Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  “’Course I remember Jimmy,” says Tom unfolding his arms; and now he sounds less angry and more sad, so I know I’m working him the right way.

  “And what about Johnny Miller as died when that stray dog went a-prowling round his folks’ house and howled there too? Looked right at Johnny and howled at him, way I heard it. And warn’t he dead that same week? Dead with not a sign of what killed him and no one even knowing how it come about if there hadn’t been folks as heard that dog a-howling? And what about his sister Gracie as fell in the kitchen fire and got burned to flinders on account of that whippowill flying in at the window and singing at her?”

  “I remember,” mutters Tom, kind of quiet. “Didn’t have no luck, the Millers.”

  “And it ain’t even as if Joe was the first person we seen die right in front of us, now is it Tom? We saw…”

  Tom’s eyes widen up and he opens his mouth quick to stop me saying something I shouldn’t, which is maybe just as well. I catch myself in time.

  “…well, we saw that other business didn’t we?” says I. “Right there in front of our own eyes? All picked out by the moonlight, ’most as clear as day? We seed that all right, didn’t we?”

  Tom closes his mouth agin and just nods. Then he takes a few paces up and down that sandbar, not paying no nevermind to the water splashing over his britches (he’d kept his on and just rolled them up); and his forehead’s all wrinkled up, so I know there’s some mighty big thinking going on in there.

  “Why, Hucky!” says Tom, and his voice is all bright now and he spins back round toward me and claps his hands. “Dog my cats if that ain’t ’bout as philosophical an attitude as ever I heard. That’s what them old Greek fellers thought ’bout death too.”

  “Old Greek fellers?” I was mighty foxed by this, ’cause I don’t reckon I’ve ever heard tell of one hereabouts. And I ain’t in no wise placed to say as I’ve had a fill of sophical attitude neither, on account of not knowing what it is nor how much of it I’ve got. Anyhow, whatever it is, Tom sure seems to think it casts a different light on things and he’s ’bout as happy now as he’d been dismal before. (Tom can be mighty changeable that way, depending on how a notion strikes him; I reckon this one’d caught him just so.) He’s still running on about it.

  “Sure I told you ’bout them old Greeks, Huck! Ancient Greeks with long white beards down to their sandals? They was in that book I told you ’bout.” Like I said before, Tom gets a good-size chunk of his learning from books, and some of it’s dern near as good as real learning.

  “Oh, them Greeks,” says I. Something was coming back to me now, even though it must’ve been a whole year since Tom told me. Way I ’membered it, these fellers had an awful lot of time on their hands: they spent forty years or more attacking a city and had to play with wooden horses just to keep themselves amused (which don’t hardly seem proper for old men with beards). Then, when they’d finally won, it took them a dozen years more to sail home agin. Reckon the captain of that ship must’ve took some bullyragging.

  “Anyway,” says Tom, “the smartest ones thought ’bout life and death just the way you said just now. Stooks, they was called, on account of their sitting in bunches with their heads together, confabulating on the porch outside Athens town hall.”

  I’m pondering that some, when suddenly – wham! – down I go like a tree that’s been axed! I’d plumb forgot about that fishline tied round my ankle and without no warning there’d been a tug so hard it’d pulled my leg out from under me. I put my arm out just in time, else I’d ’most probly split my skull open. But that ain’t near the end of it: the fish that pulled me down – must be a mighty big one – is still a-hauling like its life depended on it and that line is cutting into my ankle and dragging me into the river. My face scrapes along that rock and I give a yelp; I spread my arms wide and near ’nuff hug that rock like it’s my ma (God rest her) but can’t hardly get no grip. Then I realise that’s on account of my not having let go the Barlow, nor the corn cob neither – you can’t expect a feller to just let go of good truck like that without a fight. Well, it’s just as well I don’t let go, ’cause soon as I come off of that rock and slip into the river I lean forward, stretch out my hand with the knife still in it, and slice through the fishline while it’s drawn tight as a bow-string. My head’s only under water a few seconds but I catch a glimpse of that fish – it must’ve got tangled up in the line ’cause it’s much closer than it should be. It’s real dark down there, and I guess I don’t have a chance to judge right, but it looks mighty large – and an odd shape, somehow.

