by Rick Hautala
“It’s their time again,” Watson said, as much to himself as to Kip. “It’s the time when...they come out.”
Another big gulp emptied the bottle. Watson held it up to the sky, examined it for a moment, then cocked his arm back and tossed it away. Kip flinched involuntarily as the bottle sailed over his head, its small mouth whistling hollowly in the wind before it shattered against a rock or tree trunk behind him.
Watson put his hands over his eyes, his fingers tangling in the black strands of his hair. His shoulders shook, and he looked like a man wracked by fever. The sounds he made were like the look he had given Kip when he had first crashed out of the underbrush—a strange mixture of anger and genuine fear.
The toe of Kip’s sneaker bumped something else underneath the shredded nylon. He glanced down as he tapped around the object, trying to see if it—yes it looked like the knife. Slowly, keeping his eyes focused on Watson, Kip knelt down, first patting what he thought was the knife and then sliding his hand beneath the nylon.
Watson suddenly stiffened and looked at Kip, freezing him like a jacked deer.
“You lookin’ for this, are yah?” Watson asked. He unbuttoned his shirt and, reaching inside, slowly extracted the black leather scabbard. He held the knife by its sheathed blade and repeatedly slapped the hilt into the palm of his hand. It made a sound like a bullwhip, cracking.
A lump formed in Kip’s throat, and no amount of swallowing would make it go down as he nodded.
“That’s my brother’s,” he said, painfully aware that his voice had slid up an octave or two. “You’ve gotta give that back to me!”
The gleam in Watson’s eyes was intense but unsteady, and Kip actually contemplated trying to make a dive for him and wrestling the knife away from the old man. He soon decided that would be crazy. Even drunk on his ass, all the Indian would have to do is roll over on top of him to crush him.
Kip took a few steps forward, his hands raised in front of him. “Look, mister, I’ve gotta have that knife. If I go home without it and my brother finds out I lost it, he’ll kill me!”
Watson let a half-smile crinkle the left side of his mouth. “And why were you lookin’ for it?” he asked, his voice low. “Were you just tryin’ to find it so you could take it home, or were you maybe considerin’ usin’ it on me ‘cause you think I ruined your camp?”
“I just want the knife. Seriously. Give it to me, and I promise I won’t tell anybody about any of this. Okay?”
Kip knew he’d keep that promise because he wasn’t about to let anyone know what he had been trying to do.
“And just what ‘xactly is all o’ this?” Watson asked. His words were still slurred, but he seemed to be sobering up quickly. He continued to slap the hilt of the knife against his palm.
Kip shrugged, then looked down at the ground.
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea what’s goin’ on here,” Watson said. “You’re runnin’ away from home, ain’t c’ha? You’re hidin’ out here in the woods?”
Again, Kip shrugged.
“Even after what I told yah?” Watson said. “Even after I warned yah to stay away—for now, anyway...‘least ‘til they go back. Here. I don’t want it.”
He gently tossed the knife to Kip. It tumbled end-over-end and landed, sheathed tip first, sticking in the ground at Kip’s feet.
Kip snatched up the knife, undid the strap that secured it in the scabbard, and drew out the blade. It glinted wickedly in the sun, six inches of razor-sharp steel, but Kip was no longer thinking about using it to get revenge on Watson. The old Indian seemed harmless enough.
After a few seconds studying the blade, Kip slid it back into the scabbard and tucked the scabbard into his back pocket. “Why?” he asked, choking back a sob as he indicated the wrecked campsite with a nod of his head. “Why’d you have to go and do something like this?”
Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand, Watson looked up at him. Deep furrows wrinkled his brow. Kip could tell he was having trouble focusing. He just barely caught himself as he started falling backward.
“Why this?” Watson said, his voice a mere echo. “Why this? Hell, boy, I warned yah. Tried to, anyway. You wouldn’t listen.”
With an odd, lurching motion that reminded Kip of a bull or a pig sunk in mud up to his chest and trying to fight free, Watson pushed forward in an attempt to stand. After rocking forward, he at last managed to roll awkwardly onto his knees. From there, he finally got his feet underneath him.
“I told yah...you ‘n your old man...‘n you wouldn’t listen. Whatever happens now ain’t my problem.”
He took a step forward, but his weight carried him further than he obviously intended to go. With arms pin-wheeling wildly, he crossed the clearing and ran headlong into a tree. With a low, animal-like moan, he clung to the tree to keep from falling.
