A Far Piece to Canaan

by Sam Halpern

“Where’s Dad?” I yelled, then I remembered the flames shooting up from Mr. Mac’s place. “Your barn’s on fire!”

  “Too late for th’ barn. Almost too late for me,” said Mr. Mac, and he pulled back a flannel shirt that I recognized was Dad’s. There was white gauze all over the left side of his hairy chest and up toward his neck. Blood was soaking through in places making little patches of red.

  “G . . . gosh,” I stammered.

  “Your father’s out looking for you,” said Mom. “So is Edwin. Mr. MacWerter is guarding us while they’re gone.”

  “Terrible things have happened tonight,” Naomi gasped.

  “There’s a crazy man out there! He tried t’ kill me!” yelled Mr. Mac.

  “He . . . he . . . tried to k . . . kill me too!” I stammered.

  “What!” Mom screamed. “Oh my God!” and she started breathing fast.

  We went inside the kitchen, Mr. Mac holding Mom up. He grabbed the first chair he come to and pushed it under her. She flopped down, white as a sheet, then leaned forward and put her arms and head on the kitchen table.

  “Get some of your dad’s whiskey,” Mr. Mac snapped at Naomi.

  Naomi seemed to spring in the air and suddenly there was the bottle.

  Mr. Mac got out the cork and started to push the pint to Mom’s lips, then stopped. “Get me a glass,” he snapped again, and it was there in a flash. He poured some whiskey in the glass and put it at Mom’s white lips. “Drink some, Liz,” he said, and she took some in her mouth and swallowed, then coughed and waved her hand over her chest and head. Mr. Mac pushed the glass toward her again and she shoved it away.

  “I’m all right,” she gasped.

  Mr. Mac looked at the half-full glass, wrinkled his forehead, then downed it in one gulp. “What happened t’ you, Samuel?” he rasped.

  “I was comin’ home from fishin’ and started to climb a fence near Cummings Hill when this great, tall, raggedy man screamed, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth th’ Lord’ and staggered out with a knife maybe two foot long and tried t’ stab me. He tripped and fell before he could do it. Just missed me. I took off runnin’ before he got up.”

  “My God!” said Mom, turning pale again, and Mr. Mac reached for the pint. “No, I’m okay,” Mom said, raising her hand.

  Just then I heard the yard gate squeak and the sounds of a bucket being kicked. Mr. Mac turned white and cocked the pistol he was holding in his shaky hands. “St . . . stand and identify yourself or be kilt!” he boomed in a quaky old voice.

  “It’s me, George . . . Morris,” Dad answered, and Mr. Mac uncocked the pistol.

  “Come on in, Morse!” Mr. Mac called.

  Dad came in carrying the old 12-gauge. His eyes were wide, and his short, big-shouldered body filled the entrance. Mom shot out of her chair toward Dad. “He’s home, Morris,” she yelled just as her body slammed against his chest.

  I had moved beside the kitchen stove and Dad saw me for the first time. He come toward me dragging Mom with him. With his free hand, he took my head and squeezed it against his cheek. “Thank God!” he croaked, and it sounded a little like he was crying but he wudn’t.

  “He almost got killed,” said Mom.

  Dad’s head jerked back but before he could say anything I yelled, “Crazy man tried t’ kill me with a knife!”

  Dad’s hands were shaking as he propped the 12-gauge against the refrigerator.

  “Where’s Babe?” asked Mr. Mac.

  “Warning neighbors who can’t see your fire and don’t have a telephone. Only four, five families can see your flames down in the hollow. God knows where that nut’s headed next!”

  “Fine place,” said Mom. “Four telephones between here and Harper’s Corner, and three of them within a mile of each other. Fine place!”

  Dad lifted his hands a few inches, let them flop against his thighs, then set down in a chair, his legs sticking straight out. Suddenly he looked at me. “What happened to you?”

  “I was climbin’ a fence by Cummings Hill and th’ crazy man stepped out of th’ bushes and tried to stab me with this great long knife. He fell and missed and I run off.”

  “Where were you, anyway?” asked Mom, and she was getting hot.

  “I went fishin’.”

  “Where?” asked Dad.

  “The Big Bend bottoms.”

  “Big Bend bottoms!” said Mom. “That’s miles from here!”

