by C. L. Moore
So, seeing as how Grandpaw told us to lay low, we waited till the eight Tarbell boys busted down the door, and then we all went invisible, including the baby. Then we waited for the thing to blow over, only it didn't.
After stomping around and ripping up things a lot, the eight Tarbell boys come down in the cellar. Now, that was kind of bad, because we was caught by surprise. The baby had gone invisible, like I say, and so had the tank we keep him in, but the tank couldn't move around fast like we could.
One of the eight Tarbell boys went and banged into it and hit hisself a smart crack on the shank bone. How he cussed! It was shameful for a growing boy to hear, except Grandpaw kin outcuss anybody I ever heard, so I didn't larn nothing.
Well—he cussed a lot, jumped around, and all of a sudden his squirrel rifle went off. Must have had a hair trigger. That woke up the baby, who got scared and let out a yell. It was the blamedest yell I'd ever heard out of the baby yet, and I've seen men go all white and shaky when he bellers. Our Perfesser feller told us oncet the baby emitted a subsonic. Imagine!
Anyhow, seven of the eight Tarbell boys dropped daid, all in a heap, without even time to squeal. The eighth one was up at the haid of the cellar steps, and he got all quivery and turned around and ran. I guess he was so dizzy he didn't know where he was heading. 'Fore he knowed it, he was up in the attic, where he stepped right square on Grandpaw.
Now, the fool thing was this: Grandpaw was so busy telling us what to do he'd entirely fergot to go invisible hisself. And I guess one look at Grandpaw just plumb finished the eighth Tarbell boy. He fell right down, daid as a skun coon. Cain't imagine why, though I got to admit Grandpaw wasn't looking his best that week. He'd been sick.
"You all right, Grandpaw?" I asked, sort of shaking him out. He cussed me.
" 'Twarn't my fault," I told him.
" 'Sblood!" he said, madlike. "What rabble of canting jolt-heads have I sired? Put me down, you young scoundrel." So I put him back on the gunny sack and he turned around a couple of times and shut his eyes. After that, he said he was going to take a nap and not to wake him up for nothing, bar Judgment Day. He meant it, too.
So we had to figger out for ourselves what was best to do. Maw said it warn't our fault, and all we could do was pile the eight Tarbell boys in a wheelbarrow and take 'em back home, which I done. Only I got to feeling kind of shy on the way, on account of I couldn't figger out no real polite way to mention what had happened. Besides, Maw had told me to break the news gentle. "Even a polecat's got feelings," she said.
So I left the wheelbarrow with the eight Tarbell boys in it behind some scrub brush, and I went on up the slope to where I could see Yancey sitting, airing hisself out in the sun and reading a book. I still hadn't studied out what to say. I just traipsed along slow-like, whistling "Yankee Doodle." Yancey didn't pay me no mind for a while.
He's a little, mean, dirty man with chin whiskers. Couldn't be much more'n five feet high. There was tobacco juice on his whiskers, but I might have done old Yancey wrong in figgering he was only sloppy. I heard he used to spit in his beard to draw flies, so's he could ketch 'em and pull off their wings.
Without looking, he picked up a stone, and flang it past my head. "Shet up an' go way," he said.
"Just as you say, Mr. Yancey," I told him, mighty relieved, and started to. But then I remembered Maw would probably whup me if I didn't mind her orders, so I sort of moved around quiet till I was in back of Yancey and looking over his shoulder at what he was reading. It looked like a book. Then I moved around a mite more till I was upwind of him.
He started cackling in his whiskers.
"That's a real purty picture, Mr. Yancey," I said.
He was giggling so hard it must of cheered him up.
"Ain't it, though!" he said, banging his fist on his skinny old rump. "My, my! Makes me feel full o' ginger just to look at it."
It wasn't a book, though. It was a magazine, the kind they sell down at the village, and it was opened at a picture. The feller that made it could draw real good. Not so good as an artist I knowed once, over in England. He went by the name of Crookshank or Crookback or something like that, unless I'm mistook.
Anyway, this here that Yancey was looking at was quite a picture. It showed a lot of fellers, all exactly alike, coming out of a big machine which I could tell right off wouldn't work. But all these fellers was as like as peas in a pod. Then there was a red critter with bugged-out eyes grabbing a girl, I dunno why. It was sure purty.
