by Ray Bradbury
The General stopped and made a little pile of winter leaves and twigs in the darkness, as if he might at any moment strike fire to them to see his way through the coming days when the sun might not show its face because of what was happening here and just beyond.
The boy watched the hand stirring the leaves and opened his lips to say something, but did not say it. The General heard the boy’s breath and spoke himself.
“Why am I telling you this? That’s what you wanted to ask, eh? Well, when you got a bunch of wild horses on a loose rein somewhere, somehow you got to bring order, rein them in. These lads, fresh out of the milkshed, don’t know what I know, and I can’t tell them: men actually die, in war. So each is his own army. I got to make one army of them. And for that, boy, I need you.”
“Me!” The boy’s lips barely twitched.
“Now, boy,” said the General quietly, “you are the heart of the army. Think of that. You’re the heart of the army. Listen, now.”
And, lying there, Joby listened.
And the General spoke on.
If he, Joby, beat slow tomorrow, the heart would beat slow in the men. They would lag by the wayside. They would drowse in the fields on their muskets. They would sleep forever, after that, in those same fields, their hearts slowed by a drummer boy and stopped by enemy lead.
But if he beat a sure, steady, ever faster rhythm, then, then their knees would come up in a long line down over that hill, one knee after the other, like a wave on the ocean shore! Had he seen the ocean ever? Seen the waves rolling in like a well-ordered cavalry charge to the sand? Well, that was it, that’s what he wanted, that’s what was needed! Joby was his right hand and his left. He gave the orders, but Joby set the pace!
So bring the right knee up and the right foot out and the left knee up and the left foot out. One following the other in good time, in brisk time. Move the blood up the body and make the head proud and the spine stiff and the jaw resolute. Focus the eye and set the teeth, flare the nostrils and tighten the hands, put steel armor all over the men, for blood moving fast in them does indeed make men feel as if they’d put on steel. He must keep at it, at it! Long and steady, steady and long! Then, even though shot or torn, those wounds got in hot blood—in blood he’d helped stir—would feel less pain. If their blood was cold, it would be more than slaughter, it would be murderous nightmare and pain best not told and no one to guess.
The General spoke and stopped, letting his breath slack off. Then, after a moment, he said, “So there you are, that’s it. Will you do that, boy? Do you know now you’re general of the army when the General’s left behind?”
The boy nodded mutely.
“You’ll run them through for me then, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. And, God willing, many nights from tonight, many years from now, when you’re as old or far much older than me, when they ask you what you did in this awful time, you will tell them—one part humble and one part proud—‘I was the drummer boy at the battle of Owl Creek,’ or the Tennessee River, or maybe they’ll just name it after the church there. ‘I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Good grief, that has a beat and sound to it fitting for Mr. Long-fellow. ‘I was the drummer boy at Shiloh.’ Who will ever hear those words and not know you, boy, or what you thought this night, or what you’ll think tomorrow or the next day when we must get up on our legs and move!”
The general stood up. “Well, then. God bless you, boy. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
And, tobacco, brass, boot polish, salt sweat and leather, the man moved away through the grass.
Joby lay for a moment, staring but unable to see where the man had gone.
He swallowed. He wiped his eyes. He cleared his throat. He settled himself. Then, at last, very slowly and firmly, he turned the drum so that it faced up toward the sky.
He lay next to it, his arm around it, feeling the tremor, the touch, the muted thunder as, all the rest of the April night in the year 1862, near the Tennessee River, not far from the Owl Creek, very close to the church named Shiloh, the peach blossoms fell on the drum.
Boys! Raise Giant Mushrooms in Your Cellar!
Hugh Fortnum woke to Saturday’s commotions and lay, eyes shut, savoring each in its turn.
Below, bacon in a skillet; Cynthia waking him with fine cookings instead of cries.
Across the hall, Tom actually taking a shower.
