Jewelweed

by David Rhodes

  He walked slowly, watching for signs of movement and trying to keep from trampling on watermelons, muskmelons, and pumpkins, which were everywhere, most of them a little smaller than softballs. After what seemed to August like a long time, he reached the middle of the field, where he felt exposed on all sides.

  Milton saw the hermit first, standing in front of the hut. Then August saw him cross his arms in front of his chest and stand motionless. Milton swooped down and dove into August’s shirt pocket.

  “Stop right there, stranger!” shouted the hermit. “Stop right there.”

  His voice seemed bigger than life, August thought, but he didn’t look overly large. His dark hair and beard were his most arresting features. Both flared out beyond his face in an explosion of untamed growth. People at the shop said he hadn’t shaved or cut his hair since he got out of the military. His mouth didn’t seem to move when he talked, and he was dressed in camouflage fatigues with black combat boots. Even from this distance, his shirt and pants appeared shiny—the way clothes look when they haven’t been washed in a long while. His eyes glowed like hot coals.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked in an angry tone.

  “My name is August and I want to know about the Wild Boy.”

  “Are you friend or foe?”

  “Friend.”

  “What have you got in your pocket?”

  August wondered briefly how the hermit knew there was anything in his pocket, then fished out the camp knife he’d brought to give to the Wild Boy.

  “Not that pocket. Your chest pocket.”

  “Milton’s in there.”

  “Who’s Milton?”

  “He’s my bat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He belongs to me. He’s a long-eared bat. And he’s mine.”

  “I don’t believe you. Take him out.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t want to come out.”

  “Take him out so I can see him.”

  “No. He’s afraid of people he doesn’t know.”

  “I’ll give you twenty dollars if you take him out.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You’re that preacher’s kid,” the hermit said. “The woman preacher.”

  “That’s correct,” replied August. “And I’m proud of it.”

  “I guess I can trust you, then. Come on ahead.”

  As August walked forward, he asked, “Why did you decide to trust me, Mr. Mortal?”

  “If you’d protect a bat, you’ll honor the truth.”

  He talked odd like that. August didn’t understand exactly why, but he wasn’t afraid of the hermit. He looked frightening enough, with all that hair and those red, glowing eyes, and he’d heard a lot of bad things about him at the shop. But his dad had let August come, and though he was uncomfortable he wasn’t afraid.

  “That was a long walk,” the hermit said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, thank you. I brought along my thermos.”

  August couldn’t take his eyes off the hermit’s hut.

  “I guess you’ve never seen a home like this before,” the hermit said, watching him.

  “I guess not.”

  The shack looked like a large mound or a small hill with steep sides. There were two large windows in front, but they were covered by vines and couldn’t be seen from a distance. Even the front door was covered with moss. And when the hermit reached out and opened it, there was a tearing sound, like when a piece of sod is ripped out of the ground by its roots.

  “Come inside,” he said.

  “How did you get the dirt to stay up like that?” asked August, feeling the wall with his hand as he went through the doorway.

  “This isn’t really a sod house,” he said. “It just looks like one. The basic structure is made of straw bales covered with wire and mud.”

  From what August could see there were only three rooms. It was dark inside, with several kerosene lamps glowing orange and yellow. The first room, the biggest, had a rack of guns along one wall—maybe thirty rifles of different sizes, and an open case of a dozen or so pistols. Boxes and boxes of ammunition were stacked alongside the weapons. Along another wall stood shelves of canned and dried foods, but there wasn’t enough light to recognize the different kinds.

  August stared at the guns until the hermit asked, “Do you like guns, August?”

  “I know little about them,” he said. “But my mom is against them.”

  “How does your father feel?”

  “Dad’s feelings don’t usually come out from under Mom’s.”

  “You mean he doesn’t say anything that disagrees with her?”

  “Right.”

  “So you probably won’t tell them about these.”

  “Probably not.”

  The floor appeared to be covered with several inches of mulch. In the middle of the first room stood a woodstove made from an oil barrel. There were also two painted statues made of wood. They were large, and at first August thought they might be giant cigar-store Indians. He’d seen several of those on a vacation in North Dakota last year, but these seemed different. He couldn’t see them very well, but there didn’t appear to be any feathers, tomahawks, or cigars sticking out.

  One of the statues hadn’t been completely painted yet, and around it were paint cans on top of the wood chips. The hermit sat down on a stool next to them. He dipped a brush and started painting. August wondered how he could see well enough in the dim light.

  There was a room off to the left as well. August could make out the corner of a table and some boxes in there. And then off to the right was another room, but the door was closed.

  “So, what is it you want, August?” the hermit asked.

