Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  “All right,” says he when he knows I’m set and won’t be shook. “Least let’s toss for it.”

  “All right,” says I. “That’s fair!” I take the counterfeit quarter from my pocket and toss it. “I call tails!” It lands heads up like it always does, some old president staring up at me from the back of my hand. “Guess that settles it, Tom – I’ve got to tell.”

  Tom just kind of sighs and steps back. “Good luck, Hucky,” says he.

  My mouth’s kind of dry now, despite the rain (we’re both soaked through now, so there’s no sense worrying ’bout that no more). I step up onto the lowest rung of the hog pen, near where the hogs is sheltering, and lean over till I can swipe one on the ear and get its attention.

  “Listen up, hogs,” says I. “I’ve news for you…” I lower my voice, but say it clear. “Doc Robinson warn’t killed by that no-good drunk Muff Potter, he was killed by that no-good bandit Injun Joe. Stabbed through the heart in the graveyard! Used Potter’s knife and left him looking the guilty party. We saw it all, Tom and me.”

  The hogs don’t seem to care none. I stand up straight and look at Tom. He’s as silent as me – watching to see if I’ll keel over, I guess. I step down from the fence and try walking up a few paces, then back agin. Goes all right – don’t fall down in my tracks or die or rot or nothing.

  “Told you it’d work,” says I. “Jim knows his business.”

  “Why, it’s bully, Huck,” says Tom, smiling broad and slapping me on the back. “Now we can look forward to settling Joe tomorrow and getting Muff Potter out of jail the day after and…”

  “…and hiding from Injun Joe the rest of our lives, lessen the sheriff nabs him quick!” I don’t see no need for Tom to go hurrying up and getting happy so quick, what with troubles still stacked up ’bove us and like to topple. “If he lets that cutthroat give him the slip don’t reckon neither of us’ll be sleeping easy.”

  “Well, guess we’ll just have to see, Hucky…” Tom don’t have no real answer to that, that’s plain!

  “Mind if I stay at yourn agin tonight?” says I.

  “Best, I reckon,” says Tom. “Long as Aunt Polly ain’t spotted you was there last night. She’ll be too busy thinking ’bout Mrs Harper still, I reckon.”

  We both shiver when we ’member what’s most likely happened to her.

  “That’ll be us if we don’t settle Joe,” says Tom. Then he slaps me on the back and we walk off from the tannery. “I’ll try and find you a towel or some old clothes Aunt Polly won’t miss,” says he. “Reckon you’re so wet you might as well have gone in the river!”

  We both laugh at that – only not too loud, nor too long.

  I went with Tom when he went to speak to Joe next day. Tom thought it’d show we was serious if I was along. That was all right, I guess, but I warn’t going to go into the schoolhouse – that’d be taking things too far, I’d say. Schoolmaster don’t like me anyways – usually runs me off when I come near; give up on me some time back, I reckon. That’s all right, though.

  “Still raining,” says I as we walk. “Your woodshed ain’t watertight neither, Tom; ’most got a chill.”

  “Sorry, Hucky,” says Tom. “You need to find some old building you can light a fire in with no one minding. Let’s hope it clears ’fore this evening – that’d be a mighty long walk in the rain.”

  “There he is!” I’ve spotted Joe. He’s standing out front of the schoolhouse, t’other kids running past him to get inside quick as they can. He don’t seem to mind the rain none; might’ve guessed that. Stands there with his arms folded as we come up. He has a black armband on, black tie too. Surprised his pap hain’t kept him off school – but Joe was doing what he liked these days, far as I could tell.

  We march up to him, ’most toe to toe, and Tom launches into his piece straight off without giving him a moment. Like with the oath-buster, Jim’s words come out of Tom’s mouth, just as he’d been told.

  “…and that’s all I’m saying!” says Tom, finishing up with a frown, fists clenched. “You gonna be there?”

  Joe takes it cool.

  “You got some front, Tom Sawyer, talking to me like that.”

  “More’n the harbourside in New Orleans,” says Tom (he’s never seen it, just heard tell; hain’t never been more’n thirty mile from Petersburg, no more’n me – just knows how to talk big; gifted that way).

  Joe sucks his teeth: “I’ll be there, Tom.” He flicks his eyes at me. “What ’bout you, Hucky? You gonna be there?”

  “I’ll be there, Joe,” says I.

  “Then I guess we’ll all be there!” He turns to go. I don’t know why, but I can’t leave it at that.

