Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  “All I wanted was for you to keep me company,” says Joe, ’most screaming. “That warn’t so much to ask, was it? Look at me now, Tom! Look at me now!”

  “Tom!” I go running forward, my bare feet slapping ’gainst the rock. “You let him go, Joe! Leave him be!”

  But they’re already in the water up to their knees.

  “I’ve come back wrong, Tom,” cries Joe. “Ain’t I, though? I’ve come back mad – even at you!”

  I stop sudden and turn to the wall, my eyes and one of my hands searching all over it. At last I find what I need – a nook to stand the candle in. Soon as it’s upright and I was sure it wouldn’t fall I turn back to the lake.

  Joe’s holding Tom’s head under, in the midst of a froth of bubbles; below the surface his arms and legs is thrashing – but less so now. I take a breath and dive in – Lord, it’s icy – and light out for them. I keep my face low in the water, and swim as fast as ever I can, fastest I’ve ever swum. When I surface I’m no more’n a yard away, Joe looking down at me all scornful as I come up.

  “He’s all yours now, Huck,” says he and he shoves Tom by the shoulder.

  Tom floats over, face down, still.

  I grab Tom by the shoulder and push down on it; Tom turns upwards and I see his eyes have rolled over white. I lean across his body and punch Joe a half-dozen punches he don’t seem to feel or care ’bout.

  “You can take a minute if you want, Hucky,” says Joe. “Then it’ll be your turn. Sorry, but there it is. It’s what Lady Miz wants.”

  “You’re a liar, Joseph Harper,” says I. “T’ain’t never been what Lady Miz wants – not enough to kill for, anyways. It’s just been you all along.”

  Joe’s eyes flick over toward me, evil agin.

  “What makes you say that, Huck?” says he.

  “’Cause I’ve seen her face, Joe,” says I. “In the steam cloud when Big Missouri blew. Saw her face, plain. I could read that face better’n I could a book – warn’t no doubt what it meant. Warn’t a look of triumph or joy or nothing like that; she was sad and pained and eaten up by what you’d made her river water do. Killing folks that was just travelling and enjoying her! That warn’t never what she wanted. Folks like that is what keep her flowing as much as rain and tides and all. Soon as I saw that face I knew you didn’t have her say so for none of your tricks. She don’t have no idea what you’ve been getting up to, do she? Well, she will now, Joe! Like you said – this here water we’re in all gets down to her somewheres, so she’s in touch with me right now. And I’m going to tell her!”

  I don’t take a breath, just dive straight under and let the water fill my mouth and nose.

  A few seconds later, Joe’s face is leering in front of me. I feel his hands under my arms, and then I’m shooting upwards. We break through the surface together and lift ’bout five feet into the air before splashing back down in the lake. Joe’s laughing. The more water I cough up, the more he laughs.

  “Not till I’m ready, Hucky,” says he. He shakes his head as the water grows still agin around us. “You ain’t got no soul, Hucky,” crows Joe. “Lady Miz can’t see you, can’t hear you, don’t know you from a pebble or hunk of wood. You can’t tell her nothing!”

  “Well, I guess maybe that’s so,” says I. “So it’s just as well I told Tom all ’bout it while we was climbing up the hillside this morning.”

  “What?” says Joe – and he ain’t crowing no more.

  His eyes fall on Tom’s body and then, suddenly, Tom’s head jerks back and he gives a gasp. He starts shaking fierce, his shoulders working up and down, his stomach shuddering and heaving, water pumping itself out of his mouth.

  “She knows!” says I, clapping my hands. “Tom had his soul in fine. Lady Miz knows what you done, and she’s bringing him back. Back alive, Joe, not back dead, like you!”

  Joe gives a panicked, strangled kind of groan and lights out for the shore of the lake, swimming fast. When he gets to the shallows he starts striding up the stone. He’s a couple of yards out of the lake when he gives a cry. Water’s draining out of him, eyes, ears, everywhere, and running back into the lake.

  “I’m sorry, Lady Miz,” says he. “I didn’t mean to cross you. Just wanted my friends with me. I’m sorry.”

  But you can’t cross a river – not that way.

