The Ghosts of Varner Creek

by Michael Weems

  We occupied the two wooden chairs Uncle Colby had made himself. They were sturdy, being both made of oak and big and wide. When I scooted myself all the way back in the chair my feet barely touched the ground. The man pulled out a stick of tobacco from his pants and a pocket knife. He cut himself a big chaw and placed it between his lips and gum.

  "I'm your Uncle Marcus," he explained. There was a good pause after that as though he expected some kind of an answer.

  "Mama's told me about you," I finally said. She didn't tell me much, though. Just that she had a brother who used to live in Houston but now lived in Galveston, and that her own Mama and sister lived there, too. He worked for the railroad or something like that. I knew that most folks in town figured Mama went to live with him. "My Mama and Sarah ain't gone to Galveston, have they?" Would he be here if they had? I asked myself.

  "They hadn't shown up as of yesterday when I struck out to come here," he told me. He had been looking off in the fading sunset but turned his attention directly on me,

  "Caught me a train to Houston last evening and then come in on y’all's this morning. You reckon your Mama and sister intended to go all the way to Galveston in that wagon 'stead of the train?" he asked.

  I could feel my legs start to bounce up and down on their own.

  "Dunno. Mama didn't say nothin' to me before she left. Nothin' at all," I said. I was half-tempted to tell him what I really thought, but he was kind of intimidating and I just didn’t feel comfortable enough with him to start talking about ghosts and things.

  He gave a spat that cleared the railing of the porch. It sailed clear over it onto the ground beyond. It was a heck of a spit, and a twelve year old notices things like that. "I know I ain't been much of an Uncle to you," he said. "Last time I saw your sister, she was just a baby. And truth be told I ain't never seen you when you was younger." It didn't seem the kind of thing I was supposed to respond to, so I didn't. "How's things been over at y’all's place? Before your Mama left, I mean."

  He kicked one leg over the other and grabbed George's stick that had been placed by the chairs before George and I had gone into the house. He started whittling a curving line at the top of it with his knife like I’d seen Pap do so many times.

  "I reckon things was fine," I told him.

  "Your Mama and daddy been fighting much?" he asked.

  It wasn't too difficult finding the answer for that one. "Sometimes. Pap got a temper on him, but Mama ain't much for starting arguments, or nothin'."

  "Your daddy been hitting' on her any?" he asked in the same monotone voice, as though asking about the weather.

  "No, sir," I answered.

  This strange uncle of mine gave me a looking over as if trying to gauge the honesty of my answer, but he seemed content. "What about you?" he asked, "Does he hit you around?"

  "Sometimes, mainly when he’s drinking or I act out of hand," I told him. From some weird place within myself I suddenly felt the need to stick up for Pap a bit. I didn't have a clue where Mama and Sarah had gone off to that night, and certainly had come to believe they probably didn’t go of their own accord. None of it made much sense, except that the strange things I'd seen led me to believe the worst may have happened. But as bad as Pap was, it was hard to image him doing what my thoughts said he might have, so I didn’t want to come out and tell this man what I really believed. And part of me was still in denial, maybe. I told myself, the horse and wagon were gone, and so were all their things. It’s not impossible they just left somewhere and the things I'd seen were just some weird workings of my mind. If Sarah hadn't been born quite right, maybe neither had I. I knew I was just trying to talk myself into believing those thoughts, though, and it wasn’t working.

  "You talk to your daddy, lately?" he questioned.

  "No, sir. I’ve been stayin' here near on three weeks now, and only seen him once. Aunt Emma had George and me take some lunch over to Mr. Pyle's place for Uncle Colby, and I seen Pap then, but he didn't say much to me, though. He just asked how I was over at Aunt Emma's house and whether or not I was behavin’. I told him I was and he said that was good. That was it."

  Another long pause came and went before he asked me, "You love your daddy?" I didn't expect him to ask me that. That was a hell of a question for some stranger to just come right out and ask me, but now that he had, I realized I wasn't quite sure.

  "He's my Pap," I said, as if though that answered sufficiently.

