If it were not for the beam of Kyle’s flashlight, the trek to Murden’s shanty would’ve proved to be another blind march through the crevices of darkness. But a sense of urgency compelled the boy to move with a heightened resolve. He was seemingly unaffected by the insects and humidity that hovered on all sides of the Bogs. If a threat of rain still existed, it hadn’t hindered the boy’s progress at all. In the back of his mind, he realized that it would only be a short while before his parents discovered him missing. Of all of his previous visits to see Murden, this one mattered more than any of the others.
At nearly 11:30 P.M. Kyle arrived at his destination. As he expected, Murden’s shack was shrouded in almost complete blackness save for a lone candle flickering in the window on the porch. Kyle gingerly made his way up onto the porch, remembering that the wooden structure was as nearly decayed as the peach trees in Murden’s grove. Upon reaching the platform, Kyle heard the boards creak beneath his feet. He shifted his weight rapidly while trying to avoid falling between the withered planks. At least he caused enough of a disturbance to attract Murden’s attention, who seemed unusually prepared to welcome the boy’s arrival tonight.
Murden opened the door with the same jarring manner he greeted Kyle on previous encounters. Despite the old man’s malicious scowl, Kyle refused to retreat from the porch. He stood firm beneath Murden’s shadow, slightly shivering as he watched the man’s cigarette spark with an orange glow.
“I figured you’d be back, boy,” Murden muttered through the smoke of his cigarette. “You seem more determined than I originally thought.”
Kyle’s spoke erratically when he said, “I did what you told me, Ben. I tried to find out more about Sylvia’s past.”
Murden continued to puff on his cigarette as if the boy’s words were foreign to his ears. “You’ve come by yourself tonight?” Murden sneered as he glanced over the boy’s shoulder to survey the clearing behind him. Kyle nodded his chin once as the old man hobbled out onto the porch. Kyle noticed that Murden was fully dressed and wore a pair of work boots with fresh mud caked to the soles. Since there was no accurate way to anticipate the old man’s mood, Kyle decided not to be coy with his intentions.
“I found out some information about Sylvia’s mother. You might be interested to hear…”
Murden didn’t twitch an eyebrow at the sound of Kyle’s announcement. His concentration seemed to stray to a line of slate-colored clouds inching across the distant hills. After a moment of lingering silence, Murden said, “I’m beginning to suspect that you care more about this situation than even I do. I admire your tenacity, boy, but I’m not having an easy time understanding it.”
Perhaps Kyle didn’t know the answer to this question either. As best as he determined, maybe he was trying to compensate for his own inadequacies. It wasn’t that he was thoroughly incompetent at any single task, but the fact that little recognition was ever given to him had taken precedence over his emotions. A part of him sought to erase the status of invisibility that he had inadvertently acquired. Shyness or any hint of timidity had a way of tarnishing a boy’s reputation, and whether he was deserving of this stigma or not, such labels were hard to overcome.
Beyond the yearning of any short-lived recognition Kyle stood to accumulate by disproving the rumors linked to Murden’s name, a deeper but less comprehensible desire stirred in his thoughts. Up until now he had only been able to rationalize the impulse as a subconscious voice compelling him to maintain his efforts, even to a degree where his own safety became secondary. But as he gazed into Murden’s lifeless eyes tonight, the reason seemed increasingly uncertain.
Before Kyle became entirely discouraged by Murden’s ungrateful nature, the old man motioned for the boy to follow him inside his home. As Kyle crossed through the doorway, his foot accidentally kicked a pile of empty shotgun shells beside the door. Murden didn’t acknowledge the boy’s clumsiness as he directed him to the sofa. The candle glow from the window provided a sole source of light for the interior, but it was enough illumination for Kyle to reconsider his thoughts about sitting down. Though he wasn’t certain, he believed a rat or two scurried across the sofa’s cushions.
As Kyle attempted to relax in this environment, his eyes scanned through the room’s slanted shadows. Murden positioned himself near a fetid stack of unlaundered clothing at the end of the sofa. Despite Murden’s thus-far nonchalant demeanor, Kyle sensed that he moved more spryly than he had on previous visits. His voice even sounded less raspy when he spoke.
“You’ve invested a good portion of your summer into my plight,” Murden said. “Because of your efforts, you’ve learned more about me in three days than most folks around here cared to uncover in thirty years.”
Kyle still shuffled uncomfortably as he paced in front of the sofa. During these seconds he sensed Murden’s eyes studying him more intensely than before. The old man didn’t seem in any hurry to attend to the boy. He permitted him to observe each piece of dusty furniture and the numerous boxes of clutter that contained all the elements of a disconnected lifetime. Nothing was in order, except for one particular photograph that Kyle had recalled seeing on his last visit.
