by David Rhodes
All too soon, people were starting to leave.
Dart found another of the Magnificent Seven and proposed a toast to prosperity. Lucky Two Shoes cornered three men and two women near the lounge area and surrounded them with his facts. When one of them finally broke free, his hold over the rest of them shattered, and they fled.
The musicians were packing up. A group of men and women began playing poker at a table near the exit doors, and a second table was designated for the same purpose. Ties and suit coats were coming off like autumn leaves, tossed over the backs of chairs. Someone went to look for poker chips. Two men carried a punch bowl over and put it nearby. The catering staff carried in coffee.
“Is it all right to smoke?” asked someone.
“No,” came the obvious reply.
Lucky Two Shoes came over and said it was time to leave. Dart found her purse and they walked across the room, behind the poker players, toward the open doors.
“Good night.”
Dart realized she’d had far too much to drink. Her mind was dancing about crazily to its own accompaniment. She looked longingly back into the room. Then she looked down at her feet, and fixed on the ends of several painted nails poking out of the ends of the shoes. They still looked great, but for some reason her connection to them seemed tentative. Then a little voice started up in the back of her head.
That’s a terrible idea, she thought. You’re not making any sense.
Lucky was shaking hands with the last person in his circuit around the poker table, a gray-bearded man with a jaunty flat-brimmed hat. She waited, feeling increasingly nostalgic about the preceding four hours. Someone had actually called her fun.
Across the room a plate dropped, clattering horribly against a table and then the floor. Everyone turned to look. Dart couldn’t believe it had happened—the coordinated sequence, its timing and rhythm, as if it had been planned by fate and anticipated by the cautionary voice in her head. Her participation seemed almost scripted, and she reached into the lining of the nearby coat, found the necklace, and slid it into her purse.
On the ride back to his condominium, Lucky Two Shoes was silent. As they drove through liquid darkness, the lights seemed fuzzy and wavy. Twice, she put her hand into her purse to feel the sharp edges of the jewels, giddy yet appalled that she had actually taken them.
Inside the condominium, Lucky wasted no time coming after her. This didn’t surprise Dart. In fact, she had expected it. She owed him a piece of her for the evening. No one ever gave you something without getting something in return. She knew that. Still, the up-closeness of Lucky was so unpleasant that at one point she pushed him away. The malicious expression returned to his eyes, and Dart simply resigned herself to a deal she hoped never to make again.
A Long Lament
The first few days of hot weather came as no surprise. The residents of the Driftless Region took them in stride. Their summers always seemed to include a few mornings in which striking a match or toasting a piece of bread seemed thermodynamically ill-advised, and a few nights when the possibility of boiling the Arctic Ocean seemed a more than reasonable trade-off for using air conditioners set on high.
As July turned to August the blistering heat intensified and the humidity rose accordingly. Drawers swelled shut. Cutting boards refused to be pulled out of kitchen cabinets. Blackened by mold, refrigerator gaskets dripped water, and a frosty gasp accompanied the opening of freezer doors. Guitars, fiddles, mandolins, violas, and pianos went horribly out of tune. Attic floors buckled, prying four-inch nails out of joists. People carefully considered all alternatives before venturing into direct sunlight, and in shade moved as slowly as possible to avoid making currents in the thick, oven-like air.
To make matters worse, it hadn’t rained for three weeks. Despite the tropical humidity, plants withered and the soil cracked open in places. Runoff streams dried up, ponds turned pea-green stagnant, and rivers sank to dangerously low levels, discouraging fish and depressing fishermen. Trees clenched leaf-fists, holding on to the little moisture they still contained. Grasses stopped growing, turned brown, and sequestered their precious plant spirit in underground roots, desperate each morning to suck the manna of dew with the tips of leather-dry tongues.
August Helm sat under the fan in his bedroom, looking out the window. His mother, concerned that he had not come out for breakfast, insisted he eat something for lunch.
He mumbled a civil refusal and returned to staring outdoors.
Several hours later, he got up, dressed, walked to the bathroom, and filled his canteen. When Winnie saw him she said, “August, there are storm warnings this afternoon. Don’t go too far from home.”
August walked out through the garden, past the brittle leaves and drooping flowers. The morning sun had already been covered by a milky haze. Adjusting his cap, he moved the canteen strap to the other shoulder, then headed into the woods and down the valley. A cloud of biting flies swarmed around him, attacking exposed areas of skin.
At the trail leading to the melon field, August noticed that the litter, cans, and bottles were gone. On the edge of the field, the melons were hardly bigger than the last time he’d seen them. Halfway across, he wondered why Lester Mortal had not come out of his hut.
Perhaps he’s not home, August thought, and continued through the field to the edge of the woods. When he reached the hut, the thick front door stood open, and the vines covering the windows had been removed.
“Mr. Mortal,” he called into the open doorway. “Are you home?”
“Yes, August. Come in, come in.”