Far off in the bumblebee dragonfly light, whose voice was already damning the weather, the time, and the tides? Mrs. Goodbody? Yes. That Christian giantess, six foot tall with her shoes off, the gardener extraordinary, the octogenarian dietitian and town philosopher.
He rose, unhooked the screen and leaned out to hear her cry, “There! Take that! This’ll fix you! Hah!”
“Happy Saturday, Mrs. Goodbodyl”
The old woman froze in clouds of bug spray pumped from an immense gun.
“Nonsense!” she shouted. “With these fiends and pests to watch for?”
“What kind this time?” called Fortnum.
“I don’t want to shout it to the jaybirds, but”—she glanced suspiciously around—“what would you say if I told you I was the first line of defense concerning flying saucers?”
“Fine,” replied Fortnum. “There’ll be rockets between the worlds any year now.”
“There already are!” She pumped, aiming the spray under the hedge. “There! Take that!”
He pulled his head back in from the fresh day, somehow not as high-spirited as his first response had indicated. Poor soul, Mrs. Goodbody. Always the essence of reason. And now what? Old age?
The doorbell rang.
He grabbed his robe and was half down the stairs when he heard a voice say, “Special delivery. Fortnum?” and saw Cynthia turn from the front door, a small packet in her hand.
“Special-delivery airmail for your son.”
Tom was downstairs like a centipede.
“Wow! That must be from the Great Bayou Novelty Greenhouse!”
“I wish I were as excited about ordinary mail,” observed Fortnum.
“Ordinary?!” Tom ripped the cord and paper wildly. “Don’t you read the back pages of Popular Mechanics? Well, here they are!”
Everyone peered into the small open box.
“Here,” said Fortnum, “what are?”
“The Sylvan Glade Jumbo-Giant Guaranteed Growth Raise-Them-in-Your-Cellar-for-Big-Profit Mushrooms!”
“Oh, of course,” said Fortnum. “How silly of me.”
Cynthia squinted. “Those little teeny bits?”
“‘Fabulous growth in twenty-four hours,’” Tom quoted from memory. “ ‘Plant them in your cellar …’ ”
Fortnum and wife exchanged glances.
“Well,” she admitted, “it’s better than frogs and green snakes.”
“Sure is!” Tom ran.
“Oh, Tom,” said Fortnum lightly.
Tom paused at the cellar door.
“Tom,” said his father. “Next time, fourth-class mail would do fine.”
“Heck,” said Tom. “They must’ve made a mistake, thought I was some rich company. Airmail special, who can afford that?”
The cellar door slammed.
Fortnum, bemused, scanned the wrapper a moment then dropped it into the wastebasket. On his way to the kitchen, he opened the cellar door.
Tom was already on his knees, digging with a hand rake in the dirt.
He felt his wife beside him, breathing softly, looking down into the cool dimness.
“Those are mushrooms, I hope. Not … toadstools?”
Fortnum laughed. “Happy harvest, farmer!”
Tom glanced up and waved.
Fortnum shut the door, took his wife’s arm and walked her out to the kitchen, feeling fine.
Toward noon, Fortnum was driving toward the nearest market when he saw Roger Willis, a fellow Rotarian and a teacher of biology at the town high school, waving urgently from the sidewalk.
&nbs
p; Fortnum pulled his car up and opened the door.
“Hi, Roger, give you a lift?”
Willis responded all too eagerly, jumping in and slamming the door.
“Just the man I want to see. I’ve put off calling for days. Could you play psychiatrist for five minutes, God help you?”
Fortnum examined his friend for a moment as he drove quietly on.
“God help you, yes. Shoot.”
Willis sat back and studied his fingernails. “Let’s just drive a moment. There. Okay. Here’s what I want to say: Something’s wrong with the world.”
Fortnum laughed easily. “Hasn’t there always been?”
“No, no, I mean … something strange—something unseen—is happening.”
“Mrs. Goodbody,” said Fortnum, half to himself, and stopped.
“Mrs. Goodbody?”
“This morning, gave me a talk on flying saucers.”