  “The Wild Boy,” August said. “He put a jar of peaches on the window outside my room and I saw him up close.”

  “The child left peaches?”

  “That’s correct,” said August. “A jar of canned peaches with a smidgeon of honey.”

  “I wonder where those came from,” said the hermit. “How were they?”

  “My dad liked them more than me, but they were good. If you could please tell me where he lives, I’d like to talk to him.”

  “I can’t do that,” said the hermit. He changed brushes and started painting with a different paint.

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, the child doesn’t talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Just doesn’t.”

  “Never?”

  “Nope.”

  “Everybody can talk.”

  “Not that child.”

  “Have you ever seen him?”

  “Sure, many times—the child stayed here several nights last winter.”

  “Here?”

  “Slept in that room,” said the hermit, jabbing his brush in the direction of the closed door.

  “He came inside?”

  “It was cold out there.”

  “He slept here?”

  “A couple nights at least.”

  The hermit changed paintbrushes and began working in yellow.

  August looked more closely at the statue. He could make out a leg and a foot and the outline of a head.

  “What did the two of you do when he was here?”

  “We slept, got up, ate something, carried in firewood, watched the snow fall, and boiled water for bergamot tea—things like that. And then one night we put a pine knot I’d been saving in the fire, and watched it burn. It was a pleasant evening. Have you ever seen a pine knot burn, August?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then you’ve got something to look forward to. The colors are better than anything you can imagine. It’s like watching the soul’s fire.”

  “He watched the colors?”

  “We both did, for hours.”

  “He drinks tea?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “A lot like
you, August. A lot like you.”

  “Is he stupid?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But he can’t talk.”

  “That child is smarter than most people I know.”

  “But he can’t talk.”

  Milton climbed out of August’s pocket, climbed up on his shoulder, opened his leather wings, and flew around, exploring. He seemed to enjoy the interior of the shack.

  “There’s your bat,” said the hermit.

  “I hope you don’t mind him flying around.”

  “I don’t. He can’t hurt anything.”

  “Good,” said August. “Most people don’t seem to like him.”

  “That’s probably because they think Milton’s stupid.”

  “He’s not stupid,” August said, stiffening.

  “But he can’t talk, can he?”

  August thought a moment and then said, “Okay, okay, I see what you mean. When was the last time you saw him—the Wild Boy?”

  “Oh, let’s see.” He stopped painting, leaned back, and looked at the ceiling, which was made of round timbers with mud plastered between. “Not that long ago.”

  “Where?” asked August, sitting down on the wood shavings.

  “A mile or two north of here.”

  “What did he say? Oh yeah, I’m sorry, I forgot he can’t talk.”

  “It’s a hard thing to wrap your head around, isn’t it, August?”

  “Someone should teach him how.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he needs to learn.”

  As August’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he recognized first one part of the statue, then another, and then he finally saw the whole thing together. He’d never seen anything so horrible. It was a man screaming. One of his eyes had been burned out and there were deep cuts on his face and neck. His stomach was sliced open and you could see his insides. His penis and testicles had been cut off, and there were pieces of rope around his ankles and wrists.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the hermit.

  “What is that?” asked August, backing away. “What is that?”

  “In the war we caught this enemy soldier—pulled him out of a dug-in. We tortured him for most of an afternoon, and as near as I can remember he looked just like that before he died. It’s one of the things I can’t forget. It haunts me. So in my spare time I carve my memories, paint them as realistically as I can, and burn them on a stone altar in the woods. It helps free me from them.”

  Milton flew back into August’s pocket.

  August turned his attention to the other carving, the finished one. It was a man with muscles like thick cables in his neck and arms, blue eyes, a square jaw, and a faraway, heroic expression.

  “You want to know about him too?” asked the hermit.

  August nodded.

  “He was the leader of one of our units—bravest man I ever met. He risked his life again and again to save those under his command. Many men owe their lives to him, and I’m one of them. He was dedicated to serving his country, loyal to his superiors, and he did everything expected of him.”

  “You’re going to burn him too?” August asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to be like him.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  The hermit set the brush in the can and put his head in his hands. Then he looked up at August. “I shouldn’t have let you see these carvings,” he said. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. In many countries boys your age are forced into armies, trained like other soldiers, and expected to swim in the same bloody slime as the older men. But that doesn’t excuse it. I shouldn’t have shown you.”

  “Tell me why you’re burning the figure of the man you admired.”

  “You won’t understand.”

  “I don’t like people saying that to me, Mr. Mortal. Just tell me why you want to burn him and let me worry about understanding it.”

