Bringing Home The Rain: The Redemption of Howard Marsh 1 (The Jubal County Saga)

by Bob McGough

  I’d spent a good bit of time on the phone, till I used up the last of my minutes actually. I had called Rutherford first and informed him of exactly what I thought of his job, and where he could shove it. We finally came to terms when he agreed to not send me back to jail, and to also triple my rate.

  I figure my life is worth at least three grand. Well, maybe only two. But a tip is always nice.

  After that, I had called H.D. I ended up staying on the phone with him as long as I could, trying to figure out what grinder I was about to stick my dick into. One simply did not mess with something Granny had done all willy-nilly.

  I was not 100% certain, but I was almost sure that within that totem acting as a scarecrow head, my gran had bound a Pooka. Why? God only knows. You didn’t ask why Granny did anything. And I damn sure wasn’t going to go to Granny and ask her to undo what she had done.

  Everything he told me that was useful, if you were to write it out, could have fit in a fortune cookie: Pookas could bring good luck, or bad.

  Fucking insightful.

  Being smart, and knowing his mother, he’d smartly taken the skull and sealed it up in a cardboard box and then crammed it in the back of the garage. Totems like that tended to draw strength from nature. If it was left inside, in the dark, it would never really kick on, so to speak.

  Granny was known for her “canning.” Instead of making up jars of pickles, family legend had it that she had a basement full of spirit jars, just waiting there in the dark for her to find a use for them. H.D. and I had argued over the years if that was true or not, but no one ever went into the basement, and it was a pretty much a moot point really.

  When they’d split, H.D. had long forgotten about the skull, and moved out leaving it behind. I was in the middle of cussing him out for being so stupid when the minutes ran out. It left me feeling mighty unfulfilled to be cut off mid-rant like that. I was feeling ornery, and the joint wasn’t really helping to calm me down as much as I would have thought. Probably had something to do with the assortment of other drugs I had taken in anticipation of the night’s shenanigans.

  H.D. had mentioned, before the phone had foiled me, that I might want to hold off on putting a stop to things as a storm was riding in. I was none too anxious to tangle with this Pooka, but then I also really wanted the shit behind me, so putting it off wasn’t really an option. But that did give me an idea.

  I decided to ride down towards the bottom of the drought circle, and pulling off in a little gate area that led into a large hay field, I sat about to watch the storm roll in. I needed to wait until good and late to do what I needed to do, so I had time to kill.

  I’ve always been both partial to and terrified of storms. Did a lot of living in ratty trailers growing up, the kind Tornado Season seemed to love to prey upon, and as a kid I’d spent a lot of sleepless nights praying I wouldn’t hear that train sound. But as I got older, I grew to love the look of a storm rolling in, and the sound of rain on tin. I figured this would be a rare treat.

  It was too dark to see the clouds clearly. They were dark grey on a black sky, and if it weren’t for the lightning you’d never have known they were there. But as I lay there, I could see a half circle of stars blotted out before me, with crackling waves of lightning spreading like tree limbs. I saw one lance out, almost headed straight at me, that slammed to a stop as it hit the edge. The night flared green-gold for a split second, so fast I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just a hallucination.

  Seeing the storm splayed out like that, it calmed me far better than the weed ever could have. Lying there, I just stared up into the blackness, letting the faint hint of rain-soaked wind edge around my senses. It was a literal calm before the storm, and the irony was not lost on me. I took another long toke on my joint, and settled in to wait.

  Showdown at High Midnight

  It was late, close to 11 or so before I pulled up in front of the Jaspers’ driveway, just about in the exact same spot I had been earlier. I looked up the hill and saw the lights were off in the house, so I figured it was now or never. It wouldn’t do to try and tackle this thing after midnight.

  I eased the car door shut. There was no way anyone in the house could hear a car door shut at that distance, but at this point I was so spooked that I was half afraid I would startle myself if I shut it too loud. I was likely being a bit foolish, but I was so high strung on my bits of joy and oblivion from my box that who could say what I might do. I certainly couldn’t.

