by Thomas Head
Doc nodded, drifting into slumber, his drunken face dropping atop pile of smoky mashed potatos.
Chapter 38
It was noon before they woke at the benches where they had been sitting. Fiddles and flutes were striking up again in different parts of the hall, the backbone rhythms of simple ballads, smacking of old delights. Folks were laughing, some were just stirring, and others still were beating time to the rasp of the fiddles.
Last night, men had risen and danced wild jigs, or deftly executed some intricate step, and uproarious applause greeted every performer. The hall had throbbed with confused sounds until the din deadened his faculties. But now, that deafening tumult had subsided to dizzy little ditties here and there, and the lights swam painfully through his skull.
Looking around at Jickie and the boys, Doc understood that it would be late afternoon before any of them had any strength to begin their quest anew.
* * *
The boys, as predicted, were not in a tenth as grand as mood as they were last night, a toll for all the beer and merriment. But there was something else. To venture out of the fort any further south meant enter what folk called the True Wild. From now on, they would be traveling through little but Zombie lands, where shado and human outlaws had the upper hand.
When their rough crew was preparing to re-embark south, Doc was shocked beyond measure to see the wild wetman, the river rat shaman. He came down and wished them well.
His uncle interjected and reminded him, “I’ll thank you sir, to note that our party is three as reckless as the creatures they face! Wish your fellow hippies well. These men don’t need it; they are undeterred, beastly adventurers who fear neither longmonger nor zombie!”
Doc thought it was a little strange of his uncle to expose their ‘virtues’ like that to a fellow he had not even greeted out along the riverbank that night. And the wild man seemed to feel the same, he stood wide-eyed and silent. And if things were not uncomfortable enough, a shapeless old woman in oily moccasins—probably the river rat wife, or the wife of some trader inside—ran to his uncle’s place in the vessel and kissed him on both cheeks, wishing him a safe trip.
“Oh!” his uncle growled. He wore the sour expression that is the aftermath of banquets. “Well, then! Any rose who would offer such nectar to an old fat lump of a bumblebee…”
“I did enjoy your company, Mister. And well… you might not remember me by this evening, but I’ll carry your touch for the rest of this old woman’s life.”
His uncle turned a purplish shade of red. “Look here, see, well, damn it to the depths… Doc, damn it, what’re looking at… frozen hell, but the thing of it is…”
The woman giggled and daringly handed him a red flower, a seemingly meaningful gesture to the wet folk.
“A token, Mister.”
“Well! See here! Alright, damn it, hey, there are others who would not appreciate that sort of thing, but by fuck I thank you! This is the wilderness of lost opportunities!”
And it was.
Not a soul laughed or chortled as he kissed her back.
* * *
With their heads to the warming western wind, they set out at last. The early evening air was fragrant with the odor of spring’s early flowers. And, winding among the countless greening fields, they smelled onions, and worms, and all the musky scents of life as it burst from the soil.
Any river is an oasis of visibility among rolling meadows and thick woods. This one, especially so. Through narrow, rocky channels they felt unnerved. Zombies were strangely reptilian in how they swam, which made them vulnerable. It was the reason so many had become wet folk, living like gypsies off shore. But here, amid narrow cliffs, they could drop right into the boat and devour them all before anyone could get situated. They kept their heads up, and along those endless tangles of silver water, they were not lulled by the beauty, but instead took two men from rowing to man their guns and keep guard.
They went all night that night, and all the next day, and on a flat stretch of rock, exhausted and hungry, they pitched their tents for the night. Doc could not help but marvel at the almost magical growth in these more southerly longitudes. Not even a pair of weeks had passed since snow enveloped the Goback compound like a winding sheet. Yet here, less than two hundred mile south, they were in an almost tropic of growth, and it had run riot. The frost, which still lay beneath the upper soil, was moistening the succulent roots of a wilderness of green. The woods were an impenetrable mass of foliage, and the meadow grass, swaying off to the forest margins, was already knee-high, rippling in billows. The wind brought it all to life, from the forest of brambles that swayed about the broad trunks to the new leafs of the treetops, nodding and fanning. Amid it all was still odor of hidden flowers.
For the first time in far too long, Doc had the strange advantage of being put on watch. There is nothing quite so strange and wonderful as having a meaningful purpose behind just sitting and looking at your surroundings. He loved it, and it made him glad in ways that are difficult to explain. When the troubadour trills some tune about being “born on the bayou”, whatever that meant, or some aged storyteller tales the tales of The Good Fight, hillfolk rightfully applaud. Yet a nesting Canadian goose, a thousand leagues from home, holds him more rapt. Doc didn’t know why, exactly. He had seen the same thing a thousand times from the windows of his own room, and it hardly gained his attention. But out here, the music has a deeper meaning and higher message, albeit one Doc would never presume to know. The wild has its frets, to be sure. And witching fascinations aren’t without discomforts in a sky full of mosquitoes—young and hungry mosquitos at that, and the distant calls of zombies as they made a kill. Still, Doc pitied those to whom venturing out ministers to only needs. Indeed, Doc pitied those who seek only the spoils of the adventure. To eat sumptuously, to dress comfortably, to enjoy friendly discussions, or even to make good use of wealth gained on such an outing—these are just the empty ends without the pleasures of the field and forest discovered along the way.
