Howdy, he said.
Howdy, said the old man, a voice remote and soft.
I hate to bother anybody but I was wonderin could I might get a sup of water from ye.
Wouldn't turn Satan away for a drink, the old man said. Come up.
Thank ye, he said, coming through the yard, the hounds rising surly and mistrustful and moving away.
Got a well full, the man said. Just round back. Help yourself.
Thank ye, he said again, going on with a final nod, along the side of the house to the rear where an iron pump stood on the end of a pipe a foot above the well cover, as if the ground had settled and left this shank exposed. He took up the handle and cranked it and immediately the water came up clear and full and gorged the pump's tongue and cascaded into a bucket at his feet. He watched a spider move in its web across the flume inspecting from drop to drop the water beading there. He took the gourd from the bucket and rinsed and filled it and drank. The water was cold and sweet with a faint taste of iron. He drank two dipperfuls and passed the back of his hand across his mouth and looked about him. A small garden grubbed out of the loamy soil and beyond that an impenetrable wall of poison ivy. Random stands of grass, scraggly and wheatcolored. A waste of blue clay where washwater was thrown.
The back of the house was windowless. There was a door with no handle and a stovepipe that leaned from a hole hacked through the wall with an axe. There was no sign of stock, not so much as a chicken. Holme would have said maybe it was whiskey, but it wasn't whiskey.
He went back to the man on the porch. That's fine water, he said.
The old man turned and looked down at him. Yes, he said. Tis. Know how deep that well is?
No. Fifty foot?
Not even fifteen. It's actual springwater. Used to be a spring just back of here but it dried up or sunk under the ground or somethin. Sunk, I reckon. Year of the harrykin. Blowed my chimley down. Fell out in the yard and left a big hole in the side of the house. I was settin there watchin the fire and I blinked and next thing I was lookin outside. Come mornin I went to the spring and it weren't there. So I got me a well now. Don't need all that there pump but I chancet to come by it. Good water though.
Yes it is.
Seems like everthing I get around runs off in the ground somewheres and I got to go after it.
You live here by yourself?
Not exactly. I got two hounds and a ten-gauge double-barrel that keeps me company. They's lots of meanness in these parts and I ain't the least of it.
Holme looked away. The old man tilted forward in his chair and stroked his beard and squinted.
Live by yourself and you bound to talk to yourself and when ye commence that folks start it up that you're light in the head. But I reckon it's all right to talk to a dog since most folks do even if a dog don't understand and cain't answer if he did.
Yes, Holme said.
Aye, said the old man. He tilted his chair back against the side of the house once more. It was very quiet. The hounds lay like plaster dogs in a garden.
Well, I thank ye for the drink, Holme said.
Best not be in no rush, the man said.
Well, I got to be gettin on.
Whereabouts is it you're headed?
Just up the road. I'm a-huntin work.
I doubt you can make it afore nightfall.
Make what?
Preston Flats. It's about fourteen mile.
What's between here and it?
The old man gestured toward the woods. Just like you see. More of it. They's one more house. About two mile down.
Who lives there?
They don't nobody live there now. Used to be a minktrapper lived there but he got snakebit and died. Been snakebit afore and thowed it off. This'n got him in the neck. When they found him he was kneelin down like somebody fixin to pray. Stiff as a locust post. That's about eight year ago.
They Lord, Holme said.
Well. The old man recrossed his legs. I never did like him much anyways. Poisoned two of my dogs.
How come him to do that?
I don't know. Mayhaps he never meant to. He used to poison for varmints. They said they had to break ever bone in his body to get him laid out in his box. Coroner took a sixpound maul to him.
Holme looked at him in dull wonder and the old man looked at the steaming woods beyond the road. He lifted a twist of tobacco from the bib of his overalls and paused with it in his hand while he consulted pockets for his knife.
Chew? he said.
I thank ye, Holme said. I ain't never took it up.
The old man pared away a plug and crammed it in his mouth. Do ye drink? he asked.