  I guess it did, because the man kind of nodded a little and then changed the subject, "How'd you get all those cuts on yah?" he asked, pointing to all the scratches, new and old, that I had received from Lucifer the Leghorn.

  "Chicken," I told him. I saw his eyebrows raise as though he thought I must be the weakest boy there ever was to get covered in cuts like that by a chicken. "Meanest rooster in creation, I reckon," I added quickly. "We call him Lucifer the Leghorn. He's wild and out in the woods with some other chickens. Me and George been trying to catch some of them, but only times we've gotten close he come at us. We nearly caught him, himself, today, though. But he got loose and scratched me up again."

  My uncle didn't smile, and didn't frown. He pretty much didn't react at all, but something about his mood seemed a little lighter. I think if things with Mama might have been different, maybe he would’ve laughed, but things were as they were. Instead, he said something I wouldn't have guessed he'd say in a million years, "I'm in town for a bit. I reckon tomorrow I'll show you boys how to catch that rooster." He stood up and said, “If you want, I mean.”

  “Sure,” I told him. “That’d be just fine.”

  And with that the conversation ended. He went back inside and he and Uncle Colby brought out some of the whiskey he had stashed away from Aunt Emma's judgment. She knew he had it, of course, and even dipped into it herself now and then when she had a cold. She reckoned they could use a drink, anyhow. Neither of them were big drinkers, not like Pap, but it might ease some old tensions between them and help the conversation a bit. They stayed up late talking into the night while the rest of the house went to bed.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning Uncle Marcus wasn't at breakfast. Aunt Emma told me that she had sent him a telegram just a day or two after Mama left to let him know she might be on the way and to ask for some word if she should arrive. Since Mama and Sarah never did, Uncle Marcus thought it best he make a trip to Varner Creek. He was staying over at Miss Thomas’ in town seeing as how she had a large home and a room to spare. There aren’t many people she’d of done that for, but she was fond of all the Stotleys, and Uncle Marcus was unquestionably an acceptable occupant, especially under the circumstances.

  Not long after breakfast he showed up at Aunt Emma’s again. He came riding up on the same glorious horse that had been munching on oats the night before. Francine made a comment on how handsome he was. I thought she meant the horse but Amber knew better, and she teased her about it, "Eeeeew, he's our Uncle," she said.

  "So?" answered Francine, "Just 'cause he's handsome don't mean I want to kiss him or anything. He’s just a nice looking man, is all." And Amber had to agree with the assessment.

  Uncle Colby had expressed the need for a bit more quiet that morning at breakfast, obviously nursing a slight hangover as it had been a while since he’d drank so much. It probably hit him harder than he expected, I guess. I was used to being quiet in respect of hangovers, anyway. And Uncle Colby was much better with handling his than Pap was. Pap would curse and complain, and if I was being too loud, give me his backhand upside my head to shut me up. Uncle Colby just downed about three glasses of water while nibbling on two pieces of bread. He couldn’t even seem to look at his eggs, so the rest of his breakfast sat untouched when he left for work.

  When Uncle Marcus arrived, though, he looked no worse for the late night and strong drink. He told Aunt Emma he had intended on spending some time with George and me today and asked if it'd be all right if he borrowed their rooster. She thought it a bit of an
odd request, but said that as long as he brought him back like he took him, it'd be fine.

  "Come on, boys. I'll show you how you catch that chicken what’s been giving you all the problems," he told us.

  George and I were both excited. We couldn't for the life of us figure out how George's rooster was going to help us catch Lucifer the Leghorn, but Uncle Marcus seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing, we figured he had some kind of chicken wisdom we lacked. We all three went outside and Uncle Marcus put George's rooster in a burlap sack with his feet sticking out. Then he carried him upside down like his feet were handles. The rooster was none too happy about it, but he couldn't do anything but cluck and complain, since he couldn't find himself a way to get upright again. One of his chicken legs kept kicking and he was trying in vain to stretch his wings inside the sack. Uncle Marcus then took some more of Uncle Colby's twine and George's stick from yesterday, the same one he had whittled on a bit last night to keep his hands occupied, and we set out.