Kip ran over to him, feeling opposing tugs of curiosity and fear. As drunk as he was, Watson might still be dangerous. Then again, he had given the knife back. If he meant any hurt, he certainly wouldn’t have done that. And by the way he was talking, he seemed to know something about some kind of imminent danger.
Pushing his fears aside, Kip walked over to the man and, although it didn’t feel like much help, supported him until he fully caught his balance. When Watson glanced at Kip, a yellow-toothed grin split his face, and the sour smell of whiskey washed over him. The man’s body odor was almost overpowering. It made Kip think of what his gym sweatshirt smelled like at the end of the school year.
“Here. Come on,” Kip said. As he eased Watson away from the support of the tree, he grunted loudly when the man’s full weight almost forced him to the ground. Staggering, Kip, half leading, half being pulled along, walked Watson across the clearing. At first, he intended to bring him over to where they could both sit on a mossy, fallen tree trunk, but when they were just about there, Watson spun away from his grip and crashed to the ground.
The expression of surprise in Watson’s eyes as he rolled over onto his back with leaves, dirt, and stray fluffs of goose down tangled in his hair nearly brought tears to Kip’s eyes. It was almost as if the old man’s swirling, whiskey-glazed focus was only superficial, and beneath the surface, like the bars of a jail cell holding a captive, Kip saw a lively, intelligent person. He was struck by the thought that, beneath it all, Watson might be a genuinely decent person. He was just someone who, like Kip, was trapped by something out of his control.
“Come on,” Kip said as he placed both hands in Watson’s armpits and struggled mightily to get him to move. “Let’s just get over to that tree, and I’ll get you some water from the stream. I’ll help you.”
Watson smiled an honest and direct smile at Kip before nodding his agreement. He muttered some unintelligible words as he crawled the rest of the way across the clearing. At last, with a blubbering exhalation, he turned and collapsed onto the fallen tree trunk, spreading his arms wide and letting his head drop back as he let loose a sigh that sounded like the wind just before it rains.
Kip watched him for a moment to make sure he was all right. The last thing he wanted was for the old man to die or something. Then he walked back to his ruined camp equipment. It took a while to find something serviceable, but at last he found his tin cup. It was dented and twisted out of shape, but it was good enough to carry water.
Scurrying down the slope, his sneakers still squishing, Kip knelt on one of the boulders and dipped the deformed cup into the stream. The swift tug of the water almost tore it from his hand, but he held it tightly, letting the rushing water first wash the cup clean and then fill it up.
Incredibly cold water splashed up onto his arm, and when he realized he was dripping with sweat, he took a moment to splash his face. The water ran down his cheeks and the back of his neck, sending waves of shivers through him.
The cup was so badly damaged it barely held a mouthful, and some of that spilled out as Kip ran back up the slope. He figured it would at least be enough to start the jo
b of sobering up Watson.
When Kip got back, Watson was leaning back on the log with his arms stretched out wide on both sides, sound asleep and snoring with a loud, bubbling rattle in his throat. Kip couldn’t help but think he looked like some distorted vision of Jesus nailed to the cross. Thick black hair hung down in oily, snarled strands over his face, which was tanned a deep brown, almost the color of tree bark. His head was thrown back, exposing a long stretch of neck with skin covered by small bumps like the flesh of a plucked chicken. His barrel chest heaved fitfully up and down as he snored.
As Kip knelt down beside the old Indian, he suddenly realized he was shivering. He wasn’t sure if it was from the exertion of running down to the stream and back or if it was just from being so wound up. With a shuddering sigh, he sat back on his heels and studied the sleeping man. The wind wafted through the leaves overhead, lulling him with its gentle whisper.
“Come on. Wake up,” Kip said, as he gently shook Watson’s shoulder. “I’ve got some water for you.”
Watson’s eyes drifted open, but the bright sunlight made him narrow them to slits. He groaned softly when he tried to shift into a sitting position.
Sliding one hand under Watson’s head to raise it, Kip held the cup up to the old man’s mouth and tipped it until the water reached his lips. Watson’s eyes widened as he drank. His throat made loud gulping sounds.
“Easy, now,” Kip said after pulling the cup away. “Try again. See if you can sit up. I don’t want you choking or anything.”
Watson shifted forward, drawing his knees up as he did. His pants were crusted with dirt, and there were wide sweat stains in his armpits.