I've been knowed to, Holme said.
I'd offer was I able but I ain't. Ye ain't got nary little drink tucked away in your poke have ye?
I wisht I did, Holme said.
Aye, the old man said. Clostest whiskey to here is a old nigger woman on Smith Creek and it ain't good. Sides which they's genly a bunch of mean bucks lays out down there drunk. Got knives ye could lean on. Last time I was down there you couldn't of stirred em with a stick. Makes a feller nervous. He shifted the cane to the other knee and spat. Don't it you?
I expect it would.
Listen yander, he said, tilting his head.
What's that? said Holme.
Listen.
The dogs lifted their long faces and regarded one another.
Yander they go, the old man said, pointing.
They watched a high and trembling wedge of geese drift down the sky with diminishing howls.
Used to hunt them things for a livin afore it was outlawed, the old man said. That was a long time ago. Fore you was borned I reckon. You ain't no game warden are ye?
No, Holme said.
Didn't figure ye was. You ever see a four-gauge shotgun?
No. Not to recollect it I ain't.
The old man rose from his chair. Come in till I show ye one, he said.
He led the way into the house, a two-room board shack sparsely furnished with miscellaneous chairs, an iron bedstead. It smelled stale and damp. On the lower walls grew scalloped shelves of fungus and over the untrod parts of the floor lay a graygreen mold like rotting fur. There was a rattlesnake skin almost the length of the room tacked above the fireplace. The old man watched him watch. I ain't got nary now, he said.
What?
Snakes. I'm out. That'n there was the biggest. Biggest anybody ever seen or heard tell of either.
I wouldn't dispute it, Holme said.
He was eight foot seven inches and had seventeen rattles. Big in the middle to where ye couldn't get your hands around him. Come back here.
They made their way through a maze of crates, piles of rags and paper, a stack of warped and mildewed lumber. Standing in the corner of the room was a punt gun some seven feet long which the old man reached and handed out to him. Holme took it and looked it over. It was crudely stocked with some porous swamp wood and encrusted with a yellow corrosion that looked and smelled of sulphur.
What ye done was to lay it acrost the front end of your skiff and drift down on em, the old man said. You'd pile it up with grass and float down and when ye got to about forty yards out touch her off into the thickest of em. See here. He took the gun from Holme and turned it. On the underside was an eyebolt brazed to the barrel. Ye had ye a landyard here, he said. To take up the kick. He cocked the huge serpentine hammer and let it fall. It made a dull wooden sound. She's a little rusty but she'll fire yet. You can charge her as heavy as you've got stomach for it. I've killed as high as a dozen ducks with one lick countin cripples I run down. They bought fifty cents apiece in them days and that was good money. I'd be a rich man today if I'd not blowed it in on whores and whiskey.
He set the gun back in the corner. Holme looked about him vaguely. On a shelf some dusty jars filled with what looked like the segmented husks of larvae.
You don't pick ary guitar or banjer do ye?
No, Holme said.
If'n y
e did I'd give ye one of them there rattles to put in it.
Rattles.
Them snakes rattles yander. Folks that picks guitar or banjer are all the time puttin em in their guitar or banjer. You say you don't play none?
I ain't never tried my hand at it.
Some folks has a sleight for music and some ain't. My granddaddy they claimed could play a fiddle and he never seen one.
None of us never took it up, Holme said.
I'd show ye snakes but I ain't got nary just now. Old big'n yander's the one got me started. Feller offered to give me ten dollars for the hide and I told him I'd try and get him one like it but I didn't want to sell that'n. So then he ast me could I get him one live and I thought about that a little and I told him yes anyways. So he says he'll take all I can get at a dollar a foot and if I come up on anothern the size of old big'n yander he'll give double for it. But I ain't never seen the like of him again. Might if I live long enough. I use a wiresnare on a pole to hunt my snakes with. It ain't good now. Spring and fall is best times. Spring ye can smoke em out and fall they lay around to where ye can pick em up with your hands pret-near. I hunt them moccasins too when I can see one but they don't pay as good and they more trouble. The old man spat into the barren fireplace and wiped his chin and looked about him with a kind of demented enthusiasm.
