Huck

by Prizeman, Steven

  “We come up here to say we was sorry,” says I.

  “Ain’t no pleasing some folks,” says Pap. “Come away over here. You can pay your respects to some folks more deserving than that blowhard.”

  Pap turns me round and steers me toward the graves of the Big Missouri folks, the sound of Muff’s cussing filling our ears, but nothing worse than that to fear from him, it seems. Pap walks alongside of them mounds of freshly turned earth, looking thoughtful. Tom trails over to join us.

  “What brought you up here, Mr Finn?” says Tom.

  “Had a premonition you boys was in danger,” says Pap. “So I followed you up here. Arrived just in time, I reckon. Tricky things, ghosts, even by day.”

  Walking round them graves, staring down at my feet, Pap’s feet, the earth, I got an itch down the back of my neck told me something was wrong – though I warn’t rightly sure what.

  “You fixing to stay in town long, Pap?”

  “No,” says he. “Reckon not. Figured I’d catch a boat later today, in fact.”

  “You given up on Injun Joe’s treasure now the cave’s all locked up, Mr Finn?” says Tom.

  “Oh it’s only locked up if that’s the only way into that cave,” says Pap. “And maybe it ain’t.”

  “You figuring on taking me with you when you leave town, Pap?” says I.

  “No, Hucky,” says he. “Reckon it’d be best for both o’ us if you stayed right here. You’ve no objections, I’ll bet.”

  “No,” says I, trying not to sound too glad. “Petersburg’s fine with me. Say, Pap…?”

  I’d realised what it was that was bothering me.

  “Yes, son?”

  “Why’d you take the nails off of the soul of your boot? Don’t see no cross shapes in the ground here. Thought you’d be pretty keen to keep witches off – Mother Hopkins still being mad at you.”

  “Well, the cross would be pretty good for that, I’ll allow,” says Pap. “But a charm like that can cramp a spirit’s style – and sometimes a body wants to give a spirit free rein.”

  “What d’you mean, Pap?” says I.

  “What d’you think I mean?” growls Pap, his voice suddenly hard. His eyes widen, his hands dart out to either side, grabbing Tom and me by our throats – it’s a grip like a vice – and I hear a little muffled voice say: “He doesn’t know what you mean, but he expects it’s something bad.”

  It’s the voice of the hairball spirit – coming from inside Pap’s stomach.

  “That’s the first question I’ve let slip in more’n a week,” growls Pap. Only now I know it ain’t Pap. “Still, I reckon a little one like that won’t hurt.”

  “You!” says I, struggling for my life and kicking out.

  “Me!” says Injun Joe, his face and body starting to swell and change before my eyes, putting on the extra inches and pounds he’s got over Pap, ’most lifting Tom and me off of the ground as he grows.

  “You, is it, you blackguard?” comes Muff’s voice, floating ’cross the graveyard, but Injun Joe don’t do nothing, ’cept smile a little, maybe.

  “What happened to Pap?” says I.

  “I did,” says Injun Joe, his face starting to look like that bandit agin, getting broader, the hair blackening up and growing longer. “After your nigger friend pulled his trick. If he woke up after I lammed him it warn’t for want of trying.”

  “Then it was you come out McDougal’s Cave with us,” says I. “Not Pap at all.”

  “That’s right,” says he. “I been watching you two all week, waiting for my chance – knew you’d sneak out of town on your own sooner or later. Now look on these graves…” And he shakes Tom and me, lifts us up, one in each hand, and holds us over the two open graves. “…these are your new homes, boys. You’re moving in today. Don’t worry if you don’t like ’em – you won’t have to put up with ’em for more’n a few minutes after I’ve piled the dirt in on top.” And he gives the evillest laugh I ever heard. Then he shakes Tom and me, laughing wild – howling almost – while we holler.

