Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  Tom and me was just turning for the door when we each feel a heavy weight pressing down on us – like a couple of hams have been laid ’cross our shoulders. We was sinking like springs under it. Our hearts was in our mouths for a moment too. We glance at each other, side on, then keep turning our heads; Jim’s standing behind us, staring down.

  “Why, what you two chillen doin’ here?” says he, his voice a kind of cheerful growl. “You come visit ole Jim? Why, sure you did – Missus’ visitors come in at the fron’ door, that’s a fact.”

  “We brung you something!” I say it kind of quick; didn’t want us to get off on the wrong foot.

  “Why, ain’t you kind, Hucky,” says Jim. “You two boys come all this way to see ole Jim an’ bring him gifts with no thought of re-ward? Why, ain’t that kind!” He gives our shoulders a squeeze – and, my, I feel it – then takes his hands away and crosses the room to the pot that’s boiling and stinking up the room. “Come down to check on this – must be ’most done by now. Take a seat at the table, chillen.”

  “Mind…,” Tom’s voice is croaky and gaspy. “Mind if I open the door, Jim? Whatever you’re cooking, that’s pungent all right!”

  “Sho, Marse Tom – you open that door if you’ve a mind to,” says Jim. “But this ain’t no cookin’ – that ain’t Jim’s job here, no, sir.” Jim takes the pan off of the stove, then the lid off of the pan; he waves the steam away with the lid, then hooks something out with a ladle.

  “What’s that, Jim?” says I.

  He swings the ladle over, under my nose. It was brown and round and all over ugly – thing ’bout the size of my fist. I prod it; it’s kind of soft, but not too soft.

  “Hairball,” says Jim. “From an ox. From his fourth stomach. Don’t go untanglin’ it, now, Huck! I need to set it to dry out and harden up. Then it’ll be ready.”

  “Ready for what, Jim?” Tom’s interested agin, having got some fresh air, and come back to join us at the table. “Making a charm?”

  “’Course a charm, Marse Tom,” says Jim. “’Most powerful one. Gonna catch me a spirit an’ hol’ him inside on it. He’ll see the future an’ tell fortunes an’ more. Tell it all to Jim!”

  “Why, that is good, Jim,” says Tom. “Reckon Huck and me’ll want to set that hairball a few posers when it’s ready, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why, sho, Marse Tom,” says Jim. “Any time you want. Tho’ you know spirits – they mus’ have silver ’fore they go talkin’ – clam up tight without it. They ain’t fussy tho’ – they’ll take plain old dollars jus’ like reg’lar folks. Long as they’s silver, they don’t object.”

  Tom looks a little down at that, ’cause I don’t reckon he has no silver dollars; I only have a quarter myself (and it’s a bad counterfeit too – which makes them less valuable, you know).

  “When you going to load it up with that spirit, Jim?” says I. “I’d sure like to watch you do that.”

  “Me too,” says Tom.

  “Why, I’se sho’ you would, chillen,” says Jim. “But why’d I go showin’ folks a val’ble rit’chal like that, now? So’s they could go off an’ do the same? No, sir! That’s jus’ for Jim’s eyes. Gonna do it tonight – but don’t come spyin’, ’cause Jim’ll know!”

  I glance over at Tom, who looks a little glum, but he wrinkles his eyebrows at me, kind of saying: ‘T’ain’t worth worrying over, all in all.’ He’s right too.

  “So…” Jim sits hisself down at the head of the table. “…you’ve come visit Jim? An’ you’ve brung him somethin’ too, have you, boys? What’ve you brung?”

  “Sandwiches,” says Tom, quick, ’fore I could say something. “Thought you’d like ’em. We got plenty – Aunt Polly makes slathers. Thought we’d come up here, nice day like this, and have a picnic. With you – if you ain’t busy.”

  I can see what Tom’s about; he don’t want Jim to think we’ve just come to see him ’cause we need help. He means to take his time, chat away through the afternoon, then kind of sound Jim out in passing and get him wanting to help us before we even ask. When you’re good at talking and lying and telling stories and such, like Tom, sometimes that’s the best way to go ’bout things. Ain’t the way I’d’ve done it. I’d’ve asked Jim straight – though I can tell stretchers to beat Tom’s when I have to. Any case, if Tom’d knowed Jim well as I did he’d’ve knowed he had a knack for spotting lies soon as they come out of you – like he can see ’em in the air.