The black and white photo was still propped up in its metal frame on a table near the sofa. Just as before, the frame and space around the photo appeared free of any remnants of filth. It was as if Murden purposely cleaned this area only. Kyle inched closer to the photo, lending the female image more attention than he had previously. Upon closer inspection, Kyle believed that he had seen this photograph in another place. It only took him another second to recognize the woman’s features. He was staring at the face of Elizabeth Fletcher.
Kyle clutched the photo frame in his hands and glared at the image in astonishment. His eyes then swayed back to Murden when he said, “You knew her, Ben.”
Murden still puffed easily on the cigarette before saying, “It wasn’t a matter of choice for the majority of us, boy. Everybody in town knew Elizabeth.” As the old man spoke, Kyle set the photo on the table in the exact position from which he first removed it. Kyle might not have realized it, but he was slowly inching himself away from Murden and closer to the door.
“Not everyone has a photograph of the woman on display in their homes, do they, Ben?” Kyle asked, although he already knew the answer to his question.
Murden shrugged his shoulders and released a plume of cigarette smoke in a series of rings around his head. He simpered softly to himself before attempting to appease the boy. “It would be untrue of me to deny that Elizabeth and I were acquainted with one another.”
“I was told things about her,” Kyle confessed. “The people of this town didn’t like her…”
“Yes,” Murden recollected unsentimentally. “I suppose in many ways she was treated like me. Anyway, it really doesn’t matter what folks prattle over, boy. After all, you listened to all those terrible stories about me, right? And I reckon you’ve heard an earful of tales regarding Elizabeth, too.”
“Was she really a witch?” Kyle asked, though he couldn’t believe his level of boldness at the moment. He watched in silence as the old man snuffed out the embers of his cigarette in the palm of his hand. Kyle couldn’t help but to look at the icy expression of the man as he settled onto the couch.
Murden seemed to be in a reminiscent mode of thought when he announced, “There was a time not long ago that being branded a witch was enough to get your head put into a noose. We’ve lightened up since then, I reckon, but we still haven’t associated witchcraft with anything remotely decent.”
“But how did you know her, Ben?”
“I had the ability to see through all their hatred, boy. If Elizabeth Fletcher was a bad woman, it was never because of her religion. Looking back, however, I should’ve known the inevitable consequences of our relationship.”
“Relationship?” Kyle gulped, still slinking closer to the door. Murden now leaned forward slightly on the couch so that his hands were clasped together and resting on the top of his knee
s. A devilish glint ignited in the old man’s eyes. His pupils flared with almost the same color fire as that generated by his burning cigarettes.
Kyle monitored the man’s expression with uneasiness, but he still waited for the words from Murden’s mouth. “I haven’t known too many women in my lifetime,” the oldster confessed. “But if I had an inclination to acquaint myself with more than a few, I don’t suppose I would’ve found a more enchanting companion than Elizabeth Fletcher.”
Murden’s smile widened momentarily before plummeting into a meditative frown. His eyes still did not disconnect from the boy who stood trembling before him. Suddenly, Kyle understood what the old man was attempting to convey. He and Elizabeth had been much closer than Kyle initially presumed. In fact, their friendship may have produced something far more substantial than a preserved photograph.
“Ben?” Kyle asked meekly. The boy’s feet now felt fastened to the floorboards as if they’d been bolted in place, but his knees shivered uncontrollably. “Exactly how close did you get to Elizabeth?”
Murden cackled like Kyle hadn’t heard before. The codger suddenly seemed amused by his recollections. “Your imagination will serve you well here, boy,” he simpered.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Murden offered the boy a pitiful stare, but Kyle couldn’t discern what spawned this reaction. “I’m saying that Elizabeth Fletcher came to Meadowton in search of a man. Now women need men for a few things that they can’t do on their own. She wanted a child, boy, and I was lonely enough to think that she might want something more…”
“So you and her were together…?”
“Yes,” Murden confirmed by enlacing his hands across his lap. “Just long enough for me to give her what she wanted. We secretly created a life, boy, and that is ultimately why we’re here together tonight.”
Kyle’s tongue nearly knotted in his throat as he tried to spew out the words. “Then you’re really Sylvia’s father?”
Murden bowed his head and nodded mournfully at the floorboards. When he raised his head again, Kyle noticed that the man’s eyes were glazed with tears. “That child I found murdered in my peach grove was my own,” Murden admitted. “She was all I ever had, and all I ever wanted.”