  I leaned against the van, plotting my next move.

  I would have to go it alone, I knew that. Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out the little baggy of dried mushroom caps. Without a pause, I turned up the bag and let the taste of earth - and very likely cow shit - hit my tongue. It was gritty to chew, what with all the dirt, but also somewhat gooey in texture.

  Once I had swallowed the foul tasting lot, I started slowly up the hill. I took my time, waiting for them to kick in before I got too close. Without them, it was iffy that I would be able to see the Pooka clearly once I called it out, and that would make a dangerous situation even more so.

  Clearly, the thing had grown settled where it was, and would be loath to leave. I imagined that if I looked closer at those weather reports, the circle started a bit small and steadily grew till it reached the current size. My guess was that this Pooka had grown attached to Mrs. Jasper, and had decided to kill off the local competition. Or maybe it was leaching the life from the area to fuel her garden. Maybe it was both. Pookas were canny creatures, and mighty spiteful unless they liked you, which was rare. She was lucky.

  I also knew that tradition said that after November 1st, food left in a garden belonged to the Pooka, which more often than not meant spoiled, poisoned food. Maybe that was its plan. Grow a good late season garden and poison a bunch of folks. Who knew? Regardless of what it had planned, I would put a stop to it. Or maybe it would kill me.

  I had taken enough drugs that I was plenty fueled, and these ‘shrooms should do me right up. In a few minutes, I would be a first class Pooka wrangler, I hoped.

  The night was fairly cold, and I found myself wishing I had brought a coat or remembered what I had done with my shirt. It was one of my best, and I really hoped I hadn’t lost it. I still had my pants and boots though, and really what more do you need, at least until winter came. Besides, I had a bevy of drugs wrapping me up in a warm embrace, paired with a few shots of cheap whiskey.

  I decided to lean against a tree just on the edge of the garden and wait on the drugs to take full effect, all the while listening to the night sounds. It was calm out, with a bit of breeze easing through the trees causing a little rustling. There were the usual sounds of crickets and frogs, and at least one obnoxious cicada out there somewhere, but nothing that really stood out. Just normal night noises. The moon was about half full, which gave me more than enough light to watch that totem from where I stood.

  The thing seemed to suck up the moonlight, drawing it in like some sort of reverse light bulb. It was like a swirl of shadow there amidst the rows of corn, fighting not to be seen. It was hard, but I could see the rocks and crystals hanging from it swaying gently. It took me a minute of staring, and as I watched, I was a bit unnerved to notice they were swinging across the breeze, not with it.

  When it turned to face me, I knew that things had gotten real. So to speak.

  When you’re sensitive to the other world like me, all it takes is some good hallucinogens, and suddenly you can see the domain of the supernatural pretty clearly. Well, as clearly as staring into a world where shit frequently tends to not make tons of sense.

  The hard edge given by the meth was being dampened by the ‘shrooms. Around me, colors seemed to slowly fade in and out, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. As the world oscillated from full color to shades of grey, I edged closer to the garden. The skull was still facing me, holding perfectly still, but I knew the Pooka was watching.

  I could feel a tingle on my chest, and the brand there began to i
tch. I resisted the urge to scratch it, instead focusing on the skull. From the bottom of my eyes, I could see my chest start to glow a bit, a sure sign of having drawn the eye of something supernatural. It was nothing you could have seen without the ‘shrooms, but in that eerie spirit world the brand began to glow gold. Never a good sign.

  Flexing my fingers a little, I took a deep breath to calm myself, and then stepped into the garden. I began whispering a few words of Power, repeating the phrase over and over. The words flowed honey smooth over my tongue, filling my mouth with a warm, buttery aftertaste.

  I’d never learned much in the old tongue, and I’d forgotten most of what I had learned, but these had proven useful enough to remember. The words were the supernatural equivalent of “who’s a good boy,” which I hoped would keep the Pooka calm until I could get a proper handle on the situation. The thing didn’t leap out of the skull and try to kill me, which maybe was a good sign. Or it could mean that the spirit was so entwined with the earth that it couldn’t bear leaving its totem.