  "Y’all go ahead and show me about where those chickens are at," he told us. So we led him through the woods. This time George and I were optimistic. There was something about having Uncle Marcus' quiet strength with us that led us to believe victory was assured. It took a good long time to find the chickens again, though. They had crept back even further into the woods. No doubt Lucifer the Leghorn had decided to put some more distance between his harem and the invaders. Hardly any words passed between us and Uncle Marcus. George quietly whispered his curiosity about what Uncle Marcus and I had talked about. "Did you tell him about seeing you know who?" he asked in a barely audible voice.

  "No, I reckon he'd just think that crazy talk," I told George. Although I hadn’t seen Sarah since that night I roused the house, she was never far from my thoughts. I looked for her in the night and thought about her nearly all the time, but still hadn’t seen her again.

  While we walked Uncle Marcus had me carry the rooster, who was still loudly protesting. He seemed preoccupied in his own thoughts and walked quietly. He was making use of his hands, however. He had taken out his pocketknife and was cutting some of the twine into three foot sections. When he had four of them he made each one into a slipknot noose. We were walking along, George and me whispering, Uncle Marcus tying, when we heard a loud crow. Our own rooster answered back in a half-hearted attempt and we stopped in our tracks.

  "That must be him," I told Uncle Marcus.

  "All right then," he said, "George, gimme your stick."

  George reluctantly handed over his only defense from the evil rooster, figuring Uncle Marcus must be getting ready to go after Lucifer the Leghorn himself. Instead, though, Uncle Marcus kicked a little hole in the dirt with the heel of his boot and then jammed the stick into it. He pressed all his body weight against the top of the stick and then twisted it around until it sank down several inches into dirt. Then he had me fetch a rock off a ways and used it to knock the stick down even further. He tied one end of his little nooses to the stick all around it. George and I looked at each other dumbfounded. We had no clue what in the world he was up to. Lastly, he took George's poor rooster and with the last bit of twine tied him to the top of the stick, just about two feet off the ground, letting him hang there in the bag. "That'll do it," Uncle Marcus told us.

  "Do what?" asked George.

  "Y’all come sit over here with me and watch," he said.

  We backtracked with Uncle Marcus about twenty yards away from George's rooster that was now miserably strung up, still squawking and complaining. He let out a little crow and immediately from up beyond in the denser trees came a blasting answer from Lucifer the Leghorn. Uncle Marcus took out his tobacco and cut off a piece and placed it in his mouth. "Roosters don't like any competition," he told us. "When I wasn't too much older than you boys I went to work for a man name Mr. Wilkins. He’s passed on now, but he used to fight roosters for sport. But don't go repeatin' that. He taught me this little trick here on how to catch a troublesome rooster." We sat in awe trying to imagine how George's rooster was going to catch Lucifer the Leghorn for us. For a few minutes nothing happened. Just some more clucking from the one in the bag, and occasionally a much louder and stronger answer from somewhere in the distance. Abruptly, though, a big feathery thing with huge wings came darting in towards the rooster on a stick. Even Uncle Marcus seemed startled at the speed of his approach. Leave it to Lucifer the Leghorn for a grand entrance. Again, there wasn't any tentative hopping in or cautious curiosity. Personally, I think he knew we were invading his territory yet again, this time bringing in another rooster, and he was pissed off. He shot in quick as a snake ready to inflict his vengeance for the invasion, but he never noticed George and me crouching by the bushes, and a bit behind Uncle Marcus if I'm to be perfectly honest, he went straight for the burlap sack with George's chicken. Lucifer the Leghorn was nearly twice the size of our bagged rooster who was bleating like a pig being slaughtered. It was something to see. That devil chicken was going absolutely berserk trying to get at poor George's rooster, furiously attacking at the bag again and again.

  "What do we do now?" George asked Uncle Marcus.

  "Nothin'," he responded, "Just watch. He'll get himself tangled nice and good, and then he's caught."