“But why didn’t you tell anyone that she was your daughter? Don’t you think that the people in town would’ve thought differently about you if you told them the truth?”
“I couldn’t do it, boy,” Murden declared. “The folks already had Elizabeth labeled as a witch. My public involvement with such a woman would’ve caused me more trouble than I was prepared to handle.”
“But you must’ve cared for Elizabeth,” Kyle surmised. “You could’ve married her and…”
“She never bargained for a husband, boy,” Murden snarled almost as if he was infuriated by the memory of her intentions. He nervously fumbled through the pockets of his clothing in search of another cigarette. “Listen to me closely,” he continued, “Elizabeth wanted to give birth to a child and teach her the craft she so loved. Since I had no desire to partake in her witchcraft, my presence in Sylvia’s life would’ve been more of a hindrance than a blessing.”
“What stopped you from telling the truth after you found Sylvia murdered?”
Murden found it difficult to verbalize a response. He seemed especially intent on finding another cigarette to secure between his lips. After he determined that he had no more tobacco, he hoisted himself off the sofa and stood between the front door and Kyle. Though the boy wasn’t yet certain, he suspected that Murden didn’t want him to leave his home.
“Find yourself a seat, boy,” Murden directed in a dominant voice.
“I’d rather stand if it’s okay with you, Ben.”
Within a few seconds, Kyle stepped away from the old man and attempted to amble around the opposite side of the sofa. Murden’s eyes followed him through the shadows flickering against the walls.
“The truth is a funny notion,” Murden snickered as he hobbled slightly closer to the open door. He then grabbed the door’s rusty handle and swung it shut, sending fragments of dust and rotting wood sprinkling from the ceiling’s rafters. Then, in a truly uncanny voice that reminded Kyle of someone who was mentally deranged, Murden said, “Sometimes it’s not good to see everything at once. It’s sort of like staring at the sun—if you got too much light your eyes are gonna burn.”
By now Kyle was wondering if he sought too much of the truth. Maybe he didn’t need to know about Murden’s connection to Sylvia, but he now was in a precarious position where the old man seemed dedicated at divulging all the information he could possibly remember.
“I’m starting to get a nasty feeling that you don’t want to be here anymore,” Murden said. Kyle watched cautiously as the old man reached down near the door’s frame. His fingers grasped something lying near his feet. At first Kyle couldn’t distinguish what the shadowed object was, but after a few seconds his pupils dilated so that he had no doubt about the way the situation had turned.
Murden brandished a shotgun with a strobe light affixed to its double barrel. Kyle couldn’t help but suspect that the gun didn’t belong to the old man for a very long time. “Where did you get that gun?” Kyle questioned apprehensively, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted a reply.
“Folks have a tendency to leave things behind in my peach grove,” Murden snickered. “Now take a gander at this fine piece of American craftsmanship—a perfectly good weapon by any man’s account. Oh, well, you know what they say, boy—finders-keepers…”
At that moment Murden swung the open end of the shotgun toward Kyle. The boy jumped, fearing that the oldster intended to shoot him on the spot where he stood. “Relax,” Murden told him. “Now I’m gonna ask you for a second time to take a seat—don’t make me ask a third.”
By now it was evident that Kyle wasn’t simply going to walk away from Murden as he had on previous occasions. He followed the old man’s order by sitting on the sofa. Murden crossed over to the boy with the gun still aimed at his chest.
“Are you gonna shoot me now, Ben?” Kyle asked timidly.
“I’m not in the business of shooting youngsters,” Murden answered, but his voice wasn’t too reassuring. “Let me put it to you this way, boy. I don’t plan on squeezing this gun’s trigger tonight unless I got a good reason to do it. Right now, seeing that you’ve decided to sit down and keep me company, I’m content to let this gun stay loaded.”
Kyle shivered as he watched Murden’s finger twitch on the shotgun’s trigger. “Why are you doing this? I thought we were becoming friends. I was trying to help you—remember?”
Murden’s cough sounded dreadfully rehearsed before he replied, “You are indeed helping me, boy. That much was decided long before this occasion.”
“I don’t see how I can help you when you’ve got a gun pointed at me.”
“Things will be right in time,” Murden stated.
In the ensuing seconds the old man’s cough became more pronounced. Perhaps Murden’s bouts with his disease intensified when he became excited. Before long the syrupy red phlegm ejected from his mouth and caused Kyle to flinch with disgust. After a few moments, the old man lowered his weapon and leaned across the side of the sofa. Kyle thought about trying to overpower the man at this point. Surely he had enough strength in his body to restrain this sickly fellow. But for reasons Kyle could only question within himself, his legs froze. Fear had gotten the best of this twelve-year-old.
