The Madman of Piney Woods

by Christopher Paul Curtis

  I used the back of my hand to wipe my tears from the Lion Man’s face and began singing the lullaby Mother sang to me those nights I tearfully fought off sleep. I was surprised how, though I hadn’t heard it in years, it came back to me with no thought whatsoever.

  The South Woods Lion Man and I rocked back and forth, and, heard only by frogs, crickets, and what I pray was a large owl, I sang to him and myself. My falsetto was nowhere near as beautiful as Mother’s soprano, but I sang anyway.

  Rest tired eyes a while

  Sweet is thy baby’s smile

  Angels are guarding

  And they watch o’er thee

  Sleep, sleep, grah mo chree

  Here on your mamma’s knee

  Angels are guarding

  And they watch o’er thee

  The birdeens sing a fluting song

  They sing to thee the whole day long

  Wee fairies dance o’er hill and dale

  For very love of thee

  Dream, dream, grah mo chree

  Here on your mamma’s knee

  Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee

  As you sleep may Angels watch over

  And may they guard o’er thee

  The primrose in the sheltered nook

  The crystal stream, the babbling brook

  All these things God’s hands have made

  For very love of thee

  Twilight and shadows fall

  Peace to His children all

  Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee

  As you sleep may Angels watch over

  And may they guard o’er thee.

  Mother’s Irish lullaby worked. Not only did the Lion Man’s breaths begin to slow and come more regularly, I also grew calmer myself.

  The lullaby squeezed some of the fear and pain out of the little grapevine shelter where the South Woods Lion Man and I fought to keep ourselves in this world.

  With the dark now more of a blanket than a prison, I sang the song again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I wasn’t sure if the mayor noticed, but despair was on me like a bad smell.

  I couldn’t believe what was happening. The woods were failing me just when I needed them most. They weren’t talking at all.

  I knew better than trying to reason out where the Madman and Red were. That would just cause disaster and confused wandering. I only had to feel where they were and, like it always had before, the forest would lead me. But we’d made two passes in the area where I was certain they should be and called heartily to no avail.

  The dark was inky. I couldn’t read any of the signposts I’d memorized.

  The swell of noise from crickets and toady-frogs and the cries of prey seemed to pull a curtain further over where we were.

  The mayor could tell. He said, “What you think, boy? Maybe we should camp and start again in the morning.”

  Neither of us wanted to do that, but what was the point in getting more and more lost?

  “Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry, I know they’re …”

  “Son, we run outta time. There’s no need to apologize for the darkness, Benji.”

  “Yes, sir. We passed a clearing about five minutes ago; we can camp there. I won’t sleep at all and at dawn we can –”

  The mayor said, “Don’t you worry….”

  The mayor is very old, but his ears are just as sharp as mine. We shushed each other and turned our heads toward a sound that seemed to fall around us like a gentle misting rain.

  After a few moments, he said, “My goodness, I’ve finally found out what an angel sounds like!”

  He was right. The voice was light and winged and haunting, the beautiful singing of a girl from a heavenly choir. It floated and danced around us. It was near impossible to say where it was coming from.

  The mayor said, “It’s not the same song, but it reminds me of ‘Down in the Valley.’ That’s the song my ma used to sing to me.”

  That was the same song Mother sang to me as well, and this angel’s song did bring that to mind.

  The mayor thought it was coming from one direction and I another.

  He hailed, “Hullo! Hullo! Who’s there?”

  The singing stopped.

  A voice cried, “Benji? Benji! Is that you?”

  I jumped off the horse and ran toward the thicket of vines to my left.

  I tore at the vines to get to my friend and the Madman.

  Just as their forms emerged from the darkness, the Madman drew a ragged, shuddering breath.

  Red looked up at me and smiled.

  I smiled back and yelled, “Sir! Over here! They’re both here! Red never left him! He’s still alive!”

  My admiration for my redheaded friend from Chatham burned in me so brightly that I was surprised this part of the forest wasn’t lit up like a July afternoon!

  Even though he was crying like a newborn lamb, Red was true to his word. He hadn’t let the Madman down the whole time.

  * * *

  We spread the travois, and me and the mayor gently lifted the Madman into it.

  Red and I rode the mayor’s horse, and the mayor followed behind on the other horse, pulling the travois slowly.

  Red was exhausted and soon asleep. The mayor said, “Hold on a minute, Benji. Unless we strap that boy to you, he’s gonna fall off and break his neck.”

  The mayor cinched me and Red together with a belt. Red never even woke up.

  We rode on, a small parade out of place in the forest. We found a slow easy pace that didn’t jar the travois too much and settled into the long ride home.

  Although he was quiet and seemed lost in his thoughts, I had to ask the mayor, “Sir, who is he and how do so many people know him?”

  The mayor said, “He’s my dearest childhood friend, Benji. Just like with you and Spencer, no one said one of our names without saying the other, like it was one name. Just like BenjiandSpencer, it used to be ElijahandCooter.”

  I waited, but he said nothing more.

  “How did he get to be the way he is?”

  The mayor said, “Who can say, Benji? I don’t have all the pieces, but no one should be treated like this.”

