Dagon

by Fred Chappell

  The heat was impossible; stuffed the air like metal wool, would abrade the skin. The copper clangor of the sun filled his ears. There was no breeze, not a hint of it, not even a current in the air. It was so still and hot he felt a match flame would be invisible here in the open. The roaring heat quite overpowered the sound of insects. Under the rough cotton shirt—it was one of Morgan’s which Mina had brought him—his ribs trickled with sweat. He walked into the unmov­ing shade of the wild cherry and stood looking across the glaring fields to the tall glaring hill beyond.

  He heard footsteps on the sagging porch steps and turned. Coke Rymer came toward him through the brassy light. In the heat the blond body seemed to waver like steam, to have less weight than a normal human body. He stopped before Peter once again, still wearing the creepy unmeaning smile. “Was there something you was looking for out here, baby?” He in­clined his head gently to one side.

  He shrugged heavily. The only thing he no­ticed was how silly this boy was. How old was he, anyway? He couldn’t be over nineteen or twenty, was probably seventeen or eighteen. Merely a beer-joint hood, cheap as a plastic toy; something you could wind up and let scoot across the floor, its movements predictable and dull: before long the stretched rubber that made it go would snap and you’d throw it out. What use was he to Mina? He couldn’t see what she saw in him. He began to turn away to go back into the house.

  Coke Rymer put a wet hand on his shoulder. “Wait a minute, feller. It ain’t polite to go walk­ing off while somebody’s talking to you. I don’t much like it when people don’t treat me polite.”

  He turned again. “Get your hand off,” he said. His voice was drowsy.

  “I don’t much like people giving me orders, neither. Especially when it’s some chicken bas­tard like you. I don’t know what you’re doing, hanging around here anyhow. Why don’t you just cut out while you got the chance? There ain’t nothing to hold you here. If I was you I’d just point myself on the road and get gone.”

  Without hesitating, almost without thinking, he aimed a kick at the blond boy’s knee; missed. His foot caught him on the lower thigh.

  Coke Rymer blundered backward a couple of steps. “You’re right mean, ain’t you? By God, we’ll see about that.” But in the middle of his speech his voice cracked into a hoarse falsetto, and this as much as the kick seemed to anger him finally. He clenched his fists and held them apart close to his body and lowered his head and charged at Peter like a clumsy yearling.

  He was calm as wood, unthinking. Again he didn’t hesitate, but stepped forward and brought his elbow up fair into Coke Rymer’s face. It jolted through his arm like an electric shock, but he disregarded it. This sort of pain was meaningless; the whole struggle was mean­ingless. It was simply one more task he hadn’t asked for but which he had to get through.

  Again Coke Rymer staggered back. Peter had clubbed him on the forehead. The yellowish skin reddened, but Peter guessed that it wouldn’t bruise or cut easily. “You…son of a bitch.” He was gasping. Peter could almost feel in his own lungs the weight of the heat of the boy sucked in. He came at Peter again in exactly the same way, but then stopped short and threw an awkward punch with his left hand, catching him on the biceps.

  He was surprised at the lack of force in the punch and, without bothering to guard himself, stepped backward. Coke Rymer came on unsteadily, and they began circling. In the intense heat it was like fighting under water. Coke made innumerable foolish feints with his fist and kept gulping the hot air. Peter backed slowly, keeping his eyes dreamily over the boy’s left shoulder. Somehow that seemed a very clever strategy. He could draw the kid off guard and step in when he pleased. He was momentarily delighted. The mechanics of this struggle, inept and silly as it was, had begun to interest him. He felt a paternal pity for the boy, for his stupidity and awkwardness; it was too bad how he was floundering himself to fatigue out here in the heat. Surely this boy ought to be smarter about fighting than he was. He was still backing, and now he made a feint himself; stepped forward and flicked a short left jab.

  He had surprised him. Coke Rymer hadn’t been touched, but stumbled over his own feet and fell backward, rolling in the dust. He came up breathing hard, his tee shirt caked with the reddish grit. Lips apart, he breathed through dark crooked teeth. He looked warily about him and again assumed his ludicrous boxing pose.