  “Sandwiches an’ a picnic?” Jim says it with a chuckle in his voice and smiles. “Why, sho – I was goin’ to cook me some cornpone, but let’s do that instead, chillen. Let’s sit over yonder, ’neath them trees, all shady…” As we get up he casts his eye over the sack. “…then you can tell ole Jim what you’ve really brung him, and why you’ve brung it.”

  “It’s a bladder, Jim. Fresh from the slaughterhouse! Well… not so fresh, maybe, but kind of. And whole.”

  I’d made sure I was done with the sandwiches ’fore I opened up the sack and hefted it out for Jim to look at. He creases up his brow like a question and fixes me with his eye.

  “Cow or ox?” says he. “Sheep, hoss or hog?”

  “Hog,” says I. “That’s best, ain’t it?”

  Jim leans closer to have a proper look and prods it.

  “That’s a hog bladder, sho ’nuff,” says he. “Why, thank you Hucky, Marse Tom.” He closes up the sack agin and pulls it over beside him.

  “What you going to do with it, Jim?” says Tom.

  “Oh, you don’t need to know that, Marse Tom,” says Jim. “Jim has his secrets, same as you, I reckon. Spose you tell ole Jim what you want from him.”

  So Tom told him the whole story, there under the tree in the Widow Douglas’s garden, in the shade, sunshine all round, with the crickets and birds in our ears and the meadow grass and the hog bladder and the pickle in Aunt Polly’s sandwiches in our noses; told him everything ’bout us going pirating and Joe getting drownded and what happened on the island and ’bout us coming back and Joe coming back too and not being right and being in league with Lady Miz (so he said) and being ornery and taking us to the graveyard and threatening us and no one else seeming to’ve noticed he warn’t regular and taking the boys out swimming and now his ma going missing and most likely drownded herself. Lord, it took an age! Didn’t know we’d done so much till Tom told it out – though he did tell it flowery, I’ll allow. Surprised it fitted into one afternoon.

  “So when we saw you in the graveyard that night, laying that little ghost to rest, we thought maybe you could do the same to Joe,” says Tom, finishing up. “For Joe, really – it’d be a mercy to him too, I’ll bet.”

  “Don’t reckon he’ll mind it after it’s done,” says I. “And least he won’t be able to get at Tom and me no more – and that’s the main thing, we’re figuring.”

  “Hmm,” says Jim.

  “Please, Jim,” says Tom. “You’re ’bout the best spirit-handler I ever saw.”

  Jim ponders a while ’fore he answers – ’cause this is serious business – but when he does, Tom and me crack smiles like dinner plates broke in two.

  “Why, sho, boys – course I’ll do that! You didn’t have to bring Jim no hog bladder to get his help – I wouldn’t let no spirit get you two chillen long as I could do somethin’. That ain’t decent!” He leans back against the tree. Scratches his head and sucks his teeth. “Sounds like a strange bird, now, your Joe – tho’ he was a reg’lar chile when he was ’live, far as I recall. Still, I’se seen more types of spirit than you can coun’ on your fingers and toes together – whatever the ghost, there’s a way to get it gone!”

  “That’s good, Jim,” says Tom. “How do we go ’bout it?”

  Jim ponders some more.

  “You say he still comes to school, like he was ’live?”

  Tom nods his head furious: “Every day since it happened; he’s a cool one, Jim.”

  “Well, Marse Tom, this is what Jim thinks: first thing tomor
row, momen’ you see him, whether it’s in the school house, or the school yard, or on the ways, you march up to him an’ tell him straight: ‘Joe,’ you say, ‘Joe, Huck an’ me want to get this thing settled. You meet us this evenin’, ’bout seven, in the valley back of Cardiff Hill, near the gate to Farmer Jones’ lower paddock – we ain’t gonna meet you near the river, so don’t ask. We’ll talk things through then; reckon we can settle it to your satisfaction, yours and the Miz’s both. That’s it, that’s all I’m sayin’! You gonna be there?’ Then you folds your arms an’ give him a stare like this an’ you wait just long ’nuff to hear him ’gree, then off you stride an’ ignore him rest of the day. You got that, Marse Tom?”

  “Got it, Jim, but… but what if he don’t go for that? Says no or gets riled? Or don’t come to school on account of his ma?”

  That didn’t phase Jim none.

  “Way you tells it, Marse Tom, he’s riled plenty already. Don’t see’s you can make him worse. An’ if he don’t show up, or says no, why you ain’t no worse for it – you just tell ole Jim an’ we’ll think o’ somethin’ else.”