Well, Holme said, I thank ye for the water and all ...
Shoo, come out on the porch and set a while. Ye ain't set a-tall.
Well just for a minute.
They went onto the porch and the old man took his rocker and pointed out a chair to Holme. Holme sat and folded his hands in his lap and the old man began to rock vigorously in the rocker, one loose leg sucking in and out of its hole with a dull pumping sound.
You know snakes is supposed to be bad luck, he said, but they must have some good in em on account of them old geechee snake doctors uses em all the time for medicines. Unless ye was to say that kind of doctorin was the devil's work. But the devil don't do doctorin does he? That's where a preacher cain't answer ye. Cause even a preacher won't say they cain't help nor cure ye. I've knowed em to slip off in the swamp theirselves for a little fixin of somethin another when they wasn't nothin else and them poorly. Ain't you?
I reckon, Holme said.
Sure, the old man said. Even a snake ain't all bad. They's put here for some purpose. I believe they's purpose to everthing. Don't you believe thataway?
The old man had leaned forward in his rocker and was watching Holme with an intent look, his thumb and forefinger in his beard routing the small life it harbored.
I don't know, Holme said. I ain't never much studied it.
No. Well. I ain't much neither but that's the way I believe. The more I study a thing the more I get it backards. Study long and ye study wrong. That's what a old rifleshooter told me oncet beat me out of half a beef in a rifleshoot. I know things I ain't never studied. I know things I ain't never even thought of.
Holme nodded dully. I got to get on, he said.
Stay a spell, the old man said. Ain't no need to rush off.
Well, I best get on.
Just stay on, the old man said. I'll learn ye snakehuntin. You look to me like a young feller who'd not be afeared of em.
Maybe, Holme said. But I got to get on.
You got kin over twards the flats?
No.
Ain't married are ye?
No.
Might's well stay on.
The praying minktrapper materialized for him out of the glare of the sun like some trembling penitent boiling in the heat there, a shimmering image beyond which the shape of the forest rose likewise veered and buckling. He blinked his eyes and stood from the chair. I thank ye kindly, he said, but I got some things needs looked after.
What's that?
Holme was stretching with his hands deep in his pockets, rocking a little on his heels. He stopped. What? he said.
I said what is it needs looked after if it's any of my business.
Holme looked at him. Then he said: I'm huntin a woman.
The old man nodded his head. I cain't say as I blame ye for that. I live to see the fifth day of October I'll be sixty-three year old and I ...
No, Holme said. My sister. I mean to say I'm a-huntin my sister.
The old man looked up. Where'd you lose her at?
She run off. She's nineteen year old and towheaded. About so high. Wears a blue dress all the time. Rinthy. That's her name.
How come her to run off?
I don't know. She ain't got right good sense in some ways. She just up and left. I don't reckon you've seen such a person have ye?
Not to notice it I ain't.
Well.
I had a wife one time used to run off. Like a dog. Best place to hunt em is home again.
She ain't rightly got a home.
Where'd she run off from then?
Holme had paused with one foot on the top step, one hand spread over his knee. He pursed his lips and spat, dry white spittle. Well, he said, she ain't actual what you'd call run off. She just left. I figured I'd ast anyways. If she might of come this way. If I don't find her soon I'm goin to have to start huntin that tinker and I'd purely hate that.
She got ary kin she might of went to?
No. She ain't got no kin but me.
Kin ain't nothin but trouble noway.
Yes, Holme said. Trouble when you got em and trouble when you ain't. I thank ye kindly.
Shoo, the old man said. Just stay on.
Well, I best get on.
The old man took up his cane from where he had leaned it against the side of the house. Well, he said, come back when ye can stay longer.
I will, he said. He went down the steps into the yard. The hounds raised their eyes to watch him go. He half turned again at the road and lifted one hand and the old man nodded and made a little motion with his cane.