  It was too much. Peter giggled, then laughed hard. He smiled at the boy, fondly amused for the moment. He turned abruptly and walked toward the porch steps, and would have gone back into the house if he hadn’t heard Coke Rymer come stamping after him. He looked and ducked; began backing again slowly and care­fully. The knife was shining in Coke’s hand; the boy held it loosely but confidently. This was dif­ferent, he could kill him with that knife, he was that silly. Peter felt completely at a loss, kept his balance gingerly and made himself stop looking at the weapon. Where had he read that you mustn’t look at the knife but at the man’s eyes instead? Some stupid crime novel probably. He wasn’t at all certain that it was a wise policy. Out here, even in the broad light, Coke Rymer’s eyes were all iris; the pupils had diminished to mere dots. Now he was frightened. He remem­bered the boy’s queer clumsiness and thought of it as his only advantage; he was backing slowly and weaving, careful to keep his balance. He tried his former tactic, stepping forward sud­denly and feinting a jab, but it was a mistake. Coke Rymer leaned out casually and pinked him in the left shoulder. He jumped away and began circling again. The cut itself hadn’t hurt much, but in a few moments it began to sting; he hadn’t realized he’d been sweating so hard. He took a quick peep over his shoulder and then broke and ran, ducking under the floor beams of the porch.

  The space under the house was wedge-shaped, the building resting almost on the ground in the ascent of the hill, stilted up on crooked log lengths down toward the west. It was dim and silent under here but not cool. The air was no easier to breathe, stuffed with dust, stagnant. His body remembered it as the air that had stuffed the black attic room before. He ran up a little way under the house and stopped and turned. He couldn’t see about him yet; he watched the open space beneath the porch where Coke Rymer would come through. Ca­sual appearance of legs in the blue jeans with the broad glass-studded leather belt, the soiled tee shirt. He heard the boy giggling furiously.

  “Why don’t you run one time, you bastard?” Coke Rymer said, “I’d just like to see how good you can run.” He broke down into giggles. He held the knife at his side, then began carelessly whittling at one of the porch steps. “If you think I’m going to go crawling around in there after you, you’re crazy as hell,” he said. “That ain’t my way, to go crawling around under a house for some chicken bastard. No sir, baby, I just don’t cotton to it. Me, I’m just going to wait right here till you come out.” He jabbed the knife into one of the log supports and let it remain, near at hand. The sound of his high voice under the house was hollow, had an unearthly whistle in it. “I’ll wait right here, me, if I have to for five years. And when you take a notion to come out I’ll cut your ass good.” More giggling. Slowly the boy took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and lit one.

  Except for the open end of the porch the space beneath the house was sided with raw boards which let streaks of light between them. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the dim­ness. He was half bent now and to get comfort­able he would have to squat; he didn’t want to do that, he didn’t want to see that yellow fixed face. The dust was thick, came almost to his shoe tops. He maneuvered about a bit, trying to find a measure of comfort, and glass snapped under his foot. Looking, he saw bits of a broken Mason jar.

  “I’d sure like to know what the hell you think you’re doing under there,” Coke Rymer said. “There ain’t no way out for you, sweetheart, except just by me. Why don’t you just face it?”

  He moved to his left and squatted. Now the boy’s face was hidden by the porch steps; visible were a blue knee, a hand laxly holding a burning cigarette, the knife pr
otruding from the log support. He waited to grow calm again, to steady his breathing. He thought of trying to get out, going quietly and keeping the steps between them, but he knew it was no good. The boy, standing, would see him; he wouldn’t get halfway down into the yard. But if he waited here long enough Mina would stop them. Surely she wouldn’t let the blond boy kill him.…But why not? What did he know about her, anyway? She was unfath­omable. The simple fact that she countenanced Coke Rymer at all was unfathomable. All her motives were buried under the ocean. He sighed.

  Moving to the left still, still trying to get out of his sight every part of Coke Rymer and the knife, he struck with his foot something solid and metal. At first he couldn’t find it; buried in the deep dust. He dug in and dredged it out: a handle for a water pump: It was lovely, it was about two and a half feet long, dull iron. It had a very slight S curve and the end of the handle was smooth, his hand fitted it perfectly. The op­posite end of the handle tapered to a flat iron plate which contained three quarter-inch holes evenly spaced. He imagined how the holes would whisper when he swung the weapon. It fitted his hand perfectly, it was proper. He held it before him, admiring the heft and the subtle curve of it. Suddenly in love, he wagged it be­fore him.