  “Sorry to hear ’bout your ma, Joe,” says I.

  He stops dead and his whole face kind of wriggles a moment. Then he looks back hard.

  “Lady Miz is my ma now, Huck,” says he. “Yours too, this time tomorrow.”

  Tom waits till Joe’s gone into the schoolhouse, then nods at me and goes inside hisself with some of the other boys; I go my way – got some time to kill till evening. Couple of hours ’fore my spine stops feeling icy, though.

  Chapter 7: Whole lot of things happen. Bad, mostly

  Tom and me got there first. We hung about ’bout a hundred yards away till we reckoned it was ’most time – didn’t have no watch – ’cause we didn’t want to be alone with Joe no more’n need be. Didn’t have much to say to him, of course – just wanted to sick Jim on him and get it done.

  “Don’t say nothing ’bout what we got planned,” says Tom, real low. “It’s dark and Joe may be lurking somewheres.”

  “Don’t worry, Tom,” says I. “I ain’t letting any cats out of our bag. Just going to wait and see what happens; all I can do, I reckon.”

  “See what happens? What’s going to happen, Hucky?”

  It’s Joe Harper, not more’n five yards away, coming out of the night. Lord, Tom and me ’most jump out of our britches.

  “You always got to be sneaking, Joe?” says Tom, scared and angry both. “It ain’t decent! You knew we’d be here, didn’t you? Told you plain!”

  “Plain, eh…?” Joe curls his lip as he says it. “Plain dealing, eh, Tom? No Tom Sawyer tricks, eh? T’ain’t like you to have nothing up your sleeve, I reckon.”

  “Reckon what you like, we’re here, ain’t we,” says Tom.

  “Ain’t we, though!” says Joe. “Why, Tom? Huck? What you come up with that you think’ll change Lady Miz’s mind? You wasting my time, you’ll regret it, ’deed you will. I’ll make you…”

  Joe breaks off sudden; there’s a sound rolling out over the field, low and soft – a gentle kind of rumble. It’s Jim, humming. He’s ’most as close as Joe’d got to us; hadn’t seen nor heard nothing till he was close as that. He don’t do more’n glance at me and Tom.

  “You!” says Joe. “So that’s it, is it? Ambush! That’s the Tom Sawyer I know!”

  “Listen to Jim,” says Tom. “It’s for the best. For all of us – really!”

  “What you got to say to me, Jim?” Joe’s clenching his fists hard, water pouring out of them. “What you got to say, you low-down… What you got to say to me? You say it and get; t’ain’t healthy for you being round these two.”

  “Ain’t you tired, Joseph Harper?” says Jim. His voice is like it was in the graveyard: thick and soft and slow and treacly, like you could get stuck in it. “Ain’t it tirin’ bein’ like this? Rushin’ roun’ scarin’ folks when you should be sleepin’… still an’ peaceful an’ sleepin’… jus’ sleepin’, not movin’ at all… not even a finger. You could lie down right now, here, an’ get started. This groun’s so soft an’ invitin’… jus’ lie down an’ sleep… ain’t that the thing? Ain’t it, now?”

  Joe’ s been staring hard at Jim, neither of ’em blinking at first, but now Joe’s eyelids start to flicker, then close slow then open, close and open, staying shut longer each time. He starts to sway.

  “Ain’t it, though,” says
he, soft.

  “Course it is, chile,” says Jim, right in front of him now, his big hands hovering over Joe’s shoulders. “Groun’s waitin’ for you, Joe; heaven’s waitin’ for you. Ain’t nothin’ more for you to worry ’bout here!” And Jim raises his hands then lowers them slowly and, even though there’s a foot of air ’twixt those hands and Joe’s shoulders, Joe’s legs start to buckle at the knees like he’s being pushed down. He opens his eyes and glares up at Jim, his face twisting.

  “No-oh-oh!” Joe growls the word, slow and heavy like he has to drag it out his mouth. There’s a real mean edge to it. “No! No, you don’t! I ain’t gonna be laid in the dust by no nigger!”

  “Sure you is,” says Jim, keeping his voice smooth and calm. “Ain’t no need for harsh words now, Joe Harper. You was always a good boy when you was ’live, be good now you’s dead. Hush now! Bein’ dead ain’t so bad, honey! Think on all those friends jus’ waitin’ for you – bet they can’t wait to see you again. Your gran’folks too – ’member them? They’ll be there, Joe, just smilin’ and smilin’, they’ll be so glad to see you all big and growed, you just a baby when they went. Even your ma. Everythin’ll be right again; she’ll be pleased to see you, an’ all forgiven. Ain’t that somethin’? Ain’t it, now? Why, sure it is!”