Following this brief spell of discomfort, Murden raised his head and weapon. He peered at Kyle’s petrified eyes with a sorrowful gaze, almost as if he regretted the choices he had thus far made. After he smeared the blood from his mouth and chin, the old man spoke in a softer voice. “I once believed that getting chewed up by cancer was the worst thing that could ever happen to a human being. But I now know that I was wrong.”
Kyle shifted anxiously in his seat now, hoping for another opportunity to escape. The boy figured t
hat he would be able to make a run for the door if the old man experienced another spell of coughing. Maybe Murden might get off a single shot, but his aim may have been as sloppy as his demeanor. All of these thoughts flitted through the boy’s mind as Murden continued to speak.
“I learned a heartfelt lesson, boy,” he revealed. “Cancer, as terrible as it is, can’t devour a man half as wickedly as the sight of his dead child can. It’s a vision that never escapes his mind’s eye, and I fully believe that it lingers in a father’s soul long after his own heart stops beating.”
Kyle had no argument with such a statement. He hadn’t lived enough years to properly assess Murden’s level of anguish. Besides, no comment, no matter how compassionate in nature, would’ve dissuaded the old man from whatever action he planned to initiate. For the first time in several days, Kyle began to wish that he had listened to the advice of his parents and friends. He now recognized that Murden was perhaps far more unpredictable than he initially imagined.
The first signs or rain stirred Murden from his momentary silence. He listened as the droplets of water tapped with an uneven cadence against the tin roof of his shelter. A faint quell of thunder sounded in the encompassing hills. Murden tilted his head toward the ceiling and smiled as if he anticipated the rain’s arrival.
“A storm is setting in,” Murden sighed with a distinct satisfaction.
Kyle still didn’t have a strategy to outwit the old man, especially since he wasn’t sure why Murden felt it necessary to hold him hostage. He hoped to remind the old man about all the help he tried to offer.
“I’m still the one person in this town who is trying to clear your name, Ben. But it seems like you’re acting like I’ve done something wrong.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too curious,” Murden grumbled. “You didn’t have to come back here tonight, boy, but something compelled you to do it. Do you even know what brought you here?”
“You did, Ben. I mean, I know about Sylvia and how her spirit haunts your peach grove. I wanted to help put an end to the curse.”
“And you will,” Murden promised the boy. “You see, boy, the time has almost come to end this. The old wounds will soon be mended.”
“What do you want from me?”
Murden leaned closer to the boy. The shotgun’s barrel nearly pressed against Kyle’s chest. At this range, Kyle saw the tears rimming Murden’s eyes. Was it sheer emotion or pain that instigated this reaction in the old man’s disposition? Kyle didn’t know what to believe anymore.
“You had at least two chances to kidnap me before tonight,” Kyle thought aloud. “Why did you wait until now?”
“There’s a time and season for everything,” Murden countered in a whispery voice. “This evening we will go back to the grove together, back to where the melodies will be heard one last time. Thirty summers have come and gone, but few have heard the anguish of her songs.”
As Murden’s words crossed to Kyle’s ears, he detected a trace of redemption sneaking its way into the man’s syllables. Then, after Kyle pondered the words more deliberately, he realized that he hadn’t been summoned to Murden for any information regarding Sylvia’s past. In fact, Kyle firmly suspected that Murden had no question in regard to who murdered his daughter.
Before Kyle spoke again he looked deeply into the old man’s tortured eyes. His voice was hushed as he asked Murden, “You already know who killed Sylvia, don’t you, Ben? You’ve always known.”
The glassy tint in Murden’s eyes faded and was replaced by a splintered shield of blood vessels. He seemed preoccupied in an involuntary mode of remembrance when he spoke again.
“That night is still vivid in my mind,” Murden shivered as he began his tale. “I know when my happiness ended, boy. Exactly thirty years from this night, when the rain fell just as it is now, the unlawful deed was done. But because the evening was plagued by rain, the ground had softened in my peach grove. Had it not been for this blessing, the culprit may have gotten away undetected.
“I had the presence of mind to study the earth, and in the mud surrounding the peach trees, a pair of fresh footprints marked a trail. The sheriff and investigating officers never bothered to look at these footprints. If they had taken the time to do as I told them, they would’ve realized that Sylvia’s murderer was not yet a man. The size of the prints verified the fact that a child had committed this crime.”
