Saving an Innocent Man

by Robert E B Wright

  Suitcase in hand, the Mud Man cautiously probed through the thick brush, shrubs and thickets that grew close to the water. Of far more danger, he quickly realized, were the cottonmouth moccasins that slithered every few feet. After luckily avoiding the first two, Malcolm fetched a fallen limb from the ground and fended the snakes off as he walked through the moccasin minefield.

  Sweating through his mudpack, Malcolm waited and watched further down the creek. Great blue herons speared fish with their long bills. Bitterns paced madly on the soft banks for fiddler crabs and worms. Snowy white egrets waded. And finally, the best indication of safety of all, an old wary raccoon paddled across right in front of Malcolm. Without hesitation, Malcolm lowered himself into the green water and waded across. An odd-looking bird, the egrets must have thought. But they paid him no mind, except to keep their distance.

  Once across, Malcolm had to probe his way through the moccasin minefield on the other side with his big stick. He did so with practiced aplomb, smashing a number of the hefty serpents on the head in the process.

  "God, if only I had developed a taste for these things." Smash. "I'd be in fat city right now." Bang! Whack! Squish!

  • • •

  Smack! Smack! Hungry mosquitoes were attacking with bloodthirsty vengeance. Malcolm's protective mudpack had nearly vanished. And fresh mud was becoming a little harder to find. When Malcolm dug deep into the ground, he found sand and peat that didn't stick very well. Leaning against a large gumbo-limbo tree, he remembered the liniment smelling sap. Finding the ointment running from the tree, Malcolm basted himself as best he could. His body heat softened the sticky stuff and it spread more easily. "Any mosquitoes stupid enough to land on me," he said aloud, "will have to be stuck with me."

  The hours went by as Malcolm hiked with militaristic tenacity toward his northern goal of escape. He didn't know that his route had taken a somewhat northeasterly turn about two days back. And it didn't really matter much now anyway. Malcolm was out of the grave physical condition he had been in earlier. In fact, Malcolm was becoming healthier than he had ever been in his life. Which, after all, isn't saying a great deal.

  Malcolm had lost a load of life-shortening, heart-enlarging weight. In the weeks since the crash, he had shed more than eighty-five pounds. That, in itself, was the best, and the most dangerous change to his body. A precipitous weight loss of that magnitude could have killed him just from the body shock alone. But he lived through it.

  His legs had grown strong inside the loose flab that still hung from his thighs and calves. Although still portly, his flanks had been reduced considerably. His feet were toughened from the miles and miles of walking on all kinds of ground cover, from cutting pinnacle rock to soft muck, from leafy hammock floors to crunchy twigs and branches. His lung capacity had increased dramatically. Not due to his accidental miracle of osmotic respiration, but simply from the weeks of huffing and puffing his way under, over and through an obstacle course that would have killed the world's greatest athletes.

  His arms, hands and shoulders were strengthening from the best reason in the world – carrying a suitcase full of four and a half million dollars in cash. That's more than seventy pounds that Malcolm hardly ever put down.

  He hadn't eaten junk food in weeks. No sugar, no preservatives, no chemicals, no fertilizers, no poisons. He hadn't eaten anything that was cooked. Everything he ate was chock-full of all the vitamins, minerals, protein and life-sustaining nourishment the good Lord put into it. It was all as fresh as could be, and he had plenty of fresh rainwater to drink every day.

  He had overcome the infection in his arm. He had defeated the debilitating plague of diarrhea in his system. He had learned a lot in his travels. About the environment around him and about himself. And his mental condition was looking pretty good.

  In an ironically fortuitous way, the plane crash was the best thing that could ever have happened to Malcolm Raymond Farmer.

  • • •

  In the late afternoon, the sun twinkled in flashes through the shafts of tall trees as Malcolm walked past them. He had hiked through a number of hardwood hammocks on the way to the spot where he sat, resting on his money. Here the stout cypress shared the territory with tall, flagpole-straight slash pine, an abundance of lush ferns, shrubs and weeds and the saw palmetto, with its spiky, fan-shaped large leaves.

