The Shadow of Armageddon
Page 48
When he returned in the late afternoon after finishing work in the brewery, he found Murdoch’s stall to be the busiest at the market. He peered from the edge of the crowd to see what attracted people. And saw an amazing array of products: bags of oddly-shaped nuts; a few of which had been poured into a bowl for display; heaps of what looked like reddish brown strips of bark; stacks of highly polished wooden bowls, goblets, and cups. The dinnerware was nothing like the wooden dinnerware displayed at the other stalls. The grain of these swirled like demented demons imprisoned in trees that had frozen in place as they squirmed to get free. A whole table contained sandals made of twine like the ones worn by Murdoch’s boys and balls of the twine from which they were made. Murdoch’s sales patter gradually disclosed the nature of the items. The strangely-shaped nuts turned out to be peanuts, which John had heard were good but had never tasted. The distinctly aromatic bark was from sassafras roots and used to make tea which he had tasted and really liked. The wooden dinnerware was distinctive, said Murdoch, because the great Ozark craftsman, Odie Griffin, made it from oak burls. In fact, according to Murdoch, all the goods on display were unique to the Ozarks, some district far to the south. Even the sandals and the twine from which they were made had come from some mysterious plant fiber found only there, according to Murdoch, and woven by a process known only to someone named Frannie Slocum. Only Charley Murdoch, he boasted, knew of these unique products so only he could make them available to the fine citizens of Coleridge Gardens.
“Don’t fo’git the peanut buttuh, Miz Anderson,” Murdoch said to a woman in the crowd. “You git that evah yeah an' I got plenty in the cart heah. If y’ got the empty pot fum last yeah, you can give it back and won’t hafta pay fuh ’nother ’n.”
A Ms. Sorenson bought a wooden bowl carved by the talented Odie Griffin. “Now I got a whole set a his bowls an’ goblets an’ cups,” said the delighted Ms. Sorenson.
“Next yeah,” said Murdoch, “Mastuh Craftsman Griffin ‘tends t’ add a whole new line a plates an’ plattuhs. Y’ll shuh want a set a them now, woncha?”
“Oh, yes. It’s too bad they’re so expensive, but I can surely afford one or two a year.”
The sales continued briskly. Murdoch accepted only nellies, from which the locals usually parted grudgingly because they were so scarce here – as evidenced by the widespread bartering at the market – though his truck was so unique no one seemed to mind.
As people made their purchases and left, John edged ever closer to the front. He was clutching a nellie in his pocket, intending to buy some peanuts.
“Well, if it ain’t the lan’lord’s new brat.” Murdoch leaned toward him. Though, because of his stooped posture he was scarcely taller than John, the boy nevertheless found the perpetual yellow-toothed grin and the leering yellow eyes disconcerting. Today the old man’s expression seemed even more malevolent than before.
“Bernie says y’ doin’ well theah, hunh boy? Y’ look well fed. Bet he gi’s y’ money a yo’ own. Burnin’ a hole in yo’ pocket I bet. Well, you too young t’ have money a yo’ own, boy. Y’ come ’long wi’ me faw a spell, I’ll work that fat off’n yo’ bones. But sense y’ heah wi’ money runnin’ out yo’ ass, what’ll it be, boy? Pair a these heah sandals? Naw, you too gud for sandals. You got reg’luh boots. How ’bout peanuts? You rich boys allus like peanuts t’ show off t’ yo’ li’l frien’s.”
“I—I don’t want anything,” said John. “I’m just looking.”
Murdoch’s look became more hostile. “Well, then beat it, kid. I got payin’ customuhs heah. I don’ need no deadbeats w’ no money.”
John gladly left, a little spooked by the old man and more than a little angry.
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About the Author
Following the dictum, “Write about what you know,” the author has worked at many of the same jobs, professions and avocations as his characters – bartender (and, with his wife, owned a tavern), homebrewer, land surveyor, civil engineer and land developer – and he’s done a few things they have not (artist and newspaper grunt among other things). Most importantly, he’s a native Missourian, so he knows the inhabitants of these books intimately. Mr. LeMay currently lives in the Denver, Colorado metropolitan area with his wife, Nyla.
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