments and
the easy way they puffed, so calmly and casually,
allowing just enough of the sacred smoke into their
bodies so as not to cause any sudden, undesirable, or
adverse effects. And they seldom inhaled. It looked so…
so natural! Why, even Little Dick Dilworth, who was
actually no older than Elmo, and no doubt just as
ignorantly naïve when it came to the many other manly
arts they were both soon to experience, suddenly
appeared as though he was born with a cigar in his
mouth, the gaseous white vapors of which he would come
to prefer over his own mother’s milk. And for this
reason alone, and perhaps out of sheer determination not
be outdone by his own nemesis, and especially in the
company of real men, Elmo Cotton did what he had
to do. He took the cigar and, in one long un-interrupted
draw, perhaps the longest breathe he’d ever taken in his
whole inexperienced and unadulterated life, the Harlie
did the unthinkable – he inhaled. And he held it in as
long as he could, which, of course, as anyone attempting
such a fool-hearty feat for the very first time will
tell you, was not very long at all. He coughed and
choked, of course; and then he coughed some more,
prematurely expelling much of the precious white
substance uselessly into the night air. He then, not
much to the surprised of anyone present who’d gone
through a similar initiation, proceeded to turn a
lighter shade of pale.
Homer looked at the Harlie and sighed,
thinking, perhaps, that he may’ve indeed wasted one of
his best stogies on someone who was obviously too young,
and perhaps too weak, to have enjoyed and appreciate a
good cigar. “You alright, son?” he questioned, in a
fatherly tone that may’ve escaped the unsympathetic ears
of the others who were laughing at the unfortunate
incident.
Elmo pretended not to hear; his pride
prevented him. And so, he kept right on huffing and
puffing, filling his lungs as though he now had
something to prove, and trying as hard as he could to
keep it all in this time. It wasn’t easy though. The
smoke was hot; and it burned like sin. He could feel it;
he could taste it in his lungs. It burned. He felt
dizzy, and then faint: but he held in the hot vapor for
as long as he possibly could, spasmodically coughing and
choking like an internal combustion engine in the fits
and starts of ignition.
Smiley, who was actually more accustomed
to chewing the intoxicating weed rather than inhaling
it, seemed to understand. “Easy now,” he admonished,
calmly and cautiously, as the others laughed even
louder, “That there ain’t corn silk, you know.” He then
leaned back, blowing smoke rings into the air the size
of little white donuts.
“That’s it, boy!” encouraged Webb, with
the sarcastic spleen we’ve all come to expect from him
by now, “I think you got the hang of it!”
Sam just sat smiled as the Harlie took
one last drag, the length and depth of which surprised
even the Indian who could, if he so desired to do so,
inhale an entire forest fire, hold it for a lifetime,
and blow it out of his dilated nostrils in his last
dying breathe, sending smoke signals to the deities that
he was indeed ready to join them on the many moons of
Jupiter, or wherever their spirits may currently reside
in that part of the cosmos.
And when he thought for sure that his
lungs would surely explode, the Harlie exhaled,
releasing in the process a voluminous cloud of thick
white smoke, the like of which had not been seen since
Vesuvius spewed forth her venomous vapors on the fated
citizen of Pompeii, Herculaneum, and beyond. It was so
dense, in fact, that all hands appalled the Harlie in
their own congratulatory and perfunctory way. Even the
Old Hammer, a man known for his etiquette and expertise
in such manly matters, was mightily impressed.
“Bueno! Bueno!” he applauded.
Being of proud Irish descent and spiced
with the Spanish blood, on his mother’s side, that is,
Hector O’Brien was a fine specimen of manhood; or at
least what it ought to be, despite the on-coming of
years. Like the tightly grained timber that goes into
the making of a vintage violin, which only gets better
with age, so too it was with this smoky old Hammer,
whose tone and value had only increased over the years
like any fine fiddle. It was something only Hector, who
in his wilder and younger years had once displayed a
thick rich mane of flowing black hair that has since
turned a fine silvery gray, could understand, and
perhaps be proud of; if pride can exists in such a
venerable old souls. The rising white streams seemed to
both magnify and compliment the large brown eyes and
smooth olive complexion of this Latin legend as Hector
partook of his cigar with a flair and reverence of a
true Aficionado, having mastered the fine and
traditional art of smoking, in all its subtle
complexities, at a very early age. “Now that’s a smoke!”
he pleasantly exclaimed while expelling a voluminous
cloud of second-hand smoke that would aromatically hang
in the air long after the instrument of its creation had
been extinguished.
“!@#$%^&*!!!” exclaimed Smiley, whose
cigar had suddenly and prematurely burned itself out, as
stogies often do when left unattended for any length of
time; which, by the way, is just one advantage they have
over inferior cigarettes that will burn themselves to
ashes if left to their own incendiary devices, along
with your house and barn if you are not careful. He
huffed and puffed, then cursed some more, but to no
avail. The Cuban, or what was left of it, was as dead as
Montezuma after
Hernán Cortés and
his Spanish cohorts got through with him, snuffing out
what was left of a once great civilization. “Will
somebody please give me a light?” he pleaded to no one
in particular, examining the last half of the dead cigar
for any sign of combustible life.
Sensing an immediate urgency in Smiley’s
plea, Elmo Cotton obliged the surveyor by reaching into
the campfire, just as Homer had done earlier that
evening, producing a long burning ember, the tip of
which, not unlike a king-sized Lucifer head, was
presently ablaze with a fine, fiery red flame. Smiley
leaned forward to accept the match while still puffing
away on his dead instrument like a man in need of
oxygen. He leaned closer still, until the tip of his
moustache was no more than a quarter inch from the fire.
The stogie burst into flames and was finally ignited, as
evidenced by a sudden puff of solid white smoke that
blocked everything else from view, including the head of
the smoker, which was now even closer to the match head
than. And before Elmo, or any of the other smokers, knew
what was going on, the surveyor shot suddenly up through
the blinding white cloud of smoke with one wing of his
moustache very much in flames by then.
Having encountered this sort of thing
before, especially among gentlemen with protracted
beards and moustaches of the Latin variety, Hector
O’Brien sized up the situation immediately and acted
accordingly by promptly dosing the surveyor with the
nearest and most available liquid he could find at the
time, which just so happened to be the putrefied
contents of an old metal spittoon Little Dick had
brought along and recently made use of; but not in the
way it was originally designed for, as the
tobacco-spitting surveyor might have well appreciated.
True to his well-know reputation and modest up-bringing,
and ashamed to relieve himself in the company of grown
men, for a variety of reasons no doubt, he had been, in
fact, using the silvery spittoon as his own personal and
portable latrine, or chamber pot, if you will, in lieu
of a proper outhouse, or bathtub, to pee in.
Covered in the vile substance and
steaming in the fumes of his own displeasure, the
surveyor frowned as he quickly put out the last flame
with his own calloused fingers. He looked down at the
cigar, which by then lay in the earth like a soggy dead
snake, his entire face awash in rancid hot urine. The
tips of his moustache hung loosely, droopingly, in fact,
as the steam rose and the blood began to boil.
Smiley, of course, knew what had
happened. He’d witnessed the use of the spittoon on more
than one suspicious occasion by his young and bashful
apprentice, and had spat in it himself a time or two,
which didn’t make it any less painful or easy to bear.
There was enough blame to go around. And it did. The
Hammer, who’d only acted out of kindness and concern in
doing what he had to do would not be exonerated, of
course. But it would be the two boys, Dick and Elmo –
especially the Harlie – who would feel the full fury of
the surveyor’s wrath that evening, in all its protracted
profanity.
He raised his head slowly, the steam
still seething from his brow And then, as the smoke
began to clear and looking directly at the Harlie who,
despite all that had just happened, was still holding
his Lucifer head match, the angry surveyor let go a
string of profanities that would have Satan himself
stuffing his pointed ears with angel wax, or whatever
else he could find in the medicinal wards of hell. “Why
you @#$%^&*! What the – ! are you trying to do to me
anyway, you stupid little @#$%^&*! Of all the
!@#$%^&*’ing things to do!”
And you, Hector,” he excoriated, turning
his rage next on the carpenter who, as the surveyor
himself would later come to admit, apologetically, of
course, had only done what any other sympathetic soul
might’ve done under similar circumstances, and in such a
sudden state of emergency, “Why didn’t you just drop
your !@#$%^&* pants and hose me down with that
!@#$%^&*’ing hammer of yours!” He was referring, of
course, to size of Mister O’Brien’s genitalia, which was
rumored, mostly by wanting woman of questionable
character who take note of such comparisons, to be of
exceptional proportions, especially for someone so
advanced in years. Little Dick blushed as he handed his
boss a red-checked handkerchief he kept for just such
emergencies, and had just blown his nose in.” And then
we will all know for !@#$%^&*!’ing sure”, he further
gesticulated, wiping the beaded waste from his brow, “…
if it’s true or not!”
The old Spaniard simply shrugged, as if
he couldn’t have care less, shook his silvery head and
smiled. He then took another long pull on his cigar as
if he had no idea what his friend the survey was talking
about, and exhaled, “No comprende, senior?”
Still fuming, and perhaps feeling a
little ashamed of himself by then for having aimed his
acrimonious arrows at the carpenter when, in fact, they
could have been better and more accurately spent on the
two irresponsible youths, Smiley smiled right back. “Ah
com’on, Hector,” he said, twisting the singed ends of
his moustache into tightly pointed spears, “You know…”
The carpenter smiled again, only this
time with that sly countenance know only to those of
Celtic origins; he might have even blushed a little.
“Know what, laddie?” he finally had to ask in an
inquisitive and almost self-congratulatory sort of way.
“Never mind,” Smiley resigned, thinking
that maybe he’d said too much already, “It ain’t that
important anyway.”
To which the Old Hammer humbly replied:
“Maybe not to you. But to Mrs. O’Brien….”
“Ain’t it the truth?” laughed the
moustache out loud. “Ain’t it the @#$%^&*’ing truth!”
Naturally, they all laughed along in the
fellowship of the campfire and the spirits of the night.
To add to the intoxicating effects of the
nicotine, and fuel to the fire so-to-speak, Alvin Webb
pulled a cork from a tan leather flask, the contents of
which had been previously undisclosed, that was slung
about his neck and hanging by a string, as a good
Catholic reverently adorns his Papal scapula. He drank
his fill and then passed it on down the line. “That’ll
put some fire in your cracker!” he exploded, as the
potent potable founds its mark in the pit of the
outlaw’s growling gullet. When the flask finally reached
the Harlie, however, it was empty. Elmo was not
surprised.
Talk of the gold was the order of the
evening, as it had been on previous occasions. But it
was spoken of quite differently now, with that
deferential quietude usually associated with and
reserved for more solemn occasions such as funerals,
wakes, church functions and other non-secular
activities. It sounded almost reverent. Never-the-less,
the fever was as high as it ever was, perhaps more so.
You could feel it. You could taste it.
Hell! You could even smell it. It was all around them.
It was in the air, and in their eyes. It was hot and
heavy. It was gold! And it was yellow, like the burning
embers crackling in the fire before them. Watch out!
That’s dangerous stuff, boys. Put it in a bottle, cork
it, and it would probably explode before long. Combine
that with corn liquor, cigars, and a little ambition,
and it becomes quite a volatile mixture; lethal in some
cases. It was the fever, of course; and it was all about
the gold, something the spirits of the night were all
too familiar with. That’s why they came. That’s what
they were there for. “Thems that want don’t get,” spoke
the old man once more as the wood burned and the tooth
ached. He’d heard it all before; and still, he wondered
what it all meant.
The moon waxed
full behind a long dark cloud. The night air was lightly
scented with the smell of pine, tobacco smoke, liquor,
and adult men after a hard day on the trail. The cowboys
all kicked back, feet to the fire and hands behind their
heads, as their long awaited and much needed meals
slowly began to digest. Together they lazily lounged
around the campfire like a pack of well-fed lizards
leathered in rawhide, the western equivalent of the
original twelve disciples at the Lord’s Last supper
whose bodily positions were similarly inclined to be
more horizontal than vertical. And if, for the sake of
comparison and perhaps a dash of irony, you were to cut
off the beards of these same red-necked Israelites
remove their boots and denim, sandal them in the
footwear of the day (e, don’t forget to remove the
spurs),drape them in togas, trade their horses for
chariots, trade in their harmonicas and banjos for
woodwinds and lyres, their ten gallon Stetsons for
laurel leaves of gold, and their red-eye’ whiskey for
fine red wine which, as everyone knows, goes a hell of a
lot better with peaches and peacock than beef jerky and
biscuits any day of the week; and, in lieu of a
smoldering campfire enveloped in smoke and fireflies,
leisurely arrange these same cowboy philosophers around
a simmering hot bath with a steamy flat surface and
smoking… well, whatever it is they smoked back then
while discussing everything from the hydrological
benefits of aqueduct engineering to the merits of Marcus
Aurelius; surround them with alabaster and gold, marbled
white walls, Corinthian columns, compound arches, motif
ceilings, bar-relief frescos, statues of Venus, Jupiter
and Mars polished to a high glossy finish, along with an
ample supply of phallic renderings inspired no doubt by
the sultry pages of the Karma Sutra, a portrait of
Cupid, perhaps, with bended bow and arrows all a’quiver…and
oh! don’t forget the prostitutes! A boy for Caligula, a
handful of Vestal Virgins, if you can any; some slaves,
of course; a eunuch here and there to wait on the women,
along with so many talented Negroes for entertainment
purposes. Now, do all that…then, and only then, will I
say with all metaphysical certitude that you indeed have
the makings of a right Roman Senate in all its
republican glory. Empire has its rewards. But beware!
Autocracy, like the royal robes of kings, comes in many
forms, many guises, some more recognizable than others;
and, just like pure democracy with its majority rule and
mob-like mentality, so they too must fall.
And fall they will, not unlike the
fortified walls of old Jericho that predictably fell on
the seventh day with one bold blast of a Hebrew Shofar;
or the Tower of Babel itself, along with all the
ill-fated Nimrods who endeavor to construct such palaces
in the sky in the first place. And that same trumpeted
sound was to be heard once more; not in the rocky ruins
of ancient Palestine, but rather in a quiet circle of
nine denim-clad gentiles gathered around a campfire half
a world away and three thousand years removed,
worshipping their own golden calf in the shadow of
Jehovah’s Holy Hill.
And what was this sound that so suddenly
and un-solicitously broke the silence of that sacred
night? Was it Gabriel, the venerable archangel himself
blowing on his horn, having taken it down from his
celestial mantelpiece one last time just to remind us…
remind us of what? That he was still able to produce
such a powerful and potent blast? Such a heavenly sound!
Oh well, even powers and principalities have their
moments; vanity not to be limited to the conceited minds
of mere mortals. Or was it something else? something
more natural… more human. Either way you would be right.
For the sound that was heard that night, trumpeting
forth in all its familiar and fleeting glory, was
nothing more and nothing less than the sound produced by
one little bean – the Harley bean, followed, of course,
by that equally familiar yet highly reproachable odor.
That smell! Oh, that smell!
Little Dick, who was sitting on a log
he’d just pulled up to the campfire, responded by
holding closed his young and sensitive nostrils between
two fingers, and scowling with an incredulous look on
his otherwise angelic face.
“What the @#$%^&*!!! was that?” Smiley
cursed, as if he really didn’t know, and actually
tried to look surprised, forgetting, for the moment at
least, that old children’s’ adage which is so often
applied under similar circumstances, and with an equally
amusing effect, along with its subsequent and silent
response: ‘He who smelt it… dealt it!’ Or perhaps the
smiley surveyor did remember. And maybe, just maybe,
that’s exactly why he was smiling; even though,
as previously elucidated upon, it was very difficult to
tell.
Dick, still refusing to let go of his
nose, looked over at his employer and, detecting for a
moment a slight smile breaking beneath that beguiling
blonde moustache, merely shook his head in wonder.
“I smells it, too,” the Negro reacted,
sniffing the air through his own generously proportioned
nostrils, like a musky moose in search of a mate.
“Smells like, like…” said the Indian,
springing up is head in a start while trying,
unsuccessfully it seems, to find the right words to
describe the pungent odor that somehow seemed vaguely
familiar to him, “like…”.
“Like a skunk juice!” howled the outlaw.
“No. More like buffalo chips,” observed
the Old Hammer, whose olfactory organ was still as sharp
as ever, and just as keen and alive, like that other
organ we need not mention right here and now. He was
referring, of course, to those miniature mountains of
manure excreted by that noble, and now nearly extinct,
bovine.
And all the while Smiley just sat there,
clandestinely smiling in his own private world as the
annoying and nocuous fumes hung over their heads like
the left wing of Judgment Day. He almost seemed to be
enjoying it.
Finally, Little Dick, who couldn’t take
it anymore, and was just barely able breathe, let loose
his nostrils and cried out in one long voice, “It’s them
ol’ Harley beans! I knew it all along!”
Having the unique displeasure of being
seated directly downwind of the surveyor at the time,
Homer himself was the first to observe: “Charles… was
that you?”
With every eye cast upon him by then, and
rightly so as one might imagine, the sly old surveyor
looked around, squirmed a little, shrugged, and said
with as much sincerity as he could find that night in
his beguiling but sometimes cynical heart, “… I thought
that was Alvin.”
Little Dick Dilworth laughed so hard that
he fell off his log; and the others, except for one,
perhaps, all joined in. For it is in times like these
when most fine fellowship are formed. And what better
glue to bind them all together than a joke? It works
every time, and under any circumstance, usually at the
expense of the one who, either intentionally or
unintentionally, is not only the butt of the joke, but
the perpetrator as well. Case in point, one Charles S.
Smiley who may have been well advised to hold his tongue
(if he could ever find it, that is) and keep his as
thoughts, and opinions, to himself. Silence may not
always be golden…sometimes it is priceless! as any good
defense lawyer will tell you.
Red-Beard was not so impressed, however,
and could not find the humor in something so vulgar.
Perhaps it was not so much the vulgarity he objected to,
but the humor itself; which in its own infectious and
effective way had far greater command over of his men
than he could ever imagine. And besides, there was
nothing he could do about it. It was just Homer’s man’s
way of getting their minds off the gold; and it seemed
to have worked, for a while at least. But what was the
old man really up to? He knew Homer would tell him what
was really going on in his manipulative mind,
eventually. He only hoped it would be sooner rather than
later, so they could get down to the real
business at hand.