  Malcolm was sitting in the middle of an isolated biological pocket. It was a combination of cypress forest and flat pinewoods. It didn't extend very far, a half mile, maybe, in any direction. But it was a taste of the large pinewoods that could be found just five miles to the northwest and the vast pinewood flats he would find twenty-seven miles to the southeast. The soil in this combination habitat was rich and black in spots and sandy in others. It supported a wide variety of plant life. From the sequoia-related cypress to wild grapes. It was home to hordes of raccoons, opossums, snakes, meadow mice, rabbits, box tortoises, lizards, owls and bugs.

  This microcosm of divergent habitats also served as a crossroads for the territorial wanderings of deer, black beer, bobcat and the seldom seen Florida panther. The supporting cast of lesser wildlife certainly must have encouraged the passage of the larger predators. The hunting must have been pretty good. And that's exactly what a certain human being reasoned more than thirty-four years earlier – the human being that built the hunting cabin that Malcolm was about to discover with his next step.

  Malcolm spotted the rusty corrugated steel roof first. He crouched down instantly. He listened intently for a long time. He heard nothing but the chirring and buzzing of insects. He crept slowly forward on his haunches, parting the leaves of bushes for a better look.

  The cabin was small, just one room. And although the area around the cabin was thickly overgrown with weeds and bushes, Malcolm could see that a few of the log posts supporting the little building had rotted away, causing the cabin to tilt precariously. There wasn't a piece of glass left in the windows, but cloudy sheets of plastic still hung from a staple or two. Clapboards hung at tangents to the beams they were originally nailed to. The yellow and dark green paint had faded long ago and now blistered and peeled everywhere. A rusted old soft drink sign had apparently been nailed into place years ago by the owner, possibly an inexpensive patch for some hurricane-caused damage. You could hardly read the advertisement now. And in an upper corner, another advertising patch. This one made of plywood. He could hardly read the words American Plumbing.

  The place was obviously deserted, but Malcolm proceeded with great care, nonetheless. He circled the dilapidated hunting cabin, peering into its dark recess. He saw an outhouse behind the building. He saw weak-looking wooden steps climbing to a short wooden porch. There was still no sign of life. Then Malcolm, looking like a timid guest with suitcase in hand, slowly approached the front of the tiny tilted house. A few birds flew out of a small window in the shallow-angled gable.

  He stood at the foot of the steps for a moment. Above the door was a crudely hand-painted sign that said PLUMBER'S RETREAT. And in small letters, CUSTOMERS NOT WELCOME HERE. He gulped once. And put his barefoot on the first step.

  His large foot crashed through the step as if it were made of balsa wood. Termites had been here before Malcolm. No damage done to his foot, Malcolm tested the second step from where he stood. It seemed solid enough, so Malcolm put his weight on it. It held. Malcolm climbed to level three, then level four. Malcolm took a deep breath at the edge of the porch and craned his neck, trying to get a look at what was inside. It was hard to see into the dark room.

  Malcolm, finally satisfied that some swamp maniac with a shotgun was not going to run out and shoot him in the head, took a giant step forward. Suddenly, his fat leg crunched through the floor planks up to his thigh. “Ughh! Geez!” Malcolm, his suitcase and his turtle shells went crashing to the floor which, fortunately, supported the rest of him.

  Below the splintered, rotten boards, Malcolm's leg hung like a piece of meat at the butcher shop. Only it wiggled
and wagged back and forth like a dismembered limb trying to kick a football. Inches from his naked swinging leg and bare quivering toes was a six-foot diamondback rattlesnake, very surprised at the intrusion. It quickly coiled itself in the customary striking pattern but did not shake its rattle. Not yet. Up above, Malcolm, wind knocked out of him, struggled to push himself out of the hole. The serpent, keeping its staring eyes fixed on some imaginary mark on Malcolm's foot, jerked its head in motion with Malcolm's swaying limb.

  Malcolm grunted and groaned, his face turning red. The snake, moving its lips, unhinged its pliable, rubbery jaw. Malcolm, now sitting on his posterior, pulled his skinned leg up through the broken boards. The rattlesnake, head tilted back, watched its prey ascend up through the bright hole above. It flicked its long tongue and went back to sleep. Malcolm examined the scratches on his leg and pulled down the leg of his trouser over it. "Jesus, what a welcome."