  “Where you, Bob, Alfred, and Fred ran that trot line?” asked Dad.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  Dad opened his mouth to ask another question when the telephone rang. He jumped to his feet, ran into the living room, and lifted the receiver off the wall box. When he answered his voice was almost squeaky. “Hello . . . he’s home, Edwin. Crazy guy almost killed him, though . . . yeah, he’s okay too . . . yeah, many as you can and tell ’em t’ move their families together quick as possible. Split up th’ work. Get Shackelford t’ warn people down toward the Millers. Get Rags t’ work on down th’ Dry Branch. You and Bess cover Cuyper Creek Pike toward Harper’s Corner. That bastard is on a rampage and this time it ain’t sheep. Have one man guard each group of people and all th’ other men assemble at my house . . . Sure they need to bring a gun. I’ll call the sheriff. We got to make plans tonight. If this goes wrong, and we don’t find him, he’ll get another crack at us, and I’ll guarantee next time somebody’s gonna get killed. G’bye, Edwin.” Click.

  The room fell quiet, then Dad lifted the receiver again. “Operator, get me Sheriff Wilkers. This is an emergency.”

  While Dad was talking to the sheriff, I thought about Ben. There had to be a reason he wouldn’t come forward. He was scared of something, most probably the sheriff. That meant he had done something wrong sometime or other and was worried about being put in jail. I already told that I was fishing on the Big Bend bottoms, and that the crazy man had tried to stab me coming back from there. They’d search the Big Bend, maybe Ben’s cabin. The sheriff might recognize him. Somehow, I had to keep the sheriff away from the Big Bend bottoms.

  33

  I stopped at the crest of the hill during my walk from the hickory and locust thicket to my car, and looked back. There was an area I hadn’t explored. I hesitated, but it was as if some invisible force were drawing me. I moved by instinct through some of the wildest briar-, thorn-, mosquito-, and tick-infested land in Fayette County. Vines grabbed at my feet. Wild blackberry briars were so thick as to be impenetrable; they were, however, loaded with berries. The briars demanded tribute for their fruit and received it in the form of my ripped skin.

  The further I went, the more uneasy I felt. The heat was stifling and I had no more water, only the sweet blackberries to replenish my fluids. Sweat was pouring off me. I reached the top of a ridge and looked about. Primitive country in all directions. Then I saw a sliver of what I was relatively sure was river. It was a long way off. It occurred to me that if I injured myself, I was in trouble. Not a soul knew my whereabouts. Which direction should I go? In the course of wandering I had lost my bearings, and thirst was becoming an issue. Yet there remained within me this strange need to continue a journey to—nowhere.

  I was moving downhill through some briars when I thought I heard running water. I stopped, held my breath. There was a definite trickling sound over the hum of insects. I moved toward it through brush and locust. The trickle grew louder until I came to the source. I had stumbled upon a small, spring-fed creek. The water was clear and cold and good.

  With a belly full of water I wandered on, up one hill and down another. My uneasiness increased. I was crossing a small ravine when I tripped and fell forward. Luckily, my face landed on soft ground. My right ankle wasn’t quite so lucky and blood ran from a two-inch rip in the skin. The bleeding was fairly brisk and I decided to pack dirt around it. I commented to myself how fortunate I’d been to keep up my tetanus shots. As I was packing on dirt, I saw what I had tripped on—a piece of rusty barbwire was sticking out of the ground. I began to tremb
le, then calmed myself.

  The bleeding stopped and I considered my choices. I decided the best thing to do was retrace my steps back to the hickory and locust forest. I had a belly full of water, plenty of blackberries to eat, and the land that I had crossed, while rough, was passable. I sensed that if I went straight ahead, I faced more than I was capable of enduring.

  I checked the sun. There were at least four hours of light left. If I had to spend the night in the open, it wasn’t going to kill me. I could sleep until dawn, then keep moving until I made contact with people. Then I came to the top of a rise and recognized a landmark. The effect was so overpowering that I had to sit down. There was no way I could spend the night here.

  I began moving again, slower than before and extremely fatigued, but in a direction that I was certain would eventually get me back to my car. The crack of a .22 rifle revived me. I walked toward the sound and came upon a boy of about sixteen. He was wearing jeans and a Cincinnati Reds T-shirt, and carrying a .22. I felt profound relief.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hidey,” he answered, giving me a look that told me my appearance was frightening.