  Well, anyway, up I bob, and there’s Tom standing on the rock, looking like he’s just forgot all I learned him ’bout Stooks and dern near upsetting himself outrageous agin.

  “Did you see it?” says I through a splutter of Miz water.

  “No,” says Tom. “Catfish?”

  “Reckon so. And ’most as big as me.”

  Tom leans over and grabs me by the shoulders and hauls me up; it’s a tight spot for two, that rock, so we sway and wobble, then jump to the sandbar ’fore we both fall back in the river. When we land, we’re laughing. We’re alive!

  “Didn’t even lose your Barlow!” says I, holding it up.

  Tom gapes a moment, then his hand goes into his britches pocket. When it comes out, it’s holding a Barlow.

  “Why, this is my Barlow, Huck,” says Tom. “Used it to strike sparks off of a stone and get a fire lit ’fore I come out here hunting you up.”

  “That’s no way to treat a knife,” says I. “It’ll blunt it certain.”

  “It was none too sharp anyway,” says Tom, staring hard. “This’n is. Where’d you get it?”

  “Found it in the sand over there.”

  Tom turns to me sudden.

  “It must be…” His voice drops. “…somebody else’s.”

  I know who he means, of course; I think he’d’ve wanted me to have it. We just stand there kind of quiet for a moment.

  Then Tom says: “We can tie a line to one of them willow trees hanging down low on the Illinois side – the fish probably ain’t so big that close in. And even if they are, they won’t be able to pull a tree in.”

  “You’ve still got a line have you, Tom?” says I. “And a hook?”

  “Now what kind of a fool pirate would I be to get myself shipwrecked without a fishing line and a hook, Huck Finn?” And Tom starts rummaging through his pockets. Reckon he had so much truck in them that even the Mississippi couldn’t wash it out. It’s mighty surprising he didn’t just sink. Some things grab his attention for a moment – a white alley, a counterfeit quarter, a brass doorknob – before getting put in another pocket. Other rubbage – an apple core, some bits of paper which once had print on them, but are now just gray and mulchy – he throws away. We agree his three firecrackers probly ain’t no good no more – but we’ll throw them on the fire anyway and see. At last he finds the fishline and a hook.

  We walk back along the sandbar, but it only takes me a couple of steps to realise I’m limping. I pause to check the damage and Tom takes a squint too. I cut what’s left of the fishline off of my ankle: it’s dug in a-ways and left a red line all round. Stings a bit, but t’ain’t no worse than it looks. Find I’ve skinned my rump too.

  “Good job I warn’t wearing my britches,” says I. “I’d have torn a hole clean through them – and they’re the only pair I’ve got.”

  I notice Tom keep on glancing sideways at me as we walk back.

  “What?” says I.

  “Your face has opened up again,” says Tom.

  I put my hand up where the oar cut me the night before and it comes away bloody. Hit it on the rock when I fell.

  “Dern! How long?”

  Tom holds up his little finger.

  “Top two joints,” says he.

  “Going to scar?”

  “Pretty well, I reckon,” says Tom.

  “T’ain’t nothing on this though, is it?” And I bow the crown of my head a
nd pull the hair off of it as best I can so’s Tom can take a squint at the scalp. “How ’bout that? That’s more’n a span, ain’t it? Jagged too. Seen it myself a couple of times in mirrors – which takes some doing.”

  Tom just whistles in admiration.

  “Pap did that. Cracked me over the head one night with a whisky jug. He thought he’d killed me.”

  “Bet he was sorry afterwards,” says Tom.

  “You bet he was,” says I. “Lost near ’nuff a quart. When I come to there was more whisky on the floor than blood.” I laughed. “Yes, sir, that learned him for a while. It was ’bout midnight when he brained me and past noon the next day when I woke up… least I think it was the next day. Pap was still drunk though. He’d ’ready got the shovel out – made me put it away and fetch him another jug.”

  “Shame it ain’t somewhere more visible,” says Tom.

  “I know,” says I. “A feller could cut a figure with a showy scar like this if it was somewhere folks could see it.”

