Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  I lean close to Tom and whisper.

  “We didn’t see none of these last time we was here. Why’re they out now, you think?”

  “’Cause I raised ’em up, Hucky,” says Joe, ’fore Tom can even open his mouth (and there ain’t usually no delay on that). “I can do that now, you know: raise ’em up, send ’em away agin, just as I please. That ’n more. Wanted you to meet them, meet the family – your family – ’cause this is what you’ve got coming if you don’t take up the opportunity I’m a-offering you. Have a good look round – then you tell me if life eternal in the ever-rolling waters of the Mississip don’t sound better. Heck, most of these fellers can’t even leave this here boneyard.”

  That was true – some was milling about, but most don’t go more’n a few paces from their graves. Didn’t see none go past the fence.

  Tom and I look round. We get ourselves a few steps from Joe as we do it, ’cause I reckon we have matter to talk on. Joe hain’t picked up what I’d said to Tom ’bout the last time we was in the graveyard – that seems to have passed him by – and I don’t want to say nothing that might put him in mind of it. It’s already ’curred to me how he could use that against us, and things is bad enough.

  Most of ’em seem to be speaking, them ghosts, yet there ain’t hardly nothing to be heard – just a general whispering, like the breeze through marsh reeds, and the odd few words coming over more clearly. Some of them is shouting – they want to be heard – but there ain’t no sound. I guess not everyone can hear ghosts; or maybe not all ghosts can make themselves heard. Some we could hear clearer as we got closer – but neither Tom nor me wanted to get too close, you know. Tears, though – sobbing – there was plenty of that. A mournful, distant sound, as if a choir was crying – I guess that was the mood ’mongst them spirits. There’s one little shape, over in the far corner, all gray and blurry and faded-out; think it’s the ghost of a little girl, ’cause that’s what it sounds like – her cries was still clear. Kind ’o wrenched at your heart to hear. Made me shudder.

  Then I turn and jump.

  “Here’s someone particular I want you boys to meet,” says Joe. “He’s the newest. You recognise him? Reckon you do.”

  Sitting on the cross ’bove his grave is Doc Robinson. Doc Robinson as Tom and me had seed murdered in this very graveyard not a month since. Doc Robinson as was stabbed through the heart by that no-good villain Injun Joe (and there’s a sight too many no-good villains called Joe, I reckon). Doc Robinson as had been killed by his own hired ruffian while body-snatching – digging up the dead for his own reasons. (I won’t tell you just yet why Tom and me was hid in the graveyard that midnight to see all that wickedness – it’ll keep.) Tom jumps same as me when he sees the Doc; screams too.

  The Doc looks ’bout the same as last time – even down to the knife in his heart.

  “Hullo, boys. Tom and Huckleberry, ain’t it?” He taps the handle of the knife. “Physician heal thyself, eh boys?” He laughs and pulls the knife out – then throws it straight at me. I scream and try to dodge, but it comes at my head so fast I don’t have no time. I see that blade coming, the edge, the point, then just as it hits me in the eye it fades into nothing. A spirit knife!

  If I’d a-had time to think on it I’d have knowed that must be the case, ’cause it was Muff Potter’s knife – and that knife was in the courtroom as evidence agin Potter, who was in the jail awaiting trial for killing the Doc. All three had been body-snatching that night, you see – Doc Robinson, Injun Joe, Muff Potter – only when they’d dug the body up they fell to fighting over money. The two roughnecks wanted more than the Doc was paying. The Doc slugged Potter with a headboard tore up from a grave, knocked him cold. But then Injun Joe come looming up alongside him – looming up and stabbing. And he was cunning, that half-breed – he used Potter’s knife. When that old drunk come round, dazed and not knowing what was what, Injun Joe told him he’d killed the Doc – that’s how it looked and Potter couldn’t ’member any different. Now Potter was set fair to be hung for murder and Injun Joe was strolling round like he hadn’t a care in the world. Sometimes I thought Tom and me should’ve told all this to someone – but it was too late for that. I’ll tell why later.

  When I look over at the Doc, the knife’s back in his heart.