And then all
was quiet again, except for the crackling of burning
wood, the stirring of the horse hooves and leather, the
grunt of a bull, and the occasional noise of bean
flatulents permeating the sacred silence of the night.
“Tell us more about the gold, Homer,”
whispered Little Dick Dilworth after a while, as if he
were almost too afraid to ask.
The old man balked. “Well, I don’t…” he
hesitated, having already told the others as much as he
dared under the circumstances. No use in throwing
kerosene on an open fire, he wisely imagined. But it was
a fire that’s been burning for quite some time, ever
since he could remember; perhaps since the world began!
and a fire which he, like every generation before and
after him will undoubtedly say: ‘I didn’t start it’. But
where there is smoke there will always be fire. It
smokes and smolders in all of us, to one degree or
another and with different levels of intensity. It’s
really nothing new, I suppose. It was there from the
beginning, sparked to life by lightening from the sky,
perhaps, snatched from the gods by Prometheus and put in
the hand of mortal man to cook his food, light his way,
burn down his neighbor’s house, and kill his enemy. It
fuels his imagination, drives him through the darkness
and gives birth to civilizations. It’s a never-ending
cycle of life and death, destruction and re-birth. And
it’s all wrapped up in that precious flammable substance
we call fire, a commodity whose stores will only be
emptied when the Universe itself is finally snuffed out
by the same finger of God that first set it ablaze by
putting it into motion in the first place. Who else
could do it? Who else could put out the eternal flame?
Not Homer. There wasn’t an ocean deep enough, a river
wide enough, or a hose long enough, to put out the
inferno. And he knew it.
Still, they persisted, each in his own
personal and persistent and way.
“Nothin’ like a good yarn after a meal,”
suggested Smiley, still quite potent from the beans and
with the remainder of Mrs. Skinner’s blueberry pie
conspicuously caked to the hairs of his magnificent
moustache.
“Good for the
digestion,” noted Sam, puffing lazily on the tapered end
of his cigar, spreading his celebrated legs like a Zulu
prince in a smoke house who, after killing a lion with
his bare hands and thus partaking of its flesh, sits
back to indulge himself in the company of his fellow
tribesmen under the wide and wild African sky.
“Ah, go ahead, Homer,” coxed the Hammer
who could see no harm in telling the story one more
time. “Might be just the thing to take the edge off. You
think?”
Tracing a sign in the air with the
glowing tip of his cigar, the meaning of which was
undecipherable by any of the others sitting around the
campfire, the Indian suddenly began chanting in his own
native tongue, the utterances of which would be too
complicated and difficult to translate into proper
English at this time.
“What’s he sayin’? the outlaw demanded to
know.
“Don’t know,” replied Sam, “ain’t never
seen him act like this before.”
The chanting stopped as suddenly and
mysteriously as it began. Boy’s face was presently
glowing red, yellow and orange, just like the flames in
the fiery pit before him. His eyes were now wide open,
for a change; the lids being propped open somehow,
perhaps by the prying fingers of some unseen, and
therefore unclean, spirit. And thus he embraced the
night.
“The spirits…” murmured the large Negro
in a small thin voice that sounded quite different from
what the others might’ve expected coming from such a
thick-lipped gargantuan.
Upon hearing this, the Catholic Hammer
who, up until just then at least had showed no outward
signs of being superstitiously disposed, summarily
blessed himself with the sign of the cross, the Holy
Trinity, and in Latin reverence kissed his crown of his
own clenched hand.
“They’re here…” whispered the Indian,
almost as a warning.
Some of the others sat up in abject
apprehension. And considering the source of the alarm,
they appeared not a little frightened; especially Big
Sam, who, being no stranger to such night time
apparitions and superstitious by nature, was obviously
the most concerned. Besides, he’d been with the galaxy
galloping Redman long enough now to know when something
was bothering him. He didn’t like what he saw.
A Baptist by faith and familiar with the
ways of the Redman, chiefly though what he’d read about
in the popular westerners of the day, Little Dick
quietly reached for the small Bible he had tucked away
in his overcoat.
“Who! What?” Smiley questioned, gulping
down the last piece of Mrs. Skinner’s blueberry pie, and
looking not a little annoyed.
“The spirits,” repeated the Indian.
“They’re here… Listen.”
Hector put out his cigar and reached for
his hammer. “Then God have mercy them,” he defiantly
spoke out.
“And us, too” reminded the Baptist.
Naturally, or un-naturally, I suppose,
Homer knew what they were all talking about. He had
actually been expecting it all along; only not so soon,
and not with such a loud and intrusive entrance. He knew
these spirits, many by name. He’d meet them before. He
knew what they wanted, where they came from, and why
they were there. They’ve been tormenting him for years,
forty, forty… usually late at night as he paced circles
on his bedroom floor back home. He was hoping they
wouldn’t have followed him all the way back to the
mountain. He was wrong, of course; they did. He knew
they would.
“Oh…is that all?” mocked the surveyor who
didn’t believe in spirits, ghosts, witches, warlocks, or
any other man-made manifestations, physical or
otherwise; but he could see that some of the others did,
and it made him just a little nervous. And so, he did
what he always did in times like these. He pulled out a
small bag of loose tobacco he kept hermetically sealed
in the top pocket of his coat, pinched a generous wad,
and placed it in its usually and most comfortable
position, right between his left cheek and gum. Anyone
care for a chew?” he politely offered. “Help settle your
nerves. Hector?”
As the spirits of the night hovered over
the open flame of the campfire, Hector regained his cool
Latin composure, which came as a welcomed relief a few
of the others who thought he might be in over his head.
He then turned his heavy head in disgust, as if the very
thought of chewing on the sacred weed actually pained
him, and one he found almost insulting. He considered it
a waste of perfectly good tobacco. “No thank you. Only
horse thieves and fools chew their leaf,” he quietly
explained, respectfully declining the surveyor’s
generous but un-welcomed offer. “No offense, Senoir.”
Smiley shrugged, “None taken, pard’ner…
more for the rest of us.” He then turned to the others
one by one, repeating his previous offer. “How ‘bout
you, Webb?” he said while savoryly chewing his wade.
“I would… if I could still chew,” gummed
the toothless addict.
“I’ll have me some of that,” said Sam who
was still obviously quite upset with all the sudden talk
about spirits, and the strange incantations coming from
his Indian side-kick.
Even Little Dick, who until only recently
was in the habit of declining Smiley’s generous offer
when it came to sinful chew, couldn’t resist. “Well,
just a pinch wouldn’t hurt,” he said, placing a generous
char of the soft moist substance between his tender
cheek and gums in the same manner as his benevolent
employer. “Thank you, boss,” he said with a mouthful.
“How ‘bout you Geronimo?” the Redman was
finally asked as he sat staring silently into the flames
from under the black brim of his medicine hat,
listening, perhaps, for further evidence of the his
previous observations.
But the only answer the charitable
surveyor would receive that night from the wooden Indian
sitting by the fire was only more of the same
incomprehensible chanting.
The surveyor translated: “Reckon that
means no.”
Despite all that’d occurred that
particular evening, including Red-Beard’s bizarre
behavior, Boy’s apparitional announcements accompanied
by strange chanting and gestures, and perhaps even
against his own better judgment, Homer Skinner recounted
the incredible tale that began and ended on the very
same mountain presently looming before them on a moonlit
night as it did forty years ago. He must have told the
story a thousand times. But never was it so real, and so
close to him, as it was just then. It was the story of
how he'd found the gold, along with the mortal remains
of Mister Cornelius G. Wainwright III, at the end of a
long dark tunnel, one day in hell.
Gazing deeply into the crackling wood of
the campfire and appearing even older than he actually
was at that moment, if that was all possible, Homer
Skinner began speaking, extemporaneously it would seem,
in a low and methodical voice that everyone had come to
recognize so well whenever he spoke of the gold. Elmo
was sitting close to the old man’s side, as he had been
ever since they’d left the farm. He knew what he was
about to hear. He’d heard it all before. The tooth was
beginning to ache; he could feel it throbbing.
But there was something different this
time, thought the Harlie, noticing for the very first
time a light in Homer’s eyes he hadn’t seen before. And
it wasn’t just his eyes. He could hear it in the old
man’s voice; it just wasn’t the same. It was as if he
was listening to a man who’d died more than a hundred
years ago and was only now revealing some hidden secret
he’d found beyond the grave for mortal minds to ponder.
He sounded like a ghost, a spirit, or something even
worse. The others heard it too; but not the way Elmo
did. They could only listen.
Sparked by wild imagination and kindled
with the magic spell of the mountain, the spirits of the
night came out, one by one, taking their rightful and
well-deserved places around the campfire along with the
others. These were friendly ghosts, with pale and
weatherworn faces not unlike those of the company they
sought that particular night. Theirs was a brotherhood,
a sacred trust, a fellowship as old as the mountains
themselves, and just as rock solid. Solitaires by nature
and not known for gregarious salutations, these kindred
spirits of the night seldom congregated unless it was
absolutely necessary to do so; and only when summoned,
as apparently they had been tonight, and for reasons
they were still uncertain of. They preferred to be
alone, and did not take kindly to strangers.
These were gentle-spirits, however. They
respected the privacy of others and demanded no less in
return. They came from all corners of the earth, from
across the seas, and beyond, from highlands of the
Himalayas to the levied lowlands of New Orleans,
portions of which are still located beneath sea level.
They came from the sulfur mines of the swampy South to
the frozen glaciers of the Northern Tundra. They came
from the East and the West, across the dry deserts and
the Great Plains, through the Heartland, from the
wasteland and in the valleys of the snow. These were the
spirits of the night; more precisely, they were the
spiritual manifestations the old miners of past
generations, long since dead and turned to dust, gold
dust, or stone. They’ve mined the mountain of the earth
and moon and knew ever hill like the backs of their
invisible and calloused hands. They came with their
picks and their pans, their bags of black powder,
shovels and rakes, their axes to grind, their bibles and
beads and a heedful of dreams, some whiskey, of course;
and they came with their guns. And they came with a
purpose, unholy perhaps, but what the hell? And most of
all, they came for the gold.
They lived their lives not in space and
time, but in the rocks and stones. They were the spirits
of the night. They breathed fire and ate coal; their
hearts were made of stone. Diamonds were their friend,
silver their mistress; but gold… Ah, gold! That most
precious and sought-after of all earthly elements was
their lover. They heaved it. They hoed it. They hoarded
it. And like some old prostitute who had outlived her
profession but perhaps not her usefulness or welcome, a
harlot they had come to know and respect so well over
the years, or even their own widowed wives, dead or
alive, they lord it over her. They couldn’t live without
her (which is probably what made them spirits to begin
with) and they couldn’t die. They were seldom seen or of
heard anymore. That’s because they were all dead by now;
but even that couldn’t stop them from passing up a good
tale. That’s why they came. That’s why they were there;
and why they were, in fact, the spirits of the night.
And there was old Homer Skinner, right in
the middle of it all. Again! Why, it was just like old
times. Then, like some old acquaintances he hadn’t seen
in quite a while, the old man began greeting the spirits
of the night, one by one, in his own silent and
subliminal way, as if to say: ‘Howdy Clem! Where’ve ya’
been hidin’? Jack! Well I’ll be… Thought you was dead…’
Hey, Joe! you ol’ mountain-mole. Whada’ya know? Haven’t
seen you since ‘49. That you, Lester? Pull up a log and
sit a spell. Take your shoes off and tell us your story,
ifin’ you got one worth listen’ to…’
Or, ‘Hello there, Hank! How’s your hammer
hangin’? Hey Mike, did you hear what happened to ol’
John Henry? You know, the big black feller who done
whooped the steam-drill at Big Bend Mountain yonder in
West (By-God!) Vir-ginny. Was what you call a steel-drivin’
man. Black as coal, he way. Died, I heard, with a
twenty-pond hammer in his hand. Buried him in the sand,
along with his hammer, I ‘spose. Some say, if you listen
real close, you can still hear a whistle blow at the ol’
White House – that’s the name of the prison next to the
old cemetery where they bury colored folks, you know –
every time a train goes by. Wrote a song about him.
Wanna hear it? Too bad! I ain’t got my guit-fiddle with
me. But if I did, I’d play it for you…’
That’s just the way they talked, these
gregarious and sometimes quarrelsome spirits of the
night; and the old man was listening. That’s what he
came for. Homer was doing exactly what was expected of
him; and the spirits of the night demanded no less. And
as he spoke, the old man began fanning the flames and
feeding the fire, again, filling their lungs with smoke
and bringing their dry and dusty bones back to life
again in the process.
It was one of those metaphysical
experiments necessary from time to time, like digging up
the decomposing corpses of dead relatives and soldiers,
just to have their sacred remains relocated to, in their
own conceited words: ‘a more suitable and honorable
resting place’; as if the moldy old bones would know, or
appreciate, the difference. But that’s just the way we
are, I suppose; making up for in death the respect we
lacked for the living, especially those who’d died in
battle, like the poor young bastard who lies in requiem
beneath the tomb of the unknown soldier, whose own
bruised and bulleted and body, undoubtedly discovered in
some unmarked grave sheltered on foreign soil, was
finally and ceremoniously exhumed and brought home to
rest in more familiar surroundings, consecrated in the
manner of Gettysburg, placed in hallowed graves reserved
for dead presidents, heads-of-states, war heroes, and
other such dignitaries, memorialized forever, and
covered with American soil. Or, perhaps, it is done just
for the ceremony of it all.
Either way, it just felt good – Good as
gold! And maybe, just maybe, the spirit of that same
brave young boy who died in the trenches of World War I
was there that night as well, along with all the other
spirits of the night. And perhaps he had his own story
to tell. Listen…
Chapter Nine
The Golden Tabernacle
(A Feral Tale)
THE TALE HOMER WAS ABOUT TO TELL hadn’t changed much over
the years; only lately, however, did he see it fit to go
into it with a little more detail than usual. He had his
reasons, of course; and there was no more holding back.
Not anymore, he reckoned. Not anymore.
For the sake of
the expediency, and maybe even the truth, which as we
all know is subject to interpretation at times, as
evidenced by what we read in newspapers and history
books, it will be helpful, if not downright necessary in
some instances, to narrate the events of the story as
they actually occurred forty years ago, either adding or
subtracting, at my own discretion, details that Homer
had simply forgotten or may otherwise wish to remain
undisclosed for reasons only he and I are currently
aware of. To do otherwise might be embarrassing and
would do the story, as well as the reader, an grave
injustice neither one deserve, and would be too
difficult anyway, as the old man’s memory was fading
even as I write down these words.
For it is at times
like these, I suppose, when fact and fiction overlap,
blending and bleeding into one another, which, contrary
to what some critics might say, at times only adds to
the their authenticity, complimenting each other in ways
only lovers, in all their intimate intermingling, can
relate to without losing their separate and true
identities. But even in its purest and most
un-eviscerated state, the truth, like everything else, I
suppose, can become cloudy and obscured, if not
altogether lost. Not to mention the fact that Homer
was getting older, and still prone to exaggeration;
as we all are from time to time, stretching or bending
the truth for our own benefit, and perhaps the amusement
at of our listeners; and in that regard, I am no
exception. And I wasn’t even there! But I do know the
truth when I hear it… at least, I think I do. And I will
do my best, dear reader, to tell you exactly what
happened, and let you decide for yourself what is true…
and what ain’t.
Not long ago,
shortly after the war had ended, a wealthy gentleman
farmer was said to have purchased an entire village of
Island slaves, or Ferals, as they were commonly
referred to at the time, for the sole purpose of
excavating his many mines located there about the great
Silver Mountains of the North. His name was Cornelius G.
Wainwright III. He had dark brown hair, a bottlebrush
moustache, a short fuse, some firearms, and a very long
whip. He’d purchased the aboriginal slaves during a
period known as the ‘Great Gold Rush’, and at a very
price well beneath the market value. He bought them from
the captain of a pirate ship that had sailed into Old
Port Fierce harbor one hot summer day to repair a broken
mast and secure some much-needed provisions for his
bloodthirsty and battle-scarred crew.
A deal was finally
struck behind closed doors involving a certain family,
or tribe, of these so-called Ferals (or
‘Islanders’ as they were sometimes more humanely and
accurately described as) which, owing perhaps to the
isolation in which they’d developed and the incestuous
relationships that normally and naturally occur in such
primitive societies, could very well have constituted an
entire village at one time, in all its organized and
industrial complexities. And with that, the farmer’s
fate was sealed.
Once more on solid
ground, the seasick Ferals seemed satisfied
enough just to be able to walk upright again on two
legs, even though their strange and new world continued
to move beneath their savage feet for quite some time,
the way it usually does for greenhorns and other
landlubbers upon returning from their first, and most
likely their last, excursion on the high seas. The
captain, in a hurry to dispose of his human contraband
as quickly and quietly as possible had let the entire
tribe go at a very generous price. It was considered a
bargain at the time; what some might in the business
might actually and accurately describe as a ‘real
steal’, which ironically enough, is precisely what it
was, considering, of course, the way in which the
illicit cargo was obtained in the first place.
The captain of the
slave ship was paid in full and Mister Cornelius G.
Wainwright III got what he wanted, which also happened
to be exactly what he needed at the time: a quick source
of reliable labor, which he deemed indispensable in
unearthing the fortune he was certain to find in the
Silver Mountains. And they were cheap, too!
In the end, the
pirate ship sailed away with a new mast and enough
fruits and vegetables to keep him and his crew of
scallywags scurvy-free for the next three years, along
with a dozen pigs, six horses, a cow, and fifty-two
barrels of rum, which just so happened to be the exact
number of men under his insufferable but sometimes
questionable command, and about the right amount needed
to avoid a certain mutiny that surely would’ve occurred
had he chosen to do otherwise. Everyone was happy,
including Mister Wainwright and his Ferals… for
the time being at least.
Keeping whole
families of slaves, Feral or otherwise, together
for any length of time was considered not a good idea,
then as now. It was one of those things that just wasn’t
done, a principal adhered to since times of antiquity,
or whenever the evil Institution first showed its cruel
and greedy face. Such arrangements, however humanely
considered, were simply deemed inadvisable, and for a
good number of reason; chief among these being the
threat of insurrection and inbreeding, the latter of
which having already been scientifically proven to
increase the chances of producing an inferior, and thus
less productive, breed. Naturally, the pirate had never
explained this to Mister Wainwright; nor did the fated
farmer ever bother to ask. All he cared about was gold
and, of course, getting his money’s worth. And in the
end, as you will soon see, he got more than he bargained
for.