  “Say, Huck! Maybe you’ll go bald when you’re growed up – then everyone’ll see it plain.”

  “Why ain’t that just like you, Tom Sawyer, to go looking on the bright side!” I clapped him on the shoulder and we picked up our pace; Tom had been down a bit, like I said, but now he seemed his old self – it was good to hear him optimising agin.

  Chapter 2: Loaves and fishes

  Well, Tom went off to fix up his fishline and I went back to where we’d slept. Sure ’nuff, he’d lit a pretty good fire near where my clothes and tobacco was. The tobacco was dry already – it’d got its proper feel back and its smell, too, you know? My clothes was coming along as well; reckoned they’d be dry before nightfall, which was good ’cause naturally I wanted to sleep in them. I finished carving my pipe in no time flat, then fixed me a smoke – sat good and comfortable and lazy for ten minutes or so, having a draw every now and then. Then I started to notice how hungry I was – thirsty too – and hoped Tom wouldn’t be long catching us a fish. I started hunting ’round the glade we was in, see if I couldn’t find something else eatable. Well, I did the best I could and gathered up some truck; I was laying it out near the fire when Tom come leaping out through the bushes with a whoop.

  “How ’bout that?” says he, hollering, a big old smile ’cross his face, ’bout as wide as if he’s been slapped with a paintbrush of whitewash. He’s holding up a catfish by the hook that’s still stuck in its mouth, his arm just trembling with the weight of it. “Near as big as the one that almost got you?”

  I shake my head. “That was as big as me. This one’s no longer than my leg.” I didn’t want to sound grudging, though, so I add: “Looks pretty heavy though. Pretty good for breakfast too, I’ll bet.”

  Tom comes over and takes a look at what I’ve found.

  “What you got?”

  “Well, I’ve folded up some hickory leaves into cups and filled ’em with water,” says I. “There’s a spring about thirty yards past that oak tree. And I’ve got all these berries and summer-grapes. If you added them up, reckon they’d be about the size of a watermelon… A small watermelon anyhow.”

  “Wish we had a melon,” says Tom. “You think these are ripe enough? They look awful greenish.”

  “Don’t reckon we’ll ever know, lessen we eat ’em,” says I. “Couldn’t find nothing better. Maybe we can set traps later and catch us some birds or squirrels. Or dig out turtle eggs from the sandbar, maybe. But we’re hungry now, ain’t we?”

  “I should say!” Tom can see I’m right; he lays into that fish pretty good with his Barlow, gutting it and cutting out all the no-good parts. It’s on a spit and sizzling in no time. We add a few of the berries to it for flavour as it’s roasting, but agree not to eat too many of the others unless we can’t help ourselves. It takes some will power to keep our hands off of that fish till it’s cooked proper, I can tell you, and we ’most burn our fingers (then our mouths) when we can’t wait no longer and set about it. That spring water tastes mighty sweet now, all right – cool too.

  “If we’d saved any of the pots or pans I’d’ve boiled us up some coffee,” says I after the meal, while we’re lazying back, picking our teeth. “If we’d saved the coffee.”

  Well, we hain’t been lazying for more’n about half an hour, and I’m just getting into it, when Tom jumps up and won’t nothing satisfy him but we’ve got to go exploring all over the island and see what’s what – and especially if there’s any likely spots where treasure might be buried, ’cause, like he says, we’re pirates and that makes this a pirate island – and whoever heard of a pirate island that didn’t have slathers of treasure buried somewheres? He’s got me there – and if there is any treasure, then I don’t want to miss my chance at it by not turning out to look. A body’d have to be mighty stupid to let an opportunity like that slip through his fingers.

  So we set off pretty bright and sprightly, and run off through the trees with a couple of injun whoops (cause even though we’re pirates it’s a whooping occasion). First we go where Tom caught the catfish, in the shade of a real deep clump of willows, and he re-sets the line. Then we skip along south down the Illinois side. We stick pretty close to the shore, though we dive inland whenever anything interesting catches our eye. Finding our way back ain’t always so easy – the island’s wooded all over, pretty much. Tom says we have to take it serious and look out for all the most distinctive features and commit them to memory so’s we won’t be fooled by the lie of the land.