Sitting there amid of the lavish motion of the grass, it almost boggled the mind why folk would even bother with the mad, feverish pursuit of wealth in a age like this, why the Blackwaters would trample one another down in strife more ruthless than war, strife that widdles away the gifts of mind and soul. These are the things for which they barter all their freedom but the name. Material success comes with a thousand failings. Those with higher aims count themselves happy, indeed, to possess a good pair of boots, a good set of camo, the weapons they need to be safe, and a few square feet of canvas to keep the weather from the bones.
Perhaps this is an odd way to look at it, he mused. He could certainly never speak it, because for his part, Doc knew he would be counted mad by half of the old boys in the boat, at least.
But to each his tastes. Other voices may call to other men, teaching them what the waterways and forests, or a ripe, naked prostitute from Beergarden, were teaching him. If gold comforts their souls—then let it be.
As for him, that night, Doc was as content as a pup on a teat.
Chapter 39
It was not long before things began to sour in Doc’s mind. He wished he could stand by his words, and say that he loved the wild. But it is the nature of Nature Herself to balance things, and it seemed that as his contentment grew, so did Tyler’s discontent. It was in him that his worry about the wilds grew. Wooded hills, after all, are easy enough to enjoy so long you do not have to cross them. Carry someone across them, and suddenly they’re a damned ugly sight. Perhaps that was an exaggerated comparison; Doc didn’t pity him, exactly, but he could hardly call Tyler’s life anything more than an existence. A blow to the head stuns, but one may recover. The blow poor Tyler had suffered to his heart left the once strong, hearty man slowly succumbing the way one would to some insidious, paralyzing disease. The closer they got, the worse he became—quite the opposite of what Doc had expected. He supposed the reality of their situation, of actually acting on it, seemed to have
brought it all back into a sort of horrifying, morbid truth. The mere thought of effort seemed to burden him. He would silently mope by the hour in some dark corner away from their camps, or wander aimlessly about the woods around the fire, muttering and talking to himself. He was weary and fatigued without a stroke of work; and what little sleep he snatched from wakeful vigils seemed to give him no rest. His food was untouched, as far Doc could discern, He pushed it from himself with the petulance of a child, and at every suggestion Doc could make, he sneered with a quiet, gentle insistence that he was okay—which was, itself, utterly discomfiting.
He wondered, more than once, if Tyler had simply come along to die.
To be sure, Doc had Uncle Jickie’s boisterous good cheer as a counter-irritant; but as the hard, merciless nights closed in, Doc could hardly even think of Tyler. Shuddering at the distress he knew he must suffer, he could only turn his head.
* * *
Two weeks south of the rowdy burg of Foxwash, Doc was on watch again. A bleak storm wind roared through the open blackness of the grassy meadow where they camped. But the weather was good for now, good enough for laying on the ground.
Looking back at Tyler, Doc felt wet beads start from every pore in his body. In his dreams, he was panting. It seemed he was fighting blindly, raining down on some unseen foe with aimless blows. Then he rolled over and sank into the tangles of his blanket like a limp and helpless child. He raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering Emily’s name again and again, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. Then he fell into a troubled sleep. His supper lay untouched. Torches had burned black out. One tallow candle, which Doc had extravagantly put among some riverside boulders, sputtered low and threw ghostly, grim shadows across the grass.
Doc shouldered his shotgun and slipped from main campfire, heaping more logs on it. He stretched out as he took a higher seat atop a hill. In the play of the flame, Tyler’s face seemed suddenly and strangely calm. It might have been only the dim light, but the furrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful, transparent purity of the dead, just before you dismember them, or watch them slowly reanimate, their grim death grimaces twitching, the fingers stretching out, the legs seeming to cramp, the back arching, the lips pulling back, the first infantile steps…. Doc could not help but associate the shadows his fellows cast with legends of Death Himself having died. Once, Death kept guard over those who wished to accompany him. Now, though the soul may be gone, there was no one to guide the spirit away. There was a difference of course, between one’s soul and one’s spirit. It was a difference that everyone knew, and nobody could describe…
He looked down at his uncles. His own shadow beside him gradually assumed a vague, awesome shape. Doc sat up and rubbed his eyes.
The filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark. Was this an illusion, or was he going mad? There was a cry on the wind, the shriek of distant, dead things. An unspeakable fear chilled his veins. Then Doc could have laughed defiance and challenged death. Death! Death had quit his job, walked out during his lunch break. Death had slipped off without giving two weeks’ notice. Curse death! What had they to fear from dying? In this age, wasn’t there more to fear from living?
