The stillness of town was broken only by the hole in Ben’s tailpipe. But to the people still dreaming, the sound would be little more than a fading whisper. Most of them probably wouldn’t think anything of it as they fell back asleep.
But to us—to me, it was the sound of regret. Doubt tried to push through my mind’s weedy haze, but got lost in the smoke. Then I looked at Ben, his blue eyes illuminated in the faint patch of light cast off by the joint. He smiled.
I said, “You’re doing this on purpose.”
We drove through Thomas and crossed the Blackwater. The little truck struggled to climb Backbone Mountain, valves tapping, temperature gauge creeping into the red. When we hit the summit Ben turned left toward Olsen Tower.
“Aren’t we going to Parsons?”
“No way. I want to hide the Jeep. Besides, we can catch the train here. It’ll be a longer ride, but…”
“There ain’t a train through Blackwater anymore,” I said. “Right?” “Your memory’s playing tricks.”
For the next forty minutes we crept into the canyon. Our tires slid on patches of mud that had turned into small streams. Rocks as big as cantaloupes rose from the gravel to shake the cab and bounce me into the roof.
“Sorry,” Ben would say, but they were unavoidable.
Massive trees, much larger than I remembered, lingered in the headlights briefly before passing back into the darkness behind us. Black pines that dripped needles and sap blocked out the outside world. They muffled sound— even the raindrops were muted in the dense forest. Much more dense than I remembered.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement.
I was about to tell Ben to stop when I turned and saw the trees we’d just passed basking in the red glow of brake lights. My buzz might’ve been melting, but I saw what I saw. I was high, not blind.
When I looked again, chills fell down my spine like moonshine from a still. I’m sleepwalking. Please let me be asleep.
My arms and back broke out in goose bumps. I fought the urge to say something. When I cocked my head to watch out of the side-view mirror, the knobby limbs and gray-green needles followed the truck’s passing like iron shavings followed a magnet.
“Henry.”
I looked at Ben, but couldn’t reply.
“Just look straight ahead. Nothing to see, man.” “Yeah, but I saw something.”
“No, man. You didn’t. Keep your head on.” He slowed to a stop at a gate.
Over the rain I could hear the Blackwater’s rapids tumbling past boulders and over ledges. I turned my back to the trees. In the side-view mirror I could see them. They leaned toward me, like they were listening. But I wouldn’t say a word. I didn’t even move.
By the time the faintest sliver of light broke the eastern canyon rim I was dead-tired but wide-awake. Time had stood still, only the position of the earth had changed. For me this had been one long day that began when we woke up on Spruce Knob.
When I heard the train’s whistle echo off the canyon walls, I realized that I still had far to go before it would end.
SEVEN
Brakes squealed as the locomotive decelerated to round the bend. The high-pitched whine drowned out the low huff of the downshifting gears. Fog muted frequencies at the low and high ends of the visible light spectrum. The overall effect put me on edge.
An old engineer wiped his brow with the blue bandana he pulled from his grease-stained coveralls. He made eye contact with us as he passed, but his old brown eyes never once blinked. The swirling coal smoke made him seem grainy, like an old photo. He replaced the worn engineer’s cap before giving three sharp whistle blasts that made me jump. The engine disappeared into the fog.
“Jesus, Henry. Calm the hell down.” Ben set the pack on his lap. “Sorry.” I coughed on the sulfurous fumes.
Ben opened the door then threw the old pack over his shoulder as the railcars slid by. He took his compound bow and a quiver of arrows and strapped them diagonally across his pack with nylon webbing. Giant white oaks, bigger than any I’d ever seen, rolled down to an Elkins mill.
“C’mon.” He trotted toward the tracks.
“Man, this is a bad idea.” I rubbed my eyes, hoping to push the dream away. But when I blinked they were all still there: Ben, the train, the fog. I opened the door and stumbled into a cold puddle.
“God damn!” I cursed Ben’s parking. Rich, black mud covered my river sandals and ankles. The smell of decaying plant material, a little like shit but not as pungent, rose to mingle with the smell of the freshly cut wood and sulfur. I wiped my feet in the cool, dewy grass as I jogged over to join Ben.