Cornelius needed
as many hands as he could get. He needed them cheaply,
and he needed them fast. Time was a’wasting. There were
already too many prospectors staking out their claim in
the fruitful mountain range and digging for his
gold. Time and money were the two of the same thing
Cornelius never seemed to have enough of. Patience was
another.
Unlike the more
common slaves brought from across the seas during that
time, this one particular family of Islanders was
said to have been abducted from the inner most jungles
of a strange and beautiful island located somewhere in
the South Pacific in the unexplored parts of the vast
watery world. It was place first discovered by a
renegade band of Christian missionaries, Franciscans,
who sailed under the black banner of that brotherly
Order, and later occupied by various military forces.
The missionaries had fled the island for undisclosed
reasons shortly after several unsuccessful attempts of
converting the native inhabitants that lived thereabout
of their pagan practices. Since then, the uncharted
landmass had served as a lone military outpost for both
strategic economic purposes; and, for that reason alone,
its exact coordinates had been kept classified ever
since. But these kinds of secrets can only be kept for
so long.
Then the pirates
came, transforming the island in their own barbarous
ways, into a seaport from which to launch their newest
and boldest enterprise. Despite the many dangers
presented in approaching the island, which included a
natural off-shore coral reef, rip tides, and two active
volcanoes forever on the verge of eruption, it became a
very busy and most lucrative endeavor. It was the sort
of a harbor most sailors tended to avoid, especially at
low tide and high winds. But as the sailors say: ’…any
port in a storm’.
The natives who
lived there called the island Istari-Toa, which loosely
translates into ‘Island of the Two Volcanoes’. Others,
like the pirates and missionaries who’d first explored
the volatile terrain, referred to it, quite accurately
in fact as ‘Lucifer’s island’, chiefly on account of
the many lava streams that would occasionally cascade
down from the cratered mountain top like cataracts of
liquid fire from hell. One of these still-active
volcanoes was named for the Sun-God, Apo. The other
mountain was christened for his twin sister, Lanomi, the
Moon-goddess that rose up out of the ashes to Apo’s
immediate right. Together they comprised almost half of
the entire landmass, which is perhaps why they were held
in such high esteem and granted divine status by the
local inhabitants that occupied the jungles below.
The official name
given to the island by the military was Stanley’s
Island, in honor of the late and great Captain Walter
Stanley, who had command the original wooden structure
deep within the jungle itself, which, what was left of
it at least, also bore the great man’s name. It had been
constructed further inland, for strategic reason no
doubt, between the virgin white sands of the bay and the
interior rain forests that had protected the deities for
centuries, hidden, even until this day, in those same
sacred and hallowed hills known by the natives
thereabout as the mountains of the sun and the moon.
The old fort was
eventually torched during a native uprising that was as
inevitable and it was predictable and subsequently
burned to the ground. The destruction was total and
complete, devastating, and, depending on one’s point of
view, I suppose, well deserved. The insurrection lasted
for only three days and was lead by one of the Queen’s
many ambitious sons, a certain young prince with a
special appetite for war, and the human flesh it
sometimes provided. Her husband, King Bobo, being
indisposed at the time of the battle, and whose regal
authority and mitigating influences may’ve resulted in a
more favorable outcome for Captain Stanley and his
troops, simply, and much to the royal prince’s
advantage, turned out to be too little and too late.
The prince’s name
was Mabutoo, the son of Bobo, who turned out not only to
be the chief instigator of the short but successful
insurrection, but also the presumptive king of the
Istari-Toa when, shortly after massacre at Fort Stanley,
his father’s body was found at the bottom of a shallow
lagoon, mysteriously murdered, or so it seemed, at the
hands of one of his many unfaithful subjects. It had
always been suspected that Mabutoo himself had a bloody
hand in the assassination; a rumor summarily dismissed
by the Queen who, being fully aware of the treacherous
nature of her son, and with a few suspicions of her own,
had no intentions of being found on at the bottom of
that same lagoon, the water of which was said to ‘run
red with blood’ on the anniversary of her royal
husband’s demise.
All the soldiers
were killed the day of the massacre, except of one lone
survivor, a corporal by the name of Elwood Needles who
resides there to this very day in a place called
‘Bonestown’, located not far from the ruins of the old
fort, the remains of which have long since been
re-claimed by the jungle; and there, in a tropical
rainforest, among the shallow graves of his comrades he
managed a small, hospitable, and sometimes even
profitable little inn where, with the help of a native
boy he called Bingo, he flew his regimental flag, and
colors, in the face of the tyrannical King Mubutoo, the
murderer of his friends and fellow soldiers. It is said
that Corporal Needles simply and adamantly refused to
leave the bodies of his dead comrades behind without a
proper burial; and he’s been burying them ever since.
Hardly a day would go by when he wasn’t out among the
slumbering stones of the fallen soldiers, in the rain
perhaps, and usually at sunset when, with a rusty old
bugle pursed firmly against his cracked lips, Corporal
Elwood would lull the restless spirits to sleep by
blowing taps in the shadow and defiance of Mabutoo’s
mountain fortress. Not many passed that way anymore; and
the organic remains of the old fort have, for all
intents and purposes, become part of the
ever-encroaching jungle. And since the Island wasn’t
even supposed to exist, as far as the military was
concerned, that suited the old corporal just fine; for
since then he had become somewhat of a recluse, catering
to troops stationed at the new ‘Fort Stanley’ who, from
time to time, would made the long and laborious journey
from the coast to the small but well-stocked outpost in
the jungle where he served them whiskey and gin.
Shortly after the
battle of Fort Stanley, the island was re-named by its
new inhabitants, another regiment of army soldiers
ordered there by a secret congressional committee to
make sure nothing like ‘that’ ever happened again.
Naturally, and despite the small and somewhat covert
military presence, Istari-Toa quickly became a haven for
pirates and sea-thieves who sought sanctuary in such
remote parts of the watery world. It was a good place to
do business, especially if that business included the
slave trade.
It was rumored
that the horrific uprising may have actually resulted
from the selfish acts of a few overly ambitious soldiers
who had collectively and clandestinely taken upon
themselves the risky business of kidnapping the local
inhabitants of the jungle and selling them to the
pirates, or any other slave ships that chanced to cruise
off their barbarous shores, for their own ill-gotten
gain It was a profitable exchange, but one that proved
fatal, not only to the soldiers who’d committed the
illegal war crimes, but to Sir Stanley himself and a
number of good men.
When the new fort
was finally built, close to the beach this time for
reasons of practicality and protection, the soldiers who
were stationed there began referring to their new home
as ‘The Land of the Bleeding Rock’. They did this, not
unlike the pirates and missionaries who’d preceded them,
for a number of reasons; not least of which could still
be evidenced by the solidified streams of frozen lava
that had once cascaded down the fiery slopes of the
mountain.
The island itself
was actually a geologist’s dream come true; but one
that, for a variety of reasons we will eventually learn
of, would remain unrecorded for the next century. Ever
since the native uprising, no one, not even missionaries
who still came with their black banners and Bibles to
save the savage soul, were allowed beyond the western
boundaries of Bonestown, where once stood the original
fort; not even when assisted by military escort, which
would’ve been refused anyway, and for a number of good
reasons. The powers to be simply wouldn’t most of the
dirty and difficult work of rounding up the human
contraband, their own brothers and sisters in some
cases, and placing them onboard the eastbound vessels.
For practical and legal reasons perhaps, he said no more
about his business but promised to return with another
shipment as soon as time and tide permitted. Naturally,
Mister Wainwright couldn’t wait for that to happen, and
insisted on financing the very next voyage.
The mysterious
island from which the human cargo was obtained was
somewhat of a mystery to most in the Americas, let alone
Old Port Fierce. Other than the military personnel who
were stationed there at the time, along with a handful
of sailors, a few enterprising merchants and, of course,
the pirates themselves, no one was aware of the Island’s
existence or location and, even if they were, had no
business being there in the first place, in the ‘Land of
the Bleeding Rock’ on the isle of Istari-Toa.
The Island
Ferals purchased by the ambitious gentleman farmer
turned prospector were different from other slaves
brought back to the civilized world at a time of the
Great Emancipation. For one thing, they were readily
available, which was precisely why Cornelius G.
Wainwright III had purchased them from the pirate in the
first place; and for another thing, they were cheap!
Moreover, they proved to be dependable and tireless
workers, despite their physical stature, which was
generally smaller than that of the more common and
darker variety imported by slave merchants from another
parts of the world, particularly the African continent.
They were also more intelligent; a fact the pirate
carefully and conveniently withheld from the shrewd
farmer with the bottlebrush moustache, for obvious
reasons. No one likes an intelligent slave, you know;
not even a cheap one.
To the delight of
their new owner and master, these particular feral
slaves possessed a gentler and more accommodating
attitude than their darker skinned cousins, which
naturally made them easier to domesticate and,
subsequently, more desirable to be had. If not for the
tone of their skin, which appeared strangely pigmented
in varying shades of blue, yellow and orange, one might
actually mistaken these enigmatic Islanders for Native
Redmen of Americas, or Indians, as they were sometimes
falsely identified as by those of limited knowledge of
such people and places.
From a purely
anthropological point of view, these exotic and
inscrutable creatures would indeed have been more
properly identified with the Orient, as their
physiognomy would clearly suggest, not only in skin tone
but in the overall countenance of the genus, which
glowed with that distinctive Asian mystique. But the
chains that bound them were as unbreakable as any that
adorned the ankles of their darker skinned
contemporaries, the metal of which did not discriminate;
it never does. And the blood they shed was no different
either. It was red, of course, as red and royal as the
Hebrew blood that flowed through the nomadic veins of
the ancient Israelites as they fled Pharaoh’s chariots
across the Red Sea and into the wilderness. But unlike
other imported laborers, these natives from across the
Southern Seas displayed little or no hostility,
surprisingly enough, towards those who’d bought and sold
them. They seemed to be indifferent towards everyone,
including themselves; aggression and arrogance seemingly
the missing ingredients left out of their psychological
make-up either by accident or design, when placed in the
oven of Life and baked by the Great Chef Himself.
Curiously enough,
and generally speaking, there was no word for ‘War’ in
the strange and ambiguous language employed by the
inhabitants of these remote and remarkable islands. Why
should there be? There was simply no need for it; at
least, not from any practical standpoint. Neither was
the word ‘Love’ anywhere to be found in, or translated
from, the savage dictionary (if one existed at all),
which would undoubtedly be grammatically lacking in all
manner of syntax and filled with inconsistencies not
found in more western lexicons. In many ways, the
feral tongue of the Aborigines remained, to one
degree or another, incomprehensible to modern
philologists and just as indecipherable. Indeed, the
language seemed to contradict itself in many respects,
leaving many a missionary convinced of the eventual
destruction and final damnation of these insufferable
souls. It would seem that western ideology had no
meaning to the savage heart what-so-ever. It simply, and
for whatever reason, escaped them, in much the same way
the rhetoric of Saint Augustine would escape the mind of
the Hun.
Neither did these
aliens allow for any discernable difference between such
concepts as ‘good’ and ‘evil’, as both were expressed in
terms that merely suggested they were actually two in
the same and, for all intents and purposes, quite equal.
To the savage mind-set, black and white were considered
nothing more than equal opposites, much like the Ying
and Yang of Eastern philosophies. In some ways the
philological duality of the dialect was as convenient as
it was bewildering, for the natives of these islands
seemed to live a life where conflict and contradiction
simply did not apply; precluding, of course, your
occasional uprising, massacre, tribal warfare, and
random headhunting, all of which were considered
perfectly normal, like a visit to the local
witch-doctor, and as natural as breathing. If
distinctions did exist at all, then they did so only in
the hearts and minds of the animals and other demigods
that were obviously better equipped than themselves to
deal with such primitive and self-destructive emotions.
It seemed to work, on the surface anyway.
There was one
fatal flaw, however, that further divorced these
isolated islanders from the rest of Humanity, which has
already been touched upon in previous chapters; and if
you haven’t guessed it by now, as the pure heart is
often the last to learn of the evil that lurks within,
you surely will have by the end of this one. It was
nothing new and, perhaps, has been around as long as man
himself. It was older than the pyramids and just as
mysterious, at least to those who attempt to penetrate
such ancient ambiguities. It’s as plain as a pikestaff
and sometimes, depending of course on how badly it is
needed, just as necessary. It’s something we
instinctively find offensive, repelling and
reproachable. But not all instincts are bad; in fact,
most are good and, moreover, necessary for survival.
That’s way we put so much stock in them, if we know
what’s good for us, that is. Think of fear, and where we
would be without it. It’s the fear we flee from that
invariably saves our life, as any caveman being chased
by a wild woolly mammoth or a sabre-toothed tiger will
certainly tell you. Shame, on the other hand, is a
strictly human emotion; animals know nothing of it, and
wouldn’t, given their intellectually capacity, know what
to do with it if they had it. It reminds of who and what
we are; or at least were, in a more primitive and
precarious state. It touches us where we would rather
not to be touched, in that sequester and private part of
the brain which lies dormant in us all, that once shared
its atoms, as well as our genes, with sea slugs and
lizard kings. To put it in context of with the subject
presently at hand, it was nothing more than a simple but
hideous shrunken head and a pile of clean white bones.
Legend had it,
mostly from the sons of sailors of Old Port Fierce who
were acquainted with such practices, that these Island
natives, or Ferals, if you will, were known to
partake of mortal human flesh, human or otherwise, which
they considered no different than that of any other
animal and, in some perverted and self-deprecating ways,
inferior. They particularly seemed to enjoy drinking the
blood of their enemies, the powers of which would, upon
defeat and ingestion, be ritualistically absorbed, by a
form of plasmatic osmosis perhaps, into the very soul of
the victorious consumer. It was powerful medicine, and
quite tasty to the feral palette, I might add. It
was further rumored that in difficult and desperate
times, the tender flesh of their young was not precluded
from their carnivorous diet; although this, like so many
other false claims concerning cultures alien to those
who make them, may have been highly exaggerated. But
then again, anthropological studies have proven that, at
least in some remote instances, this barbaric practice
was considered not only the proper thing to under
certain and extreme conditions, perhaps as a last
resort, but a delicacy as well; and one their own
children would fain submit to, even as they slowly
simmered in the soup. Apparently, honor thy father and
thy mother left much to be desired in the cannibal code;
‘and make sure they’re well fed!’ must have been added
to somewhere along the line. But blessed with mild, year
round tropical climate, rich volcanic soil, plenty of
fresh water, and enough bananas and breadfruit to feed
Napoleon’s army, the Islanders seldom starved; and there
were always plenty of children around, just in case.
Of course, it is
not difficult to image any harder times or more
desperate measures than being imprisoned on a slave ship
during the days of the gold rush, packed in the hull of
an ocean-going vessel for months on end like so many
sardines in a tin can and tossed over the side at the
slightest sign of sickness or disease like a day old
mackerel. No wonder they resorted to the unthinkable and
un-natural act of cannibalism! And who could blame them?
Certainly not the sons of sailors who knew better and
were more qualified as judges in that regard than some
land-locked magistrate who never wanted for a cup of
fresh water, a stick of stale bread, or thigh bone to
nibble on. It happened before, you know. You may as well
blame the survivors of the doomed ship Essex, a whaler
out of Nantucket, for committing similar atrocities in
the face of certain and horrible death they would, no
doubt, have suffered had they decided to act otherwise.
The Captain’s name
was Pollard, and with him sailed a mate who would latter
document a tale so fantastic it would eventually find
its way into the pages of, as the author himself once
called it, ‘A wicked book’. It happened after they had
been struck by a renegade whale and left afloat in the
middle of the merciless ocean along with three surviving
lifeboats. The first to die was a black man, a bad omen
by many onboard. But there was no discrimination when it
came to the color, the taste, or the nourishment of the
dead man’s flesh. Others onboard the tiny floating
prisons were no more than boys. One of them was Owen
Coffin, the nephew of the captain and one of the first
to be sacrificed.
They drew lots.
The captain of the lifeboat threatened to shoot the
first man to lay a hand on the unlucky lad. But the
brave young Quaker acquiesced, claiming that his lot was
just as good as any. The deed was done quickly and
mercifully, painlessly we are led to believe; and it
done with a gun. One by one, the others followed in a
like manner until there were but a few remaining who
eventually made it safely to back to civilization, the
captain of the fated boy being among them. A handful of
others chose to stay on Henderson Island, a remote and
uninhabited island somewhere in the South Pacific where
they’d found temporary refuge from the relentless
torments of the sea. And it was there they choose to
stay, rather than take their chances in the flimsy
lifeboats that brought them there in the first place and
had saved their lives up until then. But they would be
in no better shape when their bodies were finally found
on the depleted landmass, dead of starvation and
dehydration. Christian Fletcher should’ve been so lucky.
We will never know
what was in the hearts and minds of the men of the
Essex, Christians all we are told, when the grizzle act
was committed; any more then we can know what’s in the
hearts and minds of our own enemies when they do what,
under any other circumstances other than war, perhaps,
and even against their own better judgment, they dare
not imagine. But we don’t what happened. We weren’t
there. Was it a sin, as some Evangelicals would suggest,
submitting to the primordial instinct of self-survival?
It’s only natural, other might morally suggest, and
think no more of it. As Brother Darwin once theorized,
either correctly or incorrectly, the jury may still be
out on that one: We are all animals after all, sharing
not only a common ancestor but also a common will to
survive, even when we are not the fittest fish in the
sea. So, why not? Desperation is a dangerous thing.
Would any one of us have acted any differently under
such difficult and trying circumstances? These, of
course, are questions for psychologists to debate,
theologians to wrestle with, and for the rest us to
decide if and when we find ourselves in similar
circumstances and are forced to do so. Pray it never
happens to you. It wouldn’t be the first time that man
has resorted to the unimaginable act of cannibalism, nor
will it be the last. History records other such
instances of the barbaric behavior, such as the Donner
Party and its ill-fated adventure, the members of which,
after being halted in a snowstorm in the Sierra Nevada,
and with nothing left to sustain them by one another, at
last surrendered to the desperate deed, and the ultimate
sacrifice. And what greater sacrifice could they have
offered? But History records only the facts; and facts,
like people, are stubborn things, and can sometimes be
manipulated, or at least misconstrued. It tells us
nothing of the human factor. But then again, there are
some things we may not want to know.