“No.” Willis bit the knuckle of his forefinger nervously. “Nothing like saucers. At least, I don’t think. Tell me, what exactly is intuition?”
“The conscious recognition of something that’s been subconscious for a long time. But don’t quote this amateur psychologist!” He laughed again.
“Good, good!” Willis turned, his face lighting. He readjusted himself in the seat. “That’s it! Over a long period, things gather, right? All of a sudden, you have to spit, but you don’t remember saliva collecting. Your hands are dirty, but you don’t know how they got that way. Dust falls on you everyday and you don’t feel it. But when you get enough dust collected up, there it is, you see and name it. That’s intuition, as far as I’m concerned. Well, what kind of dust has been falling on me? A few meteors in the sky at night? funny weather just before dawn? I don’t know. Certain colors, smells, the way the house creaks at three in the morning? Hair prickling on my arms? All I know is, the damn dust has collected. Quite suddenly I know.”
“Yes,” said Fortnum, disquieted. “But what is it you know?”
Willis looked at his hands in his lap. “I’m afraid. I’m not afraid. Then I’m afraid again, in the middle of the day. Doctor’s checked me. I’m A-one. No family problems. Joe’s a fine boy, a good son. Dorothy? She’s remarkable. With her I’m not afraid of growing old or dying.”
“Lucky man.”
“But beyond my luck now. Scared stiff, really, for myself, my family; even right now, for you.”
“Me?” said Fortnum.
They had stopped now by an empty lot near the market. There was a moment of great stillness, in which Fortnum turned to survey his friend. Willis’ voice had suddenly made him cold.
“I’m afraid for everybody,” said Willis. “Your friends, mine, and their friends, on out of sight. Pretty silly, eh?”
Willis opened the door, got out and peered in at Fortnum.
Fortnum felt he had to speak. “Well, what do we do about it?”
Willis looked up at the sun burning blind in the sky. “Be aware,” he said slowly. “Watch everything for a few days.”
“Everything?”
“We don’t use half what God gave us, ten per cent of the time. We ought to hear more, feel more, smell more, taste more. Maybe there’s something wrong with the way the wind blows these weeds there in the lot. Maybe it’s the sun up on those telephone wires or the cicadas singing in the elm trees. If only we could stop, look, listen, a few days, a few nights, and compare notes. Tell me to shut up then, and I will.”
“Good enough,” said Fortnum, playing it lighter than he felt. “I’ll look around. But how do I know the thing I’m looking for when I see it?”
Willis peered in at him, sincerely. “You’ll know. You’ve got to know. Or we’re done for, all of us,” he said quietly.
Fortnum shut the door and didn’t know what to say. He felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up his face. Willis sensed this.
“Hugh, do you think I’m … off my rocker?”
“Nonsense!” said Fortnum, too quickly. “You’re just nervous, is all. You should take a week off.”
Willis nodded. “See you Monday night?”
“Any time. Drop around.”
“I hope I will, Hugh. I really hope I will.”
Then Willis was gone, hurrying across the dry weed-grown lot toward the side entrance of the market.
Watching him go, Fortnum suddenly did not want to move. He discovered that very slowly he was taking deep breaths, weighing the silence. He licked his lips, tasting the salt. He looked at his arm on the doorsill, the sunlight burning the golden hairs. In the empty lot the wind moved all alone to itself. He leaned out to look at the sun, which stared back with one massive stunning blow of intense power that made him jerk his head in. He exhaled. Then he laughed out loud. Then he drove away.
The lemonade glass was cool and deliciously sweaty. The ice made music inside the glass, and the lemonade was just sour enough, just sweet enough on his tongue. He sipped, he savored, he tilted back in the wicker rocking chair on the twilight front porch, his eyes closed. The crickets were chirping out on the lawn. Cynthia, knitting across from him on the porch, eyed him curiously; he could feel her attention.
“What are you up to?” she said at last.
“Cynthia,” he said, “is your intuition in running order? Is this earthquake weather? Is the land going to sink? Will war be declared? Or is it only that our delphinium will die of the blight?”