  Joe walks away from the lake, moving slower and slower as the water leaves him; it was only Lady Miz’s power kept him going – and she’s taking it away. He turns his face back to me, all pale and dry and chalky.

  “Help me, Hucky,” says he in a raspy voice, his mouth hardly moving. “I’m dying – for real.”

  “It’s for the best, Joe,” says I.

  He tries to move agin, but he can’t, he’s rooted to the spot now. He speaks one last time: “Ain’t it, though!”

  I take a-holt of Tom – he’s coughing and spluttering regular now – and drag him up on shore. He lies there a time, catching his breath.

  “Am I alive or dead, Hucky,” says he at last.

  “Alive, I reckon,” says I. “Let’s check.”

  I pinch Tom’s nose shut; minute later he slaps my hand away, gasping for air.

  “Yep,” says I. “You’re alive, all right.”

  “And Joe?”

  “He ain’t!”

  I help Tom up and we walk over and take a look at Joe. He’s cold and still and stony-looking now.

  “’Most like a stagmight,” says Tom. He gives a sigh. “He’ll be standing here forever.”

  “That’s something, I guess,” says I. Then: “Listen!”

  The sound of voices and footsteps and a hound come to us from the cavern where the roof fell in.

  “The posse,” says Tom. “Quick – they’re our best way out of here alive. And we can set them straight ’bout Jim and Injun Joe.”

  We hurry off back round the side of the lake, pick up our candle and run back the way we come. ’Fore we leave, we pause a moment and look back.

  “So long, Joe,” says Tom and me.

  Then we was scrambling back into the tumbled-down cavern.

  Half a dozen pistols and shotguns click and point themselves in our direction. There’s a dozen men or more with burning torches and one with a big old bloodhound at the end of a chain. Judge Thatcher’s at the head of them, an expensive shooting iron strapped to each hip.

  “Don’t shoot,” says he, raising an arm. “They’re boys!”

  We come forward so they could see it was just us.

  “Don’t shoot me, neither,” comes a voice from one of the side passages. “It’s your friend Henry Finn!”

  This was stretching things a bit, and some of the fingers lingered a while on the triggers ’fore moving away agin.

  “Ain’t you going for the treasure no more, Pap,” says I, low, so the posse won’t hear me.

  “Treasure!” says he with a snort. “These caves is full of monsters, runaways and fallins. Let’s git while the gittin’s good.”

  “Fine with me,” says I. “I didn’t want it anyway.”

  Yet, still, it seems a shame somehow.

  “Would one of you be kind enough to tell me what in the nation has been going on?” says Judge Thatcher. “Aren’t the rebel slaves holed up here?”

  Tom and me share a look.

  “You tell the story, Tom,” says I. “You’ve the gift for it.”

  So we all trudge back up to the entrance, Tom and Pap and me clustered near the judge, Tom telling the whole thing – enough story to fill a warehouse. Everything I’ve told you, ’cept ’bout the treasure – Tom glossed over that too. Reckon we was both hoping Jim’d be able to get a-holt of it sometime, if he was still alive.

  When Tom gets to the part ’bout us seeing Injun Joe kill Doc Robinson, not Muff Potter, the judge gives a little cry and falls against the cave wall, ’most fainting.

  “What?” says Tom. “Judge Thatcher?”

  “We hanged him this morning,” says the judge. “Didn’t want the
trouble of a murderer clogging our only jail cell with it being needed for a host of insurrectionist slaves – so we thought. Got it done quick – had all the witness statements sworn out. Didn’t seem to be anything anyone could say on Potter’s account – had nothing to say for himself, either. I pronounced sentence myself.” He sighs. “I shall resign, of course. Damn that Injun Joe! And he’s been working his evil from these very caves, you say?”

  “That’s right, sir,” says Tom. “And somewhere he’s hidden slathers of…”

  “Don’t bother the judge ’bout that, boy,” says Pap. “He wants to hear ’bout that other villain, I dare say. That Jim.”

  “He ain’t no villain,” says I. “Didn’t Tom tell how Injun Joe set him up to look guilty. Jim hain’t done nothing wrong… ’cept run off.”