So, did the men of
the Essex make the right decision? The Church says they
did. And you would think that that would be the end of
it. But it wasn’t. For there are still those among us,
charitable in all other regards towards their fellow man
with hearts as pure as ivory, who would condemn the
survivors of that fateful voyage while feasting
themselves on the flesh of saints, as if it would add
one more day to their own hypocritical and sanctimonious
lives. But for those of more sympathetic persuasion
(like the sons of the sons of sailors who knew about
these and other matters regarding the risks and
vicissitudes that goes with a life at sea) the men of
the Essex acted not only selflessly, but courageously,
and perhaps even prudently, and were, as far as they
were concerned, exonerated before God and man.
It was a question
of survival. And who could blame them? But did they
really have any other choice? And what if the Church was
wrong after all? It wouldn’t be the first time, you
know; they’ve made mistakes in the past, and have their
share of tyrants. And what if, in God’s eternal
judgment, which we all must endure on one side of the
grave or the other, the lone survivors were doomed even
before the first bite? Should they not have at least
acted and died as men rather than commit such a heinous
act of desperation that many still consider a sin
against Humanity, as well as a prosecutable crime,
regardless of what more sympathetic souls may say? Did
they behave morally? Did they give into temptation,
quite literally, of the flesh? And perhaps too easily?
Did they act out of selfishness? Or, were they, as some
have suggested, just weak? More questions for
politicians and priests to ponder, along with other
pundits who pursue such profundities. In the end, they
were only human, I suppose, just like the rest of us;
and they reacted in the only way they knew how: out of
sheer survival and with mere mortal fear, as all men do
from time to time, saint and sinner alike, in dire and
desperate situations.
It was their
choice to make. And they made it alone, right or wrong.
Would we do the same? Could we? By our own hand, we are
saved or condemned. And if we are doomed for choosing
life… what then if we chose death? And if so, didn’t Our
Lord commit a similar offense when he instituted the
Holy Eucharist by offering up his own precious body and
blood for human consumption? Is the flesh that sustains
mortal life any less filling or efficacious than that
which offers immortal life? Decide for yourself, if ever
placed in the position to do so. And pray.
As a curious
footnote to the extraordinary tale of the Essex, it is
interesting to know that subsequent to his carnivorous
ordeal at sea, Captain Pollard had always made it a
point to be sure that his cupboards were well stocked at
all times. Once bitten twice shy, you might say. Of
course, the old famer probably said it best: ‘Taint no
eg’cation in the third kick of the mule.” And the
captain never went hungry again.
Claiming to have
actually been exposed to the horrific display of
cannibalism onboard one of the earlier slave transports,
a certain captain by the name of Elijah Hatch spoke,
quite eloquently and with great pains, of what he’d once
witnessed in a way that may have very well exonerated
the participants of the practice altogether, Christian
and pagan alike. It seems that as a young officer
himself who’d piloted the transport to safety after a
perilous and protracted voyage at sea, he not only went
on to praise the Islanders for their resourcefulness in
the matter of their own survival, which included, among
other things, cannibalization, but accepted, with
sincere gratitude, the extracted teeth and shrunken head
of one of their own sacrificial lambs as tribute for him
bringing them all safely to dry land, regrettably to be
sold into slavery the very next day to the highest
bidder.
Oh well, as the
songwriter says: all forms of refuge have their price.
Whether or not these feral Islanders actually
engaged in other sorts of cannibalistic behavior, such
as drinking the blood of their enemies or devouring one
another in some exotic spiritually ritual, is unknown.
Even the great Elijah Hatch, who seemed to have had
unfathomable knowledge in these and other matters
concerning the natives of the South Seas and their many
peculiarities, was at a loss for words when it came to
explaining the cultural mores of these so called
‘uncivilized’ societies. But Mister Hatch knew a savage
when he saw one; and as far as he was concerned, they
came in all shapes and sizes, in all colors, and from
all parts of this doomed and discriminating world,
civilized or otherwise. He saw none on his ship that
day. But enough of the past. Let’s see what’s going on
around the campfire – Shall we?
By that time, the
spirits of the night had all arrived and were in full
session; although, for reasons we are unaware of, their
metaphysical presence was made manifest only to Homer.
It was he they were chiefly concerned with; the others,
particularly Red-Beard, whom, from a respectable
distance they were casting long suspicious glances at,
and the large threatening Negro whose race they were
never particularly fond of, and whose company they
actually found disturbing, they cautiously avoided. They
were mere shadows of men, as I’m sure they are to one
another, even in their most congregated and concentrated
states. The Redman, whose starry gaze seemed to
penetrate even their own their ghostly disguise, they
could, at least on some metaphysical level, relate to.
Naturally, they steered clear of the Ol’ Hammer, and
were obviously jealous of the surveyor, whose moustache
exceed that of their own, at least in length. The boy
they could take or leave; the outlaw they would simply
leave. They looked at Homer Skinner and collectively
expressed their grievances, if that’s what you want to
call them, in a most challenging way, ‘Go on! Get on
with it, old man! We don’t have all night, you know.
Yes, yes, yes, we know all about poor Mister Wainwright
and the feral cannibals. But what about the gold?
That’s what we wants to hear about!’
Homer had heard
these pleas before, but never with so much insistency,
or intensity. But there was something else the spirits
were concerned about that particular evening; and they
expressed it quite succinctly, well aware of the risks
they took on making such nocturnal appearances. ‘Now
look’ye here, Mister Skinner,’ voiced one ghostly old
dwarf, his beard brushing the ground as he spoke, ‘you
know damn good and well that the sun’ll be a’comin’ up
soon. And you know what that means. Don’t you? That’s
right! It means we’ll all be turning into trees, just
like the others, if we remain out here much longer. We
are spirits, you know. Or have you forgotten?’
Homer hadn’t
forgotten, of course, and was therefore compelled to
admonish his ghostly audience, “Hold your horses! And
your sheets! I’ll get to all that. Give an old man some
time. Will ya? ” He was well aware of the spirit’s
metaphysical concerns, especially the part about them
turning into trees if, in fact, they failed to return to
their stony hideaways in the hill at the prescribed
hour, having been lectured on the woody subject more
than he cared to remember. It was a subject he never
understood, and one he didn’t necessarily agree with.
He’d heard the warnings before, when the spirits would
sometimes come down from the mountains and creep into
his house late at night and have him pacing circles on
the bedroom floor long before dawn. And they always came
with the same message: ‘Thems that want don’t get’. And
they would whisper it into his ear, time after time. Was
it was warning? It sure sounded like one. Whatever it
was, Homer just wasn’t buying it. He didn’t think they
believed it, either; it was just their way of
aggravating him, he always assumed. But it was something
they were very good at, something to be expected from a
bunch of old dead men who should know better than to go
around scaring the living daylights out of old living
ones.
The whole idea
always seemed a little silly to the deputy anyway. The
prospect of these old, obnoxious, and sometimes annoying
apparitions actually turning into wood, as they claimed
they surely would if they were not back in their beds of
stone before the emergence of the first rays of a new
rising sun, was only a theory – Right? a notion, an old
wives tale, perpetrated, perhaps, by the widowed wives
of these doomed dwarves themselves as a way getting even
with them; or, perhaps, getting them back to bed, even
if they could no longer share their intimacies anymore,
which if you ever chance to lay eyes on one of these
fairies of the night, with all their warts and wrinkles,
probably isn’t such a bad idea. But it was one tale the
spirits took very seriously, almost as seriously as they
took their wives, no matter what side of the grave they
currently resided on. Having never actually had the
opportunity to put such a ridiculous theory to the test,
however, Homer simply dismissed it, as he did most
things he knew he would never understand. Besides, the
spirits of the night were always gone long before the
sun came up anyway. But you never know. You know? It
could be true. Couldn’t it? And if you happen to come
across some old gnarly old oak tree, the kind that
presently pepper the landscape here and about the base
of the Silver Mountains, you just might believe the
spirits of the night after all, or at least sympathize
with their concerns. The old man seemed to understand,
but was in no hurry to appease them that night, or any
other for that matter. “Go ahead!” he insisted out loud,
“turn into a tree… a stone. Or a patch of skunk-weed,
for all I care! Just get it over with. And be quiet
about it!”
In response to the
preceding incredulities, the other mortals sitting
around the campfire simply looked at one another,
wondering if indeed the old man was indeed going crazy,
or if he’d had perhaps a little too much corn liquor to
drink that night. Never-the-less, Homer Skinner
continued voicing his thoughts, and whatever else was on
his mind at the time. And here the narrative continues.
At first,
Cornelius G. Wainwright III thought he'd gotten a
bargain by purchasing these Island Ferals from
the sea-thief captain when he did. But as I have said
before, he got more than he bargained for; much more, as
you all probably have guessed by now.
With the money he
saved on the illicit transaction, Cornelius bought a
modest supply of pick‑axes, shovels, hammers, saws,
powder‑sticks, and other provisions needed for his
ambitious enterprise of mining the Silver Mountains.
“Ain't no such thing as a free lunch!” he would boast in
view of his fellow fortune seekers who’d remained
dubiously suspicious of this gentleman farmer turned
prospector, the one with the bottlebrush moustache,
right from the start, as well as his questionable
intentions and unorthodox methods. There was something
about the man that just didn’t sit right with them;
something they didn’t like. Mister Wainwright was an
ambitious man, that much was evident; but his ambitions
went beyond greed; even greed has its limitations as
well as its benefactors. It seems he wanted too much;
and he wanted it fast. And he didn’t how he got it, or
who was hurt in the process. The impatient famer was
also unwilling to conform to the more conventional
methods of hard mining they had all come to rely upon,
simply refusing to adhere to the tried and true
principles painstakingly established over the years for
the sake and safety of its many participants, many of
which have been around ever since the first hammer
struck the first stone in the first mountain on the
first day of creation, one would only suppose.
Mister Wainwright
was what you might call a ‘Progressive Thinker’ whose
liberal views often came at the expense of others. He
was frugal, to a point, and brought along only the
barest necessities on his over-drawn and under financed
expeditions, including food. He reckoned that the
Ferals he’d purchased, being natural hunters
by instinct and resourceful in most other regards, would
be more than able to secure their own game and therefore
feed themselves along the way, perhaps with enough left
over to feed Cornelius’ hired hands as well. Besides, he
had always maintained that by giving his laborers just
enough to live on, they would remain grateful, as well
as ignorant, right up to the very end. And after all,
they were here illegally. But unlike the unwashed masses
that huddled together on Ellis Island under the
Liberty’s beckoning arm, or the illegal immigrants that
would later swarm the unprotected shores of America in
search of wealth and freedom… or someone’s lawn to cut,
these aliens that never had a choice. For just like
their African brothers who came before them, the island
ferals came in chains, against their will for the
most part, and would, given half a chance, and perhaps a
big enough boat, return to their native nests a quickly
and time and tide permitted. He was as right as he was
wrong on the subject, as you will soon find out. And so,
with whip and rifle, along with a cold and greedy heart,
Mister Cornelius G. Wainwright III set out to stake his
claim in the Silver Mountains, along with almost
everyone else at the time.
With one lucky
stroke of the hammer, Cornelius G. Wainwright III hit
pay dirt, on the very first try! His excavation proved
to be a huge success, yielding not only the generous
supply of gold he knew would be there all along, but
other precious ore and minerals as well, such as silver,
copper, quartz, rubies, opals, and even a diamond or
two. It came as no surprise to Cornelius, who’d
predicted it all along; although he had no logical or
practical reason to do so, other than simply to impress
the others if and when his predictions just happened to
turn out to be true, which he was actually never quite
sure of. Some of the older and more experienced miners,
attributed his good fortune to ‘beginner’s luck’,
insisting all along that he would still be better served
plowing a field of potatoes than mining a mountain of
gold, something they, despite their many
disappointments, still knew a thing or two about. There
were some who had suggested Providence might have played
a hand in the farmer’s good fortune. Perhaps they were
right. Time would tell. Providence, like lightening,
doesn’t always strike twice in the same place. But it
does strike. Sometimes it strikes those who least
deserve it. Other times it just kills thems.
The feral
slave miners that Mister Wainwright put to work in his
mines proved exceedingly useful in all manner of
excavation and tunneling operations. They never once
complained and were always willing to work the long hard
hours demanded of that laborious profession. They also
possessed an almost uncanny, if not instinctual, ability
to locate, mine, and extract the largest mineral
deposits of ore ever found in the Silver Mountains. And
they never stole from their master; not once, not even a
nugget. They apparently seemed to have no particular
interest in gold, or any precious element for that
matter, which Cornelius found a bewildering at first but
inconsequential at last. For the most part, they
considered the yellow veins a mere nuisance, annoyances,
something that only got in their way, a thing to be
avoided. It was almost as if they were searching for
something… something else all together, besides the
precious metal, something that perhaps Cornelius wasn’t
even aware of at the time.
Because of these
and other observations, it didn’t take long before more
profitable and, perhaps, bolder enterprises entered the
mind of the industrious prospector. He actually began to
imagine, with increasing frequency and fear that someone
else would find it first, that there might be even more
gold on the islands from which his feral labor force had
originally been abducted. They had apparently come
across the golden nuggets before, and still didn’t seem
to have much use for it. Maybe they just disposed of it
all somewhere on the island, he began to wonder more and
more, like so many pieces of unwanted and unused
furniture; or put it into storage somewhere in the great
Halls of Montezuma, perhaps; or buried in the sand,
under the pyramids, in the Valley of the Kings, no
doubt, for Pharaoh to make use of on his mysterious
journey through the Land of the Dead where, despite what
they say about not being able to take it with you, it
sure comes in handy! Especially when it comes to
ferry-boats captains with black hoods and open palms. It
is hieroglyphically decreed that in order to pass over
to the other side, one’s heart must, when placed on a
scale, not exceed the weight of a single feather. It is
also said, by Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ no less,
that it is more difficult for a camel to pass through
the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter
the Kingdom of Heaven. Both may be right; however, given
the choice, and left to our own greedy devices, I would
suspect that many of us would much rather prefer
spending eternity with a heart of gold (the bigger the
better!) rather than with one so delicate and light.
Call it capitalism…but it works! And as for our camel
riding friend… well, yes! Jesus did say it would be more
difficult for him to pass through the eye of a needle
(literally as well as figuratively) with such a high and
heavy load. ‘Difficult indeed, my Lord…’ the wealthy Jew
may very well have responded (although he will never
know, of course) to the both the surprise and delight of
the Savior, ‘but not impossible.” No doubt he was
carrying a little gold in his pockets when he said it.
It just had to be! Mountains of it! Heaps and hoards of
it! Literally tons of gold! And silver, too! There were
rumors of such bonanzas, mostly started and perpetuated
by the sons of sailors known to frequent that part of
the watery world, the golden wealth of which eclipsed,
or so they claimed, even the great and glorious empires
of the Incas and Aztecs of South America. To support
these suspicions, Cornelius quickly went about enquiring
among the many merchant ships coming into Old Port
Fierce, if in fact there might be any truth to such
rumors.
The answers he
received were, although wrapped in riddles and shrouded
in ambiguity as most sea yarns usually are, always in
the affirmative. But all that would have to wait, at
least until such a time when Cornelius could afford such
a bold and ambitious adventure. And with the way that
the Ferals tunneled through stony crust, he
didn’t expect to wait very long. It was almost as if
they could smell every golden vein, each golden nugget,
from miles away, no matter how deeply hidden under the
mountain of stone. But alas, the Ferals seemed to
have no use for the glimmering yellow rock, or any other
precious metal they happened upon. It served only as a
guide, a map, a compass, if you will, magnetically
drawing them towards something far more valuable, which,
for the time being at least, remained a mystery to the
ambitious miner. But the notion had always intrigued
Mister Wainwright and only made him that much more
determined to mine the Island of the two volcanoes some
day; just as soon as he chiseled, scraped, panned, and
clawed every last ounce of gold from the mainland, that
is.
In the very first
year, Mister Wainwright’s mining enterprise yielded more
gold than his feral laborers could carry
back to the Old Port Fierce on their naked and savage
backs. He’d also extracted enough silver, copper, nickel
and iron ore to make him one of the richest men in
Creekwood Green, and enough rubies, rhinestone, opals,
turquoise, and other precious gems and minerals to make
a sultan green with envy and buy up his half his harem.
When one mine was exhausted and depleted of its mineral
wealth, he simply started on another. Before long, he
was wealthy enough to buy up the whole damn mountain,
which he did of course, and, in keeping with his frugal
reputation, at a very generous price. Naturally, he
named the mountain after himself, and with enough pride
and vanity to make King Solomon rent his royal robes in
shame and disgust. It seemed that many of the other
miners were not so lucky, however, and were forced to
sell off their own mines and business for a song. And
Cornelius whistled all the way to the bank.
But all good
things eventually come to an end, or so the saying goes;
especially when the means of obtaining those things and
that end are dubious at best. And in the case of Mister
Cornelius G. Wainwright III, nothing could’ve been
closer to the truth. As usual, blind ambition eventually
paved the way for greed. It begins with pride, and
eventually ends in destruction. It was bound to happen;
it always does. No matter how relentlessly and
mercilessly the wicked prospector drove his feral
work force into the bowels of the mountain, that much
more did he expected from them in return. And when he
didn't get it, he only gave them that much less. And
when the food was gone, he couldn’t even give them that.
“Get to work, you savages!” he would hoot and holler at
them over the thunder of gunpowder and the cracking of
whips, in that wild-eyed manner we often associate with
mad-dogs and Englishmen, and justifiably so, along with
all their other eccentricities. “Ain't no such thing as
a free lunch, you know.”