He gave me a look, then returned his gaze to the slowing train. “Watch your step, douche.”
“I’ve never seen trees this big in my whole life.” Some of them were wider at their bases than a man was tall. Had to be at least five hundred years old.
“Henry, sometimes I swear you’re dumber than a coal truck. You seen every tree in West Virginia? Just pick one and hop on. Here come a few empties.” He walked right up to the squealing, clacking stampede and started to jog. I fell into step right behind him. The massive steel wheels rolled by with enough force to turn me into sand a hundred times over. They only got bigger the closer I got. The smell of grease filled my nose. I trotted alongside the flat car, which had begun to accelerate again.
I felt clumsy in my old clothes and river sandals. Give me my hiking boots and I’d have been on that train pulling Ben up. But as it was I was struggling to keep up.
“The ladder.” Ben pointed, letting me inside. “Grab it and swing yourself up.” He slipped behind me and ran at my heels, waiting for me to board before climbing up himself. My hand made contact with the steel ladder, still wet with morning dew. The rung felt like it’d been buttered with pork lard. “Grab it, Henry! Jesus,” he said, still not breathing hard.
The wheels rotated without regard to my fleshy hands and feet. Heat radiated from the metal to metal contact of train car to rail. One of my limbs beneath the wheel wouldn’t have even registered as a bump. All those steely discs knew was round and round. On a mountain like this they couldn’t even comprehend stop. Forward or backward didn’t make a difference. Fear slowed me down, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the wheels. Loose cobbles below the railroad ties twisted my ankles. I lurched forward before stumbling to the ground.
Rolling with momentum brought me to my feet, but not before cutting my palms and knees. Ben jumped to the side to avoid stepping on me. I slowed, letting the next car pass.
“Nice one, now get on the fucking train.” He ran just inches behind me. “Shut up, man!” I yelled. “It ain’t like I do this all the time.”
Now angry, I latched onto the ladder and ran with the car. The engineer let the horn sound again. My grip slipped.
“Grab it, Henry! That’s the bridge.”
“Bridge?”
“Grab the fucking ladder!”
Without thinking I ducked between the cars. Pain rippled through my palms, but I focused only on the bottom rung. Paying careful attention to my stride, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes then yanked myself onto the ladder.
My sandal hit the wet bottom rung and my leg slipped right through. The thin sole of my sandal hit a tie and a cobble before I was able to pull myself up with only my arms. At the top I clutched at the smooth planking, but handholds were nonexistent.
“Get out of the way!” Ben yelled from in between the cars.
Rolling to my left cleared Ben’s path, but brought me face to face with the sight of the engine and coal tender traversing a stone arch bridge. Nothing but fog stood in the way of the rails and the Blackwater’s rocky rapids. I turned in time to see Ben having the same problems with the ladder I had.
“Give me your hand,” I called to him. He waved me off and I reiterated my request. “C’mon man, at least give me the pack.”
But he ignored me, and made another lunge at the ladder. Trying to calculate how much time Ben had befo
re he ran out of track, I looked for the high bridge. It was still there, but I could no longer see it. The locomotive was already crossing.
The clack-clack of wheels passing over gaps in the rails lessened as the cars ahead of us moved onto the bridge. Without the amplification of solid ground the clack-clack became thin and empty.
“Ben!”
He looked at me and wiped his mouth. Gone from his eyes was the ‘I got this' expression I was so used to seeing. He wasn’t so certain anymore.
Lunging forward onto the hard wooden planks forced the breath from my lungs. I coughed to force air back in and grabbed Ben by the shoulder and a pack strap. His right hand clamped onto my left wrist, but I lost my grip on his pack.
Without saying a word he let me know he was about to shit his pants. Instinctively I reached down and grabbed his belt, a total raft guide move. The kind that would’ve made Mike Duff proud—if it was a young lady and I was reaching for her front side and not her backside. Jerking with the simultaneous firings of a thousand neurons, I brought Ben up to the deck beside me in time to see the cobbles he kicked tumble down the steep canyon cliffs into the river.