  While Jim’s talking, his voice all gentle and lullabying, I can see Joe’s eyes closing and his head nodding, and, even though his lips are still mumbling, what he’s saying is too soft to hear now. Then his head just slumps onto his shoulder, his legs give out and he falls back; Jim grabs him by the shoulders quick – gently, though, so he don’t shake him.

  “Easy now,” says he, laying him down on the ground, slow and careful. “There now! Ain’t that better? Ain’t it, now? Hush, Joe Harper! Hush now. You jus’ sleep. That’s right… sleep… sleep…”

  Tom and me peer closer, and we see Joe starting to turn gray – like being dead a fortnight’s catching up with him all of a sudden.

  “Look, Hucky…” Tom nudges me in the ribs as he whispers; he nods at the ground ’round Joe. It’s all over wet. Then I look at Joe and see water just pouring out of him – out of his clothes, out his skin too, I reckon. “See,” says Tom. “It’s working: Joe’s giving up the ghost.”

  Reckon he was right. Lady Miz had filled Joe up with her water and her strength and now it was just running away agin, trickling away to… to where now? I look round at where all that water was going, spreading out, forming so many little streams darting off this way and that, carving lots of little channels for itself, like rain does during a big storm. Jim’s kneeling in the dirt – mud now – right beside Joe, leaning over him and cooing away all soft and gentle, when an idea hits me that I don’t rightly like. I walk along beside one of them little runnels of water, straining my eyes in the dark to see where it’s headed; it’s gone a long ways already, near ’nuff to the creek. The creek! And where does that flow to? The Mississippi, of course. I turn back to Jim and Tom and holler – try and tell ’em what I’m fearing.

  “The water! The river!”

  It’s ’ready too late. The water that run off of Joe must’ve already run into the creek – a line of water stretching all the way from the Miz to him. That give him his strength all right, and now it’s firing him up agin – watering him up, I guess. His body twitches sudden and his shoulders shrug, and his eyes flick open, and that horrible voice come out of him agin, getting louder and louder, rasping like a machine that’s being ratcheted up.

  “No, no, no, no, no, you don’t – you ain’t laying me down, I ain’t gonna let you, I ain’t the boy for that.” And Joe’s body kind of swells up and he sits up, staring at Jim.

  “Now you jus’ be reas’nable, Joe Harper,” says Jim, his voice kind of flustered. “You go back to sleep now, chile! You hush now! Sleep… sleep now…”

  But that horse won’t run no more; a real mean sneer twists itself ’cross Joe’s face and his arm shoots up like a rattler and clamps a hand over Jim’s mouth and his nose. Water splashes everywhere, like he’s hit him with a sponge, and right off me and Tom hear Jim start to gag, gulping and choking.

  “Think you can lay me down, Jim?” says Joe, shouting now, angry. “I got Lady Miz behind me! What can you do agin her, eh? ‘Sleep… sleep!’ Who’s gonna sleep now, eh, Jim? Reckon you are! Here in the mud!”

  It was terrible to see: Jim with all his size and muscles trying to get up, scrabbling ’round in the mud, but Joe, just a boy, holding him down. Jim’s wrenching at Joe’s arm with both his hands – went all the way ’round it, they did – but can’t budge it an inch. It’s stuck on him like a mask, water spraying out round the edges and streaming off of Jim and all round us.

  “He’s going to drown him, Huck,” shouts Tom, saying what I can ’ready see. We both jump on Joe from behind and start hauling at him, but don’t take more’n a few seconds to make it plain that ain’t going to do no good. He’s stuck like a barnacle, good as.

  I feel something tug at my arm and for a moment I think Joe’s making a grab for me too – but it’s Tom.

  “Fence post,” says he. “Follow me!”

  I let go too and stumble through the mud after Tom, feeling bad ’bout leaving Jim there, his eyes rolling and him a-gurgling and choking – but what could we do? The fence ain’t too far off and its wood’s pretty rotten, so it don’t take Tom long to find a post with no side timbers and shake it loose, then drag it out the soil. I see what he’s about and do the same. I’m a shade stronger than Tom, I reckon, so I overtake him with my post in my arms while he’s still dragging his ’cross the ground toward Joe.