Then one day, and
for reasons best left for geologists to decide, the
mines all dried up. Suddenly, there wasn’t even enough
gold left in all the Silver Mountains to fill a single
tooth. It was around that time when talk of
Emancipation, and war, began sweeping the land,
suggesting the abolition of all slaves, feral or
otherwise; ‘and high time, too!’ many would argue. There
were rumblings in the North, and a call to arms in the
South. The storm clouds that have been gathering ever
since seventeen seventy six had finally fell upon the
fledging new nation, just as predicted by not a few of
its famous founders; and the chickens were all coming
home to roost. They were dark and dangerous times,
charged with lightening and ready to ignite at any
moment. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Soon the rain
would come; and with it, the flood. Talk of emancipation
only served to fan the flames, and loose the dogs of
war.
Naturally, many of
miners, along with some wealthy plantation owners, were
outraged by such talk and vowed to fight for their God
given rights and property, to the death if necessary,
even if that meant destroying both in the process, which
is precisely what many of them they did. But even with
the winds of war flying his face, and his creditors
barking at his heels, Cornelius G. Wainwright III would
not abandon his dreams, or the unholy hill that bore his
infamous name. It was depleted by then, like most of the
bank account he’d invested, unwisely many would come to
agree, in a dying business. His capitol was spent; but
he still had his slaves. Greed, you see, along with the
limited resources of Mother Nature, merely ran its ugly
course. There was simply nothing left to mine. But that,
or so it seemed, only made the dark haired prospector
with the bottlebrush moustache that more determined to
find it. It was as though he held some personal and
private grudge against the mammoth mountain, which could
only be explained in medical journals devoted to the
causes and cures of such mental disorders.
In time, and with
the end of the War finally in sight, the slave owners
sold out while they still had the chance. Cornelius
foolishly purchased their worthless deeds, and on credit
he no longer could afford. Many went back to their
former occupations as farmers, carpenters, storekeepers,
masons and millers and such, no worse off and perhaps
(thanks to Mister Cornelius G. Wainwright III) just a
little wealthier than they were before entering their
industrial but short-lived experience. Many of their
former slaves went along with them, trading in their
hammers, chisels and chains, for shovels, rakes, and
plows to mine the more fertile, and less risky, fields
of Harley and beyond.
By then the War
was over; and despite the graves that were still being
dug, for blue and the gray alike, little had actually
changed in that part of the continent; and in some ways,
they only got worse. There were some prospectors, like
Mister Cornelius G. Wainwright III for instance, who,
even after the armistices were signed, refused to give
up their property, human or otherwise. And considering
how much he’d lost already in the risky business he
chose for himself, it only added insult to injury; and,
as everyone was well aware of by then, Cornelius G.
Wainwright III, the man with the bottlebrush moustache
was not a man to be injured, or insulted.
Word spread
quickly around Creekwood Green and Harley, even as far
south as Old Port Fierce, of Wainwright's fantastic
boner. Skepticism quickly turned to cynicism; and the
jokes never ended. Nor did the criticism and ridicule,
which naturally only exacerbated the famer’s shame. In
the end, most folks reckoned that the greedy gold miner
only got what he deserved and, either out of spite or
jealousy (probably a little of both) were glad of it.
By the time he’d
paid off his hired hands and settled with his many
creditors, Cornelius had only a very small piece of his
golden enterprise left. Ironically, and for reasons many
found confusing if not downright confounding, his slaves
stayed by their master’s side, despite the Emancipation
in which they were included, continuing to dig their way
further and deeper into the mountain, gold or no gold.
The miner knew he
would need the Ferals to carry on his ambitious
business, assuming all along that sooner or later he
would strike it rich, again. And with all of the debt
he’d accumulated by then, mostly from borrowing even
more money at inflated interest rates to secure the
mortgages on his worthless real estate, Cornelius had no
intentions of giving up, and no other choice than to
keep on digging and hope for the best. Now that’s
progressive thinking for you!
It was boom or
bust for the stubborn prospector, and he knew it. With
each shovel of dirt, swing of the axe, and every new
tunnel, Cornelius G. Wainwright III only managed to bury
himself deeper and deeper in debt. It was a gambler’s
disease: the more you win the more you lose, and the
more you lose, the more you want it back. It’s a
sucker’s bet; a bad deal; and, as any gambler can tell
you: ‘There is only one way out of the casino… and
that’s feet first’. It’s the same with most marriages, I
suppose, at least the good ones. It’s a gambler’s bet.
Few get out alive. The percentages, as well as the odds,
are stacked against it. Ask any black jack dealer. The
pit boss knows. The house always wins, eventually.
Driven by the desire to get his money back, or just
break even by then, Cornelius continued on his doomed
and desperate quest. He continued to roll the dice, even
though he knew by now that the dice were loaded, and
ready to explode. By all accounts, he was ‘griped’ by
gold fever and, perhaps, quite mad by then.
And so,
day-by-day, shovel-by-shovel, inch-by-inch, the
relentless miner dug deeper into the decaying mountain.
By then, the bedrock had become so hard and dense, and
the progress of penetrating it so slow, that the
Ferals themselves were forced to work around the
clock with little to sustain them but a handful of
Harley beans, a mouthful of water, and little or no
rest. In his never-ending search for the elusive gold,
Cornelius insisted that the jackpot, the ‘Mother-load!’
was just around the corner, the very next tunnel, in
fact; or, to put it his own cruel and condescending
words: ‘Just a bite away, my fine young cannibals!’
When the time
finally came, and the gold didn’t, Cornelius G.
Wainwright III was forced to sell back all his mining
equipment at a tremendous loss. Oh well, so much for
Progressive thinking. Deserted by the few remaining
hired hands that had stayed with him as long as they
were being paid, which wasn’t very long, all Mister
Wainwright had to show for his efforts was a mountain of
debt, some useless real estate, a pile of rocks, and a
tribe of very hungry Ferals on his greedy
hands. Not to mention a number of angry bankers barking
at his heals, along with their lawyers and creditors.
But the miner still had his pride, if little else, and a
few more dollars to spend, which was enough to keep him
going, for a while anyway. And so, among the hoots and
hollers, and the occasional ‘I told you so!’ he
stubbornly persisted.
‘Ain’t no such
thing as a free lunch!’ he barked back even louder, with
a rifle in one hand and a whip in the other. The only
thing that mattered to Cornelius at that point was
proving himself right and everyone else wrong, even if
that meant blowing up the whole mountain, which, as far
as he was concerned, wasn’t entirely out of the realm of
possibility. It was all about pride; the fall was soon
to follow. Cornelius simply didn’t know that; and he
refused to give up.
And so the dark
haired prospector with the bottlebrush moustache beat
and drove his island slaves mercilessly, refusing them
anything to eat unless they found gold; or perhaps some
silver or copper ore that might’ve been enough to keep
him in business for a little while longer. He even put
their feral children to work in the fruitless
mines as well, finding them particularly useful when it
came to crawling into tight places between the rocks
where no one else would fit, in order to put in place
the explosive charges of black powder even deeper into
the empty bowels of Mister Wainwright’s mountain. He
cursed and whipped the feral youths just
as harshly as he did their feral parents when at
last each and every charge failed to uncover the gold
that was, in his own defamatory words: ‘just a shovel
away, my fine young savages!’ The blasting never ceased
and could be heard for twenty miles, all the way down
the mountain and well into Creekwood Green and Harley.
It was maddening, to say the least. But Homer wouldn’t
give up; and neither would his hungry Ferals. So,
deeper and deeper into the mountain he dug, cursing it,
and anyone else who got in his way, every inch of the
way.
Then one day the
digging suddenly stopped; and so did the blasting. There
wasn’t a sound to be heard, anywhere, not even a single
stroke of the hammer. No one knew why, and no one really
cared. Not for a while, anyway. Many had actually found
the silence quite comforting, and welcomed the peace and
quiet for a change. In fact, it wasn’t until Cornelius
G. Wainwright III had been gone for over six months that
anyone showed any interest what-so-ever in his sudden
disappearance. Some thought that perhaps something had
gone wrong, which, in the mining business anyway, was
always a distinct possibility; but they thought little
or nothing of it, and said even less.
Still, others
thought Cornelius was dead. And good riddance! They may
as well have added, only wishing they had been there to
see it. Those with more charitable and sympathetic
hearts, merely shrugged and sighed, wondering if
something should be done to find out what might’ve
happened, if anything, to the famous farmer turned
prospector. He’d been blasting for over a year by then,
with nothing to show for his efforts but a mountain of
rocks and a bunch of empty holes. He never came back
down to buy more explosives, either, which raised more
than a few curious eyebrows.
A small posse of
men was hastily (and reluctantly, I might add) put
together to serve as a search party with the sheriff
taking command and leading the way up into the silent
mountain. Among them was a young man name Homer Skinner.
He brought along with him a badge, a gun, and a tooth
that was just beginning to ache. The others, duly
deputized along the way, went along mostly out of
curiosity, not really caring what might’ve happened to
the stingy old man with the funny looking moustache,
thinking perhaps that they still might find a gold
nugget or two left over from one of his previous and
more fruitful excavations. Hey, you never know… You
know? Along those lines, a few were hoping beyond hope
that Cornelius may’ve been right, after all! And that
he’d finally hit the rich vein he’d been searching for
all along, and was either trapped inside the mountain,
or had lost his way somehow; and that they themselves
might share in the profits as well by rescuing him if,
in fact, they could find him. And it didn’t even matter
if he was dead or alive; although, truth be told, there
were many would have much preferred the latter. And so,
they rode off into the Silver Mountains hoping for the
best but fearing the worst.
Finally, arriving
at the last known excavation site, deep within the
crater of the mountain volcano known as Mount
Wainwright, the party suddenly stopped. Cornelius and
company were nowhere to be found – dead, or alive. The
mine was open, however, and surprisingly undisturbed. It
looked new and freshly cut, like an open wound that had
never healed. To Homer, it looked like the mouth of
hell.
The tunnel was
long and deep, just as they’d expected… and empty, too.
The mine had been abandoned, or so it seemed, except for
a few scattered remains of the missing prospector and
his feral workforce: some shovels, hammers,
pick‑axes, and a few loose bags of black powder thrown
carelessly about the rocky soil.
‘They must still
be inside, men,’ declared the sheriff, cautiously, not
knowing what else could’ve happened to Cornelius and
crew, or where else they might be. But it was getting
dark, and so they decided to rest for the night before
going in any further, or deeper.
At that point in
the story, Homer rested for a moment as the spirits of
the night drew closer to the fire. The Harlie was
sitting by his side as the glowing embers crackled
beneath the orange flames, unaware of his ghostly guests
and audience but somehow aware that they were not alone.
The men were weary; but still they couldn’t sleep.
In his own stoic
and enigmatic way, Red-Beard seemed particularly
restless that night as well. Not unlike the others, he’d
heard the story in progress on previous occasion, but
never before told with such glib application. There was
frankness in the old man’s voice that night, an
unambiguous honesty that came through in his softly
spoken words, and with a certain candor that was missing
in previous utterances, the details of which were always
dubious at best. Red-Beard could hear it; and he
appeared to take a special interest, his eyes
temporarily turning from their celestial observations,
whenever Homer made mention of the feral slave
miners in particular. He was especially intrigued by the
fact (a fact that he was only just then made aware of)
that they seemed to be looking for something more than
just the gold, if, in fact, they were looking for gold
at all, not unlike the red-bearded miner himself. Of
course, it was never determined exactly what they were
searching for, if anything in particular, or even if
they had ever found it. No one would ever know, except
for maybe Homer Skinner himself, and perhaps Red-Beard.
With his beloved
Brahma sleeping on the ground, its great white hump
sagging lazily to one side like a deflated balloon, and
in keeping with his previous attitude, Red-Beard stood
alone and aloof from present company, contemplating the
night sky in a way that made the others just a little
nervous. But it was not the sky, as dark and beautiful
as it was that particular night, that caught the
colonel’s attention; it was something else, something
remote and removed from all earthly observances,
something beyond the moon and stars. His gaze, or so it
seemed, went beyond all that, reaching out into the
vastness of time and space itself; and beyond even that,
into those deep dark Heavens we can only imagine, where
angels lightly hang their halos and the gods make love.
It’s something we cannot see, like the ‘dark matter’ of
the Universe that would one day be discovered (although
modesty would surely prevent him from using such a
self-promoting word, especially in regard to physical
laws which, in his own infinite mind at least, are not
to be celebrated but merely observed from a purely
mathematical perspective) by that famous German
physicist, Albert Einstein, who would die before
realizing the significance of this darkly discovered
phenomenon which, by the way, he accounted for at the
time as one of his errors. And through that same ‘dark
matter’, which we know now not only exists but takes up
more space and time than that other matter we know of,
Red-Beard focused his lens.
Could it be that
he was looking for a sign, perhaps, a prediction of
things to come? Or maybe he was merely admiring the
cluster of stars in the remote and radiant distance that
made up the Milky Way. It was difficult, if not
impossible to tell. Maybe his mind was bent on more
earthly observations, and he was using the heavens as a
celestial guide to map out his own diabolical destiny;
but then again, maybe not. He pretended not to be
listening, but he was hanging on to every golden word
uttered by the old man, as if his very life depended on
it.
The night can do
that to a body, thought the deputy, pausing for a moment
to collect his own metaphysical thoughts under the same
celestial canopy that night.
The mere fact
that the Ferals simply disappeared one day, might
alone suggest that they did in fact find whatever
it was they were looking for, eventually. It was a minor
detail, one the old man would sometimes omit from his
wondrous tale of woe. It would explain much, considering
not only the Feral’s ambivalent attitude at the
time, but also their industrious determination to find…
to find – What? He’d always assumed, much like Cornelius
did, that perhaps it was just some silly superstition
they’d brought back from the islands. But like all
superstitions, once properly stripped and sanitized of
all their prior potencies, there is always a grain of
truth lying somewhere close to the kernel that not only
survives, but thrives! in its newly formed state. All it
needs is time (and perhaps, a little water) in order to
germinate in its new environment.
Red-Beard didn’t
believe in superstitions any more than he believed in
lucky numbers or religion; and he didn’t believe the
Ferals found what they were looking for, which is
precisely why he was there. And if it turned out that
they were both searching for the same thing, it only
served to strengthen his resolve in knowing that he was
at least on the right track. For indeed, they were both
looking for the same thing; although for two completely
different reasons. One was looking for the Motherstone;
the other, for eternity. Only one would find it.
While the sheriff
and his posse rested that night beneath a cold moon and
starlit sky, Homer Skinner, lit a candle and,
unbeknownst to the others in the search party at the
time, entered the doomed mine all by himself to, as the
old saying goes: ‘just to see what he could see’.
Due chiefly to his
unsteady nerves and the smallness of his wick, Homer
didn’t expect to be in there very long. Making his way
through a long dark tunnel, the length of which he had
no way of actually knowing and the circumference of
which grew smaller and smaller with each uncertain step,
the daring young deputy made his way deep down into the
mountain itself, like a child crawling into his
grandparent’s wardrobe.
Little to his
surprise, for he knew that mines generally tend to go
down before they go up, he soon found himself
progressing at an ever-increasing rate of decline, which
only added to his anxiety and heightened his sense of
awareness. He considered turning back at that point,
thinking perhaps he had gone too far already, but
somehow found it within himself to keep on going, even
against his better judgment. What propelled him on was
not so much courage, for he knew himself better than
that, but something else; something he really couldn’t
explain. Was it the gold then? He’d heard the stories of
Mister Wainwright’s earlier and more successful finds
and thought, if only for a brief and tantalizing moment,
that he might just get lucky. And it was just then when
he noticed a sharp pain in his lower jaw, as the tooth
first began to ache. He didn’t think much of it at the
time, reckoning it was only a temporary inconvenience,
as most aches are for men of youthful ambitions; but
still, he thought he’d have it looked into as soon as
got home; if he could find a good dentist, that is. A
gold filling! he suddenly thought to himself – just the
thing! Like everyone else of that time, it seemed that
Homer Skinner was ‘gripped’ with gold fever, even
at that young and tender age. He was also ambitious and,
in his own innocent and inquisitive way, still quite
foolish. He could also be cowardly, especially when
threatened of life or limb. But he felt brave that day,
and he also felt lucky. There was something else driving
him on just then. Exactly what that was neither he nor
we will ever really know. Maybe it was just something he
had to prove to himself, or us. It really had very
little to do with Mister Wainwright, or the gold. It was
more personal than that.
And so, downward
and deeper he ventured in to the tunneling darkness,
noticing at once that it was rapidly becoming difficult
to breathe, as well as see. Not only that, the tunnel
itself was getting smaller and smaller with every step
he took. Before long, he could feel his head scraping
the ceiling. Perhaps he was less brave and more foolish
than he’d first imagined.
By then it was
nightfall, and looking back for the proverbial light at
the end of the tunnel, Homer noticed, for the first
time, that it had disappeared all together, completely,
like it was never there to begin with; and so, he wisely
decided to turn back. But even as he did so, the hapless
deputy came to the sudden and sobering realization that
he was indeed and in fact lost, something he had always
been afraid of. Assuming no fault of his own, however,
other than sheer ignorance or sheer stupidity, which he
could somehow always excuse himself of, he quickly came
to the sad and obvious conclusion that the tunnel
must’ve certainly split in two somewhere along the way,
leaving him in a vulnerable and precarious position. He
looked all around, the light from his candle flickering
in the dark like a lone and frustrated firefly. But just
like Diogenes, hopelessly determined to find the last
honest man in Athens, he held out his light in the face
of despair.
As he groped his
way back through the darkness, Homer suddenly noticed
two tunnels opening up before him. There was only one
problem: he simply couldn’t remember from which one he
came. He could feel the cold damp walls closing in all
around him. He could hear the of running water echoing
around him; but it was faint, like a He could also make
out the distinctive sound rats sometimes make when they
are suddenly discovered and frightened out of their
nasty nests. But because of the reverberations caused by
the rocky interior, it was impossible to tell precisely
where the disturbing sounds were emanating from. It did
nothing but confirm his earlier suspicions that he was
indeed lost, and would probably never find his way back
home. Homer Skinner was scared, really scared, for the
first time in his life. He wasn’t even sure if either of
the two tunnels would bring him back to safety. He
wasn’t sure of anything, other than the fact that he was
lost. And to make matters worse, he’d left his compass
outside in his saddlebag. The candle also began to
flicker indicating, if nothing else, that his oxygen
supply was slowly fading as well.
At that point
Homer was left with only two options: 1.) Turn around
and keep on moving ahead, in spite of drowning and
getting attacked by giant tunnel rats; or 2.) Take one
of the two tunnels back to where he’d started from
which, come to think of it, actually gave him a third
option to consider. He ruled out first option almost
immediately. It was too risky; and besides that, he was
just too scared. That left him with only two choices.