  “Well, that part of the story takes a little more swallowing,” says the judge. “But it’s true we haven’t seen hide nor hair of these supposed rebels – nor Injun Joe since he got us so worked up about them. Although a body has been found down by the river that might’ve been one of his men. Still… we can’t have slaves running off, boys. Where would we be if we let that go unpunished?”

  “But that’s all Jim’s done wrong,” says Tom. “Nothing else. And he’s hurt real bad – he needs help.”

  The judge ponders a moment.

  “I’ll send my men back down the tunnels – in pairs, mind – to search for him. I’ll have them call out, tell him he won’t be hanged. But these caves are dangerous – he’s got two hours, no more. If he doesn’t come out and turn himself in by then, why, I’m afraid he’s done for.”

  “Done for?” says I.

  “Rock falls,” says the judge. “A maze of tunnels. Children wandering off and getting lost. A hideout for a treacherous, murderous bandit – a veritable monstrous, bloodthirsty spirit, if you boys are to be believed. And a refuge for any slave that takes it into his head to run away. No, boys, these caves are too dangerous to allow people to continue coming and going as they please. I’m going to have that crippled front door sheathed in iron boiler plate and triple locked. I’ll leave the keys with the town clerk – sightseers will have to ask him for it from now on. That way we’ll know nothing nefarious is happening down here. That’s my last word on the subject, so hurry along now – there’s still scores of scalded, half-drowned survivors from Big Missouri stranded up and down both sides of the river for us to take care of.”

  And with that, Judge Thatcher steadies hisself, standing straight as a ramrod, dignified as ever, and strides back up out the tunnel, giving orders to the other men. He sent a dozen or more back down the tunnels to hunt for Jim; he was good as his word. But I didn’t feel no certainty Jim’d turn hisself over – even supposing he hadn’t bled to death. He’d be watched too close to ever get another opportunity to run; he’d take his chance in the cave, I was sure of that.

  “Take a last look, boys,” says the judge as we get back to the entrance. “McDougal’s Cave is closed!” With that he signals for us to leave – and we do.

  We turn north, Tom and Pap and me, figuring we’d rather walk back to Petersburg than go back to where we come ashore and share a boat to town with the blistered folk. Men was hurrying along this path too by now, coming along to lend a hand and take messages back and forth and such. Petersburg folk was good that way.

  “You think we’ve seen the last of Injun Joe?” says Tom.

  “Lord, I hope so,” says I. “I can still smell his scorched fur and flesh from when you burned him. What d’you think, Pap?”

  Pap ponders a moment, sucking his teeth.

  “Feller like that, you never can tell,” says he. “You can hope, though.”

  Soon as we got back to town, Tom ran to his Aunt Polly’s place. I went with him; Pap didn’t take to the idea and made hisself scarce. Since I didn’t have no way to direct him to treasure no more, and no money in my pocket for him to share, I guess he didn’t have no more interest in me for the time. That was all right, though.

  Soon as we got to Tom’s place we found Sandy and a group of fellers with shotguns. Sandy’d already told them what’d happened with Tom’s Aunt Polly and Sid and Mary, and as soon as Tom said it was so they agreed to come and guard us to and from Mother Hopkins’ place to fetch them back.

  Tom and me didn’t feel much like talking while we walked over there. Sad, I guess. ’Bout Jim – and Joe too, Joe Harper. And Muff. Felt real bad ’bout him. Wouldn’t have spoke a word if it hadn’t been for Sandy asking us a heap of questions ’bout what in the nation was going on.

  Mother Hopkins must’ve known we was coming; they was all walking out the door when we arrived: Tom’s Aunt Polly and Sid and Mary (looking none the worse for it, I’m glad to say). Mother Hopkins too, a poultice tied to her head.

  “If I wasn’t so glad to see you boys alive I’d take a switch to both of you,” says Tom’s Aunt Polly. “Lord, I declare you’ve taken years off of my life.”

  I guess that was true; reckon Tom and me hadn’t gained any years neither – lessen you count not getting killed.

  While Tom and his folks is hugging and crying and asking and answering questions I walk over to Mother Hopkins.

  “Mother,” says I. “It’s…”

  “Lost! I know! Didn’t I tell you to keep it safe?” And she sighs. “Well… I guess I’ll have to think of something to try and get it back. Won’t be easy, though. Where’d you lose it?”