  Well, I heft that fence post for all I’m worth and lam Joe ’cross the back with it. If he hadn’t been dead already I’d’ve never done it for fear of killing him. But Joe hardly even groans – just shifts on the ground a little.

  “No,” shouts Tom. “The posts ain’t for hitting. Use ’em like this.”

  He’s dragging his post through the mud, leaning all his weight on it and pushing it in deep so’s when he walks he’s ploughing a little trench. I do the same, then see why: the water coming off of Joe runs into them trenches and away from the channels leading down to the creek. They ain’t touching no more. Joe feels it go, that link to the Miz – his head swings back over his shoulder, looking at us, his face kind of fearful all of a sudden. Jim don’t waste no time; he wrenches Joe’s hand off of his mouth and kicks hisself away from him, scrambling back in the mud, gasping and wheezing something awful. Tom and me, we don’t hang ’round – we run past Joe, toward Jim, one either side.

  “Come on,” says Tom. “Quick – we got to get to high ground. High and dry, Hucky! Up Cardiff Hill. C’mon now!”

  We stick our hands under Jim’s arms and grab hold; drag him away best we can, him choking and ’most dead. Lord, he was a weight! While we was doing that, Joe leaps back, splashes down in the mud t’other side of our trenches and plants his feet in one of them little streams. He’s mad all right.

  “Lucky,” he yells. “You was lucky! Won’t always be!”

  “Being dead’s made you mean, Joe Harper,” shouts Tom. “You was never like this before.” That just seems to make Joe ornerier.

  “Know who I seen in town today, Tom?” says Joe. “Looked him up special, took some finding: Injun Joe, that’s who!”

  Tom and me look at each other then back at Joe; ’most drop Jim in the mud.

  “That’s right,” says Joe. “Thought that’d bring you up some. Injun Joe! Want to know what I told him? Told him you saw him kill Doc Robinson, that’s all! Boy, that steamed him up!”

  Tom and me share another glance; he looks ’bout as pale as the moon – reckon I do too. We look back at Joe, thinking the same thing.

  “How’d I know?” laughs Joe. “When you go in the Mississip, Lady Miz gets the scent of your soul, Hucky – she can sniff you out anywheres, point me in the right direction.” Then he starts taking me off. “‘Oh, Tom, I’m afeared Muff Potter’s gonna sw
ing! I can’t stand it; my innards is just apining at the thought of even one silver hair of his mangy old head getting hung. I’ve just gotta tell, Tom! I gotta!’ The rain, Huck – I’m right at home in the rain, good as wheat. Skip through it like lightning when the ground gets soaked.” I feel something cold splash ’gainst my face and look up. “Say,” says Joe, “looks like it’s coming on agin – guess you’ll get to see what I mean… Anyways, Injun Joe! Boy, he was mad! He don’t want no one knowing what he done! He’ll kill you quick as looking, Huck. Heck, he’d’ve killed me if he could’ve.” And he presses the tip of his finger to his throat and pulls it ’cross and back. “That half-breed’ll slice you ear to ear! Skin you ’live. You too, Jim – I’m gonna tell him you know it all and all.”

  “I didn’t see nothing, Joe,” croaks Jim.

  “Injun Joe don’t care ’bout that,” says Joe. “You’ve heard the story – that’s enough for him. You’ll wish Miss Watson had sold you down the river to a New Orleans plantation; you’ll be a-yearning for them bullwhips rather than stand what Injun Joe’ll do to you. I’m gonna go tell him now. One way or t’other it’s all over for you. Tom, Huck: me or him, them’s your choices – me or him! When he finds you, scream loud ’nuff – maybe I’ll hear you if you’re lucky.”

  Then he laughs and laughs as the rain falls harder.

  Jim scrambles to his feet and starts stumbling toward Joe, one hand at an amulet round his neck – his ox hairball – t’other stretched out before him.

  “Stop him, boys, quick. Help me – got to grab a-holt o’ him. You stay there, spirit! Don’t you move now.”

  But Joe just laughs some more – ain’t nothing stopping him. And as the rain falls thicker and faster he kind of shimmers like sunlight on broken glass and comes zigzagging toward us, so fast we can hardly see him. Ain’t never seen no one move so sprightly. In a moment he’s beside Tom and shoves him down; then he’s next me and lams a fist in my stomach; then he’s by Jim and kicks him in the knee – then gone before Jim can get a hand to him. Next thing we see he’s skipping back toward town, skimming over the ground like a stone thrown ’cross a pond. Laughing all the while. T’ain’t a pleasing laugh, neither.