He laid face down trying to catch his breath. From a push-up position he went to his knees and used his shirtsleeve to wipe sweat from his eyes. He glared at me, brow furrowed as he pulled his boxers out of his ass crack.
“Don’t ever let me catch you with your hand down there again,” he said, full of mock indignation. The illusion quickly faded as he laughed and shook his head.
We slid to the center of the car. Ben rested his head on his pack and closed his eyes. Some people have it so easy. I crossed my arms over my knees and watched red-tailed hawks pass above. They screamed in the rising thermals, searching for an easy breakfast before disappearing back into the fog. Wood smoke came from the logging camps embedded deeply within the old hills. I wondered if I’d be able to hear the saws if it hadn’t been for the train. Old skid trails, newly cleared, lined the canyon like garter snakes. These old sights took me back to my childhood, a different era, really. My pap would take me into the clear-cuts and let me sit on his lap while he worked the skidder. I struggled to recall the exact memory.
The old train rolled down to Hendricks and I realized I’d never seen skidders or trails like these in my lifetime. Not in the thousands of hours I’d spent paddling and hiking, not in the hundreds of trips I’d taken down this lonely canyon. But the memories were so real to me, the images screamed for recognition. The only explanation was that I was still high.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that I’d open them to the world I left, the world where Alex waited for me at Rachael’s house. But I couldn’t tell the difference between truth and lies up here.
My mind could have easily been lying.
My eyes, on the other hand, saw only the truth.
I was glad Ben was asleep. That way, I could have the rest of the trip to myself to think things through. I had to make sense of the situation somehow. I couldn’t think with his yapping.
Even as the sun crept over the eastern canyon rim the fog remained at varying elevations to perpetuate my feelings of isolation. I’ve lived in West Virginia my whole life and never once heard a train whistle down in this canyon. Yet here I was rolling down to Hendricks.
My eyes strained to pierce the fog that prevented me from seeing this wilderness as a whole. Waterfalls streamed down the steep walls in stony chutes that acted more like downspouts than streambeds. White threads intertwined to make strands of lace that plunged a thousand feet from the rocky ledges near the rim. I got drunk on the cool breezes that drifted up from the river below. The speed had a narcotic effect, which, when combined with the rhythm of the rails, made me want to pull out my fiddle and play along to the song it was singing.
The train leveled out as we left the canyon. I let my feet dangle over the side. As the day grew warmer the ground began to twist and slither. A sea of snakes pulled themselves from chilly crevasses to seek the warmth of the dark wooden ties. Timber rattlers, too sleepy to be excitable, kept their distance from the heavy wheels. Feisty copperheads coiled and feigned aggression.
I woke Ben up. “We’re almost in Parsons.”
His eyes popped open. He propped himself up on his elbows. “In time for lunch, eh?”
“We have to get off this train. If we get caught that’s trespassing.”
Ben looked over the side at the swirling mass and remained calm. The din of rattles grew to a point where the clack-clack of our wheels was nearly inaudible over their racket. He was about to speak, when I interrupted.
“No way man,” I said. “You’re going first this time.”
Shortly after arriving in Parsons we learned from a bunch of wood hicks headed to a bar that the next train would be delayed due to problems down the line. So now we had time to kill in a town that had none to spare.
The chatter of idling locomotives had forced us into town for respite, but the drone of the sawmill was more than enough to force us into hiding. Sawdust stuck to eyelashes and nostrils—I sneezed wooden boogers. Old company rigs carried finished lumber out via highway, their cabs rounded to speed them down mountainsides more easily. Black smoke gurgled from their overhead stacks in direct defiance of the clean mountain air.
We wandered through town, looking for a place to lay low. Every so often a Lewis Lumber truck crept around a corner. My dealings with the sheriff yesterday made me feel like I had a target on my back. But places to hide were few—hardware stores that specialized in chain grease and saw blades and a small grocery store. From what I could see, though, the town sold most of its fruit and grain already fermented.