  I really hoped it was the former.

  Every step was like walking through a wall of static electricity, and that oily, grimy feeling was growing thicker. As my heart began beating faster, the meth coursing through my body had me all but twitching. I was so on edge. I needed to burn off some of this energy soon, or I was gonna be in a bad way. My fingers were flicking overtime, limbering themselves up and warming against the chill.

  A feeling engulfed my mind slowly, but there was power behind it. There were no words, at least none that I could have understood, but the intent was violently clear. Leave. I stopped moving, and stopped my mantra.

  A few words and a backhanded flick of the wrist later, I could see the beginning of glowing threads coming from the skull. My spell would show me pathways of power, which I hoped would let me gauge how embedded to the land this thing had gotten.

  Like the spreading roots of an oak, I could see the green bands of magic flow out from the skull into the garden. They spider-webbed outwards, filling half the hillside. I swore. It was dug in deep, like crazy magical tick.

  Should I have done this sooner, so I’d have had a better idea of what was going on? Probably would have been the smart thing. But drugs are great for fueling spells, not for thinking clearly.

  That intense feeling of “get the fuck out” came on more forcefully now. The feeling came quicker, and with a touch of force that felt like a slight slap. It was growing angry. So I did the metaphysical equivalent of rolling up a newspaper so as to bop it on the nose, and began calling up the Power in a big way.

  I had only barely started when thick roots shot up from the ground and wrapped themselves around my ankles. Before I could even squawk, they had me on the ground and were dragging me towards the skull. Thankfully, the tilled soil was soft, but it still knocked the breath from me.

  I saw roots shoot up through the scarecrow forming some sort of crazed muscular system for the Pooka, splitting its clothes and enabling it to stand on its own and stride towards me. It grew to at least nine, maybe even ten feet in height, and a baleful green glow came from the eyes of the skull as it powered in my direction. Even more worrying was how the roots that formed its arms were knotting into massive fists.

  Fear and lack of breath had slowed me, but as it dragged me close, I managed to flick my fingers in a familiar pattern. Useful for lighting cigarettes, but when coupled with a meth-fueled energy…

  Flames burst from the roots around my ankles, and they quickly recoiled. I got a fair nasty burn on my left leg as it happened, sending pain shooting through me, but I could worry about that later. I managed to scrabble to my feet just in time to leap out of the way of the gnarled fist that pounded a brace of cabbages deep into coleslaw.

  I don’t know how a skull snarls, especially one with no lungs, but I swear that thing made some sort of noise of intense displeasure. We stood a half dozen feet apart, it towering a good half again as tall as me, glowering at each other. I had more Power, but it certainly had home field advantage.

  I muttered some words and motioned with an elaborate twist of the fingers a more complex version of my cigarette lighting spell, and a ball of deep blue fire appeared in my left hand. The world had faded all to grey, with the only color being my fire, and its eyes. It looked like something out of a comic book, to be honest, two superheroes all squared off at each other. Only instead of Batman, you got me, a squirrelly little meth head with a snarky attitude.

  Now fire could no more hurt a spirit than water could me, but it certainly could light that whole damn garden ablaze in a heartbeat so that Pooka held back, eyeing me over.

  “You had a good run. Time to come on back home now though, before you cause any more trouble. I’ll make sure you get a few melons on the first. Fair?” I knew it wouldn’t understand the words exactly, but it would read the gist from my mind and tone.

  It decided to reply in the Old Tongue, which I understand about as well as it understands modern English. Only I ain’t got the telepathy to roust out a gist of a meaning. At least not without a good bit more of the right drugs. At a guess though, from the way it was swinging its great big honking fist at my head, the spirit did not much think that was a fair offer.