  He lifts Tom up high ’bove his head, like he warn’t no more’n a tumblebug, holds him there a second or two to terrify him – Tom’s screaming for help and struggling, kicking out and punching, but it don’t do no good – then he flings him down. Hard! I hear Tom hit the ground and cry out; makes me sick to hear it. And I know what’s next. Injun Joe holds me in front of his ugly face, all sneering, his foul, bloody breath in my nose as he says: “Nobody crosses Injun Joe!” Then he lifts me up high too – don’t have time to do more’n spit in his face ’fore I’m being flung down into the grave next Tom’s. I ’most break my arm when I hit, but least that saves my skull from getting broke. All the wind’s knocked out, though, and I lie there looking up, gasping for air. ’Bove me, Injun Joe’s blotting most of a grave-shaped patch of sky. He’s got that big shovel in his hands already, and it’s fixed for business. He shoves it forward and turns it – same way he’d handle a knife – and a rain of stones and dirt come falling over me. “Nobody crosses Injun Joe,” says he again, shouting it loud. He’s working like the demon he is – turning away, then back in an instant, another shovelful to pile in, then one for Tom, then one for me, then Tom.

  “Oh, Lord,” says I, spitting earth from my mouth. “He’ll have these filled in in no more’n a couple of minutes at this rate.” Maybe I was talking to Tom, but it was a pitiful sound and he wouldn’t’ve heard.

  “You’re done, boys,” yells Injun Joe. “Who d’you think’s going to save you now?”

  Now that was a question.

  I hear a sound floating ’cross the graveyard. A warm, gentle, humming; deep and strong.

  And I hear a little voice, muffled, coming from above me, speaking out of Injun Joe’s belly: “He thinks his friend Jim would save him, if he was alive.”

  “Jim” says I.

  Injun Joe turns away sudden at the top of the grave, sending another shower of dirt down on me.

  “Him!” says he, grinding the word ’twixt his teeth.

  And I hear a voice I thought I’d never hear agin come rolling toward me.

  “You leave them boys be. We ain’t done!”

  “No,” growls Injun Joe. “Reckon we ain’t. But you’d best come up here – I ain’t letting these rats give me the slip again.” He spins round, swinging the shovel like an axe; I hear the edge of it bite the ground near the next grave. Tom gives a yelp. “’Most had you,” says Injun Joe. “Stay down! Try running out on me, boy, and I’ll split you from crown to chin.”

  I bide my time after I hear that, ’stead of clambering for the top of the grave as I’d planned. I wait till Injun Joe steps out of sight, hefting that shovel and getting ready for Jim, then I stand slow, right against the side of the grave – start working my feet and fingers into the dirt walls and try to get a-holt. It was a full six feet deep, that grave – I warn’t going to be jumping out of that in one bound. I hear ’em talking as I climb, though, bandying words.

  “Don’t waste time talking to that old drunk,” says Injun Joe – and I could tell from the cusses that followed he meant Muff Potter. “You’ll be joining him, soon enough. Though you ain’t going to be a pretty ghost, time I’ve finished with you. Maybe you won’t be one at all – I ain’t seen your hand nowhere.”

  “Lord, you do talk gashly,” says Jim, and I hear his voice coming closer. “What trick you goin’ to do this time? I ain’t seen no buffalo yet. Though maybe a skunk’d be better for you. Or is you goin’ to fight me as myself?”

  “No, just me,” says Injun Joe. “This face’ll be the last thing you see – so I want it to be mine.”

  By now I’ve worked my way up high ’nuff to just peek over the edge of the grave, my fingers dug into the dirt up to the knuckles. Injun Joe’s just a couple of yards away, his back to me. He’s standing with his legs apart; through them I can see Jim striding up. Jim has a hatchet in one hand; where the other one used to be there’s the round end of a bandaged stump sticking out his jack
et sleeve. Jim sees me – I know it – but he don’t do nothing to let it show.

  “Come on, come on,” says Injun Joe. “I have to watch every word I say ’cause of that charm you made me swallow. Now I’m going to kill every part of you!”

  Out swings the shovel, making for the side of Jim’s head. Jim blocks it ’twixt the blade of the hatchet and the shaft. Both them men grunt and heave, wrestling there at the side of the grave. But Injun Joe’s got two hands, and he was stronger’n Jim to start with. Jim’s arm trembles and he goes down on one knee, struggling to hold Injun Joe back as he leans in. Then Injun Joe twists the shovel sudden and the hatchet goes flying from Jim’s hand, he lams Jim in the stomach with the wood end, cracks him ’cross the head with the shovel end – and Jim’s down, blood trickling into his eye. But blood or no, that eye catches mine and I know what Jim wants me to do. I make my move.

  “You thought you could take me,” says Injun Joe. He plants the shovel in the dirt next to Jim’s head, crouches, grabs him by the shoulders and drags him up so they’re standing toe to toe. “You couldn’t do it with two hands – what did you think you could do with one?”