  Now Malcolm tested every step he took. The floor creaked and crackled but held. Inside the single room was a makeshift kitchen. Unfinished pine shelves held some cans of stewed tomatoes and beans. There was a long rusty kitchen knife on a bare wooden counter. Malcolm eyed it, picked it up, and kept it. An old white ice box, door open, stood yellowed in the corner. A camper's propane stove was still set up on a wooden worktop by an open window. Four wooden chairs, still surprisingly sturdy looking, kept company with a pink and white Formica table with rusted chrome legs.

  On one side of the room were two pairs of bunk beds. The mattresses were thin, their fiber batting long ago confiscated by nest-building mice and rats. Above the beds a section of the metal roof was missing, blown off in some storm, Malcolm figured. The beds were open to the sky.

  Malcolm nudged an overturned grapefruit juice can with his suitcase and a furry, gray mouse skittered out, ran to the corner and disappeared out a hole. From across the room, Malcolm spotted a young rattlesnake coiled under a chest of drawers.

  Malcolm made his way, very slowly, back out to the collapsing porch and down the disintegrating stairs. He walked around the side of the cabin and studied the little outhouse. It was so stereotypical it was funny, Malcolm thought. Above the door to the outhouse was another sign. Obviously painted by the same untrained hand as the sign over the door of the cabin. This one said CLASS FOR YOUR ASS. Through the open door, bright as a penny, was a pure white china toilet. There was a holding tank above the outhouse to catch the plentiful rainfall. The waste would simply be washed into a pit below the toilet. Malcolm tossed a small stone over the top lip of the water tank above. It splashed water when it plopped in. The hunter-plumber who built this place had a real sense of humor, Malcolm thought. He gave a little chuckle. The sight of the toilet must have signaled something deep down in Malcolm's bowels. He walked over to a broad leaf tree, pulled off some leaves and walked back to the outhouse.

  Malcolm set his silvery suitcase down right outside the door, along with his turtle shells. He had that certain kind of grin on his face. “Ahhh, this is gonna feel so good!” He went in, stood with the backs of his legs against the cool bowl, and dropped his pants. He even closed the door.

  He began to sit down. As his large white bottom descended closer and closer to the toilet seat, he looked between his legs and caught a glimpse of something in the bowl.

  To Malcolm, it happened in slow-motion. The pale skin of his round rear was nearly making contact with the toilet seat when the rattlesnake's head shot forward, pink mouth open wide, curved hypodermic-needle fangs dripping venom. The snake's neck thrust forward like the arm of a pitcher in the World Series.

  Malcolm’s mouth opened as wide as the snakes. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his brain sent an urgent telegram to his leg muscles to start going the other way. When the snake’s leaking fangs were almost at their target, Malcolm's leg muscles got the message and began to propel him in the opposite direction.

  With the poisonous needles just millimeters away from his fleshy buttocks, Malcolm became a flying projectile. He burst through the outhouse door as if shot out of a cannon. His three hundred pounds had completely left the ground.

  Malcolm flew through the air in a Herculean Olympian broad jump never to be duplicated by anyone his size with their pants down. This was a record even Malcolm would never match. He landed in a clump of flailing arms and legs and sucked-in tush. If he had had a rattlesnake behind him that night in the cypress dome, he would have made it into that fifteen-foot tree without a ramp, he thought. “This is it! The perfect place to hide my money! It's probably infested with poisonous snakes. Who the hell would ever want to hang around here?"

  Grapefruit juice can, the sheet plastic from the windows, the old soft drink sign and suitcase full of money in hand, Malcolm paced off a distance from the edge of the outhouse toward the forest. When he hit thirty, he stopped. And with his arm extended like a weather vane, he checked the alignment of the outhouse to the cabin.

  The grapefruit juice can was a perfect digging tool in the soft black soil and white sand. It worked fast, scooping out almost half a gallon with each pass.

  When the hole looked wide and deep enough, Malcolm wrapped the rustproof aluminum suitcase in the plastic and placed it in the hole. Then he laid the steel advertising sign over it to shed the water that would surely seep through during rain. Malcolm then bulldozed the excavated soil over the top with his hands. He tamped the soft, airy soil down with his bare feet. He sank deeply into the black earth, but it still left a telltale mound.