  That fist came barreling towards me, and without missing a beat, I swung my left hand out and met it head-on. My arm shuddered under the impact, and my shoulder pretty much came out of the socket, but the Power was filling me up hot and heavy now, and with the cocktail of drugs coursing alongside it, it would serve to hold my body more or less together in one piece. At least till the energy ran out.

  As the flame engulfed Pooka’s hand, it tried to pull away, but was too late. The magical fire rapidly spread up its arm, catching the rest of its body on fire. The smell of burning moldy denim and tubers filled my nostrils, a surprisingly unpleasant odor to say the least. I didn’t have time to really take in the scent though, as a mental wail of anguish filled my head, causing me to flinch back.

  The makeshift body kept trying to regrow itself, but as quickly as it would grow, the fresh growth would catch alight. The damn thing was spinning like a top trying to put itself out, and in the process was spreading the flames across the garden patch. I had to jump back to avoid getting caught in the middle of it all.

  The body collapsed, the skull coming free and falling to the ground. I tried to grab it, but there was a goodly bit of fire between me and the totem, which held me up. Of course, the damn thing decided that it was time to beat a hasty retreat. I suppose it decided freedom outside of Granny’s cellar was worth giving up the garden for.

  An ethereal body wisped into existence beneath the skull. In a moment, a deer stood before me, or at least a rough, see-through green approximation of one with a jet black skull for a head. It turned to leap away, and I knew if it reached the woods it was as good as gone, and I would never catch it.

  Sprinting, I did my best impersonation of a star linebacker and dove for the thing. Had it been sprinting straight away, I would likely just have fallen into a flaming tomato plant. Luckily, it had veered just enough in my direction that I was able to snag one antler with my hand. Putting all my weight into it, I tried tugging it to the ground, pulling it along after me as I fell. Instead, I just hung there a moment, my feet barely touching the ground. And then it took off running anyway, with me being dragged along so fast my feet kept leaving the ground.

  We were headed for the woods, where I was sure it had every intention of slamming me into trees till I was either dead or turned loose. I wasn’t about to let that happen if I could help it. It was now or never, so with a yell, I buried my heels in the ground, and calling up the Power, let its drug-fueled strength fill my arms.

  With a deafening pop, the skull came off the body, which instantly disappeared. The sudden lack of momentum caused me to slam face first into the ground, dazing me badly. Luckily, I kept hold of the skull, and before it could pull any other shenanigans, I sent a blast of power strong enough to hop
efully stun the Pooka. It likely wouldn’t last long, but it would last long enough for me to get the fuck out of there.

  Rising to my feet, I decided, after seeing the lights coming on inside the house, to beat a hasty retreat, before I got arrested for arson. Racing down the hill to the van, I tossed the skull in the passenger seat and dove behind the wheel.

  Road Tripping

  I made it maybe a mile down the road before I realized I had made a tragic error: I was far too high to drive. Tragically so. I pride myself on knowing my limits, and while as your typical south Alabama degenerate I have never been above driving a little under the influence as my revoked license will attest, I do try to limit that as much as possible. I mean, I’m no great shake at driving sober, much less filled to the brim on hallucinogens.

  I couldn’t linger too close though, as I figured that even then some poor guys were being roused to race over to the volunteer fire department. If they weren’t quick, and that fire spread to the dry parts that butted against that pretty green yard, then they’d have a real job ahead of them. Regardless, I needed to get out of sight, and quick.

  It’s hard to drive when the dividing line on the road gets all curly, twisting around like a snake on a hot plate. I felt like I was driving something like a million miles an hour, hugging curves and squalling tires. When I happened to glance down at the speedometer, I saw, through the swirling orange glow, that I was going maybe fifteen.

  This would not do.

  I turned up the first side road I saw. It was like threading a needle with yarn, and I may have perhaps missed slightly. The van shuddered and jolted as my wheel dropped off into what was likely a ditch of some sort. There was a rattle, the sound of maybe a hubcap coming off, but who’s to say there had ever been a hubcap there to begin with. I certainly couldn’t. You couldn’t either. No one knows nothing.