  “Like we was cartographers,” says Tom.

  “Like what now?” says I.

  “Why! Don’t you know what a cartographer is, Huck?” says Tom, swelling up a little prideful, like he does sometimes. “They’re the men that make maps.”

  “Why I knowed that,” says I, quick as a flash. “I knowed there was fellers made maps – I just didn’t know what they called themselves. Cart-what?”

  “Cartographers!” says Tom. “That’s from the Latin: grapher – to draw maps, and carto – to ride around in a cart.”

  “That’s how they get about is it?” I look ’round at the trees and the vines and the rocks and the mud and the sand. “Reckon they’d have their work cut out here.”

  Tom ponders.

  “Latin ain’t a straightforward language, Hucky. A lot of words you’ve just got to guess what they mean; some don’t hardly mean anything. Some are only there ’cause they sound good. No one really knows ’cause there ain’t no Romans no more – just Italians, and that’s not the same. Maybe carto means a handcart – for carrying paper and ink and measures and whatnot.”

  That makes sense, so we get back to our exploring.

  “Say Tom!” I stop suddenly. “What about sea charts? We’re going to need some of those if this pirating thing works out. Who draws those?”

  “I think…” Tom thinks. “I think the Latin term would be shipographer: that’s from grapher – to draw maps, and shipo…”

  He don’t need say no more; I’m getting the hang of this Latin.

  We explored for hours and found the island was about three miles long and maybe a quarter wide. We got pretty excited about two hours in when we found a kind of little hillock in the centre, maybe forty, fifty feet high. It had a cavern on the top that seemed a pretty snug place to stay – and a fitting “fastness” for pirates to live in, Tom said. There warn’t nothing inside worth mentioning, which was a shame ’cause we both thought there couldn’t be nowhere likelier to have an iron-bound chest in it just busting with gold and jewels. We clumb to the top of the rocks on the hillock, hoping we could see the river from there, but the trees was too high.

  “We should build a watchtower up here,” says Tom. “That would be high enough – then we could spy steamboats and light fires to lure them onto the rocks.”

  I reckon soon as he’s said that it gets him thinking about t’other night agin, ’cause he quietens down sudden and don’t say nothing else for a time. Just stands there, staring out across the islan
d, chewing on some berries he took with him “so we wouldn’t starve”.

  After a while he looks at me with a kind of glint in his eye and says: “We’ll call this Harper’s Hill in honour of Joe.”

  I don’t mind Tom naming things as he pleases, and it seems to cheer him up, so we carry on that way. And, Lord!, Tom starts naming things like he’s on piece work: there’s Joseph’s Spring and Mournful Glade and Dead Boy’s Dell and Harper’s Bay and Pirate’s Rest and so many more that I can’t keep track. If any real cartographers ever write ’em down just as Tom told ’em to me it’ll make for ’bout the gloomiest map you ever seed. At last we turn a bend and there’s the sandbar just coming into sight agin, up north of where we was. Tom lets out a big sigh.

  “And this…,” says he, his voice all shaky. “And this we will call Sorrowful Cove.”

  Warn’t no cove – just a sandbar, like I said.

  “Sorrowful Cove,” says I, nodding. “That’s fine, Tom.”

  We both start then, ’cause there’s a boom like thunder, yet not thunder, from away up the river toward the Missouri side. Tom and me look at each other then go running forward, jumping over rocks and logs, back to the foot of the sandbar. We don’t need say nothing – not a word – we know this’ll be something worth taking a squint at. There’s another boom, louder, closer. Soon as we get a clear sight, with no trees in the way, we see the steam ferry-boat coming toward us, just floating down the channel with the current, so we duck behind the nearest tree (which ain’t never far on this island). The ferry’s still a long ways off, but we can see the deck just covered with people, as many as if there’d been a market and a fair and a revival all in town the same day. It’s surrounded by a regular flock of skiffs – like a goose with its goslings – some sailing, some rowing – all working their way along. A burst of smoke comes a-billowing off of the deck, then a couple of seconds later another boom reaches us. That’s the clue, all right; they’re firing a cannon. We don’t see nothing get hit and watch a couple of fellers reload: it must’ve been all charge and no shot.