  “Guess the surgery failed,” says he with a laugh (bitter, though, like he’d rather have cried). “Sorry, boy. Didn’t mean to scare you none.” (Doc Robinson, being an educated man, spoke somewhat more fancy than I’m doing now, of course, but taking fellers off ain’t a particular skill of mine – that’s more Tom’s thing.)

  “Do you…,” asks Tom, kind of slow and quiet, “…do you know who murdered you, Dr Robinson?”

  “Heck, I should say,” says the Doc. “Ain’t about to forget that! It was that no-good…”

  “Everyone knows who killed you, Robinson. We ain’t here ’bout that,” shouts Joe. “Are we?”

  Now Doc Robinson was a young man (and he warn’t getting any older), but to hear Joe speak to him like that, just a child, it was kind of startling. The Doc looks at Joe with a fiery look in his eye, then kind of flinches – Joe’s staring at him the way a boy don’t hardly stare at a growed man and the Doc just can’t stand it. His eyes fall down to the ground.

  “No,” he mutters. “Guess not.”

  That was a close one, think I: Joe still thinks Muff Potter killed Doc Robinson. I guess spirits don’t know everything. If he knew it was Injun Joe, and Tom and me was witnesses, he’d threaten to tell him – Injun Joe’d cut our throats quick as anything if he knew we knew what really happened.

  “Listen up, Huck!” It’s Joe. “Want you to hear what the Doc has to say.” Doc Robinson’s still looking down, kind of sheepish, kicking his heels. “Go on,” growls Joe. “Get telling!”

  “Well…” Doc Robinson don’t want to say nothing, that’s plain. He does though, like he was told. “…it’s like this boys,” says he. “You’d best do as Joe here says else you’re likely to end up like me – stuck in this here graveyard till the Day of Glory comes. And you’ve just got to take a look at these fellers here, faded all to flinders, to figure how long you’ll be awaiting for that.” Then he sighs loud and long. “To think I studied back east, boys – university and everything. And that it should end like this! Only…” And he fixes me with his eyes, pale and bloodshot all at once. “…only it hain’t ended, has it? I can sit here, I can walk over there a-ways, and up there, and I can come back agin – and that’s it, boys! I can sink down into my grave and come back up agin, and get noticed by maybe one in a dozen folks as comes up here (not that anybody does much), and these fellers ain’t got much to say for themselves worth hearing…” He waves his hand at the other ghosts. “…and some of them are just mean! You don’t know the half of it!”

  The Doc steps closer and smiles at Tom and me.

  “Say, boys, you couldn’t do a feller a favour and send a priest out here and get me exorcised, could you? Reverend Sprague, he’ll do if you can’t get a Catholic. Tell him there’s an unquiet spirit needs laying to rest – it’s his Christian duty!” He leans forward; Tom and I edge back a-ways. Shake too, maybe. “Do they know?” says he, whispering. “Do they know ’bout the body-snatching? Do they? If they do, tell ’em I’m real sorry, I didn’t do it much, and only for science; if they don’t know, mum’s the word, eh?” He taps a fingertip to his pale lips and winks. Behind him, Joe coughs.

  “Oh, yes,” says the Doc, straightening up, “Well, anyway, you just do what Joe here says, while you still can. Pirates is it? Heck, wish I could be a pirate – anything’s better’n this! Least you’d get out and about. Fresh air, travel, excitement – that’s healthy, boys. That’s what you need!” He clams up then and looks over at Joe; Joe nods and makes a kind of lifting movement with his hands. “Oh,” says the Doc, “and as a physician I can assure you that drowning is the least painful way to die – much better’n being stabbed for sure. Longer you wait, the more th
e chance something worse’ll happen to you. Get down to the river and dive in, boys – ain’t no time like the present.”

  The Doc looks back at Joe, a weak smile worming ’cross his face, kind of pleading.

  “All right, Doc,” says Joe. “Reckon you’re done for now.”

  “I’ll be going then, if you’re…” Doc Robinson starts to fade a little.

  “Not yet,” says Joe. “You just stay there quiet till we’re gone. Might need you later.” The Doc sits down on his cross then, kind of jumpy, plants his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands, ghosty fingers raking through his ghosty hair. Joe turns to me and Tom. “You heard him – and he’s an expert on life and death!”