  Now he could go out. He could keep the steps between him and Coke Rymer—if he could just move silently under the house (the dust would muffle the noise)—and he could come out stand­ing and ready to fight. He went forward on his knees and crawled toward the light. He pushed the pump handle gently along before him, breathed shallowly and quickly, not wanting to sneeze with the dust. When he reached the edge of the house, he took a ready grip on the handle, then rose slowly to a crouch.

  The boy was talking again; he talked a great deal, Coke Rymer. “I’m telling you, sweetheart, I don’t mind waiting five years for you to come out if I have to. I got all the time in the world.” He stooped and flicked the live cigarette butt under the house, into the dust.

  Peter came out immediately; his eyes had got used to the light. The boy heard and turned, plucking the knife from the log with the quick careless movement one would use in striking a match. They stared at each other over the de­scent of the sagging steps; it was a moment or two before Coke Rymer glimpsed the pump handle. “What’s that thing you’ve got?” he said.

  He began to edge round the steps.

  “That won’t do you no good, just a ole pump handle. I got something here can cut your ass good.”

  But he didn’t come forward; kept still, watch­ing the swing of the handle. Was he going to duck under the house now? That would be too much; Peter thought he would laugh himself sick if he drove the boy to ground like a rat, as he had been driven. No, now Coke began to sidle away from the porch, going back down into the yard.

  “It won’t do you no good. I can throw this here knife.” Almost without looking, and with the one hand, he reversed the knife, holding it lax between thumb and forefinger about half­way down the blade. But there was no conviction in his eyes, and his voice was again teeter­ing on the edge of a falsetto. Peter jumped for­ward and poked him in the stomach with the handle, holding it like a broadsword. Not a hard blow, but telling, assertive of his advantage. The watery blue eyes bulged; the yellow face splotched with red.

  “Throw down the knife,” Peter said. He was surprised; his own voice was whispering and rough. “If you throw the knife down I won’t have to knock your brains out.”

  “Hell you say. I ain’t putting this knife down for no son of a bitch. I throw it anywhere, it’ll be in your belly.”

  But surely it was obvious, even to the boy, the superiority…

  “Go on, go at it. I want to see you kill each other off.” Mina, of course. She stood on the porch watching and now began to let herself gently down into the broken rocking chair. She rocked complacently, enfolding the whole scene with her still gaze. “Go on,” she said. “Kill each other off, why don’t you? Ain’t neither one of you worth what it takes to keep you alive. It’s been a long time since I seen a good fight. Let’s see you do it.”

  They looked at one another helplessly. Their animosity was smothered completely.

  She saw it too and laughed, a hard flat faceless laugh. “And I guess it’ll be a good long time before I ever see another good fight, if it’s up to you two. You ain’t hardly got no fight in you, have you?” Again, the flat hard laugh.

  “Aw shit,” Coke Rymer said. He stuck the knife listlessly into the porch steps. “I can take care of honeybunch here any time I want to. He don’t bother me none, him and his goddam pump handle. I can take care of him without batting a eye.”

  Peter knew better; he was silent, vowing not to let the handle out of his sight. His life was bound to it now; he could see the connection as simply as if it were a glittering chain, a handcuff which held him to the junked iron. For a while now his life had been bound to iron, and the necessity of the handle didn’t surprise him; it was inevitable.

  “I don’t know whether you can or not,” Mina said. “Mr. Leland might be some tougher than you think. What I do know is, you ain’t going to try it no time soon. It ain’t something I’d just let go on and on. Work to get done around here. We got to get packed up to leave and you got to help get it done.”

  “That’s all right with me,” Coke Rymer said. “I’m ready to go any time, anywhere you want to.”

  Peter was ascending the steps, clutching the iron tight. It was the only thing solid in him now. His legs trembled, and his empty right hand. The delayed fear in the struggle with the blond boy had settled on him now and his heart stag­gered in him. His seeing was blurred with fear. He stopped at the porch edge, Mina watching him amused.