Thank ye for the water and all, Holme said.
Shoo, said the old man. I wouldn't turn Satan away for a drink.
THE TWO HOUNDS rose howling from the porch with boar's hackles and walled eyes and descended into the outer dark. The old man took up his shotgun and peered out through the warped glass of his small window. Three men mounted the steps and one tapped at the door. And who is there? A minister. Pale lamplight falling down the door, the smiling face, black beard, the tautly drawn and dusty suit of black. Light went in a long bright wink upon the knife blade as it sank with a faint breath of gas into his belly. He felt suddenly very cold. The dogs had gone and there was no sound in the night anywhere. Minister? he said. Minister? His assassin smiled upon him with bright teeth, the faces of the other two peering from either shoulder in consubstantial monstrosity, a grim triune that watched wordless, affable. He looked down at the man's fist cupped against his stomach. The fist rose in an eruption of severed viscera until the blade seized in the junction of his breastbone and he stood disemboweled. He reached to put one hand on the doorjamb. He took a step backwards as if to let them pass.
HE KEPT WALKING after the sun was down. There were no more houses. Later a moon came up and the road before him went winding chalky and vaporous through the black woods. Swamp peepers hushed constantly before him and commenced behind as if he moved in a void claustral to sound. He carried a stick with him and prodded each small prone shadow through which he passed but this road held only shapes of things.
When he did reach Preston Flats the town looked not only uninhabited but deserted, as if plague had swept and decimated it. He stood in the center of the square where the tracks of commerce lay fossilized in dried mud all about him, turning, an amphitheatrical figure in that moonwrought waste manacled to a shadow that struggled grossly in the dust.
He hurried on, through the town where houses and buildings in shadow halved the narrow road and his own shape fled nimbly over the roofs, on into the country past farms remote and dark in the lush fields of early summer, the night cool, a hushed blue world of the dead.
L
ater he slept in a field, trampling a nest out of the fescue and lying there with his hands between his knees, watching the random motes of birds passing across the moon's face in the night.
He was gone in the morning before daybreak. The road went from farmland into pine woods. He walked along with his pockets full of old shelled fieldcorn he had gathered and which he chewed with a grim rotary motion of his jaws. Toward noon he came upon a turpentine camp and he turned in here along a log road until he came to a cluster of sheds. A group of negroes were huddled about on the ground eating cold lunches out of pails and there was a man standing there looking at them or past them, somewhere, one foot propped on a log, tapping with a pencil at a tablet he held. When he saw Holme he stopped tapping and looked at him for a moment and then looked away again. Howdy, he said.
How are you? Holme said.
I ain't worth a shit. You?
Tolerable thank ye. I taken you to be the bossman.
No, I work for these niggers.
Holme sifted the dry corn in his pocket with one hand. I wondered if you might not need some help, he said.
I think I can handle it, the man said. He looked Holme over, the pencil poised in the air. Clark send ye down?
No. I don't know no Clark.
Is that right? I wisht I didn't. The son of a bitch has set me crazy.
Holme smiled slightly. The man turned away, looking toward the negroes. They were smoking and talking in low voices. He was jotting figures on the pad.
You ain't said, Holme said.
Said what?
If you needed help.
I said no.
I mean no kind of help.
No. Go ast Clark.
Where's he at?
The man looked at him sideways. Are you sure enough lookin for work? he said.
Yessir.
Shit. Well. Well hell, go see Clark anyway. He might can help ye.
Where's he at?
Home most likely. Dinner time. Ast in town.
All right, Holme said. Which way is it?
Which way is what?
Town.
Well which way did you come?
I don't know. I just come up the road and seen this here camp and thought I'd ast.
Well they ain't but one road so if you didn't come thew town it must be on up the road wouldn't you reckon?
Thank ye, Holme said. Much obliged.
The man gave him one last half-contemptuous look and then turned and called something to one of the negroes. Holme went on. A dozen steps on the road he turned again. Hey, he said.