  “We ain’t going into that river and that’s flat,” says Tom.

  “No, sir,” says I. “We ain’t pirates and we ain’t no fish, neither, Joe Harper – if we want to stay out of that river we will and you can’t get us in, no how!”

  “Oh, can’t…”

  There’s a high, whining sound and we all look up – Joe and the Doc, same as Tom and me. It’s the rusty hinge of the little gate on the far side of the graveyard: someone’s coming through it. He’s humming a tune to hisself, all the notes kind of deep and soft and thick, like molasses.

  “Who’s that?” says Joe. He sounds ’most like he used to when he was alive. Just a boy, wondering. “T’ain’t no ghost.”

  The man – we can see he’s a man, though he’s just a big, dark shape – stops inside the gate, turning slow, looking round. We can tell he sees the ghosts – we just can – though I don’t reckon he sees us ’cause of where he is. Then he speaks, and the voice is like the humming, all deep and tuneful.

  “Why, now, what’s you all doing up and about, spirits? Something got you riled up?”

  “It’s Jim,” says Tom. “Miss Watson’s Jim.”

  I recognise his shape, once I know who I’m looking for. That’s Jim all right, Miss Watson’s slave. Six foot tall or more and all over muscles; could’ve fetched a couple hundred dollars easy – though I never seen him become prideful on that account. Miss Watson was an old lady, in her forties maybe; she was sister to the Widow Douglas who lived on t’other side of Cardiff Hill, in a fine old place, and was visiting with her, had been for weeks. So I guess Jim’s taking a short cut up there.

  “Hush now, hush,” says Jim, all gentle-sounding, walking ’cross the graveyard, nodding to the spirits and making slow passes with his hands every now and then, like when you’re calming someone that’s got themselves worked up. “Why, ain’t no use you fretting, you know that. Ain’t no use looking gashly enough to scare folks – what good do that do? Don’t do none! You just hush now. Hush and sleep! You get back in them graves and sleep. You know that’s best – why, sure you do! Hush… hush.” And as Jim walks ’cross the graveyard, ’most every ghost he passes moves away, or fades, or settles down onto a grave, like a mist, and soaks into it.

  The sobbing of the girl ghost has gone on all this time; when Jim gets close to her he stops.

  “Why, what’s the matter, you po’ thing? You tell ole Jim, chile.” And the sobbing stops, and the gray blur that’s all that’s left of her head seems to look up and open a mouth – can’t hear no words. “Why, I spect they’se waiting for you, honey,” says Jim. “Spect they’se been waiting a long time. You’ve been tarrying here so long, they’se gone ahead and you’ve done missed them.” The sobs start up agin. “Hush, hush now,” says Jim. “You can find ’em agin, chile. T’ain’t nothing. Just lay down here and sleep – you’ll be with ’em soon enough. Ain’t that best now? Why, sure it is!” She walks to and fro a moment, like she’s afeard, alongside a grave that’s flat with the ground and long since grassed over. “T’ain’t nothing,” says Jim, soft. “Time to sleep, now.” And that little ghost lays down on its grave and sinks back in and is gone. “Bless you chile… you po’, po’ thing!”

  Then we hear the gate on t’other side of the graveyard open (it’s just as rusted as the first one) and Jim walks off ’cross the hill, humming soft to hisself.

  Well that gives Tom and me heart, somehow. Seeing Jim walking ’mongst them spirits like they warn’t nothing to be afeard of, like they warn’t nothing at all – and him just a slave – why that done us good. It gives us some grit.

  “Did you see that, Joe Harper?” says Tom, ’most crowing. “Miss Watson’s Jim laying a ghost to rest, easy as pie.”

  “She was old and worn out,” says Joe, turning toward us sudden, a snarl on his lip like a dog, water flicking at us from his hair. “She’d been fading away for years; wanted to go, truth be told. Me? I’m fresh and fixing to stay.”