"Wisht something like that could really happen," Yancey said.
"It ain't so hard," I told him. "Only that gadget's all wrong. All you need is a washbasin and some old scrap iron."
"Hey?"
"That thing there," I said. "The jigger that looks like it's making one feller into a whole lot of fellers. It ain't built right."
"I s'pose you could do it better?" he snapped, sort of mad.
"We did, once," I said. "I forget what Paw had on his mind, but he owed a man name of Cadmus a little favor. Cadmus wanted a lot of fighting men in a real hurry, so Paw fixed it so's Cadmus could split hisself up into a passel of soldiers. Shucks. I could do it myself."
"What are you blabbering about?" Yancey asked. "You ain't looking at the right thing. This here red critter's what I mean. See what he's a-gonna do? Gonna chaw that there purty gal's haid off, looks like. See the tusks on him? Heh, heh, heh. I wisht I was a critter like that. I'd chaw up plenty of people."
"You wouldn't chaw up your own kin, though, I bet," I said, seeing a way to break the news gentle.
" 'Tain't right to bet," he told me. "Allus pay your debts, fear no man, and don't lay no wagers. Gambling's a sin. I never made no bets and I allus paid my debts." He stopped, scratched his whiskers, and sort of sighed. "All except one," he added, frowning.
"What was that?"
"Oh, I owed a feller something. Only I never could locate him afterward. Must be nigh on thutty years ago. Seems like I got likkered up and got on a train. Guess I robbed somebody, too, 'cause I had a roll big enough to choke a hoss. Never tried that, come to think of it. You keep hosses?"
"No, sir," I said. "We was talking about your kin."
"Shet up," old Yancey said. "Well, now, I had myself quite a time." He licked his whiskers. "Ever heard tell of a place called New York? In some furrin country, I guess. Can't understand a word nobody says. Anyway, that's where I met up with this feller. I often wisht I could find him again. An honest man like me hates to think of dying without paying his lawful debts."
"Did your eight boys owe any debts?" I asked.
He squinted at me, slapped his skinny leg, and nodded.
"Now I know," he said. "Ain't you the Hogben boy?"
"That's me. Saunk Hogben."
"I heard tell 'bout you Hogbens. All witches, ain't you?"
"No, sir."
"I heard what I heard. Whole neighborhood's buzzing. Hexers, that's what. You get outa here, go on, git!"
"I'm a-going," I said. "I just come by to say it's real unfortunate you couldn't chaw up your own kin if'n you was a critter like in that there picture."
"Ain't nobody big enough to stop me!"
"Maybe not," I said, "but they've all gone to glory."
When he heard this, old Yancey started to cackle. Finally, when he got his breath back, he said, "Not them! Them varmints have gone plumb smack to perdition, right where they belong. How'd it happen?"
"It was sort of an accident," I said. "The baby done kilt seven of them and Grandpaw kilt the other, in a way of speaking. No harm intended."
"No harm done," Yancey said, cackling again.
"Maw sent her apologies, and what do you want done with the remains? I got to take the wheelbarrow back home."
"Take 'em away. I don't want 'em. Good riddance to bad rubbish," old Yancey said, so I said all right and started off. But then he yelled out and told me he'd changed his mind. Told me to dump 'em where they was. From what I could make out, which wasn't much because he
was laughing so hard, he wanted to come down and kick 'em.
So I done like he said and then went back home and told Maw, over a mess of catfish and beans and pot-likker. She made some hush puppies, too. They was good. I sat back, figgering I'd earned a rest, and thunk a mite, feeling warm and nice around the middle. I was trying to figger what a bean would feel like, down in my tummy. But it didn't seem to have no feelings.
It couldn't of been more than a half hour later when the pig yelled outside like he was getting kicked, and then somebody knocked on the door. It was Yancey. Minute he come in, he pulled a bandanna out of his britches and started sniffling. I looked at Maw, wide-eyed. I couldn't tell her nothing.
Paw and Uncle Les was drinking corn in a corner, and giggling a mite. I could tell they was feeling good because of the way the table kept rocking, the one between them. It wasn't touching neither one, but it kept jiggling, trying to step fust on Paw's toes and then on Uncle Les's. They was doing it inside their haids, trying to ketch the other one off guard.