Inside the hut, everything had changed. Ample light entered the windows. The weapons and ammunition were gone and the wood chips swept away, down to the hard-packed dirt floor. The crude furniture had been washed, along with the table, chairs, shelves, and counters. Pictures hung on the walls, in appealing shapes with bright colors.
When the hermit walked out of the back room, August hardly recognized him. His beard was gone, his hair was cut short, and he was dressed in tan shorts, tennis shoes, and a bright blue button-up short-sleeve shirt. Only his lumbering manner and eyes betrayed his earlier self.
“Hey, August,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you today. Very hot out there.”
“What happened here?” asked August.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve changed your appearance, Mr. Mortal.”
“I have,” he agreed. “Would you like something to drink or eat?”
“I would,” said August. “I haven’t eaten for several days.”
The hermit went to a hand-dug hole in the floor, lifted a wooden cover off, and drew up a plastic bucket with a rope. “I have a little aged Swiss, homemade mustard, brown bread, and ginger tea.”
He set a place for them at the table.
The food and drink were cool and delicious.
“Where’s Milton?” asked the hermit.
August hesitated, tried to speak. Then he muttered, “Milton was betrayed by everyone, Mr. Mortal. In the end he was murdered by a convicted felon who said he hated bats.”
“I see you also have a shiner,” said the hermit.
“That’s nothing,” said August, waving his hand dismissively. “My friend Ivan repaid them three times over.”
“I’m really sorry about your bat, August.”
“Thanks, Mr. Mortal, but I’m afraid I have no desire to live in this world any longer. My soul has been poisoned. What happened to all your weapons?”
“I sold most, gave a few away.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping I might borrow one.”
“Why?”
“I feel a need to learn to shoot. Many things, it seems, could be solved by a rapidly moving lead bullet.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, August.”
“That’s the point, Mr. Mortal. The world is no longer the place I imagined, and I’m ashamed for the wa
y I used to think. What a fool I was.”
“That sounds a little harsh.”
“Perhaps you didn’t see it that night, then.”
“See what?”
“Strangers—the flames leaping from the faces of your burning figures, sprouting into the open air and disappearing.”
“That’s what happens when oil-soaked wood burns.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Mortal, but your ceremony did not succeed. The evil you hoped to remove from the world is still here. In fact, it’s even worse.”
“It wasn’t my intention to remove evil from the world, August. I only wanted to make peace with myself.”
“I know what those strangers were,” said August. “I didn’t at the time, but I do now. They were demons entering this world from beyond.”
“Demons?”
“Yes, Mr. Mortal. Your ceremony opened a channel and demons came pouring in.”
“From where?”
“The lowest regions of hell. The seven heavens and seven hells are not nearly as stable as most people think. Along with everything else, they change. Right now, the earth is moving from the neutral zone it has occupied since the first recorded scripture—between the angels of light and the dark principalities of the air. Our planet is turning into a new region of hell, and the demons are coming.”
“That’s a little extreme, August.”
“No, it’s not, Mr. Mortal, and you should know better than most. The evidence is everywhere—senseless wars, torture practiced openly, needless starvation, homelessness, higher and higher suicide rates, pollution, species extinction, and the greedy arrogance of the thousand hired thieves in government.”
“More cheese, August?”
“No, thank you, I’ve had enough.”
“Then I wonder if I might share something else with you.”
“What is it?” asked August, his voice lacking all interest.
“It’s a map. Not many would see its importance, but I believe you may.”
“What kind of map?”
“It was drawn freehand by my uncle.”
The hermit lumbered off into his bedroom. When he returned he was carrying a piece of fiber-rich paper, as thick and limp as a blanket and lined by many folds. When he spread it flat on the table in front of August, the map took up the entire surface and flopped over the sides.
“First you should know that Uncle Ray was one of my favorite people when I was growing up. He worked most of his life in a local logging crew, cutting and hauling trees out of woodlots throughout the Driftless—as far away as Iowa and Minnesota.”
August stared into the map.
“Check out this area,” said the hermit, directing August’s attention to the upper-middle portion of the map. “This is where we are right now, and the map covers the major forested areas for fifty miles around.”
“What are these X’s?”
“I hoped you’d notice those, August. There are more than one hundred of them on this map.”
“They don’t seem to form any particular pattern,” said August.
“I noticed that myself, and so did everyone else in my family. See, after Uncle Ray passed away the family set to squabbling over everything in his estate, which was worth a considerable amount. I don’t mean Uncle Ray was wealthy by any means, but over the years he had acquired more than most, certainly more than the other loggers working with him. And no one understood exactly how he’d managed to do that. He had never married, he didn’t leave a will, and he had no children. Still, open warfare broke out between the different factions of my family over who would get his house, investments, savings account, twenty acres of walnut trees, and a number of valuable pieces of antique furniture and silver inherited from his grandparents.”
“And that’s when they found this map?” asked August.