“Hold on. Let me feel my bones.”
He opened his eyes and watched Cynthia in turn closing hers and sitting absolutely statue-still, her hands on her knees. Finally she shook her head and smiled.
“No. No war declared. No land sinking. Not even a blight. Why?”
“I’ve met a lot of doom talkers today. Well, two anyway, and—”
The screen door burst wide. Fortnum’s body jerked as if he had been struck. “What—I”
Tom, a gardener’s wooden flat in his arms, stepped out on the porch.
“Sorry,” he said. “What’s wrong, Dad?”
“Nothing.” Fortnum stood up, glad to be moving. “Is that the crop?”
Tom moved forward eagerly. “Part of it. Boy, they’re doing great. In just seven hours, with lots of water, look how big the darn things are!” He set the flat on the table between his parents.
The crop was indeed plentiful. Hundreds of small grayish-brown mushrooms were sprouting up in the damp soil.
“I’ll be damned,” said Fortnum, impressed.
Cynthia put out her hand to touch the flat, then took it away uneasily.
“I hate to be a spoilsport, but … there’s no way for these to be anything else but mushrooms, is there?”
Tom looked as if he had been insulted. “What do you think I’m going to feed you? Poisoned fungoids?”
“That’s just it,” said Cynthia quickly. “How do you tell them apart?”
“Eat ‘em,” said Tom. “If you live, they’re mushrooms. If you drop dead—well!”
He gave a great guffaw, which amused Fortnum but only made his mother wince. She sat back in her chair.
“I—I don’t like them,” she said.
“Boy, oh, boy.” Tom seized the flat angrily. “When are we going to have the next wet-blanket sale in this house?”
He shuffled morosely away.
“Tom—” said Fortnum.
“Never mind,” said Tom. “Everyone figures they’ll be ruined by the boy entrepreneur. To heck with it!”
Fortnum got inside just as Tom heaved the mushrooms, flat and all, down the cellar stairs. He slammed the cellar door and ran out the back door.
Fortnum turned back to his wife, who, stricken, glanced away.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know why, I just had to say that to Tom. I—”
The phone rang. Fortnum brought the phone outside on its extension cord.
“Hugh?” It was Dorothy Willis’ voice. She sounded suddenly very old and very frightened. “Hugh, Roger isn’t there, is he?”
“Doro
thy? No.”
“He’s gone!” said Dorothy. “All his clothes were taken from the closet.” She began to cry.
“Dorothy, hold on, I’ll be there in a minute.”
“You must help, oh, you must. Something’s happened to him, I know it,” she wailed. “Unless you do something, we’ll never see him alive again.”
Very slowly he put the receiver back on its hook, her voice weeping inside it. The night crickets quite suddenly were very loud. He felt the hairs, one by one, go up on the back of his neck.
Hair can’t do that, he thought. Silly, silly. It can’t do that, not in real life, it can’t!
But, one by slow prickling one, his hair did.
The wire hangers were indeed empty. With a clatter, Fortnum shoved them aside and down along the rod, then turned and looked out of the closet at Dorothy Willis and her son Joe.
“I was just walking by,” said Joe, “and saw the closet empty, all Dad’s clothes gone!”
“Everything was fine,” said Dorothy. “We’ve had a wonderful life. I don’t understand, I don’t, I don’tl” She began to cry again, putting her hands to her face.
Fortnum stepped out of the closet.
“You didn’t hear him leave the house?”
“We were playing catch out front,” said Joe. “Dad said he had to go in for a minute. I went around back. Then he was gone!”
“He must have packed quickly and walked wherever he was going, so we wouldn’t hear a cab pull up in front of the house.”
They were moving out through the hall now.
“I’ll check the train depot and the airport.” Fortnum hesitated. “Dorothy, is there anything in Roger’s background—”
“It wasn’t insanity took him.” She hesitated. “I feel, somehow, he was kidnapped.”