It was up to Maw, and she invited old Yancey to set down a spell and have some beans. He just sobbed.
"Something wrong, neighbor?" Maw asked, polite.
"It sure is," Yancey said, sniffling. "I'm a real old man."
"You surely are," Maw told him. "Mebbe not as old as Saunk here, but you look awful old."
"Hey?" Yancey said, staring at her. "Saunk? Saunk ain't more'n seventeen, big as he is."
Maw near looked embarrassed. "Did I say Saunk?" she covered up, quick-like. "I meant this Saunk's grand-paw. His name's Saunk too." It wasn't; even Grandpaw don't remember what his name was first, it's been so long. But in his time he's used a lot of names like Elijah and so forth. I ain't even sure they had names in Atlantis, where Grandpaw come from in the first place. Numbers or something. It don't signify, anyhow.
Well, seems like old Yancey kept snuffling and groaning and moaning, and made out like we'd kilt his eight boys and he was all alone in the world. He hadn't cared a mite half an hour ago, though, and I said so. But he pointed out he hadn't rightly understood what I was talking about then, and for me to shet up.
"Ought to had a bigger family," he said. "They used to be two more boys, Zeb and Robbie, but I shot 'em one time. Didn't like the way they was looking ory-eyed at me. The point is, you Hogbens ain't got no right to kill my boys."
"We didn't go for to do it," Maw said. "It was more or less an accident. We'd be right happy to make it up to you, one way or another."
"That's what I was counting on," old Yancey said. "It seems like the least you could do, after acting up like you done. It don't matter whether the baby kilt my boys, like Saunk says and he's a liar. The idea is that I figger all you Hogbens are responsible. But I guess we could call it square if'n you did me a little favor. It ain't really right for neighbors to hold bad feelings."
"Any favor you name," Maw said, "if it ain't out of line."
" 'Tain't much," old Yancey said. "I just want you to split me up into a rabble, sort of temporary."
"Hey, you been listening to Medea?" Paw said, being drunk enough not to know no better. "Don't you believe her. That was purely a prank she played on Pelias. After he got chopped up he stayed daid; he didn't git young like she said he would."
"Hey?" Yancey said. He pulled that old magazine out of his pocket and it fell open right to that purty picture. "This here," he said. "Saunk tells me you kin do it. And everybody round here knows you Hogbens are witches. Saunk said you done it once with a feller named of Messy."
"Guess he means Cadmus," I said.
Yancey waved the magazine. I saw he had a queer kind of gleam in his eye.
"It shows right here," he said, wild-like. "A feller steps inside this here gimmick and then he keeps coming out of it, dozens of him, over and over. Witchcraft. Well, I know about you Hogbens. You may fool the city folk, but you don't fool me none. You're all witches."
"We ain't," Paw said from the corner. "Not no more."
"You are so," Yancey said. "I heard stories. I even seen him"—he pointed right at Uncle Les—"I seen him flying around in the air. And if that ain't witchcraft I don't know what is."
"Don't you, honest?" I asked. "That's easy. It's when you get some—"
But Maw told me to shet up.
"Saunk told me you kin do it," he said. "An' I been sitting and studying and looking over this here magazine. I got me a fine idea. Now, it stands to reason, everybody knows a witch kin be in two places at the same time. Couldn't a witch mebbe git to be in three places at the same time?"
"Three's as good as two," Maw said. "Only there ain't no witches. It's like this here science you hear tell about. People make it up out of their haids. It ain't natcheral."
"Well, then," Yancey said, putting the magazine down. "Two or three or a whole passel. How many people are there in the world, anyway?"
"Two billion, two hunnerd fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and nineteen," I said.
"Then—"
"Hold on a minute," I said. "Now it's two billion, two hunnerd fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and twenty. Cute little tyke, too."
"Boy or girl?" Maw asked.
"Boy," I told her.
"Then why can't you make me be in two billion whatever it was places at the same time? Mebbe for just a half a minute or so. I ain't greedy. That'd be long enough, anyhow."
"Long enough for what?" Maw asked.