  “In the Miz. Couple o’ miles south of McDougal’s Cave.”

  Mother Hopkins rolls her eyes.

  “Stay out of trouble for the next couple of weeks – if that’s possible. I’ll come up to town when I know what to do.”

  “Thanks, Mother!” She was pretty good, for a witch.

  “Say, Huckleberry,” says she, just as I turn to go. “Where’s your pap? We’ve got some things to discuss, him and me.”

  “Back in town,” says I.

  “Is he?” says she, kind of puzzled, and shrugs.

  Chapter 14: Some things end, some don’t

  Tom and me lived kind of quiet the next week. Didn’t go out on the river, though we reckoned it was probably safe now. No pirating or being brigands or outlaws or Robin Hood or knights or any other of Tom’s notions. Met up and kicked our heels round town; played ring-taw with some of the boys a couple of times. That was ’bout it.

  We avoided the Harpers, though – them that was left – and ducked out of sight whenever we saw Joe’s sister or brothers. Word around Petersburg was that Joseph Harper had run away from home. Everyone allowed it was the sort of thing he would do, and yet another sadness for his poor family, but none of them looked more upset than they had been before, far as I could see. Tom and me agreed not to tell anyone the truth, since it was worse than what they thought.

  Pap kept away, ’most of the time; holed up somewheres drinking, I guess. I’d catch sight of him round the town, sometimes – watching me like he had another of his schemes in mind. I didn’t want to know nothing ’bout it.

  Second Sunday since the business in the cave, we met up after church, Tom and me. He gave his folks the slip as he was coming out and we hooked up. There was something we had to do that we’d been putting off.

  An hour later we was walking into the graveyard, bunches of flowers we’d picked on the way in our hands. We was looking for Muff Potter’s grave. Knew it’d be one of the fresh ones; no one else had died since him, ’cept for the folks got killed when Big Missouri blew, and they’d all been laid alongside each other in a block. Some of them they couldn’t even put a name to. There was a pair of empty spaces beside ’em, dug ready for a couple of wretches still lingering from their wounds. The big gravedigger’s spade and shovel was stood beside ’em in a pile of earth, ’most like sentries. Made me shiver some. It’d been drizzling ’most of the morning, sky gray, ground soft and moist – a little muddy round the new graves. Suited our mood.

  “Is that it over there?” says Tom.

  “Gue
ss so,” says I. “Who’s that feller beside it? Whole town’s sorry ’bout what happened to Muff, but who’d come up here special to mourn him’cept us?”

  We walk over, cautious, picking our way through the graves, our eyes on the back of this scruffy old-timer. When we get a couple of yards off we stop.

  “Excuse me, sir,” says Tom. “Is Muff Potter buried here?”

  “He sure is,” says the feller, turning round. “Right here.” It’s Muff Potter hisself, plain as life; the breeze picks up and for a moment I can see through him, the crosses and fence beyond showing faint but clear.

  Tom and me give a cry and step back.

  “I’m dead ’cause of you, dern it!” hollers Muff, looking as riled as he sounds. “Couldn’t you have spoke up sooner? Said something? You let me get hung!” And he pulls down his collar and shows us the wide, red rope mark round his neck. “I know all about it since I was planted; went over to Doc Robinson’s first night here to ’pologise. He set me straight ’bout what really happened – that that double-crossing half-breed stabbed him – and that you knew, you varmints!”

  He goes for us, hands outstretched, grabbing for our throats; we turn and run, skipping through the crosses and looking over our shoulders. While I’m glancing back at Muff I run straight into another feller; he grabs me by the shoulders and holds me still, staring down at me.

  “Easy now,” says he.

  “Pap!”

  “’Deed it is, Huckleberry. ‘Be sure your sins will find you out’ – that’s what the Rev would say.”

  “Guess so,” says I, trying to pull away. I glance over at Tom; he’s slowing up too, sharing his attention between me and Pap and Muff. I look back at Muff; he’s straining, trying to come forward, but can’t seem to manage it.

  “Can only get so far from his grave, this time of day,” says Pap. “Farther at night, I dare say – but I ain’t fixin’ to stay here that long.”