  “Reckon I’ll pay a visit to Miss Watson tomorrow,” says Tom. “Have a word with Jim – see what he says.” And then he folds his arms and smiles at Joe, kind of mocking, looking down his nose at him. I know Tom good enough to know he’s putting on a show – but he does it good; don’t reckon many folks would have seed through it.

  Joe speaks slow and quiet now, and I feel a chill drop all the way down from the back of my neck, like someone’s jabbing my spine with ice.

  “You stay away from Miss Watson’s Jim,” says Joe. “I see you near him, it’ll go badly with you, Tom Sawyer.”

  “Aw, nuts to you!” Tom looks like he wants to hit Joe, only don’t quite dare. “You’re just talk, Joe Harper. Think you can scare us? We ain’t the boys to be scared! If you could do anything, you’d have done it. You’re just wet and dead and ornery – and we ain’t going to drown ourselves over that. Jump back in the Miz, Joe – t’ain’t nothing for you here.”

  Tom sounds so good I’m ’most convinced myself; I’ve been holding my tongue for some time, but he’s cleared such a path that I’m ’bout to give Joe some choice words myself when I see Doc Robinson lean forward, even more ghastly pale than before, his arm snaking out toward Tom. He grabs at Tom’s wrist but his hand passes through it; Tom jumps, of course, and rubs at his arm (chilled to the bone, I reckon).

  “Don’t rile him, boy,” gasps the Doc. “Don’t rile him! You don’t know the half of it. Things are bad – but they can get so much worse. There’s plenty of kinds of dead and… Oh, my Lord, here he comes agin!”

  The Doc jumps up and turns and there, a dozen graves away, dirt’s getting cast into the air and piling itself all ’round one of the graves, like some big molehill, as something digs its way out. And it’s going some – that dirt stack’s getting bigger by the second.

  “It’s ’most midnight!” Doc Robinson tugs the fob watch from his pocket and checks it – then shows it to Tom and me, Lord knows why. It shows the time we seed the Doc murdered, near as I could recall. “Every night! Every night he comes back up to get me; every day the grave’s back to normal. You’ve got to get the reverend up here, boys – you’ve just got to!”

  A hand bursts up through the soil and thick fingers twist in the air like some ugly night flower. Tom and I cry out and jump back, ’most grabbing hold of each other; Joe throws back his head and laughs.

  “Reckon you’ve got a patient, Doc,” says Joe. “Can you save him? Can you save yourself?”

  I clutch at Tom’s arm – our eyes is froze on that hand pushing up through the ground.

  “You know whose grave that is, don’t you, Tom,” says I.

  Hoss Williams! Up he clambers through the earth, his big old self, mean as life, swearing and mumbling, and stands there a moment, dirt tumbling off of him, and shakes hisself like a wet dog. It’s Hoss all right: red beetroot head, busted nose, bull neck. Death hasn’t prettied him up none. He was one of Pap’s drinking pals – and if that don’t tell you he was bad news then you don’t know my Pap, I guess. Whether it was the whisky got him in the end or the pounding from a bar fight, I don’t claim to know. He got plenty of both the night he died, way I heard it. His was the corpse Doc Robinson had been digging up that night he got hisself stabbed. This graveyard warn’t no happy hunting ground, I could see that plain – there
was no rest for the wicked here, nor for no one who didn’t die a nice, clean, natural death neither.

  “Hoss! Hoss!” The Doc’s holding up his hands while he talks, and he’s getting his cross between him and Hoss. “Let’s let bygones be bygones, can’t we? I didn’t do you no harm while you was alive, did I?”

  But that don’t satisfy Hoss none, he comes charging over. The Doc runs and Tom and me run too (making some noise, too, I’ll allow), ’cause we don’t want him leading Hoss Williams onto us. We ’most run out of that graveyard, get right up to the fence. But the Doc can’t run that far – it’s like he hits a wall you can’t see, like he’s got an upturned glass bowl over him, and he has to go running back among the graves. Well, Hoss catches him in no time and starts whaling on him, cussing something awful as he pummels the Doc, the Doc crying and pleading, but it doing no good. And Joe laughing and laughing.

  “And that…” Joe turns to Tom and me while he points at them. “…is what you’ve got coming lessen you do as I say.”