  “And what do you think you’re up to?” she said.

  He licked his caked lips. He was careful to look away from her face, over her head into the shadowed sullen air. “I’d like to have a drink,” he said.

  “I guess you don’t mean water then,” she said. “I guess you mean you want liquor.”

  “Yes.” He was still not looking at her.

  “What makes you think you’d get any? What have you done to get any? Have you done any­thing for me lately?”

  “No.” He spoke slowly. “No, but…”

  “But what?”

  His mind was empty. He let his shoulders rise and drop. Helpless.

  Coke Rymer spoke, his voice at once belliger­ent and whining. “I don’t see why you want to put up with him. What do you want with some crazy old drunk anyhow?”

  “Hush,” she said. “Me and Mr. Leland’s still got lots of things to do together. Don’t we, Mr. Leland?”

  He nodded numbly.

  “Even if you can’t fuck no more.”

  He nodded again.

  She rose easily and came toward him and he sank back in himself, though his body didn’t move. Her silvery eyes held the whole range of his knowledge; she placed her hand casually on his penis, withdrew it without haste. “No. Not any more. But there’s always something else, ain’t there? Why don’t you just go and set down in the rocking chair and I’ll see if I can’t find what you’re looking for. Something’ll put hair on your chest.” She grinned. “Make a man out of you.” She stepped lightly away and went to the door and turned. She spoke to Coke Rymer; her voice was sharp and peremptory. “Quit that fiddling around and come on in here. They’s work got to be done if we’re ever going to get going.”

  “All right,” he said. “I done told you I’m ready to go.” He stopped his scraping of the notched edge of the porch step and folded the knife and put it into his pocket. He came up the steps with his buoyant grace and followed Mina into the house, pausing only to give Peter a single swift foul-natured glance.

  Peter giggled. That one last glance had so much about it of the impulse of the hindered child who sticks out his tongue. That was Coke Rymer, all right: a spoiled child. Spoiled, soiled; but also despoiling, assoiling. He darkened the heavy brightness of the air, and even in his total blind paleness there was a
dimness, as of a furry rot-inducing mold. He tipped the rocking chair forward and back, but the motion augmented the queasiness that his belated fear had brought on and he stopped quickly, sat in the shadowed porch gazing out. The settled heat had not moved. The limbs of the wild cherry tree dropped, the sharp leaves looked buttery in the sunlight. He was simply waiting, and in a while Mina did appear, holding one of the too-familiar jars loosely at the ridged top.

  “Here now,” she said. “Here it is, you can drink it. But I don’t want to see that you’ve poured none of it out or spilled it or wasted it, or you’ll never see another drop from me as long as you live.”

  She went back into the house. He looked through it at the landscape, which was streaked and crazed and looked even hotter through the yellowish liquid. He began to drink, drank steadily, and within the hour he was delirious and lying on the porch in foetal position, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He was prophesying in a loud voice, heedless. And then he began to whisper. “Mina’s right,” he said, and the sibilance of his whisper was echoed in the sibilance of his clothing as it rasped on the boards of the porch. He squirmed on the floor but made no progress. “Mina’s right about the snake. We live as serpents, sucking in the dust, sucking it up. The stuff we were formed of, and we ought to inhabit it. We ought to struggle to make ourselves secret and detestable, we should cultivate our sicknesses and bruise our own heads with our own heels. Where’s the profit in claiming to walk upright? There’s no poisonous animal that walks upright, a desecration. It’s better to show your true shape, always. It’s bet­ter to s—…” But now he had squirmed forward, to the edge of the porch, and his forehead knocked against a supporting post. He raised his head and began to gnaw feverishly at the base of the post. The wood tasted of bitter salty dust. He closed his eyes and kept gnawing until the fit had passed off him and then he lay weak throughout his whole body. He was sweating, the bitterness of the post streamed out his pores; and a fine-edged clarity possessed him. He felt unutterably ashamed, and he turned his eyes toward the door, knowing already what he would see, his face and mouth and ears burning with fearful shame.