Kyle remained silent as he listened to Murden. The old man took a moment to gaze at Elizabeth’s photograph on the table. He then picked up the frame and clenched it tightly in his one hand, shattering the glass cover. A shard of glass split the skin on the old man’s thumb, causing a thin line of blood to stream over the photo’s surface. In another moment, he dropped the frame to the floorboards and permitted the blood to sprinkle upon the photo’s tarnished remains.
“It’s all turned so personal for me now,” Murden muttered. “I suppose I could’ve found out the truth myself. But I let it go and believed that the person responsible would one day come forward and reveal what he had done. But that day never came. I reckon that Elizabeth Fletcher knew as I did, and she never wanted me to forget how much Sylvia meant to her.”
Kyle stared mournfully into Murden’s eyes. Despite the man’s apparent rage and lunacy, the boy couldn’t displace all empathy for him. But Murden also needed to realize that innocent people had suffered because of someone else’s sin, and more senseless killings would not correct the travesties of the past. Sensing that Murden had softened in his demeanor, Kyle attempted to reach out with his hand and coax the oldster into lowering his weapon. The boy’s hand trembled within a few inches of the shotgun’s steel barrel. At that moment, Murden took a step backwards and wiped his eyes clear.
“There’s more to be done,” Murden seethed. “This curse must end before the night is over. We’ll wait a little longer.”
“We can’t end this curse by killing anyone else, Ben,” Kyle said beseechingly. “I know you’re angry, but I’m not the one to blame.”
“No, boy,” Murden murmured listlessly. “But you should understand that people are sometimes guilty without knowing why.”
After acknowledging Murden’s thought, Kyle lowered his arm and appeared increasingly uneasy. He threw up his hands with an exaggerated gesture and said, “What are you waiting for, Ben? Do you plan to hurt me or not?”
“I don’t want to hurt you, boy,” Murden answered as he listened to the rain increase in its velocity. He looked quite unstable on his feet during these seconds, as though a brisk wind could suddenly knock his legs out from under him. But despite his ailment, the codger held his ground in defiance to what Kyle had hoped.
The chances of Kyle escaping now depended greatly upon engaging the man in conversation so that he might reveal an unguarded moment. Murden, however, had no intention of letting the boy manipulate the situation. For the time being, both of them listened to the rain as it soaked the woods outside. True to his word, the old man was indeed waiting for something that Kyle did not yet comprehend.
Meanwhile, Andrew McCann’s return to The Bogs left him staggering through the rain and darkness. After fifteen minutes into his journey, he reached a portion of the forest that appeared greatly unchanged over time. Just as he remembered, the willow trees still encircled Shade Tree Pond like a pristine curtain. With the aid of a flashlight, Andrew struggled to traverse the thicket leading to the pond. Once nearing the water, he directed the flashlight’s strobe upon the olive-colored muck forming around the water’s edge. Except for the rain splattering against the trees’ leaves, no other sound disturbed this night’s quietude. Even the thunder seemed muffled from this portion of the woods.
For reasons he couldn’t quite rationalize in his thoughts, Andrew crouched down on the grassy bluff near the pond. Though time was of the essence, he felt compelled to stop and simply glare into the pond’s murky depths. He used the flashlight’s beam to create a fissure in the blackness, thereby permitting him observe his own
reflection in the water. With a few seconds, he sensed a torturous pain surging within his head, similar to the one that propelled him from his sleep earlier this evening. He grappled at his temples momentarily, nearing dropping the flashlight in the water. Whatever the source of his discontent, it was an affliction that he had no ability to control.
The flashlight, which had slipped from Andrew’s hand seconds earlier, rolled into the miry water and sank. The wood’s blackness now engulfed him, but he had no reservations about throwing his body onto the bluff and stretching across the knoll. Once lying prone in the cool mud, the pressure inside his brain deflated. His breathing, although still shallow, steadied momentarily. He prayed for a reprieve in his agony during these seconds, but a soft tingling began to chime between his ears. Though the clarity of his thoughts was still obscured, he distinguished a single voice overshadowing all that he considered relevant. It was the voice of a female child, and as he slipped into a state of unconsciousness to relive a moment from his own past, the child’s words formed in his imagination.
“Where do souls go when they no longer grow?
Do they scream in the dirt to tell of their hurt?”
When Andrew opened his eyes again, the darkness was gone. He suddenly envisioned himself as a boy amidst a summer’s twilight exactly thirty years ago.
Chapter 21
Summer: Thirty Years Ago
Songs of a Peach Tree Page 21