Wicked Temper Part 22

When they came to a hub where several paths intersected, Matthew had to ease off the gas and take consideration. His shirt flapping, Matthew cleaned his hornrims with a ten dollar bill then restored his vision.

The sky threatened rain, and sooner than later.

He thought about raising the car's ragtop, but was unsure of its mechanism or how long it would take. Shielding his face from blown debris, ignoring Tizzy who had begun to shiver, Matthew plumbed his memory. There were no signposts here, none at all, only a rock cairn ahead, piled alongside the ruts the Packard was traveling. This looked like the spur he was looking for. But he remembered an old water tank. Were those wormy crossties all that survived of it, over there rotting in the laurel? To his left, a rust-eaten tractor cha.s.sis was dry and drowning; half-sunk into a mudbaked bar ditch.

It was an offwinding spoke of road. A charred dogwood bent over the narrowing spoke as its rut rose quickly, swallowed by forest.

That looked familiar. He was six years old, in fact, when they'd toted him up here to see Cousin Wert. His Pap bought some shine and a special witching rod off Cousin Wert. But Matthew didn't want Tizzy to know it had been so long. His memory was good. This was where you left the trail, he was pretty sure. Why, when he was six it seemed like Pap's truck reached it even sooner. Matthew cranked the wheel, guiding the reluctant Packard under charred dogwood. Tizzy watched the sunken tractor float by.

They hadn't gone far before killer had his doubts. This roadspur was poor; this was more like a gully they were twisting and pushing through. The root-tangled sides rose and fell. More than once Tizzy had to lift a pinebough by hand. Matthew knew she was cold and starting to vex. Better not vex, he said. Vexing never rang the bell, he said. Got to push forward, he said, so they did. Long after Matthew had quit searching, dredging, vexing for something to say next--the furrowed trace leveled off, without warning, into a short bl.u.s.tery stand of black gum. They were huge trees. Many of the giants were just hollow sh.e.l.ls, blackened cinder bark. From wildfires, he thought. Then Matthew saw a glint of fire just ahead.

The mossy log shed pressed back against a claybank. Outside in the wind, a kneeling man held a torch over a small hole in the ground. The thin, spidery figure was jabbering something, into the hole, unhinged when he heard them coming. Whoever it was, covered his hole quickly, leapt up and scurried inside as Birdnell and Polk drew near. Parking his brake, the boy hailed the log shed.

"Feller in the house--?!" he shouted through cupped hands.

Tizzy fought the shakes, chilly paws held betwixt her knees. She forced her teeth to stop chattering as Matthew got out. But he did not stray far from the Packard.

"In the house--," he repeated, "--sure didn't aim to skeer ye!"

Matthew looked back at her, uneasy; ready for anything, ready for nothing. Ready to take off. Then the mossy log door cracked open.

"Hit ain nunner mah done..."

This garble came from within the quarters.

"What--?" Matthew asked the flickering doorcrack.

"Hit ain nunner mahn..." the spidery man echoed, hidden by the door. His voice was clumsy and thick, suffering from disuse.

"Ask him again, Matthew."

"Lemme handle it--say there, ole boy--?" He beckoned, keeping the gun from sight in his back pocket. "C'mon on out hyere and talk to us. Don't mean no harm, we jist lookin fer family."

After a moment, the door creaked and the man tiptoed out, like he was sneaking on somebody. He brought the flaming pine torch with him. The air threw a ghastly pall, a clinging twilight that was perverted, but nowhere near dark enough for most folks to need a torch. As he approached, the flicker danced across his face and they saw who he was. He was a Lych.

The eyes were almost webbed shut with what appeared to be scar tissue, the underlying skull misshapen. His left cheek seemed to have melted long ago, as if wax and ash commingled too close to flame. Only four fingers and a partial on each hand. His red, watery eyesacks glinted back at them.

"Doncher tell, doncher tell, doncher tell," he babbled, distraught and shaking. Something like a smile stretched on his face, revealing a couple of brown teeth. "...peehee." It was almost a laugh.

"Matthew lets go--" Tizzy gripped her doorhandle, reaching across for Matthew's sleeve.

Matthew's mouth was trying, but nothing came out; his brain riveted on the Lych before him. Finally, his mouth made good, "--I--I's a-lookin fer Wert Birdnell's place. I'm kin. Matthew. His cousin Wilbur's boy. Ain't--ain't sure if this hyere's the way--"

Like a thousand volt jolt shot through him, the Lych went rigid and his arm flew out. His triple-jointed finger pointed up ahead, up the road; stiff as a dead limb it pointed.

Matthew felt himself backing away, retreating to the car as Tizzy reached for him, six eyes of shining fear.