“Exactly,” said the hermit. “They found it in his safe, and they chose to ignore the fact that it was inside a manila envelope with For Lester written on it. Everyone recognized right away that it was a map of this area, and by consulting with Uncle Ray’s diary they identified the plots where he’d been assigned to cut trees, and some of them corresponded to places marked with X’s on the map. So off they all went, hunting for the money they thought Uncle Ray must have buried in those locations, digging up everything in sight.”
“Seems highly unlikely,” said August.
“I agree,” said the hermit. “And sure enough, they found nothing. Just weeds, they said, just dumb weeds. They gave up after three or four days. After they decided the map had no financial value, they presented it to me in a brief show of pomp and sentiment, and returned to squabbling over the rest of Uncle Ray’s estate. See, they all knew Uncle Ray and I saw eye to eye on most things, and naturally they hated me for it.”
“Why did they hate you for it, Mr. Mortal?”
“Because the friendship between Uncle Ray and me was truly valuable, and they knew they could never have it. I’m afraid that’s the way most of my family is. At some level they are capable of recognizing truth, but they never involve themselves with it.”
“And you probably asked yourself,” said August, “why would a man keep a record of the places he’d visited if he didn’t intend to return someday?”
“Exactly,” replied the hermit. “I had the map for over a year, and then it came to me.”
“I know,” said August, apologizing for interrupting by nodding. “Those X’s indicate the places where your uncle noticed ginseng growing in the woods. That was his gift to you.”
“August, you’re a gifted human being. No wonder you have a friend like Ivan. You figured it out. One of the reasons I’ve been able to live out here like this is by cultivating plants that grow in the places my uncle first discovered. This has been my secret and my joy.”
August looked away, drawn back into his despair. “I’m afraid my life no longer contains any joy, Mr. Mortal, and I don’t think it ever will again. Thank you for sharing your map and attempting to turn my attention from the horrors of living without the companionship of my beloved Milton, but I’m afraid it hasn’t helped.”
“Give yourself some time to get over this, August. You can’t think your way out of this kind of pain. It takes time.”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Mortal. I stand at the root of the most terrible facts. I am the one who betrayed Milton. I took him out of my pocket and turned him over myself. Why did I do that?”
“Okay,” said the hermit. “Why did you do that?”
“At first I told my mom no. But then she said in an angry voice that I had to hand him over, so I did. But why did I?”
“Because your mother told you to, August.”
“I know, but it wasn’t her fault. I should have protected Milton. I never should have agreed, no matter what anyone said. He was my bat and he depended on me. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t brought Milton to the fair, he’d still be here. It was me, Mr. Mortal, it was me. I was given a sacred trust, and I failed miserably.”
“You couldn’t go against your mother, August.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Mr. Mortal. What’s wrong with me? July Montgomery never would have betrayed a sacred trust.”
“July Montgomery?”
“He was a friend of my father’s who used to live around here. He had principles and he never betrayed them, even unto death.”
“Do you mean that shy guy who used to milk a few cows on a little farm outside Words? The one who sometimes hid when the mailman delivered his mail?”
“Did you know him?”
“A little.”
“Then you know that he never would have done what I did. His cords were tied with much stronger fiber.”
“To the best of my knowledge, July never had a pet bat.”
“Well, if he did, he never would have betrayed him. He wasn’t a sniveling coward like me.”
“But he didn’t have one, so nobody knows what he would have done.”
“Milton would be alive toda
y if I had only resisted, but the better part of me didn’t speak up. It went into hiding, and the other part of me, the demon part of me—the believe-what-you’re-told-and-do-what-they-say part of me—took over. I could have taken a stand. I could have . . .” August’s voice trailed off.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” said the hermit. “I’ll show you some of my ginseng plants, teach you how to identify them, how to tell when the roots are ready to come up.”
“Is this another attempt to change the subject from the horrors of being August Helm?”
“No, it’s a way for me to have some company while I check on my plants.”
“Fine,” said August. “But let’s look for the Wild Boy too. I’ve decided to join up with him. I’ve lived in civilization too long.”
They walked across the melon field and into the woods, moving slowly through the oppressive heat, stopping frequently to drink from August’s canteen. Here and there, the hermit pointed out ginseng plants, growing in shady, moist areas and along hillside runoffs.
“They like wet conditions,” he said. “You can’t pick them until there are at least five rings on the neck and three sets of leaves. It’s not legal to sell anything younger than that.”
“Who buys ginseng?” asked August.
“Most of Wisconsin’s ginseng goes to Asia. And oddly enough, if you buy ginseng in Wisconsin it probably came from Asia.”
“Why?”
“Wisconsin is one of the few places in the world where ginseng grows wild, and wild ginseng is worth ten times what the cultivated varieties bring. Asians value it more than we do.”
“How can anyone tell the difference?”
“By the root color. Wild-grown is darker, the rings on the neck closer together.”
“Why are you snipping the leaves off that one?” asked August, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“Other ginseng hunters started coming through here after the DNR began charging license fees, and I don’t want them to find this one. The root still grows, even without the leaves. In fact, when a field has been grazed for many years and then the livestock are taken away, very old ginseng sometimes comes up again the following spring.”