At that came the thought of his strange love for Dolly, who Doc had known for mere hours, and the tumult against life was quieted. Who was he kidding? Doc, too, feared death.
Again, he peered forward. The shadow fluttered, moved, and then it came out of the gloom, a menacing presence with mossy, black hair, a white veined brow, and gray eyes, speaking unimaginable noises. Then it became fully formed, the visage of a dead man, his father. The old man waved his hand over his uncles, and they fell so still that Doc feared they were dead themselves. But the fear was stayed as the figure shook his head no, telling him without words that they were merely deep in slumber.
A strange, wondrous dread overcame him. Doc wanted to fall to his knees before him but there was something in his countenance, which suggested that, even now, he would not respected groveling.
Instead, Doc stood his ground.
“What are you?”
The dead father sneered approaching closer.
Doc drew his shotgun.
The dead father halted.
“What in the frozen fuck are you?” Doc whispered again.
Its voice hissed, “They that watch you will strike you down should you not approach. You must go to them… Alone.”
Something in him begged for it to go, and it did.
And Doc turned, walking into the tall grasses, and he had not gone two hundred steps before he saw them. Even though Doc knew they were there, he nearly pissed myself. It was a band of Mexicans, as rugged as the sweeping countryside. There were thirty of them, an entire hunting party. They were outfitted with every manner of pistol, and quite a few cruel-looking swords.
Doc halted and nodded to them as if he had seen them there all the while.
“Do you speak English?” Doc asked in a calm, low voice.
One rose from the grass. He was tall, nearly six foot. He grunted and approached, coming uncomfortably close before he asked, “What alerted you to us?”
“An ancestor.”
The Mexican turned and said something to the others that sounded like “Un antipasto!”
The others grunted. A few were wide-eyed, as was Doc as he had, at not point, mentioned food.
“What else did the ancestor say?”
“I am to stop you from killing us.”
The Mexican laughed, and turned to others. “Para impedir la muerte.”
The others laughed, and the oldest among them pointed a stick at him, prompting his translator to turn back toward him and ask how Doc proposed to stop them.
Doc put his pipe between his teeth and lit it.
“He did not explain that part,” Doc said.
The translator grinned. “No explicó.”
“¿Qué está en su pipa?” the old man said. At which the others laughed that so hard that the oldest one started to tear up, muttering something through his laughter that was not translated. When he finally calmed himself, he said something to the effect of, “Debe estar bien… guuud shit.”
Doc raised his eyes questioningly.
“He wants to know if he can have a hit of what’s in that pipe.”
* * *
After another hour’s jokes at his expense, in which Doc took an animated part, beating down their exorbitant request for his life story, Doc led them past his snoring fellows, and offered them a small bale of his finest marijuana, along with a dirk, a few beads, and oddly, enough tin bells to outfit a whole heard of dairy cows. Indeed, the rascals cleaned him out of tin bells altogether, at least what Doc had in terms of trading stock. Then they swore by everything, from the sun and the moon to the piles of shit in the meadow, that they would do anything for more bells. But Doc had none. And when he saw them leave without any intention of fighting, he held back his curiosity and just watched them go.
* * *
The warriors had spoken the truth, Doc saw no more of them as the sun rose.
Moreover, they had vowed the river hurried just ahead, and the next compound down had horses enough for the entire party.
As he had no intent in arousing their resentment, he just listened without voicing his own suspicions. But Doc also kept an eye out, as he had no intention of being tricked by the clever Mexicans, either.
Chapter 40
The old fellows, eying him distrustfully, listened to his tale of the night before, which Doc felt was odd enough without revealing his encounter with the dead father. But his uncle became immediately suspicious that there was something else.
“Young Mister Doc, now see here! Your lips are too fucking tight!”
“There’s more to this tale, you think?”
“Think, sir? I’ll wager it!”
Doc tapped his pipe on his chin, as if trying to think. “Well, there were few bits I left out. A few jests, I think, that w
ere not translated properly, or perhaps at all.”
While they loaded their tents, he retrieved his pipe too.
Jick harrumphed. “At any damn rate,” he drawled, “it seems we’ve suffered little and gained a bit of information.”
* * *
They were not long in finding the narrow quickening of the river that the Mexicans spoke of. It was only a half a day’s row south, even with the wind in their faces. Here, they saw that the river they travelled spilled into a large cave, or tunnel. Part of the river flowed past the hole, then did something rivers rarely do—it split, like a reverse confluence, as it poured around the cave’s mouth. Part of the stream flowed south and one kept heading out south toward Nashville. The way south was flat, and the way west was too small for their vessel. They could see the little change in the river for miles ahead. They were stuck, it seemed. And portage was out of the question, for beyond carrying the vessel itself, there was also the matter of her cargo.
“How the hell did the longmongers get past here?” Rocco asked.
It was a good question. Doc looked around, suddenly nervous. He waded out and peered down into the black of the cave.
“I’ve got no idea,” he said, and they pulled the Feisty-Uncle up on a sandbar and stretched out their legs.