"Up ahead, ye say--?" managed the boy, his gla.s.ses askew.

The Lych dropped his arm, aquiver again, disturbed and spooky about it. Suddenly, the torch seemed to loosen in his hand, he was drooling, and they were simply no longer there to the Lych. He sat on a stump. "...nunner....nunner mahn..." he began again.

She pulled Matthew into the Packard. Were those tears puddling on those ravaged Lych cheekbones? They didn't linger to find out. Matthew released the brake then hustled off into the wind, Tizzy turning to gander back at the sadly torn creature.

As they disappeared up the black gum grove, the Lych looked down at his covered hole, a mad tongue forking his lip.

"Hit ain...hit ain nunner mah done..." he spake to the hole.

"You think he's right," she asked, "yer uncle's on up here?"

"I hope so," Matthew supposed, steering out over a cavernous ravine. The ledge was tight. And Matthew had begun to vex aplenty himself. Especially as the trail cut back into the mountain, leading them inward, twisting deeper into wild forest. He didn't care to get stuck out in Riddle Top country after dark. It was forbidden, thought he, as far back as his recollections went. Tizzy must have heard tales. Tizzy would not take to such darkling adventure.

"Matthew--?"

She was fixing to bawl, he just knew it. She'd ask him questions he couldn't answer. Questions about spidery Lychs while ice spiders tapdanced down Matthew's spine.

"--shuddup!" Matthew wheezed back. It was hard enough getting this buggy over this hardrock creek bed without having to wetnurse a baby. Yes, he was worried. His eyes weren't so good at night. Matthew nudged his gla.s.ses. "We're pert near there, I know he lives close. Cain't ye feel it? I kin feel it."

He hit the headlamps and lit up the wolf--or was it a panther?--it was so fast. Both beams flashed back from two feral eyes, white hot ingots--an indistinct blur, big, hairy--a shadow streak bounding into the woods-- --Matthew veered sharp in the narrow trace--to avoid the beast. He braked hard.

And the Packard slid backward.

Tizzy squealed; her rear fender buried itself in a side gully.

This left the car at a peculiar angle, lights shooting up into the towering pine around them. Things got desperate. Matthew spun the wheel, goosing the pedal, but the Packard wouldn't move. After he'd burned sufficient rubber into the hillside to convince himself, Matthew quit.

He slammed the door. "What manner o'h.e.l.l's varmint was that?" he cursed and kicked the running board.

"Matthew, I'm skeered," she fumbled over to him, slipping a hand in his belt.

"Now don't start frettin er prayin to Jesus on me. I saw a curlycue o'smoke jist afore it jumped us. Didn't you? It'uz right up this woody slope, not too fer a piece."

She wasn't sure if he was lying to ease her troubled mind. But what difference could that make now? As it happened, he wasn't. Indeed, Mad Dice's eye had caught a tease of smoke just over the treetops, just before he reached for that headlamp plunger.

"You sure, boy? " she asked anyway, owlish in the grime-grey dusk.

"No doubt about'er. You kin smell it, caint ye? Hick'ry."

Suddenly, she realized she could. A faint smoky undershade of hickory on the wind.

She dreaded it, but Matthew killed the lights and kept the keys. He took her hand from his belt, gave a squeeze. There wasn't much time. Skrrreeeeekacheeee! Overhead a lost crow thing was flapping, screeching at them. Matthew left the road's furrow, pulling her up through piney wood. It was ingrown and dank here. The musk of fetid earth, clotted vegetation, death on the vine. They climbed a steady slope, Matthew's pistol pushed aside limbs, clearing a rent through the nettles as they searched the bristling, fading sheen. Both were soon winded, breathless amidst swirls of leaf. Tizzy raced to keep up and before she knew it, there was a shack alright.

S T E P 6.

"Is this his place?"

"Naw, I don't think so. Naw it ain't."

She tried to slow him but Matthew was already approaching the porch. Hickory smoke spun from a rock chimney, teasing into the wind. A gra.s.shopper weathervane pointed the way.

The house was sizable, for mountain folk. Brick pilings well-settled with age, just a tarpaper roof, and the wood was greyish; stormworn. But there were four rooms at least with a wraparound porch, cane fishing poles leant along one porchside. The chicken coop perched downslope from the cane poles. Tizzy saw the upended wheels of a buckboard wagon nearby, higher up lay the bones of a busted gristmill; its mule-harness singletree in splinters, and above that mill sat the smokehouse. She felt queer about the place. Tizzy hung back.

Meanwhile, Matthew swaggered right up onto the porch. He held tight for a moment, poked the pistol into his back pocket, then took a stiff gulp of wind. Tizzy shivered. Matthew rapped upon the door.