  I was surprised to awake in the dark on the back of a horse.

  Even more surprising was I seemed to be strapped to someone else on the horse.

  Most surprising of all was I didn’t care.

  I hoped when I awoke properly, someone would explain all of this to me.

  But until then …

  There was another five minutes when the only sounds our parade made were the every-once-in-a-while clomp when one of the horse’s shoes hit a stone and the shushing sound the travois made as it was pulled along.

  I figured the mayor was through talking. I guess it was too painful for him.

  Another ten minutes passed before he surprised me. “Your mother was only a babe back then, Benji, back during the Civil War in the States. Everybody who was old enough was going to America and enlisting in Mr. Lincoln’s army.

  “Cooter always did look younger than he was, so ’stead of enlisting him as a soldier, they took him on as a drummer boy. He joined up with the Sixth Regiment United States Colored.

  “He never would talk about it, but he had some times in that war that no one should ever have to go through. No one. Especially no one as kind as Cooter.

  “From what other folk told me, I pieced together that Cooter had done something very brave in a battle. It’s one of those things that never make the history books, but he come out of it a hero. The government of the United States gave him a huge ceremony, said he was the bravest coloured man in the army. Gave him ribbons and medals and all sorts of gifts. They wanted him to travel ’round the country talking to other coloured folk to convince them to join the army. He said he’d do it, but he wanted to come home to Buxton for a bit first. Told them that with his head as fogged up as it was, he needed to go where he knew he could clear it some.

 
; “We thought for sure something horrible had happened to him. He was supposed to catch the train from Washington to Detroit, then from Windsor on up to Buxton. I remember how folks had everything set up to welcome him, but when the train pulled in, no Cooter. No message and no Cooter. We waited outside every train for a week afore we give up on him.

  “Thought for sure he got waylaid somewhere. Folks speculated he had to be dead, ’cause otherwise why didn’t he come home? How come he didn’t send word?

  “It was just last month he told me how come he wasn’t on that train. Said back in eighteen hundred and sixty-five, when he was going from Washington to Detroit to get to Buxton, he got the first chance to be alone and think. Told me he had time to see through most of the fog and knew he couldn’t come home. Said he knew he wasn’t a hero; he was the opposite and was deeply ashamed. Just walked off the train in Pennsylvania.

  “It was nine years later he finally found his way back home to Buxton. Folks were so pleased to see him, they wanted to throw him that same parade and picnic we’d planned near a decade afore. Still wanted to celebrate him fighting for us, let him know he was Buxton’s biggest hero.

  “I could tell he was ’bout split in two over all the attention. Buxton had changed in that decade and Cooter had changed even more. They waren’t no match anymore. Cooter refused to let ’em celebrate anything about him, got peeved if you called him a hero. Wasn’t comforted being around most folk … no, he wasn’t comforted being ’round no one, so he lived in the woods.

  “He never would tell me what happened. I found out later that he was in a fight called the Battle of Fort Pillow. Fought side by side with white Yankee soldiers and all of ’em got overrun by the rebs. The Confederates were horrible harsh on the white troops they captured, but they were beyond harsh on the coloured. They cut the scalp offen any of the black soldiers they found, dead or alive.

  “I know when he first came back, Cooter told me he couldn’t sleep inside ’cause he kept hearing screams. He couldn’t get the sound out of his head. I figure it must be the sounds of those troops being murdered that plagued him.

  “Best I can figure, that’s what set him off to go into the woods the way he did.”

  I wondered if Mr. Swan had told anyone about the Madman getting scalped. Probably not. He was one of the people who always looked to protect him. I wouldn’t say anything either.

  We rode on in silence.

  Before long, the mayor said, “It waren’t but in the last year that something changed. He started coming out of the woods whilst I was in the fields and began talking to me. Giving me bits and pieces ’bout what happened in the war, going over old times in Buxton.

  “Seemed he knowed his time was short. He didn’t say the words di-rect, but every time we’d talk, I knew Cooter’s words had a lot of good-bye in ’em. I caint tell if he was just looking for some companionship or looking to get some things offen his mind. Whatever, he was slow and gentle ’bout doing it, like he used to be ’bout everything.”

  We finally broke out of the woods and were on the road to Buxton. Since we could go faster without jostling the mayor’s friend too much, we’d be home in half an hour.

  Somehow, in spite of the darkness, Benji had led us back to Buxton.

  It was after two in the morning when our tired group knocked on the Buxton doctor’s door and aided the South Woods Lion Man, whose real name I was told is Mr. Cooter Bixby, into the doctor’s house.

  Benji and I rode to the Alstons’ home and within moments of getting there, after a hurricane of hugs and kisses and tears, Mrs. Alston said, “Your father must be losing his mind, Alvin. No time for rest now, Benji. You two get back on the road to Chatham.”

  We began the forty-five-minute trip with me sitting behind my friend.

  I was nodding to sleep when Benji said, “Red, the song you were singing.”

  “Yes?”

  “How do you know it?”

  “I’m not certain; it’s something I’ve always known. It’s called the ‘Cradle Song.’ It’s the Irish lullaby my mother would sing to me at night.”