  “Push,” says Jim. And he puts all his weight behind that one hand, shoves Injun Joe hard in the breast bone. Now, Injun Joe’s big, and his feet are planted like oak trees, but that shove’s still hard ’nuff to back him up a pace. And that’s all it takes to tumble him over me – ’cause I’m crouched behind that murdering bandit, having sneaked up out of the grave the moment before.

  A muffled voice says “Push!” as he goes past.

  Injun Joe falls hard, an angry, hurting heap of fury crumpled awkward into one end of the grave. He’s only dazed a second, though, then he’s staring up at me, veins standing out on his neck, his eyes flashing red and lips curling back to show his teeth. I could ’most see the wendigo face behind the human one, just itching to tear me in pieces. We both scrabble in the dirt, trying to get to our feet. I’m fixing to run and not look back when I see arms busting out of the side of that grave, clutching for Injun Joe. Arms! They reach, they grasp, he’s held! Coming through the dirt, like they swum through it, are Muff Potter and Doc Robinson; the Doc’s got his legs, Muff his arms.

  “Let go of me,” yells Injun Joe. “I’ll… I’ll…”

  But we could tell from the panic in his voice what he already knew – there warn’t nothing he could do to them no more.

  Jim’s at my side now; Tom’s hauling hisself up out of his grave too.

  “Ain’t many spirits powerfuller than the ghost o’ a murdered man once he’s set on the feller that murdered him,” says Jim. “And you killed both o’ these, one way or another.”

  “I fetched the Doc like you said,” hollers Muff, his voice all gleeful. “You was right – I can get farther from my grave under the ground! Who’d’ve thought?”

  He pulls Injun Joe back down agin and laughs in his face.

  “Hullo, boys,” calls the Doc. “Glad to see you’re still alive – hope your other trouble worked itself out. Best get busy with those shovels, now. I prescribe dirt – and plenty of it.”

  Tom and me don’t need to be told twice. I snatch up the shovel, Tom springs for the spade, and then we was tipping dirt down on all three like we was getting paid.

  “Goodbye Muff, goodbye Doc,” says I, flinging down the soil. “Hope you’ll be at rest after this.”

  Injun Joe, I didn’t say nothing to – but his howls and cusses was terrible to hear – what he’d do to all of us if he ever got out… and later his screams when he realised he never would. Then, at last, the gasping and choking as the dirt lay heavy on him. Muff and the Doc, cussing him all the time, and laughing too, not minding the earth that passed straight through ’em. Well, I guess burying a feller alive ain’t nice, but it had to be done. Would’ve been ’bout the worst thing I ever done if it’d been anyone other’n Injun Joe, him deserving it so much. He warn’t going to leave no one sorrowful. We patted the dirt down flat, Tom and me, did a good job. Wanted to pack in as much weight as possible on top of that villain – just in case.

  “We ain’t done,” says Tom. He scouts round and fetches back a couple of pieces of wood. Ties ’em together to make a cross then takes out a sharp stone and scratches something: ‘Injun Joe: Leave Him Be!’ Then he plants it in the ground at one end of the grave. “Now we’re done,” says he.

  We walk off a-ways, sit down, and catch our breath, the sweat dripping off of us, our backs aching and our arms most like rags.

  Jim’d been quiet all this time. Thinking, I guess. He’d picked up some respectable clothes since last I’d seen him – even boots.

  “Thanks, Jim,” says I, remembering it was ’bout time I said it. “Lucky you come along when you did. It’d be Tom and me down there otherwise.”

  “Don’t reckon luck had nothing to do with it, Hucky,” says Tom. “Look… There!”

  He points. Over on t’other side of the graveyard we see the edge of a figure watching, ’most hid by a tree. A woman.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” says Jim, rising to his feet and giving a holler. “It’s done.”

  Mother Hopkins comes over, a shawl wrapped round her, ’most doubled over under the weight of a big pack. Jim skips over to take it off of her (then hefts it onto his back like he means it to stay there, so I guess it’s his).

  “Witches!” says Tom, low, giving a nod. “Knew there’d be witchcraft in it, Jim turning up so timely. But why didn’t she come over and help?”

  I ’most laughed to hear Tom so ignorant, but it warn’t a time for laughing.