Some meateater commenced howling off in the trees, but n.o.body answered; the meateater howled and the wind howled with it. And yet, an inhuman slumber clung about the house. The house was asleep. Tizzy felt it. Matthew rapped again.

Directly, a thud met his ears, thud from behind the door. This gave way to an earthheavy shuffle, creaking inside. Tizzy could hear the quake from out in the yard. Louder it came, door-m.u.f.fled clumps, deep from the house's belly. Matthew withdrew by inches. But the quake stopped, suddenly. Seconds pa.s.sed, maybe a minute or more, before Matthew heard that dead voice.

"Help me," it said.

Matthew didn't move. A man. It sounded like a man. Or a bull down a well.

"What...?" asked Matthew, throwing white eyes at Tizzy.

"Ain't you gonna help me?" The voice spake again; just a dullard burr behind the wood.

The boy got goosey. "...what...what's wrong?"

Tizzy glanced about the windswept place, quite wary of watchers and varmints creeping forward with nightfall.

"Push on this door. It's swole up."

The doork.n.o.b rattled, from within. As if by ghostly hand. The inner command was clear, Matthew couldn't doubt it. He most certainly heard the words.

"Oh...okeedoke...sure," he allowed.

"Push on it."

Matthew rolled his gaze out to Tizzy, she took a step back, then Matthew's specs fixed on the doork.n.o.b. Reaching out, he grasped the tarnished iron, firmly, and heaved.

Without waver, Matthew leant against that door, grunting, he braced everything body and soul against it. Nothing gave. There was no vent but this mountain howling. Matthew's breath burst, he struck a new position and threw his shoulder at the broad planks. Tizzy winced with him. He groaned, straining harder. But nothing gave. Finally, he quit. Releasing the k.n.o.b, Matthew fell away, shaking out his hand.

Once more, the voice spake within.

"Git over there--"

"Over where?" Matthew posed.

More thudding behind the door.

"I ain't a-talkin to you," it said.

Then, the heavy door trembled, it trembled, it cracked, and swung open. Bellyaching hinges whined as a huge silhouette moved forward in there.

Tizzy's womb seized; Matthew retreated to the top step, swapping feverish eyes with her.

"Baby..." she couldn't help her spasm, her lips broke.

A hulking, brutish man filled the doorway. He wore loose factory fatigues, rolled at the bicep, like a city worker. Tattoos ran up both ma.s.sive forearms. His face showed fleshy decay, eyes deep and brooding over the presence of young Matthew and Tizzy as the wind crashed around him. Tizzy knew right quick. It was clear what that face reminded her of. He reminded her of a wicked stag.

At his flank, a tiny girl appeared in ragged dress, barefoot, filthy. She looked about six years old.

Tizzy pa.s.sed unstrung thoughts with Matthew.

The almighty man brought his intentions down to his dirty blond child. "I said git over there," he rumbled.

Without effect, the girltot turned and trod back inside. He frowned. His porch cringed as he stepped out, examining Matthew closely.

"Where's yer ride," he grunted.

"Do what--?" Matthew wasn't sure of this lug's gravity..

"Matthew..." A small, quiet plea from out in the yard. Matthew wasn't listening.

"Huh?" the man pressed.

As a flush of leaves scoured the porch, Matthew grinned, stupidly, loosening up.

"Hey--yeahboy---how ye doin buckaroo? We sure sorry to bother ye. We cain't find Lewt Birdnell's place, ye see? Maybe you could point us straightaway."

The man's hands hung like staghammers. Limp but ready. He vetted over Matthew for an awfully long draw, slow burning and deliberate. "Son...I'm wantin you to tell me...how y'all got up here."

"Right---right--jist what I was fixin to stun ye with. Tizzy an me hyere, we was--uh--my cousin Lewt, he's my pap's cousin, he still lives on up hyere. Somewheres uplong Holy Creek. Sure. It's all comin back to me now. You prob'ly know the place. They's a red cistern house offa the back porch. And a buncha voodoo n.i.g.g.e.rs stole his whole boogin firewood sled, back during that cold spell in--"

Those stag eyes began to slit. Tizzy saw this.

"We drove up in our car!" she blurted.

And Matthew shut up, a curt nod at the man, then: "--we drove up hyere in our car."

The man came forward, creaking, pulling the door closed behind him. He loomed over the boy. Tizzy could see Matthew's pistol b.u.t.t in the false light. She hoped n.o.body else could.

"And where's yer ride?" the man repeated.

Matthew was still hesitating.

"Tell him Matthew," she said.

"Aw--" Matthew smirked. "--we parked her under a persimmon tree. About five hunert yards down thataway."