“What time do we leave again?” I said. It was as if the seconds choked and died before turning into minutes.
“Tonight. The guy said it would take at least a shift to clean up the derailment.”
“What the hell are we going to do all day?” I looked over my shoulder, a recent habit I had developed.
Ben pointed at a wooden sign that hung above a dirty bar.
“The Pig’s Ear? You got to be kidding,” I said. “What about pizza or something?”
“Pizza.” Ben snorted like I’d just asked for sushi. “Not here. Not now. Grab a table.” We pushed through the heavy wooden door and into an old company store that had been converted into a bar. Ben left me to get drinks. The room was very dark, probably to hide the fact that it’d never been cleaned. I waded through peanut shells and smoke to a table by the window. The latch had been painted shut. I would’ve moved to another window if Ben hadn’t arrived at that moment with drinks.
“Nice,” I said with a raised eyebrow. “Nourishment and alcohol in one swoop.”
“You seemed surprised.” Unlike most people, who were content to let a good job speak for itself, Ben had to take it a step further, to request acknowledgement.
“A little.” Strong notes of malt and toasted rye hit me like a bag of nickels. “So, we’ll just be drinking lunch then?”
“I took care of it. How does a steak sound?” He drank, set his mug down with a bang, then put his elbows on the table.
“I could eat a steak.” I tried to remember the last thing I’d eaten, and couldn’t. “Sounded good to me, too. But not today, not ever, apparently. My choices were limited to ‘do you want to eat, or don’t you?’”
Luckily, the food wasn’t as bad as it sounded. It was like a Shepard’s pie with venison instead of lamb, and had been very heavily salted. I went up to get another round and ate more peanuts while trying to get the bartender’s attention. He finally spotted me as he was looking for loose change. I said, “thanks” when he brought my drinks, but wanted to take it back as soon as it came out of my mouth.
When I turned I could see that my seat had been taken. A bear of a man dropped a few fingers of something clear in Ben’s empty glass. Ben threw it down, slammed the cup to the table and let out a whoop.
Somebody at the bar yelled, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
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Ben was looking to challenge the command when he saw me and motioned to bring a chair over. He remained standing to maintain his defiance. “I’m right here if you change your mind, asshole.”
I slid a stool across the floor with my foot and the man stood up and took the glasses. “I must be sitting in your seat then.” He gestured with a big sweep of his hand. As I set the drinks down he introduced himself, “Your cousin tells me that you’re looking for a little adventure?”
“My cousin says too much. And it ain’t exactly an adventure. I have a job to do.” I shoved Ben’s drink at him, but he ignored me.
“Henry, although I don’t look the part, I’ve been chasing a little adventure myself, following the frost line north. When winter arrives I’ll just hop a train south. I’m not really in a hurry, that’s why I’m willing to help you with your predicament. Where two are good, three are better.” He pulled his jacket aside, revealing an ivory- handled pistol. “My name is Greg, no last name, please. If that doesn’t satisfy you then call me Sir, and Gregory can be my last name.”
“For real?” I said.
“Yes, Henry, I’m very real.” He shook my hand and pulled me close enough to smell what they’d been drinking, yet somehow Greg himself didn’t seem intoxicated. He wore wool pants tucked into high logger’s boots, and a fine wool jacket with epaulets and bone buttons. But his most distinguishing feature was the beret he wore with a red-tail’s feather sticking from the side. His heavy beard drew attention away from his eyes, which, despite being a little sad, gleamed like pebbles from a stream.
He pushed me back into my seat by the window and pulled the stool up to the table. His mass blocked my view of the rest of the tavern, which was perfectly fine by me. Once he began to talk I knew exactly how our hours would pass. He jumped into stories about Texas rattlesnakes and mysterious ‘Red Parties’ that lasted for weeks. His circle included musicians, artists, writers, scientists and politicians—socialists and anarchists, no doubt. But above all he was a romantic. His poems made us laugh and sit silently in awe with equal ease. Even though I would never tell Ben, I was glad Greg was coming along. He added an air of legitimacy to our task.
Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) Page 15