  “These two memories—these two human truths—are the same. This one,” he said, pointing at the hero, “contains the other one. When you have one, you get the other. To be rid of one, you must also get rid of the other.”

  “I don’t understand,” said August.

  “I told you.”

  August turned away and his face hardened. “Most people think you’re crazy,” he said.

  “That’s useful.”

  “How?”

  “It keeps people away.”

  “Can I come over when you burn that one?” August asked, pointing at the carving of the screaming man.

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid it will haunt me too, and I would like to see it burn.”

  “You’re welcome to come, but I’m burning both of them at the same time. So if you don’t want to see the other one burn, don’t come.”

  “I’ll come,” August said. “Can I bring my friend Ivan?”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s about my age. What difference does it make?”

  “I can’t get along with adults for very long,” he said. “If they’ve never experienced combat I despise them for what they don’t know. And if they were in combat I resent them for what we know together. For some reason younger people like you escape my prejudices.”

  “So Ivan can come?” asked August, unable to look away from the carving.

  “Can you vouch for him, August?”

  “I can,” he replied. “When should we come?”

  “In three weeks—on the next full moon.”

  “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock. Can you get out that late?”

  “I will.”

  “Then I’ll wait for you.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Mortal, but did the Wild Boy see these carvings?”

  “Yes. The child walked over and touched them.”

  “He touched them?”

  “Put a hand on them.”

  “What else did he do?”

  “The child backed away and looked at the statue again—just like you did. Then touched it again, with both hands.”

  “Which statue?”

  “This one.”

  “How about the other carving?”

  “No, not the other one.”

  “And you think he understands them?” asked August.

  “In truth, I do. I’ve been carving and burning these war memories for many years, and these are the last of them. Every time, the child has come and watched.”

  “You mean the Wild Boy will be there?”

  “I expect so.”

  Then the hermit jerked up his hand in a warning manner. He turned his head to the side and listened, his eyes flashing in the lamplight.

  “Someone’s coming,” he whispered, and passed quickly to the window. A rifle leaned against the wall beside it.

  “Who is it?” asked August.

  “Shhhhhhhhh.” The hermit stared out the window, his right hand on the rifle. Then he left the rifle leaning against the wall, crept quickly back to August, and whispered, “Look, I don’t want anyone to know you’re here. Go into that room there, stay out of sight. Can you do that?”

  August hurried through a thick doorway and into what he assumed was the room where the hermit slept.

  It was really dark inside, and filled with many things. There were shelves of drying herbs, wooden boxes, a bureau, trunks, and leather. He pressed against the wall to the side of the doorway.

  The front door opened with a root-ripping sound, and the hermit stepped outside.

  After a short time August began to relax.

  Beside the bed stood a little table—another wooden box with two sides cut out. On top of it were five or six dried wildflowers, with a purple thread tied around the stems. He picked them up. They still had green in the stalks.

  August tried to be patient, but a desire to explore the rest of the hut soon overcame him. He wanted to look inside the other room, where the Wild Boy had slept, and he walked carefully away from the bed and toward the closed door,
going the long way around the screaming statue. And then through the window he saw his father standing in the melon field beside the hermit, talking. They seemed to know each other, and a few times it even looked as if they were laughing. The exchange concluded with Jacob handing him a plastic bag, then shaking his hand and leaving.

  August headed back to the bedroom.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” the hermit said, coming inside. “It’s odd, August. Several months go by when no one visits. Then today, one right after the other. Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink? Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Mortal. I should be getting home. Is it still all right for Ivan and me to come back on the twenty-second of July?”

  “The twenty-second?”

  “That’s the next full moon,” August said, showing him his pocket calendar.

  “I’ll be looking for you.”

  August started for the door, stopped, and walked back into the room.

  “Forget something?” the hermit asked.

  He went over to the smaller carving, which seemed even more horrible up close, almost alive. The places where the new paint had been applied reflected the lamplight. August forced himself to reach out with both hands and touch the statue. An awful shiver moved up his back, but he held his hands against the painted wood for at least two full breaths, and then went outside.

  “Good-bye, August,” said the hermit.

  Inching Into the Present

  Before very long Blake could see through both eyes, hear out of both ears, chew without discomfort, and shave without avoiding sensitive areas. The discoloration took a little longer to fade, but the darker calico splotches eventually blended into the surrounding skin tones.

  His psychic wounds presented a more complicated challenge. Something was needed in addition to the autonomic remedies provided by dreams, shaking, weeping, hollering, sweating, and vomiting. For true recovery—involution—Blake required satisfactory relations with other creatures over extended periods of time, and lots and lots of rest. And therein lay the problem.