  Sure enough, that's exactly what happened. Somehow or another Lucifer the Leghorn managed to get one of his wings stuck in a noose. The more he hopped and pulled, the tighter it got. Then one of his feet got stuck. And before we knew it he was caught up in twine fighting like mad. One second he was fighting to get at our rooster, and the next he was fighting to get free of the nooses, then back to trying to get at the bagged rooster again. He was just about as mad as I've ever seen a critter, but it wasn't no good. Before long he was exhausted and completely tethered to George's stick. He'd almost managed to pull it free from the ground, but got tired out before finishing the job.

  "Got to let him wear hisself out before you go trying to manage him," Uncle Marcus explained. "But he looks good and tired now. We'll use them other two nooses to tie his legs and wings so he doesn't get free and can’t scratch."

  George and I were beside ourselves. There he was, the king of the woods, our captive. Uncle Marcus had made it all look so easy. He’d done in ten minutes and without hardly any effort what George and I had spent all day yesterday trying to figure out how to do. And Uncle Marcus didn't have so much as a scratch on him. By the time we got to Lucifer the Leghorn, he could barely hop at us to attempt a good slash. He was still mad as ever, but the fight was out of him. Uncle Marcus used his pocketknife to cut the other two slipknots loose and bundled up the angry chicken. George's own rooster stopped squirming around like it had keeled over and died, but Uncle Marcus said it was fine. And when we carried our prize back through the woods towards home George's chicken started clucking and crowing again. He had nerves of steel once it seemed obvious the much bigger rooster couldn't get at him anymore.

  It was quite a contemplation to figure out the fate of Lucifer the Longhorn. When we got him home that day Aunt Emma was shocked. She had never seen a rooster that big in her entire life. "Well, we ain't keeping that thing," she announced right away.

  Both George and I protested. He was our captive, after all. Even if it took Uncle Marcus to make him that way. "But Mama, look at him. He's the grandest rooster there is," whined George.

  Francine and Amber both agreed with Aunt Emma. They had a couple of puppies they had gotten from the Radtke farm down the way, and they didn’t like the new rooster one bit. "Mama, that thing will kill Boots for sure," cried Amber, speaking on behalf of her own puppy, named so because of his white paws.

  "Not if we keep him in a pen," I said.

  "What good is a rooster you can't let out?" said Aunt Emma. "And besides, I don't want to have to worry about that beast tearing me and the girls up. I'm with child if I need to remind you all. I can't be botherin' with a thing like this here rooster lookin' to get at me any chance it gets. You boys may enjoy such things, but
personally I'd rather not have to fight a wild chicken like that every day just to get clothes out on the line or feed the animals. Nope," she said with conviction, "he most definitely goes."

  Uncle Marcus suggested making dinner out of him, but George and I both couldn't endure the thought of it. As much as we wanted to keep him, we both had rather let him go than see him served up for dinner. He was too fine an example of a rooster for that and probably would’ve been tough as a boot, so it was decided that we'd keep him that night, and the next day George and I would let him free back in the woods.

  Uncle Marcus stayed around that afternoon talking with Aunt Emma. Around five or so he headed to town saying there were some other folks he wanted to visit with. I wondered if the sheriff was one of the individuals, but I didn't ask.

  When Uncle Colby came home that evening for supper he asked Aunt Emma, "Where'd that rooster come from?" Lucifer the Leghorn had been penned up by himself in the chicken coup. George's rooster was taunting him from a safe distance and Lucifer the Leghorn had been crowing so loudly in anger that Uncle Colby said he could hear him clear over at the Pyle's farm. Aunt Emma replayed the day's events for him and he immediately had the solution, "Well, I know someone who'd love to have that thing."

  "Who would want that monstrosity?" Aunt Emma asked.

  "Mr. Pyle," Uncle Colby said. "He's always looking for the biggest roosters." He caught himself saying a little too much. Mr. Pyle was a respected member of the community, and even though cock-fighting was a common practice, good Christian folks weren't supposed to indulge in such barbaric past-times. Mr. Pyle, however, had a weakness for the betting and excitement. He had himself had a few short-lived cock-fighting winners, but nothing special. Lucifer the Leghorn, however, could be just what he needed to rectify that. Aunt Emma didn't pry into why Mr. Pyle was always looking for roosters like the horrid one outside, though. She respected him too much to acknowledge such moral weaknesses in his character.