And so he began going through his pockets for a coin to
toss. It seemed to be the only way to decide which way
to go, right or left.
He found a coin.
It was an Indian-head nickel, which Homer immediately
took as a good sign. But before the coin flew from his
fingers, he thought he’d heard something. More noises?
But these sounds were strangely and distinctly different
from anything he’d heard up until then; and they seemed
to be coming from somewhere deep within the tunnel
itself. It was faint at first, and vaguely familiar, in
a comforting sort of way. It sounded almost… almost
human, like the sound of a small crowd murmuring
incoherently to one another in a long dark hall. More
than that he simply could not tell, and would not even
venture to guess. Curiously intrigued, however, at the
whispering sounds in the dark, it suddenly dawned on the
young deputy that perhaps someone had noticed that he
was missing by now and, having found yet another way
into the tunnel, was already searching for him. And so,
reclaiming the courage he’d so easily surrendered only a
moment ago, Homer Skinner put the nickel back in his
pocket and proceeded forward in a downward trajectory.
With an
ever-diminishing candle in one hand and a pocket in the
other, and with and a renewed sense of hope and
adventure, Homer Skinner followed the sounds through the
dark corridor until he arrived at what appeared to some
kind of transition in the rock as the tunnel suddenly
grew a little larger. By that time, the mysterious
voices had become slightly more audible, but as
indiscernible as ever. He also noticed that the incline
on which he’d been advancing seemed to have leveled off
at some point, providing him with a completely flat, but
still horribly hard, surface to walk on. It took it as
another good sign, however. And then, suddenly, without
even knowing it, he came to the end of the long dark
tunnel, at which point everything seemed to change.
Stepping out
through a gaping orifice, Homer found himself standing
in the middle of a large hollowed-out cave. The air was
much more breathable by then, much to his surprise and
relief, and there was an odor in the air that reminded
him of…of… a barbecue! Something he found both curious
and inviting, as by then he was also very hungry. He
smiled, and was contemplating these and other aspects of
his immediate surroundings, when suddenly, and quite
un-expectantly, the candle he was holding burst into
flame, as if suddenly reinvigorated by some invisible
supply of oxygen that came from… God knows where. It was
like… like magic! he quietly thought to himself,
examining the orange flame more closely to see what
might’ve caused the small but explosive display. It was
almost as if the candle had taken on a life of its own,
radiating with a newly found energy, the fire within the
inner mounting flame growing and glowing exponentially,
hotter and brighter, until it all but burned his hand.
But there something even more intriguing than exploding
candles that demanded the deputy’s attention at the
moment. And it wasn’t magic at all! It was real. And it
was gold.
He could see it.
Gold! It was right in front of his face, right where
the tunnel vaulted into the wide mountainous cavern he
was presently enveloped in. Holding out the lively
little flame, Homer could see it clearly now.
The walls sparkled
with it. Gold! The ceiling radiated it with it. Gold!!
The floor shined with it. Gold!!! In fact, there was so
much gold that it almost blinded him. It was all around
him. Gold! Everywhere! Gold! Gold! And more gold! Not
just hints of it sprinkled here and there within the
amalgamated mass as it sometimes appears in quartz and
granite, but tons of it! Gold! Nor was it concealed deep
within the earthy elemental compounds, the extraction of
which can be laborious, time consuming, and costly. It
was not just a flash in the pan, either, elusively
hidden in pebbles, sand, and other contaminates where
only mercury can find it, but solid chunks of the
precious yellow stuff. It was all there, right for the
taking, as easy as you please, appearing to Homer as
large shimmering streams of bright yellow light coursing
through the freshly cut stone at each and every angle.
No smelting or sluicing necessary. No panning! No
stamping! No blasting! No quicksilver! No hard mining!
No picks. No shovels. No dynamite. No nitro. No Nothing!
Except perhaps some very large buckets and a few strong
back to carry it all out. Just gold! Everywhere! Pure,
unadulterated, unmitigated, uncontaminated and unabated
gold! Tons of the stuff! Everywhere! Gold! It was a
virtual temple of gold. A…a golden tabernacle! And Homer
Skinner was standing smack dab in the middle of it. And
all you had to do was pick it up!
Now, in the very
center of the golden sanctuary, the deputy attention was
suddenly and serendipitously drawn to single black hole
penetrating the opposing wall of the mysterious cavern.
It was perfectly round, like the pupil of an eye and, in
stark contrast to its otherwise golden surroundings,
perfectly black. It was something he suddenly wished
would disappear, his mind still swirling in the golden
haze that surrounded and enveloped him.
At first he’d
guessed it to be nothing more than mere hole placed
there by a previous miner; the kind they would sometimes
chisel into the rock in which to place their charges.
They called them ‘rounds’, for obvious reasons, and they
were not that uncommon at the time. The hole appeared
almost to have been placed there by design, as evidenced
by its perfect symmetry and un-natural roundness. In
many ways, it was actually quite pleasant to look at.
And it was draped on either side by two gold spangled
panels etched with so many other perfectly shaped
geometric designs that it appeared, for all intents and
purposes, to be purely man-made. Homer stepped forward
with his luminous candle, ignoring the sounds that were
still emanating from somewhere beyond where he stood in
the cave, a for closer look.
Upon further
examination, he could see that it was not really a hole
at all, but rather a single black object embedded into
the vertical wall of the cave, like some ancient
bar-relief one might expect to find in Tutankhamen’s
tomb. It was a rock, actually; or a stone, perhaps: a
singular black host encased in its own golden
tabernacle, appearing no less consecrated than the
Kabala Stone likewise enshrined within the Dome of the
Rock itself set and upon the holy ground of Solomon’s
temple mount. He held the candle close to the stone and
could clearly see in its smooth dark surface, being
licked as it were by the inner mounting flame within, a
reflection of his own recognizable face.
Homer immediately
found himself intensely studying the strange dark gem,
looking at it and in it both at the same time, forgoing
all curiosities and concerns, which alone should have
been enough to command his full attention and perhaps
raise a few red flags. He felt drawn to it, though
through no effort of his own, by some mysterious force
that was hitherto alien to his being. Like a moth drawn
to the deadly embrace of the flame, he was compelled
forward. And it quickly became the sole object of his
desire. He merely wanted to touch it; for now, at
least.
But before he
could go any further, and despite the alluring spell to
which he had already surrendered himself to, the deputy
noticed another great vein of gold searing the rock
directly over his forehead. It appeared so pure and
solid that it shimmered with an indescribable and
inscrutable whiteness that the deputy found not only
intriguing but simply irresistible. White gold! he
suddenly imaged.
He’d heard of such
a thing (although he had never actually seen it) from
the old miners who’d claimed, without ever actually
having found any of the precious white ore, that it was
ten times lighter, stronger, and more durable (if that
is even possible) than its yellow cousin, which, of
course, also make it ten times more valuable. It was the
stuff of legends, what you might expect to find in myths
and fairy tales; like mithril mail, the kind of precious
material woven into Bilbo’s protective armor, but very,
very real. Such a find was almost unheard of, even in
the days of the great gold rush. It was thought by many
to be a hoax, something the old miners made up to amuse
themselves and perhaps confuse their younger
apprentices; either that, or some fantastic yarn spun by
some disillusioned gold miner down on his luck and
grasping, as desperadoes often do in desperate
situations, for something that exists only in his own
wild and wonderful imagination. But not always. And
here, right before his very eyes was physical proof that
such a substance actually existed. And if such a
substance did exist, how could anyone pass up such a
bonanza! Let alone be detracted from it, even for a
moment?
He looked at the
stone again, and then back at the gold. It was a
difficult choice, almost like trying to decide which
tunnel to take, the right or the left, the gold or the
stone, the black or the white. No coin was needed this
time. It really wasn’t such a hard decision after all.
His hand instinctively went for gold, the white. The
spell was broken, temporarily at least. Homer reckoned
that he could always go back for the stone, even though
he still didn’t know what it was. But he sure as hell
knew what gold was. And It wasn’t just yellow. It was
white! And so, he followed the vein instead.
At that point in
the narrative, Red-Beard raised a heavy eyebrow as if
he’d just been made aware of something through some kind
of mental osmosis. He was thinking about something; but
it wasn’t gold, not even the white gold Homer had just
than alluded to in his re-telling of the tale, that
caught the colonel’s eye, although he too had heard the
rumors. It was something else… And there! the old man
just mentioned it again. He’s getting careless in his
old age, thought Red-Beard noticing, even from a
distance, how Homer’s voice would suddenly change,
lowering itself, almost to a whisper, every time he made
mention of this ambiguous black stone he’d found at the
end of the long dark tunnel. It was almost as if he
really didn’t want to talk about it. But how could he
not? It was the best part of the story! and one he’d
forced himself to omit, rather difficulty it seemed,
from his wondering tale of woe and wonder for too many
years now. And if he couldn’t talk about it now…Well,
when the hell could he talk about it? When they were all
dead and buried? Sitting around some a campfire like the
spirits of the night, trying to convince everyone that
they still matter, even though they no longer have any
matter? Or haunting the bedroom of some tired old man
late at night, whispering non-sense into his hot and
horny ear only to have him pacing the floor all night
like some goddamn fool with a toothache, while his wife
snores soundly downstairs on the sofa? No, thought the
deputy. Strike while the iron’s hot! And besides all
that – it was true.
Red-Beard had
known about the strange black stone for quite some time
now. He’d heard about it before, and from equally
reliable sources, but never so specifically, nor told in
such irresistible and exquisite detail. The old man
still had a way with words, the colonel had to admit.
Most of what he knew about the stone he had learned from
Tom Henley, but always in riddles and shrouded in
questionable ambiguities, many of which he still hadn’t
quite figured out. The mountain-man was never willing to
divulge all he knew about the mysterious dark object
that’d occupied so much of time and effort, which only
made Red-Beard want to posses it that much more.
He remembered how
Tom once described to him. It was exactly as Homer was
describing it just then, well almost. Henley had always
referred to it in more endearing terms, such as
‘Mother’ or ‘she’, in the same sentimental
way sailors often feminize their vessels in that
specific gender. ‘She was born on a wondering star that
came down from the deep dark Heavens’, were only a few
of the esoteric words the hillbilly chose to describe
it, Red-Beard presently recalled, his eyes fixed firmly
on that same celestial tapestry as if trying to decipher
some encrypted alien code he knew was up there,
somewhere. ‘She lived in the mountains of the moon…
surrounded by Paradise,’ murmured the wild-eyed
misanthrope, ‘a queen without a king, far away and
across the sea… A sailor had found her and took her
away. She stole his heart, so he took hers…He put her in
a prison, locked her away… in a tabernacle of gold, deep
down, deep down where the dark things live. And he threw
away the key…’
And that was how
the bifocal mountain-man once described the Motherstone
to Colonel Rusty Horn on particular, the last words ‘and
he threw away the key,’ trailing off in a hopelessness
which at the time came across with a certain
metaphysical certitude that left both of them only
wanting it, and her, even more. Tom spoke about ‘her’
in other ways too, which, to the discerning ear at
least, sounded obscenely Romantic.
It’s ‘her –’,
the colonel was thinking to himself just then, careful
not to expose his hidden emotions to any of the others,
which for Red-Beard wasn’t a difficult thing to do. He
found her...Mother! –the stone! Homer was there... down
deep, in a prison, a cavern…the tabernacle of, of, gold!
he suddenly connected ‘…where the dark things live’. He
knows where she is, Rusty Horn confided to himself in
silent thought that night. He found her!
Homer followed
golden artery all around the temple, caressing the soft
pale metal with the tips of his fingers. The vein grew
bigger and brighter before his eyes, reflecting every
little bit of light emanating from his dancing candle.
He imagined it to be the largest deposit of pure white
gold ever found in the Silver Mountains. Found anywhere!
for that matter; if it was ever found at all. He was
right about that, if nothing else. It was!
Suddenly he felt,
and actually was, less afraid and just a little braver
than he was only moments ago. The noises in the distant
continued, however; and they may’ve gotten even a little
louder by then. He still couldn’t tell exactly where
they were coming from, what they were saying, or for
that matter who, or what, might be emitting such strange
and incoherent utterances. And he really didn’t care
anymore. Caught up in the incorrigible ‘grip’ of
the old white ghost, the gold that is, the fever only
intensified as deputy Homer Skinner pushed himself
forward with a throbbing heart, an aching tooth; and
perhaps an empty head.
He couldn’t
explain the feeling he was experiencing at the moment,
but somehow found it both pleasing and painful at the
same time if, in fact, the two competing sensations
could ever live comfortably together side by side
without annihilating one another in the process. Was it
the excitement, the anticipation, or was it foolishness
that compelled him to do what in his own better judgment
he knew to be wrong? Was in his heart or in his head?
Just what the hell was it? It was gold, of course! What
else? There’s a glory in gold, to be claimed only by
those quick who find it and strong enough to keep it. It
glistens! It glitters! It gleams! It glows! There’s a
giddiness in gold that speaks of youth; a fluttering in
the stomach, too; a feeling that something good is about
to happen. It’s a feeling that drowns out sorrows and
puts out the last fear. And thus, Homer put out his,
along with the strange noise that was growing even
stronger with each advancing step.
For the benefit of
those who may be too young and naïve, too inexperienced,
or simply too old, and may have forgotten, like Homer
for instance, about such things, allow me to offer up
this small but important nugget of advice which may, or
may not, help you along life’s long and lonesome, and
sometimes even confusing, highway; whether it be made of
dirt or asphalt, and especially if it happens to be
paved with gold. And it is this: If and when you ever
find yourself in the sometimes precarious and often
unenviable position having to make some important and
critical decision you would otherwise choose to ignore;
or, if you are suddenly cast into, certainly through no
fault of your own and for reasons that might escape you
for perhaps he rest of your lives, what is sometimes
described as that thick and mystifying ‘mist of
indecision’ that all too often envelopes us like a fog
creeping in from the sea or down from the mountains,
obscuring all in its soupy white wake and clouding our
better judgment in the process…well then, all that I
have to say on that dark gray matter is this: When in
doubt, real doubt, serious doubt, matter of life and
death doubt, trust neither the head nor the heart; for
one is weaker than the other, and are equally prone to
error. They will turn on a dime and leave you like a
jilted lover, head and heart in hand. Instead, put your
faith in something else, something bigger than yourself.
And where will it be found? Dig deep, my friend, deep
down, to the lower levels where the juices of life churn
and burn, breaking us down to our barest essentials in
all its gastronomical glory. Still not sure? Go deeper,
still. Deeper, I say! into the indomitable belly of the
beast… where head and heart fail, the lungs collapse,
and emotions drown in their own pool of tears. Seek a
more primitive source; animal in all natural instincts,
but still human in its own free will. It’s a place only
a few have discovered; and it’s hard to breath. Hold
your nose if you have to; but don’t be afraid. It’s
only… only organic. In other words, dear and gentle
reader: Go with your gut! It’ll never let you down. And
if Homer had indeed ‘gone with his gut’ instinct at the
time (although we will never know for sure – Will we?)
which undoubtedly was telling him in so many unspoken
words to ‘get the hell out of there! and as quickly and
quietly as possible…well then, maybe, just maybe he
wouldn’t be such a pickled predicament, staring down the
throat of an insatiable monster he knew absolutely
nothing about, while putting in peril not only his own
ephemeral life but the lives of all those above. And for
what? Wealth? Health? Power? Prestige? No! All for the
glory of gold.
And so, he
followed his heart, and the gold, until he came to a
ninety-degree bend in the rock. He turned, advanced. It
was there that the cavern suddenly led him directly into
a smaller chamber from where the strange voices
apparently were clearly emanating from. He entered the
chamber undaunted and undeterred. At that point, Homer
might’ve realized by then that should’ve followed his
head instead. But, of course, he didn’t.
It wasn’t so much
the noise that eventually halted the deputy’s progress
that day inside the mountain, caressing his ears like
the song of some familiar Siren; nor was it any
suspicions connected with such a sweet and soulful
sound. No. It was a sight. And what a sight it was! So
bold, so beautiful, and so bewildering it appeared that,
at first blush at least, the young deputy actually…
well, blushed. It was a sight to behold! as stark and
naked as Adam before the Fall, and just as unashamed. It
was dark and dangerous, too; and so unusual that it had,
in fact, stopped the deputy dead in his wavering tracks.
Dropping what was left of his nearly exhausted candle to
the ground, the young man froze like trapped raccoon.
Oddly enough, however, he could still see.
Somehow, and
despite the fact that Homer’s candle now lay dead on the
hard cold ground, there was light. Lots of it! It was a
soft yellow glow that lit up all his immediate
surroundings. He was enveloped in it. He was amazed by
it; and, generally speaking, he caught up in it all
together. Never-the-less, it frightened him; not the
light itself, but what it had just then suddenly
exposed. But that’s just what light does. That’s what
it’s supposed to do. It not only disinfects and
sanitizes; it allows us see what we otherwise may have
missed, or have simply refuse to look at in the first
place, for whatever unfathomable reason; and in that
regard, it can most revealing. For along with the all
the goodness (and indeed it is far more than we ever
could’ve imagined in our previous dark existence) we
see, for the very first time, perhaps, all the ugliness
within. It’s not always a pretty sight. But as the old
Irish dinosaur once observed as he stomped, rather
reluctantly we are told, out of his own dark dungeon: ‘I
believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has
risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I
see everything else’. The dinosaur’s name? Why, Clive
Staples. C.S. Lewis – of course! But his friends just
called him Jack.
And just what was
it that had sent such a shiver up the young man’s spine
just then, making him wet his pants and vomit up his
supper with just one glance? It was more horrible, more
hideous, than anything he could ever imagine; and Homer,
as we all know by now, could indeed conjure up some very
horrible and hideous images, real or unreal. What the
brave young deputy saw in front of him that day, or
night (he really had no way of telling at the time) was
something far more deadly, of course. It was evil. And
most of all…it was there.