  “And you’ll be there, Jim,” says I. “At Farmer Jones’s?”

  “Why, course I will, Hucky,” says Jim. “I’ll be waitin’, somewheres out of sight – behin’ a tree or some such, keepin’ an eye. So don’t you an’ Marse Tom get frighted. When Joe appears, then Jim will too – you can trust to that. An’ don’t you chillen turn up too early now – don’t do to look eager. We clear?”

  Tom and me both nod: “Clear, Jim!”

  “Well, then,” says Jim, dusting some sandwich crumbs off of his hands on his britches, “reckon we’se done, boys. I better be gettin’ back to the house ’fore Miss Watson goes frettin’ herself ’bout where I is (she’s always fearin’ I’se gonna run off an leave her uncared for an’ out of pocket).”

  “You wouldn’t do that, would you, Jim?” says Tom, gasping. “That’d be ’most like stealing, you being worth what you are.”

  “Don’t you fret yourself none ’bout that, Marse Tom,” says Jim, kind of low. “Missus ain’t got no ’cause to go compainin’ ’bout what Jim’s done for her these years past, an’ that’s a fact! Why, when I think ’bout…” He kind of mumbles then so I don’t hear him clear. Don’t sound pleased, though. “…anyways, don’t you chillen go worrying ’bout that – that’s all!”

  Jim stands up straight then, his back to the sun, throwing another shadow ’cross us, and turns back to the house. Tom scrambles to his feet.

  “There’s something else, Jim, before you go, if that’s all right?” He says it quick, gabbles it out. “Please?”

  Jim pauses, then turns back to face us: “Uh-huh?”

  “Well,” says Tom. “Sposing somebody swore something. Swore not to tell ’bout something, say; something he’d seen, maybe?”

  “Uh-huh?” says Jim agin.

  “And sposing he wished he hadn’t sworn that swear and wanted to take it off – free himself to tell, but without bringing down all the bad luck that no-good oath-breakers generally get. How’d he do that, Jim? If you don’t mind.”

  I can see what Tom’s about now; I was glad he was ’bout it too – something had to be done and I guess I hadn’t had the grit for it. Guess he’d had dreams of Muff Potter with a noose round his neck too – swinging from the gallows and not a soul believing him innocent ’cause he was such a broken-down old rip and guilty-looking.

  Jim wrinkles his nose, thoughtful.

  “Spoken oath or written oath?” says he.

  “Written,” says Tom.

  “Signed?” says Jim.

  “Certainly,” says Tom.

  “In blood?” says Jim.

  “Course!” says Tom. “But only initials.”

  “No, that bird won’t fly, Marse Tom,” says Jim, shaking his head. “’Nitials is nuff to make an oath solid!” He bunches up his eyes and sucks them teeth agin too. “This oath spell out how you – I mean the party – is gonna get whupped if he breaks it? Or do it just threaten somethin’ bad without settin’ it out particular?”

  “It sets it out particular, Jim,” says Tom. “Something real bad; bad as bad can be.”

  “Where’s this oath at now?” says Jim. “The paper it’s on, I mean.”

  “It’s…”

  I tug at Tom’s britches before he goes leading us into danger by getting too talkative ’fore we’ve smoothed the way.

  “It might have got buried in the ground,” says Tom. “Somewheres.”

  “Uh-huh!” says Jim. “Buried somewheres…” Then he bites on his lip. “Indoors or outdoors?” says he, sudden.

  “Outdoors,” says Tom.

  “Hallowed groun’, like a churchyard, or regular unhallowed groun’?” Jim tilts his head to the side, waiting on the answer.

  “Unhallowed, Jim,” says I. “We’d never…”

  “Huck!” Tom gapes at me and I clam my mouth up ’fore it gets me into trouble.

  “Reckon it’s in unhallowed ground, Jim,” says Tom. “Best as we can figure it.”

  “That’s good,” says Jim. “Hallowed groun’ and you’d be lost, certain – the party, I mean. Takes a passel o’ trouble to unswear a hallowed-groun’ oath! With reg’lar groun’ it’s possible. Listen up, chillen: this is what you’s – the party’s – got to do. Is you liss’nin’?”

  We was, you bet! We listen, thank Jim, then we was off to get it done.

  It’s fixing to rain by the time we smell the tannery; starting to fall by the time we reach it.