  "My God, it looks like a grave." Malcolm tossed some dead leaves and twigs on the mound. Then he tore up some shrubs and put them on the mound, too. "Maybe what I should do is disguise it as an alligator nest and get that sixteen-foot dinosaur to protect it. Now that's a good idea! Don't worry about it, in two weeks, it'll be so overgrown, even I won't find it."

  Malcolm approached the outhouse looking like a lion tamer approaching a maned beast on a pedestal. He held a heavy club in one hand and the long rusty kitchen knife in the other. He used the club to push the door wide open.

  "Oh dear, supper's ready!"

  • • •

  Malcolm sat, Indian style, on the rusty metal roof of the cabin with a blazing setting sun behind him. He had just popped the last piece of white, lobster-looking meat in his mouth and sucked each fingertip of his right hand.

  "Tastes just like chicken," he said out loud.

  Malcolm then stuck his head through his necklace of colorful tree snails. But now, a four-inch long rattlesnake tail dangled from the middle. He picked it up with his two fingers and shook it. Chuka, chuka, chuka, chuka it went. And Malcolm belched as loud as he could.

  He settled back on the old metal roof, hands behind his head, satisfied with the day’s discoveries. Lying on his back, he gazed up at the sky and he listened to the concert musicians who were just tuning up in the jungle around him. He would listen to the symphony this evening. A concert under the stars unlike any in the world.

  The full moon rose like stage lights. It was huge, perfectly round and incredibly bright above the tops of the trees. It reflected in Malcolm's wide-open eyes. It moved across his dilated pupils. He could see every detail of the moon’s face. The craters, the mountain ranges, the Seas of Clouds, Tranquility and Crisis. It was as if Malcolm was seeing it for the first time in his life. And he was, actually. “Amazing," he said out loud to himself. ”How many people look at the moon but don't see it.”

  The moonlight cast strong shadows, it was so bright in the cloudless sky. And as the moon rose, so did the intensity of the night music. The prelude began with the staccato rhythmic chirps and treble trills of crickets augmented by the singing of buzzing grasshoppers.

  Then a choral of frogs added their voices to the performance. Rain frogs, Cuban tree frogs, toads, leopard frogs, bull frogs – each species with its own distinctive melody and voice – blended together in a strange cacophonous musical symmetry.

  The owls, with their own eerie oscillating bleats and hoots, compliment
ed the entire orchestration. And the inimitable reverberating bass-tone of moonlit-struck alligators rounded out a score that has been played for the last hundred million years or so.

  As the moon arched across the black velvet sky, the stars came so close Malcolm could almost touch them. The heavens poured them toward Malcolm, in numbers beyond the comprehension of man. Every piece of the sky, from horizon to horizon, three hundred and sixty degrees around, was filled with twinkling diamond dust. Shining, reflecting, shimmering planets. The constellations of Andromeda, the Big and Little Dipper, Pegasus and Hercules. The Milky Way was a great river of stars across the sky, scintillating down on the great river of grass below.

  A shooting star streaked across the heavens. And Malcolm's last thoughts before he fell off to sleep were of his dying mother.

  • • •

  As Malcolm slept, eyes closed to the spectacle above, a soft Brahms played in his head. And the dream began.

  He saw the face of a small boy with sandy colored hair. The boy was crying, sobbing, tears rolling down his face. He was seeing himself at age seven. His mother was beside him, arm around his shoulders to console him. She was waving goodbye to a man getting into a yellow taxi. The taxi driver put three pieces of luggage into the trunk and opened the door for the man. The man had sandy colored hair, too. Malcolm’s mother blew a kiss to the man. She had tears in her eyes. The man waved. Malcolm cried. And he never saw his father again.

  His mother faded forward in a fuzzy vignette. She was younger then, bending toward him, combing his hair, getting him ready for school. He was chubby, even at age seven. But she loved him. She gave him a cheek-to-cheek hug. At dinner she placed big plates of food before his small round smiling face.

  At the kitchen counter, she filled his school lunch box with sandwiches and goodies. Then more sandwiches. And fruit: bananas, apples, grapes and plums. Then as the Brahms music that played in his head took on threatening, stirring undertones, she put in cookies and cakes and pies and ice cream. In a scene that looked more and more weirdly distorted, she stuffed in cooked hams and roasted chickens and heaps of red spaghetti into his lunch box. She smiled down at him. He smiled up at her.