Bathing in the
small halo of orange light flickering in the newly
oxygenated air, he suddenly spied a great cauldron,
larger than any he’d ever seen before. It appeared to be
made entirely of… what else? Pure gold. Beneath the fine
yellow tub was a crackling fire feeding on the many
burning embers below, the flames of which crept
continually up the curvature of the boiling bowl,
licking its sides with long tapered tongues of fire. And
seated around this boiling pot, with legs akimbo and
faces all aglow, were perhaps a dozen or so long‑limbed
savages, or Ferals, as previously descried,
albeit not in such a horrific light.
Forced to abandon
his former fears for a brief and bewildering moment, the
way children sometimes do when suddenly exposed, usually
through no fault of their own, to sights and sounds they
will later in life, one could only hope, come to recoil
from in horror and disgust, Homer began to suspect that
the Ferals before him might, in fact, actually be
the same slaves imported from the Islands; the same poor
pagans, perhaps, that Mister Wainwright was said to have
purchased from the pirate not too long ago, said
to have disappeared along with their evil taskmaster in
a mountain that bore that same wicked name; the very
same savages, in fact, he’d driven so mercilessly, to
the point of exhaustion (almost to the point of
extinction, it would seem) and starvation, and by all
sympathetic accounts into the killing mines that would
eventually become their own graves, searching, in vain
many would finally conclude, for that which was never
found. Or was it?
At first, the
fiery Ferals appeared completely oblivious to the
deputy’s sudden and, perhaps, unwelcome presence, almost
as if he wasn’t eve there. Either that or they simply
hadn’t noticed him at the time of his untimely arrival,
which, due to the fact that he was so conspicuously
different than anyone else in the immediate vicinity,
and actually wearing clothes, was very unlikely. In
reality, Homer was by then sticking plainly out, like a
white thumb among so many black fingers; and he knew it.
He froze, attempting in vain to control his trembling
hands and wobbly knees, his eyes darting in his sweating
brow, this way and that, for quick and possible escape
route. He was scared, really scared. He waited for
something to happen. Nothing did. Not a feral
finger was lifted.
They just sat
there, turning an occasional and lazy glance towards the
intruder whom, for all they knew or were capable of
comprehending, could’ve been the devil himself disguised
as some kind of a phantasmagorical white ghost. They
appeared to be neither frightened nor alarmed, certainly
not angry; in fact, they looked rather at ease, and
acted almost as if they had no real objection to a Homer
crashing their dinner table at all. Indeed, had they
known he was coming, they might’ve even set an extra
plate, along with knives, forks and spoons, he began to
imagined, wondering if the feral feast included
such dining luxuries. For the most part, they simply
chose to ignore him, which is to say they just didn’t
seem to care one way or another, for the time being
anyway, in their own lazy and wide-eyed ambivalence.
To further
evidence this somewhat bewildering attitude, while
explaining the source of the sounds first heard by the
deputy’s incredulous ears, these same feral
campers were singing, softly and sweetly (deliciously,
one with a perceptible ear might say) all around the
fire, like a troop of young condors cooing around the
half dead carcass of an injured antelope, and in
tongues Cornelius G. Wainwright III himself surely would
have recognized himself; for they were, in undeniable
fact and in diabolical deed, the greedy prospector’s own
long lost slaves. They were the Ferals of Mount
Wainwright, alive and well. And they were there.
But for the most
part, and for reasons we shall soon find out, these dark
and devilish miners looked perfectly content and
satisfied for the moment; even happy, as one whose
sympathies lie in that direction might observe; but in
that strange and lethargic attitude that is sometimes
beguiling and often misleading. Some of them appeared to
be smiling, having acknowledged the deputy’s presence by
then with casual nods and grins, exposing at their
pleasure rows and rows of sharp white teeth that
appeared to have been filed into long formidable fangs,
in the grotesque style unique to their native culture
and custom, and fashion that way for whatever diabolical
purpose. There were also a number of tattoos adorning
their otherwise naked bodies, as deep and dark as their
own carnivorous constitutions, on the men as well as the
women. Fortunately, for the deputy at least, these
appeared to be friendly Ferals, for they
displayed no immediate signs of anger, hostility, or
even alarm. In fact you might actually say they gave the
distinct impression, despite their feral appellation, of
being downright civilized; like a cozy family of friends
sitting leisurely around the Thanksgiving table long
after the turkey and cranberries were gone, waiting for
the pumpkin-pie to arrive, and maybe even a cup of
coffee.
But these were
like no relatives Homer Skinner ever had the pleasure to
dine with, let alone meet. With a throb in his heart and
a blush in his cheek, the deputy was quick to notice, as
previously touched upon, that they were all naked as
jay-birds, including, and most notable of all, four
voluptuous and well-endowed females Ferals lying
casually reposed on the stones next to the glowing pot
of gold. And it was in this same relaxed and tranquil
attitude, they sensuously stirred the fire while
strumming their vocal chords and combing their long
black hair. It was an arousing sight, and one which
physically stirred the deputy in ways he’d never been
stirred before; sexually speaking, of course. For by
then he could clearly see their firm brown breasts
sitting way up high (where they properly belonged he
would later fantasize after having witnessed first-hand
the sagging effect of old age, not to mention gravity,
on those wondrous globular glands he’d become so
enamored of) their dark brown nipples standing stiffly
erect upon soft twin peaks overlooking the forbidden
valley below. Exposed as they were in the lusty light of
the fire, their legs slightly parted providing just a
glimpse of the treasures buried below, these dark
beauties were ripe for the picking thought the
harvester, becoming increasingly aroused under the
circumstances, and naturally so. What a fine wine those
juicy young grapes would make! he quietly imagined as
one of the nubile nymphs suddenly looked his way and
smiled. Likewise, the men, sensually exposed in their
own raw masculinity, which hung like elephant trunks at
the watering hole after a very long journey, appeared
equally at ease in their nakedness and right at home
with their naked counterparts. They simply had no shame;
or, perhaps they were just too proud.
Despite a sudden
and foolish urge to stay just a little while longer,
Deputy Homer Skinner wisely decided right there and then
that it was definitely time to leave – and fast. He
realized, a little too late perhaps, that he would have
served himself better had he followed his instincts and
‘gone with his gut’ instead of listening to his heart,
his head, or the gold, and not have gotten himself into
such a magnificent mess to begin with. So he quickly and
quietly turned to walk away. But not before he'd found
what he and the posse had originally came looking for.
For there, in a
quiet corner of the room, enshrined as it were on a
makeshift altar of wood and stone, right in the middle
of the feral sanctuary and illuminated by the
fire within, was all that was left of Cornelius G.
Wainwright III: a small pile of clean white bones
ceremoniously stacked in a manner that would suggest not
only respect, but reverence, for their original owner,
and a few scraps of discarded flesh.
To further evince
the miner’s untimely demise, and give credence to his
grizzly remains, the deputy also noticed some clothing
lying on the floor close to the dead man’s bones; among
them a pair of knee high alligator boots, some dark blue
trousers, and a long sleeve shirt, along with some other
rags of varying proportion and color. There was also a
long black whip and a rifle placed visibly against the
wall, but without the ceremonial attentiveness afforded
the other articles of the doomed prospector. What really
told the story, however, was a single white handkerchief
spread open for all savage eyes to gaze upon, to
whatever pagan end and for whatever heathen purpose,
with the initials C.W. embroidered handsomely into the
fabric. The letters said it all. They were red, of
course, not unlike the famous Scarlet Letter that once
burned so ignominiously the lovely on the adulterous
bosom of charitable Hester Prynne, and just as
un-retractably.
But there was more
– much more. For hanging directly over the deified
handkerchief of the deceased, about twenty feet from
where he was standing, Homer next noticed what at first
appeared to be, by all mortal reckoning, the head of a
doll. It seemed to be floating, at first, in the
thickness of the smoky atmosphere, but was actually
being suspended in the air by a thin, almost
transparent, black thread that disappeared into the
darkness above.
The face of the
doll was grotesque, and eerily life-like, purposely
deformed not only by the hand of its creator, but by the
warm glowing light within the chamber that cast shadows
in every wrinkle etched into the hideous head, which
itself was otherwise as pale and white as that of a
Icelandic ghost. It had dark brown hair tied up in a
ponytail, a bottlebrush moustache and, curiously enough,
a three-month growth of beard. Its mouth, eyes, and
nostrils had been hermetically sealed, sutured it would
seem with the same hideous black thread from which it
hung, the stitches as visible and clearly defined as
those found on a baseball. But this was no baseball, or
any other inanimate object for that matter; as Homer
would quickly find out upon further examination. This
was real. This was… human. It had a face; and it had a
name. It was no ordinary face, and no ordinary name. It
was the face of a very foolish and greedy man; a man who
simply didn’t know where, when, or perhaps even how, to
stop. And the face had a name: Cornelius G. Wainwright
III. The shrunken head hanging at the end of the string
that day belonged to none other the infamous farmer
turned prospector himself, the one with the bottlebrush
moustache, perfectly preserved and forever entombed,
like a jar of pickled pig’s feet, in pure feral
formaldehyde.
Exposed to the
horrific and almost pitiful sight, Homer Skinner quickly
and quietly turned around and headed straight back into
the darkness, and safety, of the long dark tunnel from
which he came. His candle was out, but there still
enough light to make out the strange black stone
embedded in the rock that he’d first mistaken for a hole
in the wall. It was the same black stone he’d meant to
come back for after he’d made off with the golden
treasure. And it was right there in front of him, right
where he’d left it. It was the black host of the golden
tabernacle, staring straight down at him just as before
in the holy of holies, like the Arc of the Covenant
itself in all its ancient awe.
There was
something about it, something magical and magnetic, like
a loadstone drawing his needle closer and closer to true
north. And just as before, Homer felt an sudden and
irresistible urge to just reach out and touch it, again.
But it was more than that. He moved closer; and the
closer he moved, the more he wanted to touch it. The
same alien force, this magnetic thing that he’d
successfully averted only moments ago, suddenly, and
with a renewed strength and vitality lacking in its
previous aspect, overtook the young deputy with such
magnified intensity that he simply could not resist. It
was just too overwhelming. He no longer merely wanted to
touch it, he had to touch it; moreover, he wanted to
just take it. And this desire to have it all for his
own, to pluck it out of its sacred tabernacle as a thief
would the very eye of Vishnu, to free from its golden
bough as Jason lifted the golden fleece from his
protective perch, to steal it like a common thief, a
criminal, a burglar, to break the seal of Pharaoh’s
tomb, to reach inside his holy sarcophagus and remove
the diamonds from the dusty rags of a dead king, to do
the unthinkable and reap its unholy rewards of eternal
damnation, was simply too irresistible. He knew it was
wrong; but felt he had no other choice. He had to have
it.
Ironically, it was
the deputy’s own fear and trepidation, in the mist of
indecision that ultimately proved his deliverance that
night, as it had so many times before, by preventing him
from committing the act he’d been presently
contemplating. That is to say, the deputy simply balked.
Driven by his better angels, or perhaps that higher
power that is responsible for creating such benevolent
and influential being, Homer suddenly had second
thoughts about the whole matter. And as he tried to
decide which way to go, moving first in one direction
and then in another, the black eye of the temple, which
had previously appeared so inanimate, seemed to have
suddenly come alive, anticipating, it would seem, his
every thought, and thus following his every movement. It
all but blinked.
As if being driven
by some mechanical device incorporated into its original
design or by some other supernatural energy yet to be
disseminated, the all-seeing, all-knowing eye of the
tabernacle would not let him go. It was almost as if
during his brief absence, the optical nerve had somehow
been reattached to its mother organ, affording the stone
a more human quality, something it had lacked in its
former state, which only added to its beauty and appeal.
What power propelled it would remain unknown, even if
placed before the Oracle of Adelphi itself for a more
intimate and metaphysical examination. It was a puzzle
not even the Great Alexander could unravel, and no sword
could sever.
And then something
else happened to make all previous manifestations,
whether presented through sight or sound, pale in
comparison. For suddenly, and without the slightest hint
or warning that something spectacular was about to take
place, the host of the tabernacle burst forth in all its
omnipresent and omnipotent glory. It happened in a
brilliant display of so many amazing colors. And it
happened so quickly, so intensely, as to catch Homer
completely by surprise and totally off guard. A rainbow
of lights immediately flooded the cavern, all of which
seemed to be radiating from the single black stone fixed
in the epicenter of the cavern, although by then, it
appeared anything but black. Calling it a solid ball of
light surrounded by an explosion of color would come
close to describing what Homer had witnessed that day,
but that would still not do it justice. Comparing it to
a miniature sun, the energy of which had somehow been
compacted and compressed into the space of a child’s
ball, if one could imagine such an experiment, would be
a more accurate description; but even then come up
short. There are times when words simply fail.
Mesmerized by what
had just transpired and feeling an inexplicable urge to
draw even nearer still, as if that were at all possible
by then, Homer thought for sure that the
Ferals would see it as well, and follow sooth. And
why shouldn’t they? Surely, he imagined, this wasn’t a
singular occurrence initiated or sustained for his own
private amusement. Or was it? The indifference exhibited
by his feral audience to all that was happening
just then would suggest otherwise, as they all appeared
to take no immediate interest in the dazzling display of
lights, which, at least from the deputy’s personal
perspective, made the Fourth of July look like child’s
play in comparison. But the light that blinds also
reveals. It showed Homer way, the way out. He’d found
the tunnel.
Racing back into
the safety and seclusion of the darkness, the deputy hit
his head on the ceiling and began to bleed. He fell to
the ground and heaved a solemn sigh of relief, but only
for a moment. He didn’t have time for the pain, or the
blood. He felt ill and suddenly wanted to vomit again.
Instead, he found himself crawling back up the tunnel,
feeling his way back the best he could under the
sightless circumstances.
He could feel the
floor rising up on an angle, and could only hope that he
was headed in the right direction. He could also hear
the rats running for cover, as if they were actually
just as more frightened as he was at the time, and
perhaps next on the feral’s mind and menu. To
Homer's surprise and relief, not one of the feral
cannibals followed him back up the tunnel that night;
still, he was able to hear them for quite some time in
the distance. He thanked God for the darkness more times
than he could remember, and swore he would never go
back, the gold notwithstanding. And even as he stumbled
and fumbled his way through the blackness of the long
black tube, Homer Skinner could still hear the feral
voices echoing ominously off the cold stone walls, along
with the sound scurrying rats. Apparently, the slave
miners had no interest in the fat young deputies, a
butterball even back then, preferring simply to sit and
stir the fire, comb their hair, and pick their fangs
with the dried white bones of the dead man, as if
nothing at all had ever happened to disturb their
evening meal, or plans.
The tunnel grew
narrower before it grew wider, which told the deputy
that he was at least headed in the right direction.
Without the aid of his candle, and groping his way in
the dark while making few twists and turns in the
process, Homer Skinner somehow managed to find his way
back to the mouth of the tunnel. He didn't think he
would.
As he ran out the
mouth of the cave, it suddenly occurred to the
frightened young deputy what might've happened had he
entered the tunnel a day later than he actually did.
Perhaps by then, he imagined, the Ferals would
have had time to properly digest their carnal meal, and
were hankering for the next course. Dessert, perhaps!
And what a fine plum pudding Homer would’ve presented
them with. On the other hand, any time sooner than that
and his own head might now be hanging from a string
right alongside that of the unfortunate prospector, and
looking just as grim and gruesome. The only difference
would be that his would have a little less beard and a
little more fat. Apparently, it was only through fortune
and good timing that Homer’s life was spared, so far. He
vowed never to go back. Not in a million years.
The man with the
bottlebrush moustache was not so lucky, however; and in
the end, the deputy with the aching tooth learned
something new that day. It was something Cornelius G.
Wainwright III might’ve figured out as well, if only
he’d not been so greedy. And yes! The ‘G’ did
stand for greedy. But by then it was too late. And just
what was it? Simple. You could not say it more
eloquently; and you certainly couldn’t say it any
better. But you could still say it: ‘You see, Mister
Wainwright... there is such a thing as a ‘free lunch’
after all. And you, my fine fellow, are it!
When Homer finally
exited the lost gold mine, drawn and exhausted, he found
the sheriff and his posse sound asleep in a small
evergreen hammock. It was dark outside by then and he
could hear them snoring. He didn’t want to wake them,
not just yet anyway. The deputy still had some serious
thinking to do. There was still much to be considered
here; not least of all the gold.
As his fears
gradually subsided and his tooth began to ache a little
less, the young deputy reconsidered his earlier
commitment and the vow he took never to go back there
again. He stayed awake the whole night, quietly drawing
up a map on a small piece of paper he found in his
saddlebag. He did it all from memory, one line at a
time, scratching his head now and then, trying to
remember exactly where he was and how he got there. When
he was done, he folded the map that would one day lead
him back to the gold and put it back in his saddlebag.
And on that night, under a cold moon and starlit sky,
the wheel that was constructed long before the stars and
moon appeared, slowly began to turn in its own perpetual
motion. It was a plan that would be forty years in the
making. Homer had the time. He had the map. And he had
the Harlie. The incubus was about to hatch.
When the others
awoke the very next morning, the deputy told them all
what he'd seen and heard, carefully avoiding any and all
references to the golden temple he’d accidentally
stumbled upon just before encountering the bloodthirsty
Ferals the night before, and for good reason. He
knew firsthand what gold could do to a man. Hell! It had
almost gotten him cannibalized, or at least killed, he
suddenly imagined; as if the two were mutually
exclusive. He would not tempt the others; he would
certainly not tempt fate, not yet anyway. But he would
go back for the gold, eventually. Naturally, what he’d
purposely omitted from his strange and fantastic tale,
namely the gold, the deputy made up for with sheer
exaggeration, which was not unusual for Homer Skinner,
especially at that young and exuberant age, or any other
age for that matter. It was easy to do; it actually came
quite natural. And he enjoyed it.
‘You should've
seen 'em!’ he gasped in animated terror, searching for
his breath as well as the most convincing words, or
perhaps just for theatrical effect, which was also one
of Homer’s strongpoint. ‘Thems was Ferals I tell
you! More than I could count! (As if the duplicitous
deputy couldn't count to twelve). They was sav’ges –
Devils! Black as sin! Sons of Satan… and his daughter’s,
too! Evil elves, I say, every impish one of ‘em. The
whole damn lot of ‘em! Naked as scrub-jays, too.