  “Doing a little huntin’?” I asked.

  “Just shootin’. Target practice.”

  I looked at the rifle. “Whatcha shootin’?”

  “Winchester .22.”

  I smiled at him. “I used to live around here. I shot a Winchester. Mine was single shot. I was pretty good once.”

  His eyes played me up and down. “What’s your name?”

  “Samuel Zelinsky. What’s yours?”

  “Edgar Krauthammer. Am I on your property?”

  I shook my head. “I’m just wandering. Know th’ way t’ Cuyper Creek Pike?”

  He stared at me, then pointed in the direction I was almost certain was correct.

  “Long ways t’ Cuyper Creek Pike. You’re gonna be mighty tired by th’ time you get there. Stay near th’ big trees and you can cut th’ distance.”

  I looked in the opposite direction. “What you come to if you go that way?”

  “That’s th’ Big Bend bottoms a few miles down. You don’t wanta go that way.”

  Now I knew for certain where I had been. I felt weak and the boy sensed it.

  “You okay, sir?”

  “Yeah. You got any more shells for that rifle?”

  “Half a box.”

  “I’ll give you five dollars for five shells if you’ll let me shoot your rifle.”

  A suspicious look returned to his face. I was a stranger who looked like he’d wandered through hell. He had no idea what I would do once I had the gun in my hand with a bullet in the chamber. Then again, five dollars for five bullets was a hell of a deal. I decided to make him feel safe. “Suppose you pick out a target and I lie down on my belly. Then you give me th’ rifle and stand behind me while I shoot. You can give me one bullet at a time.”

  He thought for a few moments, then said: “Okay, but I want m’ five dollars first.”

  I reached into my wallet and handed him a five. “What’s my target?”

  “See those three big toadstools at th’ foota that oak?”

  The toadstools in question were about the size of a large saucer and slightly more than a hundred feet away. “Tough shot,” I said.

  “That’s it though. Want your five dollars back?”

  I shook my head, bellied down on the ground, and reached back for the rifle. When I was ready he handed me a bullet. I checked the open sights, cocked the gun, took a deep breath, blew half of it out, and squeezed off the shot. A small piece of bark flew off the oak about six inches above my target. I reached back and got another bullet. “Your sights are off.”

  The boy looked offended. “No such a thing.”

  “Yeah they are. Watch this.” I compensated for the sights and squeezed off my second shot. The toadstool exploded. “Your sights are high. Bet you missed a bunch of squirrels with your sights like this. When was th’ last time you zeroed this thing in?”

  A look of disgust crossed the youngster’s face. “Never zeroed it in. Don’t need t’ be zeroed in. They do that in th’ stores before you buy them nowadays. Not like when you were a kid.”

  “All right,” I said, “let’s see you put one in that second toadstool.”

  He lay down beside me and said, “Gimme my rifle.” His shot kicked more bark off the oak. Six inches above the toadstool. He looked at me. “You know how t’ zero in a .22?”

  “Yep.” And I did, knocking down the second toadstool when the sights were correct. “Care t’ check my work?” I said, handing him the rifle.

  He shattered the last toadstool, then looked me up and down. I felt as though I could read his mind. Who is this old fart?

  He sniffed, then said, “Need a ride t’ th’ Pike? Got m’ dad’s tractor.”

  I hadn’t ridden behind someone driving a tractor since Mom and Dad died and the farm was sold. Holding on to the boy’s shoulders made me remember how thick and powerful Dad’s shoulders had been even as an old man. A lump developed in my throat and I could feel myself tear up. Naturally the kid picked that moment to look back at me, see my wet eyes, and ask if I was okay.

  “Little dust in my eyes, nothin’ t’ worry about.” Then I looked behind me. I knew that this would be the last time I saw that unearthly vista. Sure to God, it would be the last time!