  “Sure no one saw us, Tom?” says I. We’d sneaked back to Tom’s Aunt Polly’s first – needed some matches for what we was about.

  “Didn’t see no one,” says Tom. “Nor did you, I’ll lay – I saw you looking about special, Hucky. You’re right too – we don’t want nobody seeing this and startling us with questions. Good job the rain’s come on; keep folks indoors till we’re done.”

  “Long as the matches light,” says I.

  “It was here, warn’t it, Huck?” Tom kicks at the dirt next the tannery wall.

  “Reckon,” says I.

  “Well…” Tom takes a breath. “All right, then…”

  Then he heels back the dirt till he’s lifted a few inches; he crouches down and does the rest of the work with his fingers. Out comes that paper. I shiver to see it, it putting me in mind of what we seen that night. Tom hands it to me.

  “Dust it off, Huck,” says he. “I’ll strike a match and burn it up.”

  “’Member to say the words Jim said before it’s gone,” says I.

  “Don’t you fret none ’bout that,” says Tom. “I’ve got those words pat, all right!”

  I look ’bout me as I brush at that piece of paper that’s ’caused us so much worry, sheltering it from the rain best I can – don’t want it getting too wet to burn. I can smell the sweat from ’neath my collar even as the rain’s trickling down it. Guess I was getting spooked; keep looking ’bout me, over this shoulder then t’other, ’specting to see someone, but ain’t no one but the rain, coming down straight now, long gray lines of it. ’Most like a forest of rain.

  “Hurry, Tom,” says I. “Else it’ll get soaked to mulch, not burned to flinders.”

  “Done!” Tom stands up sudden, a flaming match in his hand; he’d been stooped over, covering it with his body while he struck it on a stone. He hurries it over to the paper, ’neath his other hand, and touches the flame to it.

  “Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer swears they will keep mum about This…,” says Tom, reading off the words of the oath. “…and They wish They may Drop down dead in Their Tracks if They ever Tell and Rot.” We watch the flame scorch through them words, a black-edged hole opening up in the paper where they was. Tom takes another breath and says what Jim said to say:

  “Take these words, fire; take ’em, flame. Burn ’em up, remove the blame!

  Wind, you take ’em, make ’em fly; from the land, into the sky!

  Lips that was sealed, sp
eak again; t’ain’t no sin now, let’s make that plain!

  Oath unsworn, you’re old and worn; can’t touch me now your paper’s torn!”

  I let the paper burn as close to my fingers as I dare, then let it fall; watch it crumble and curl into little black pieces, thin as you please, and break and blow away in the wind. They was broke up by the rain in no time. Gone!

  I breathe out; seems like the first time in a while.

  “Lord, Tom,” says I. “I’m glad that’s done. We can go to the sheriff now – save Muff Potter’s drunken neck.”

  “Yes,” says Tom. “If it worked.”

  “‘If it worked?’” says I. “Why wouldn’t it’ve worked, Tom? You said them words right – I ’membered ’em good as you and they come out fine.”

  “Only way to know for sure’s to speak ’em out loud,” says Tom. “And if we don’t drop down dead and rot we’ll know it’s worked.”

  “That’s some test,” says I.

  “Only way,” says Tom. “You want to try?”

  “Not much,” says I.

  We lean back against the tannery wall, so the eaves give us some shelter from the rain, and ponder some.

  “You should have more faith in Jim,” says I. “He knows what he’s about… Now you’ve got my innards squirming, Tom. I ain’t going to rest easy till we’ve told. I’m going to go and tell right now!”

  “No, Huck,” says Tom. “Now ain’t the time – when folks hear it was you-know-who who killed Doc Robinson and not Muff Potter it’ll likely ’cause a stir. Let’s finish with Joe tomorrow evening, like we agreed, then go tell the sheriff the next morning – won’t do no harm, trial’s still weeks away. No sense giving ourselves more’n one thing to fret about at a time.”

  “That’s why I want to know we’re free now, Tom,” says I. Then I hear one of them hogs grunt in the sty along down side of the tannery. That gives me an idea. “I’m going to tell the hogs,” says I. “Hogs count too, don’t they, Tom? Oath didn’t say nothing ’bout only telling people. I’m going to tell ’em and if I die you’ll know you’d best keep mum… and give Jim what for.”

  I hurry over to the sty, Tom trailing after, trying to talk me out of it (though he admits hogs count).