  “It’s day ain’t it?” says I. “Witches ain’t got no power in daytime. She’s just an old woman till sunset. And would you fight Injun Joe if you was an old woman?”

  “Old for sure, but I ain’t deaf,” says Mother Hopkins, coming closer. “Hush up, now!”

  “Yes’m,” says Tom and me, sharp (daytime or not).

  “Lord, Jim,” says Mother Hopkins, shaking her head and looking at Jim’s bloody face. “Seems all I do these days is patch you up!” She pulls a rag out of her apron, spits on it, and sets to wiping the blood off of Jim. Jim was good, though – he stood for it.

  “That where you been, Jim?” says I. “Hiding out with Mother Hopkins?”

  “That’s ’bout the size of it, Hucky,” says he. “Took me days, stumblin’ roun’ in the dark, my arm painin’ me sore, but I foun’ a way out at last. A little openin’ ’ bove the bluffs, oh, miles farther down than where we went in, hid by a clump of sumach bushes. Come north, half-dead. Had to stray miles over westwards to avoid the town – Petersburg’s still too hot for me, I’ll bet. Knew Mother Hopkins was the only person I could count on – ’ceptin’ you two. She healed me up pretty good.”

  “Couldn’t bring his hand back, though,” says Mother Hopkins. “Too much even for me…” Then fixing me with her eye. “… day or night.”

  “But, anyhow, I’se ’bout as good as I’se gonna get,” says Jim. “So I wanted to say goodbye to you two – ’fore I go – an’ Mother knew you was comin’ here.”

  “Oh, yes,” says she, nodding deliberate. “Been keeping an eye on you two. Sensed there was something evil stalking you – felt it soon as you come back from McDougal’s Cave. Warn’t sure what it was till now. And I had a particular reason to see you, Huckleberry.”

  “Me?” I took a step back; didn’t mean to.

  “’Bout your soul. Worked out a spell to fetch it back for you. Best I could come up with, what with so much on my mind.” She dabs at Jim’s face a couple times more ’fore turning back to me. “Lost in the river? Well, all right, then! What’s in the river we can use? Fish! Going to cast a spell to make a fish find it, swallow it, then get itself caught by you. Might take a while, but you go fishing regular, don’t you? Going to fix it so that fish won’t get caught by no one but Huck Finn. Just a matter of time is all.”

  “Me or Tom,” says I. “If he can fish for it too it’ll only take half as l
ong to catch. I trust him not to keep it, I reckon.” I give Tom a smile.

  “Done!” says Mother Hopkins. “Finn or Sawyer for that fish – nobody else. Now… best say your farewells to Jim.”

  “Still going then, Jim?” says I. “Alabama? Your folks?”

  “That’s so, Huck,” says he, solemn. “None of the money I’d hoped for – but I got to try anyhow. Free and poor’s still better’n bein’ a slave. An’ like I said, there’s nothin’ waitin’ for me in town but a rope.”

  “But,” says Tom, looking hopeful, “now that Injun Joe’s dead, why not try the cave again?”

  Jim starts to shake his head, then stops, looks over at Tom.

  “Well, I do have to go south… an’ I was fixin’ to stay this side of the river till I was far ’way from Petersburg.”

  “They keep it locked now,” says Tom. “But we could…”

  Mother Hopkins gives a scratchy laugh cuts him off.

  “Why, locks ain’t nothing to me, boy – day or night.”

  We dart our eyes all around each other, thinking the same: the treasure’s back on the table. We start walking off, when…

  “Oh, Lord,” says I, grabbing Jim’s good arm. “Pap must be laying dead somewheres in that cave.”

  I warn’t crying or nothing – warn’t even sure I was sad – but Jim (who’s good that way) starts to comforting me at once.

  “Now, now, Hucky, maybe… maybe he ain’t dead – Injun Joe didn’t say he was for sure. An’ I got out, now didn’t I? A man can get out of those caves if he keeps his head an’ acts reasonable an’ don’t do nothin’ foolish.”

  I look him straight in the face.

  “Then Jim,” says I. “He’s in there certain!”

  Don’t take Mother Hopkins more’n a few minutes to unpick them locks – uses some old pins and such she carried in a pocket in her apron. She could’ve done all right as a burglar, I reckon, if she hadn’t took to witching. First time I’d seen that door to McDougal’s Cave since the judge had it fixed up; it was better’n any in the bank or the one in the jail. Would’ve made other doors green, that door.