  “Irish?”

  “Yes. You know I’m Irish.”

  “Both me and the mayor think it calls to mind a song our mothers sang to us.”

  “Really? How’s that possible?”

  “It beats me.”

  I was far too tired to give it much thought. I only worried how even though Patience had warned them, Father and Grandmother O’Toole must be in a horrible state by now.

  Those were my last thoughts before the soft clomping of the horse’s hooves and the gentle swaying of our easy pace eased me to sleep. As I clung to Benji’s back, I heard Mother’s voice.

  “Sleep, sleep, grah mo chree, here on your mamma’s knee. Angels are guarding and they watch o’er thee.”

  The terror and hopelessness I’d felt hours before were no more. And once again I was embraced by the words Mother would say to me at night, may peace, like a river, come.

  * * *

  Benji awoke me by saying, “Red? Red! You’re home.”

  It is difficult to describe my joy when I saw our bay window illuminated against the darkness of the street.

  Father sat in his rocker asleep, with his legs crossed, his head thrown back, and a shawl that Grandmother O’Toole must have placed on him draped over his shoulders.

  The moment I saw him, it was as though he sensed I was there and jerked awake. He looked toward the clock, then out of the window.

  Benji and I jumped off the horse just as Father arose and rushed toward the door. We met on the porch.

  “Alvin! Thank God you’re safe!”

  He hugged me, then pulled Benji into his embrace as well.

  He kissed the top of Benji’s head. “Thank you so much for bringing him home, young man.”

  The tiredness that struck me on the road to Chatham finally grabbed ahold of Benji. He walked over to one of the porch chairs and sagged into it.

  Father held me at arm’s length.

  “Are you all right, son?”

  “I am now, Father.”

  “Do you want to wait until the morning to talk?”

  I didn’t. We sat on the top porch step, and I told my Father about the night.

  He squeezed me to him and said, “I’m very proud of you, Alvin. You showed great character and courage. Your mother would neither be surprised nor have expected any less.”

  As my father smiled at me, I knew it had not been any grand show of courage on my part that had gotten me through this night. Rather, it was because this man, whose eyes fell upon me with so much love, had let me borrow enough of his strength to know that if I kept my head, I’d get through. It was because my mother had done a million small miracles to bring home the lesson of thinking of others before I thought of myself.

  As Father and I hugged on the porch step, and Benji dozed in the chair, I’d never felt safer or more secure.

  Those feelings fled when I heard, “Chester? ’Tis he? Is the lad safe?”

  I could hear Grandmother O’Toole’s bedroom door close and the rapid ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling of her cane as she walked quickly toward the front door.

  She saw me clinging to Father on the top step and came through the door, her open arms stretched toward me. She cried, “Saints be praised! Our prayers are answered. I told ye, Chester, I told you there’d be no –”

  She looked to the chair where Benji sat.

  And she froze.

  The oddest thing was that her expression never changed, not one bit of her face moved or shifted, yet her look went from one of great relief to one of absolute horror, absolute hatred. And although her hands remained in the exact same pose, with no movement whatsoever, they no longer seemed to be spread in welcome but were now angry claws aimed at my friend from Buxton.

  The only physical change that took place was that she began to swell, growing with each angry breath she drew. Becoming huge again.

  She spat, “And who is this little �
��”

  Father stiffened and stood. I’d rarely heard him raise his voice, but he nearly barked, “Mother O’Toole! This is the young man who rescued Alvin in the woods. His name is Benjamin Alston and we are deeply in his debt.”

  Benji had awakened and now said, “Hello, ma’am.”

  Grandmother O’Toole began the process of shrinking.

  Father continued, his tone sharp. “He was our guest for supper while you were in Windsor and it will be our honour to provide him with shelter tonight. Benjamin, Alvin will sleep on the cot and you shall sleep in his bed.”

  Grandmother O’Toole’s body shook so violently and the cane bell tinkled so steadily that every sin ever done by every Irishman in all of Irish history was forgiven. Her eyes became slits and, without another word, she staggered back into the house.

  Benji stretched and said, “Thank you, sir, but I promised my parents I’d come back tonight.”

  Father said, “Well, in that case, I insist upon escorting you home. We’ll go borrow a horse. Alvin, try to sleep. I’ll be back in a couple of hours at the most.”

  Benji said, “I’ll see you in Chatham next week, Red.”

  “Not if I see you first, you won’t.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  Benji climbed back on the horse. Father took the reins and led them toward the city stables.

  I called, “Benji?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, Red, thank you.”

  “I’m serious,” Benji said. “What you did was real important. Thank you.”

  “And I’m serious too. Thank you.”

  Each of us was too tired to continue thanking the other. I collapsed into the chair Benji had used and waited for Father’s return. My intentions were to greet him when he got back, but sleep once again overpowered me.

  * * *

  I awoke with a start.

  “Father?”

  But the road in front of the house was empty.

  I went inside to see what time it was.

  The moment I stepped into the hallway, a most unusual sound greeted me. A strong, steady HAR-HAR-HAR filled the living room and the foyer, as if someone in the house were sawing lumber.