Yancey give me a sly look. "I got me a problem," he said. "I want to find a feller. Trouble is, I dunno if I kin find him now. It's been a awful long time. But I got to, somehow or other. I ain't a-gonna rest easy in my grave unless I done paid all my debts, and for thutty years I been owing this feller something. It lays heavy on my conscience."
"That's right honorable of you, neighbor," Maw said.
Yancey snuffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"It's a-gonna be a hard job," he said. "I put it off mebbe a mite too long. The thing is, I was figgering on sending my eight boys out to look for this feller sometime, so you kin see why it's busted me all up, the way them no-good varmints up and got kilt without no warning. How am I gonna find that feller I want now?"
Maw looked troubled and passed Yancey the jug.
"Whoosh!" he said, after a snort. "Tastes like real hell-fire for certain. Whoosh!" Then he took another swig, sucked in some air, and scowled at Maw.
"If'n a man plans on sawing down a tree and his neighbor busts the saw, seems to me that neighbor ought to lend his own saw. Ain't that right?"
"Sure is," Maw said. "Only we ain't got eight boys to lend you."
"You got something better," Yancey said. "Black, wicked magic, that's what. I ain't saying yea or nay 'bout that. It's your own affair. But seeing as how you kilt off them wuthless young 'uns of mine, so's I can't do like I was intending—why, then it looks like you ought to be willing to help me in some other way. Long as I kin locate that feller and pay him what I owe him, I'm satisfied. Now, ain't it the gospel truth that you kin spilt me up into a passel of me-critters?"
"Why, I guess we kin do that, I s'pose," Maw said.
"An' ain't it gospel that you kin fix it so's every dang one of them me-critters will travel real fast and see everybody in the whole, entire world?"
"That's easy," I said.
"If'n I kin git to do that," Yancey said, "it'd be easy for me to spot that feller and give him what he's got coming to him." He snuffled. "I allus been honest. I'm skeered of dying unless I pay all my debts fust. Danged if'n I want to burn through all eternity like you sinful Hogbens are a-gonna."
"Shucks," Maw said, "I guess we kin help out, neighbor, being as how you feel so het up about it. Yes, sir, we'll do like you want."
Yancey brightened up considerable.
"Promise?" he asked. "Swear it, on your word an' honor?"
Maw looked kind of funny, but Yancey pulled out his bandanna again, so she busted down and made her solemn promise.
Right away Yancey cheered up.
"How long will the spell take?" he asked.
"There ain't no spell," I said. "Like I told you, all I need is some scrap iron and a washbasin. 'Twon't take long."
"I'll be back real soon," Yancey said, sort of cackling, and run out, laughing his haid off. Going through the yard, he kicked out at a chicken, missed, and laughed some more. Guess he was feeling purty good.
"You better go on and make that gadget so's it'll be ready," Maw told me. "Git going."
"Yes, Maw," I said, but I sat there for a second or two, studying. She picked up the broomstick.
"You know, Maw—"
"Well?"
"Nothing," I said, and dodged the broomstick. I went on out, trying to git clear what was troubling me. Something was, only I couldn't tell what. I felt kind of unwilling to make that there gadget, which didn't make right good sense, since there didn't seem to be nothing really wrong.
I went out behind the woodshed, though, and got busy. Took me 'bout ten minutes, but I didn't hurry much. Then I come back to the house with the gadget and said I was done. Paw told me to shet up.
Well, I sat there and looked at the gimmick and still felt trouble on my mind. Had to do with Yancey, somehow or other. Finally I noticed he'd left his old magazine behind, so I picked it up and started reading the story right under that picture, trying to make sense out of it. Durned if I could.
It was all about some crazy hillbillies who could fly. Well, that ain't no trick but what I couldn't figger out was whether the feller that writ it was trying to be funny or not. Seems to me people are funny enough anyhow, without trying to make 'em funnier.
Besides, serious things ought to be treated serious, and from what our Perfesser feller told me once, there's an awful lot of people what really believe in science and take it tremendous serious. He allus got a holy light in his eye when he talked about it. The only good thing about that story, it didn't have no girls in it. Girls make me feel funny.
I didn't seem to be gitting nowheres, so I went down to the cellar and played with the baby. He's kind of big for his tank these days. He was glad to see me. Winked all four of his eyes at me, one after the other. Real cute.