Shameful! Disgraceful! Why, it was downright…
heathenish!” he further remonstrated, his voice breaking
at times upon his own platitudinous proclamations. “Had
these here long claws and sharp pointy teeth, you know;
and they was all covered with tattoos! And their
eyes...well, their eyes was black as coal. They was half
man and half animal. It was Homeric… Calamity, I tell
you. Tumult! Chaos! Apoplexy! It was… It was…” And here
Homer paused to catch his breath, as he often did
whenever he became overly-excited.
Several of the
riders looked at the deputy dubiously, as if they’d
heard this sort of thing before from the little fat man.
A few thought he might have gone mad. They all had their
suspicions, of course; but still, they were intrigued
and naturally begged for more.
As if frightened
by the conjurings of his own hyperbolic imagination,
Homer continued from a more sober and solemn
perspective. “Something must’ve happened up in them
there hills... something bad, something bad-wrong...
something, something evil!” he further insisted,
blessing himself with the sign of the cross, like the
good Catholic he was. “Some of them Ferals, I
think, had (gulp!) tails… and pitchforks! It was
unnatural, I tell you. And they was sittin’ round this
here big ol’ pot and... it was dark and all. And
w-w-well,” he stammered. “you just had to be there, I
‘spose. There were women, too! And they was just as
naked,” he hesitantly suggested, as if that too were
possible, and with no small measure of shame, “as the
men!”
“Go on, deputy!”
spurred one old rider, suddenly intrigued but not so
beguiled by the words of the bold young deputy.
And so he did,
providing his captive audience with even more gruesome
details of the horrific event he’d witnessed only a few
hours ago. “… And was ugly as sin!” he further insisted.
It was a lie, of
course; at least the part about being ugly; for in fact
and form, the feralized women the bashful deputy
spoke of that day were indeed very beautiful to behold,
as Homer himself had observed that dark night of the
flesh in his own forbidden tunnel of lust. It was a
sight he would long remember, when many others had long
since faded away, the sight of those firm naked brown
breasts basting in the warmth of the fire.
But he knew what
he was doing, and he knew what he was saying. He was
lying. But he’d always considered it one of those
‘little white lies’; you know, the kind that really
don’t hurt anyone in particular and are usually applied
only to make the liar appear more important than he
actually is; or worse, to cover up a truth he may
otherwise not wish to be reveal at the moment. It’s the
kind of lie that doesn’t necessarily make you feel
guilty, but it sure as hell can make you pretty damn
uncomfortable. But lies, like the truth I suppose, come
in all shapes and sizes. What Homer didn’t realize at
the time, and perhaps still didn’t, is that sometimes
it’s a whole lot easier to tell the truth than it is to
lie, and that one lie eventually leads to only another,
and yet another, and so forth and so on until it becomes
impossible to keep track of them all. And that’s when it
really gets to be a problem. Then there are those, I
suppose, who, in their own demented and self-serving
minds, will heap lie upon lie until such a time when the
lie itself becomes no more than some perverted version
of the truth, which they themselves eventually come to
believe in; or, to put it in more clinical and
psychological terms best understood by those in that
noble and uncharted profession of psychoanalysis who are
in a better position and higher authority to explain
such complexities of the mind: If you believe it’s the
truth, than it cannot be a lie. But I guess when you get
right down to it: a lie’s a lie, no matter how much you
want it not to be. Even the good Doctor Freud high on
cocaine would have to agree, I suppose.
The deputy had
told them before; lies, that is. Whoppers, too! And he
was not alone; nor was he ashamed, even when he did get
caught, which wasn’t very often. But this time it was a
different. There was a purpose to the lie, a reason, a
method to his madness, a hidden secret, an agenda, if
you will. “It’s for their own damn good...” he’d always
maintained, never meaning any harm.
Homer Skinner
always considered himself an honest man, despite the
tall tales he was famous for, which he would weave and
spin now and then chiefly for their entertainment value.
It was something he had developed over the years, the
way other men become lawyers and doctor and such, mostly
by practicing, and one he became quite proficient at. He
was not always truthful, of course; but he was never
boring. However, what prompted his duplicity at that
particular time was the knowledge that he would
eventually go back, back for the gold, alone if
possible, or with few others as possible. And that’s
when the tooth began to ache, again.
“I wouldn’t go
back in there if I were you,” he severely admonished the
others on the mountain that day. “Tain’t much left of
poor Mister Wainwright anyhow. Just a bunch of ol’ dry
bones… And a shrunken head!” he exclaimed in a rare
moment of candor. “And them Ferals still looked a
might hungry if you ask me,” he falsely warned. “Just
best we just high-tail it out of here. And the quicker
the better! Tain’t nothin’ else we can do
here...‘Ceptin’ maybe get ourselves killed.”
The other all
agreed, albeit reluctantly at first, and with much
trepidation; including the sheriff himself who should
have known better than to listen to an excitable young
man who probably shouldn’t have been there in the first
place. It wasn’t the first time his deputy made up a
cock and bull story; it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
That’s just the way he was. It was in his nature, the
others privately agreed. “Well, I ‘spose you’re right,”
the sheriff finally acknowledged, keeping his opinions
to himself, for the time being at least. There was
something about the deputy’s story that just didn’t ring
true.
But this time,
this time Homer’s story was so wild, and so
outrageous, so… that it might actually be true. And
knowing for certain that a good many, if not all, of the
Island Ferals that Mister Wainwright had
purchased from the pirate captain were still unaccounted
for at the time, the cautious lawman reckoned that
Homer's tale was nearer to the truth than it was to a
lie, which was enough to persuade him, as well as the
others, not to pursue the matter, or the gold, any
further.
And so it was
decided. They would abort the mission, whether Cornelius
G. Wainwright III was dead or alive, and no matter how
much gold might still be left in his unholy hill. ‘Let’s
just go home, boys,” said the sheriff, a little
hesitantly and standing outside the black hole in the
mountain that day. So in the end, they all agreed to
blow up the entrance to the cave and go home. And they
would use Mister Wainwright’s own leftover blasting
powder to do the job. It was only natural, and seemed
like the appropriate thing to do. Of course, Homer had
no objection.
It was a
tremendous blast. And it did the job splendidly by
bringing down a good chunk of the mountain that day.
When the deed was finally done, the sheriff noticed that
a tall red stone that had fallen out of the sky,
somehow, landing in an upright position at the base of
the cave which was sealed up by then as tightly as
Pharaoh’s tomb. It was used, appropriately enough, as a
headstone to mark the exact site of the doomed
excavation. On the face of the rock was chiseled the
initials of the dead man, ‘C.G.W.’, along with a crude
but very distinguishable crucifix etched into the face
of the stone itself, which Homer found a fitting enough
headstone for the dead miner, but quite inadequate all
things considered. It was a simple act of faith done not
only out of respect for the deceased, which even the
most wicked among us deserve in death, but moreover, as
a warning to others that might consider following in the
fateful and foolish footsteps of Cornelius G. Wainwright
III. It was a fair warning, an omen, and not to be taken
lightly. It was signal to any and all that would come
that way in the future, whether they came looking for
gold...or a ‘free lunch.’
As for the
feral slave miners themselves, who might’ve still
been trapped inside the mountain after the blast, the
sheriff took no blame. If they weren’t already dead by
then, he naturally assumed with not a little remorse in
his otherwise hardened lawman’s heart, they soon would
be, for lack of oxygen if nothing else. There was
nothing he could do for them anyway, even if he’d wanted
to. And if his deputy was telling the truth,
about the cannibals at least, then they were all guilty
as sin, just as Homer had suggested; and they only got
what they deserved. But if not, and the deputy had only
made the whole thing up for his own amusement, or
whatever psychological deficiencies he may have been
suffering from at the time, then the blood of the
innocent would be on Homer’s head, and not his. Either
way, the sheriff had completely exonerated himself, as
well as his posse, of any and all criminality, which
may, or may not, have taken place that fateful day on
the mountain, or so he thought. Besides, they were only
Ferals, he maintained, a disposable commodity as
far as many were still concerned, and were going to burn
in Hell anyway, or so he reckoned.
‘God forgive
them,’ prayed the sheriff, after a brief and
unceremonious eulogy, as he blessed both the living and
the dead, or whatever the case may be. Homer didn’t say
a word during the short and solemn service, which was
perhaps the only proper thing he’d done all day. He was
already making plans to return and, perhaps, ease the
pain in his newly aching tooth.
Years later, and
despite all official warnings, several attempts were
made to uncover the cannibalized bones of Cornelius G.
Wainwright III, thinking that he at least deserved a
proper Christian burial. Others only wanted to forget
the whole gruesome affair. And, of course, there were
those who were still thinking about the gold.
Rumor had it that
there still might be pregnant veins of the valuable
commodity left over in Wainwright’s mountain from
previous excavations. It was a rumor Homer would neither
confirm nor deny, for his own personal reasons, of
course. But nothing ever came of it. As for the
cannibals, the deputy still spoke of them freely and
frequently, but in more sympathetic terms perhaps than
he’d previously described them. It was often suggested
that they were still alive and, well… hungry. And
according to Mister Homer Skinner (or, as some folks
soon began calling him – ‘the man who walked among the
cannibals’) the Ferals of Wainwright Mountain
might have indeed very well survived the blast witnessed
that fateful day, as evidenced by sightings over the
years of wild Ferals still roaming the hills in
the vicinity of the lost gold mine. “You never know… you
know,” was Homer’s only words on the grizzly subject
that would haunt him for the next forty years. And he
might’ve even been telling the truth this time.
In time, a few of
these so called ‘feral sightings’ had actually
been verified by surveyors and other professionals who’d
later mapped out much of the land surrounding the Silver
Mountains, none of which were ever be substantiated. And
with the only entrance to the lost mine having been
blasted shut so completely by the original expedition,
no one thought it really possible to find the bones of
the doomed prospector with the dark brown hair and
bottlebrush moustache, or the gold. No one ever tried –
Until now, that is.
Then there were
others who’d always maintained that the wicked
prospector was perhaps still digging himself further and
deeper into the infamous mountain that bore his
ignominious name. ‘Burying himself deeper in debt,’ the
mortgage lenders all agreed. ‘Digging his own grave,’
others further speculated. ‘And good riddance!’ That
suited them all just fine, including the deputy who’d
seen it all, and knew better.
Of course, there
were always those who simply refused to believe any of
the fantastic stories Homer had spun over the years. And
not one of them ever thought about going back for the
gold, or anything else for that matter. Why should they?
Tom Henley was not one of these skeptics, of course; and
neither was Red-Beard. And as for the four horsemen, the
brave Indian and his giant Negro companion… well, let’s
just say they weren’t going along just for the ride. As
far as Elmo Cotton was concerned, he simply wanted to
help a tired old man with a toothache and a dream, and
perhaps return a favor long overdue.
And as treasure
hunters nodded off under their hats and under the stars,
the Harlie found he just couldn’t sleep. Something was
keeping him awake, something far more potent and
powerful than the gold, or the spirits of the night that
had since invaded his own personal privacy, as well as
that of his friend and benefactor, Mister Homer Skinner,
that solemn and sacred night.
It first became
evident by a sort of low rumbling sound obnoxiously
emanating from the vicinity of the slumbering sleepers
huddled around the campfire like a small herd of
well-fed walrus’ lying snugly on the beach in the dead
of night after feasting all day on and fish and
flounder. It was a natural sound, despite the un-natural
vibrations it produced, and one Elmo could not seem to
put out of his waking mind, no matter how much he tried.
It was the sound
of grown men snoring. It was something the Harlie wasn’t
quite used to, and one he didn’t particularly like; but
it was something he was quite familiar with. He’d
witnesses such a cacophonous concert once before, when
forced, through no choice of his own, to share the lumpy
but comfortable bed of his good friend and neighbor,
Mister Sherman Dixon, who, chiefly due to an insatiable
appetite for the famous beans we already know so much
about, currently held the record for keeping awake the
most people in a one community solely on the decibels he
was able to produce simply by inhaling and exhaling
through the deepest and driest nasal cavity ever to
exist in the quiet little town of Harley.
And to make matter
worse for our Harlie friend that particular evening, it
was those same aforementioned beans that were also known
to produce yet another equally disquieting sound that
brought with it its own unique and distinctive odor.
That’s right… you guessed it. And there they were!
trumpeting forth like a flatulent flock of long neck
geese on the wing, in the general vicinity of the
campfire. Think of a herd of wild buffalo lazily grazing
on the open plain; and imagine, if you will, the head of
that herd lifting its heavy hairy head to wind as the
coyotes come in for the kill; and because of that one
single and solitary movement, a gesture that has been
rehearsed a thousand times before, instinctually breed
into the beast for the survival of its species, the
entire herd, as though driven by a one mind and a single
thought bursts into a galloping stampede of thunderous
proportion. And once it starts, it cannot be stopped.
Not the best analogy, I suppose, but a good one; and at
least it gets the point across, particularly on such a
universal and delicate subject. The sound said it all.
And it came that night with the same boldness and
veracity of the famed Israelite horn that brought down
the proud walls of Jericho. And through it all, they
slept the sleep of the dead, not once complaining, nor
stirring, in their own nocturnal symphony.
If Red-Beard had
joined them in their golden slumbers, no one would know
for sure. He’d remained seated on a hollow log that
night with one eye half open and the other half closed,
neither asleep nor awake at any given moment. It was
difficult to imagine him completely incapacitated for
any length of time, or in any kind of leisurely repose.
Red-Beard did not dream. He did not sleep. He merely
existed. There was no peace for the colonel, not even in
the Indian’s so-called ‘dreamless sleep’, the kind Boy
had so blissfully spoken of earlier with so much
tranquility associated to it, which, when achieved, as
he was keen to point out, is probably the closest thing
to perfect peace anyone can possibly achieve, or even
imagine, at least on this side of the grave.
As he lay awake
that night, Red-Beard’s bloodless heart beat like a
bellows within his iron bosom. And then, as if a
skylight had if suddenly and mechanically been lifted
from top of his head, he turns his telescopic lens on
the deep dark Heavens, the stars and their various
constellations. They appear as so many pearls that have
been cast into a shallow pond, or scattered like coins
on the bottom a wishing well, shimmering just below the
still surface. The war-child exhales, breathing fire and
smoke upon the water. Mars, the god of war, nods in the
distance, as generals often do, a smile creasing his
ruddy red cheeks. And one by one, the warriors come back
to life, standing fully erect, like the life-like
statues found in the Emperor’s Terracotta tomb long
after his ceremonial burial, fully equipped and ready
for battle, stirred it would seem from centuries of
slumbering silence by the fiery breath of the war-child.
Scorpio salutes him with an over-arching tail. Now
that’s a stinger for you! declares the archer as
Sagittarius boldly bends his bow. He’s game for a fight,
naturally; and he never misses. Aries, with his horny
head leads the charge with Taurus hoofing up the dirt at
his side. And look! Here comes the marines! Cancer, in
his subterranean tank; and Pisces, with his mail-like
scales. No bullet can penetrate that kind of armor! And
unlike the Yankee ironclad USS Monitor whose mettle was
tested under fire at the Battle of Hampton Roads where
she traded blows with the
CSS Virginia (the former
frigate
USS Merrimack) of the
Confederate States Navy just before surrendering to
a storm off Cape Hatteras whose hurricane winds had
claimed many a mighty hull, wood, steel or otherwise,
these mariners don’t sink. Aquarius, with his buckets of
water, merely shrugs, as if to say, ‘How could they?’
Libra wistfully winks as she tips her scales in the
war-child’s favor, this time. The twins simultaneously
nod their approval as Leo stalks his celestial prey. And
all along Orion with his star-studded belt and hilted
sword stands ready for battle, with all chariots in
Pharaoh’s army at his disposal.
Elsewhere in the
Universe, other armies are gathering on the bloody
fields of Megiddo, with weapons no mortal mind could
conceive, mustering their own celestial troops in
anticipation of the final battle they will not be
denied. Meanwhile, white dwarfs and reds giants go
spinning off in space along with their plentiful
planets, multitudinous moons, black holes, Quasars and
Nebulae, comets and meteors, and all other matter,
organic or otherwise, moving like the currents of the
sea in this mild, monotonous and meandering galaxy. But
to where? And to what end? Red-Beard paused to ponder
this for a while. And who, or what, commands them? He
can’t seem to find the answer. Perhaps there is none, he
finally resigns. Mortal or immortal, we are cursed, like
Universal lemmings marching to oblivion, to roam the
infinity, eternally rotating and revolving, never living
and forever dying, searching for what can never be
found, and powerlessly to do anything about it, even as
we lean over Perdition’s precipice and of peer into the
black abyss. Is this what the future holds? Is this our
fate? Are we doomed?
Frozen for the
moment, and with all Humanity, as well as his own
destiny, hanging in the balance, Red-Beard contemplates
these questions along with his own mere mortality. He is
alone and detached, as an object suspended in time and
space, a thing too infinitesimal to measure, a mere
mathematical point, like the earth itself, a mere
concept moving without motion on the gravitational
currents of the cosmos, shinning, if for one glorious
and fleeting moment, only to be put out, pitilessly and
mercilessly, cruelly and casually, at the appointed
time, by the breath of some unfathomable being, that
fateful foot and that unyielding hand that strikes all
and spared none.
But who is it that
drives that foot and that hand? God or the devil?
Perhaps they’re one in the same. Not that it really
matters, he shrugs. Like some ant-like creature crawling
along the kitchen floor in the middle of the night, he
appears – a slinking, sliding, and vile thing, whose
only salvation was suddenly to be found in the hovering
heel positioned to crush the life out of him. He feels
old and bent, like Adam; and perhaps just as guilty. He
cowers. And then, covering his skylight head, he lets go
a long and silent scream that can only be heard by the
spirits of the night.
Red-Beard opens
his eyes. The stars and the heavens are still there, as
deep, dark, and mysterious as ever, waiting for the
final command. But they are only stars, and the heavens
will all fade away, he quickly comes to realize,
pressing his red face hard against the ubiquitous night
sky. And for one brief and penetrating moment, he
breaches the starry vale and catches a glimpse at what
lies behind the invisible curtain of time and space, and
sees – Nothing. He then turns his cheek away from all
powers and principalities, from devils and demons, from
God and man, and from all the other horrors of this
world and beyond that may or may not exist, which makes
him loath them even more. Retracting his lens and
closing the hatch for the last time, the war-child gives
the final order: ‘We march at dawn!’
End of Book One
Continue to Book Two - The Motherstone
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