  34

  It wudn’t long before our living room was jammed with men. There were so many Mom put out piles of sweet rolls and made coffee in our canner. It was strange how they ate, kind of ripping the bread with their teeth like a dog killing a rabbit. There was a stink too, mixed in with the smell of sweat and tobacco. I’d smelled it before, but I couldn’t remember where. Cigarette smoke was layered out in the living room and parted in swirls as people walked through. Everyplace you looked there was a gun stuck in a man’s belt or a rifle or shotgun beside him. The talk was low, muffled, and constant, mostly about Mr. Mac, who had to show his bandage to everybody. All the close neighbors was there. Mr. Mac, Babe, Mr. Shackelford, Bess, Mr. Dillard, Mr. Lamb, Pers, Alfred, Rags, Mr. Langley, LD’s dad, Ervin, Mr. Hickman, who we never saw much but who lived near the Langleys, and several men I didn’t know.

  Somebody yelled that the sheriff’s car was coming up our lane. I ran to the window of my room. There it come, splashes of red and white light flying. As it got near our yard, its high beams showed cars and trucks all over the place. Old Fords and Plymouths and Chevys were standing every which way, and the police car had to twist and turn to make it through. It pulled in beneath the biggest maple, then seemed to sit exploding color every half second. Finally, the door opened and three men got out. I figured the one driving was the sheriff, and the other two were deputies.

  As the sheriff and deputies started up the rock walk to our door I raced back into the living room and found myself an empty spot in a corner. Pretty soon the room was jammed again with standing people. You couldn’t move. When somebody wanted coffee, they passed it one man to the next. It was stuffy, and even though a window was open, the air was still.

  I had picked a bad place to stand. People filled the area around my corner, and I couldn’t see the lawmen, who were in a little clearing in the middle of the room. I wriggled between one pair of Levi’s-covered legs after another until I was behind a man standing near the sheriff. I could see pretty good if I moved my head when the man moved his legs. Everybody talked at the same time for a while, then the sheriff raised his hand and said that, okay, he wanted to take it from the top, and for the people who had got attacked to step forward.

  Mr. Mac pushed into the clearing. His creaky old body looked wore-out next to the broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, young lawman who was wearing crisp brown law pants and brown shirt with a big star on his chest. It hit me then that I’d been attacked too, and I wriggled between the legs of the man in front of me and stood next to Mr. Mac.

  “That it?” asked the sheriff, looking around.

 
“Hit’s ’nough,” said Bess Clark, and he wudn’t grinning like usual.

  “Okay, sir,” the sheriff said, talking to Mr. Mac, “what happened to you?”

  Mr. Mac looked like he was trying to figure it out, then he said, “Well sir, hit happened s’ fast I hardly even know. ’Bout six this evenin’ Babe went out for groceries and I went out t’ milk. I hung my lantern in the rafters like always and went at it. When I finished milkin’ I left th’ lantern in the barn ’cause I had slops t’ carry back and needed both hands. While I’m on my way from th’ house with th’ slop I hear horses whinnyin’. When I got t’ th’ barn th’ insides was burnin’. I dropped the slops and run t’ open th’ stalls. Fire was ev’rywhere ’cause th’ hay caught fire. Somehow I got th’ stalls open and all th’ animals out, then I run out th’ far end. All of a sudden, through th’ smoky light, I see this . . . thing. It was covered with rags and hair, and the second I see him, he yells, ‘Woe to the wicked!’ That’s what he yelled, and staggered toward me. I managed t’ just make hit a little out th’ way of his big knife . . . blade maybe a foot long and two inches wide . . . come slashin’ down at me and sliced through th’ hide of my chest. I yelled and stumbled around hardly knowin’ what t’ do, then here he come again and I took off runnin’ through th’ flamin’ barn toward th’ house. How I made hit I’ll never know,” and he shook his head. “Flames was everywhere. Only burn I got was on my hand. Think I was just too damn scared t’ burn if y’ ask—”

  “What did you do then?” asked the sheriff.

  “Why, I run in th’ house and got old Betsy,” and he patted his long pistol.

  “What did you do next?”

  Mr. Mac looked at the sheriff like he was crazy or something. “Headed back out t’ th’ barn. I was gonna blow his ass off. Just as I got t’ th’ yard gate, here come Babe in th’ Ford goin’ like sixty. He was headin’ straight toward th’ fire. I went runnin’ toward him hard as I could, yellin’, ‘Babe . . . Babe . . . look out, Babe, there’s a crazy sonamabitch out there with a knife, son.’ When I got up t’ Babe, he grabbed me and yelled, ‘Pa, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck hog.’ I looked down, and by God, I was. Babe yelled, ‘Let’s get t’ Zilkner’s, and get some help!’