“Umm...good,” he said, looking at Kip and nodding slowly. He seemed able to focus a little better. “I feel—oh, shit!” He gagged and turned away from Kip just as a jet of vomit shot from his mouth.
Kip scrambled away. The only thing he could think was that Watson would choke on his own vomit and die. He had heard that’s what happened sometimes with people who got too drunk; they couldn’t even puke right.
Loud, agonized sounds filled the clearing as Watson continued to wretch, his shoulders shaking from the effort. Horrid smelling vomit splashed onto the forest floor and ran down the slope in small rivulets before soaking into the ground. After a minute that felt more like ten, Watson turned back to face Kip.
“Give me that,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he grabbed the cup from Kip.
Backing away, Kip watched as Watson gulped down what was left of the water. The choking stench of vomit almost made him toss his cookies. He watched as Watson dumped the last few drops of water onto his face and then handed the cup back to him.
“Good,” Watson said with a sputtering blow. “Get more.”
Without a word, Kip ran back down to the stream and refilled the cup. As far as he could tell, the man was sobering up pretty fast. He hoped so because the after- noon was passing quickly. He couldn’t run away today, but he’d have to get home before dark. Between now and then, though, he wanted Watson to sober up all the way so he could hear what he had to say.
When he returned, Watson was looking noticeably better. His eyes no longer had that sickly, glazed look. Some of the sparkle had actually returned, and the harsh lines of his face were smoothed into a gentle roundness. “Here you go,” Kip said, handing the cup to Watson who nodded his thanks before taking a sip of water. He sloshed it around in his mouth, spit it out, and then poured what was left over his face. When he shook his head like a dog shaking himself dry, drops of water flew off in a wide spray.
Watson rubbed his face with his shirtsleeve before sliding back down and letting his back rest against the fallen tree trunk. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Kip was convinced he was going to fall back asleep; but then he cleared his throat and spoke.
“So, you’re ready to listen, are yah?” His voice was low and gravelly, but his words weren’t as slurred as they had been. “You said something about how you warned me and my father,” Kip said, barely above a whisper. “What did you mean?”
“Exactly what I told yah,” Watson said. He opened one eye and regarded Kip steadily. “I told yah you shouldn’t be out in these here woods, ‘n I meant it.”
Kip still didn’t trust Watson. Hell, even if only half of the stories the kids told about him were true, he should be high-tailing it back home and just leave the old man’s drunken ass out here in the woods. Let him sober up the rest of the way on his own and find his own goddamned way back home.
But something kept Kip there, too...something he had seen in the old man’s eyes that made him know he wasn’t the least bit dangerous. Kip was beginning to think he and the old man shared something...something unspoken. Watson knew things. Maybe he had seen things...things he just couldn’t quite put into words.
Maybe, Kip decided, it has something to do with suffering.
Watson blinked rapidly as he looked up at the patches of sky through the trees. Without glancing at his watch, he knew it was a little after three o’clock. Still plenty of time before sunset, so he felt safe...for now.
“I can start, I spoze, by talkin’ ‘bout what happened five years ago,” Watson said.
As soon as he said the words “five years ago,” a chill danced up Kip’s spine. Darkness began to swirl like storm clouds in his memory.
“You know goddamned well what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Watson said. “So don’t yah be tryin’ to bullshit me, all right?”
Kip’s throat felt like it was lined with cement as he forced himself to say, “What do you mean?”
“What happened to your mother,” Watson said.
Panic flashed inside Kip. With a whimper, he jerked to his feet. He had unconsciously been clutching the hilt of Marty’s hunting knife, but he didn’t notice that it fell to the ground when he stood up and started pacing back and forth. His eyes flickered nervously from side to side, only half focusing on the woods around him. The other half of his vision was dominated by a growing, swirling blackness that was like looking into a smoke-filled tunnel.
What can Watson know about what happened that day?
His mind rapidly clicked off several crazy possibilities.
—Had Watson been out there in the woods?
—Had he seen what happened?
—Maybe he had done it!
—Maybe Watson had killed his mother!
— What in God’s name does he know?
“If you’ll quit that damned pacin’, I’ll try ‘n explain,”
Watson said gruffly. His face looked pained as his eyes shifted back and forth, following Kip.
Kip stopped and looked at him, mentally trying to calculate how far he should trust this old man. Okay, sure—the stories kids told about him must be exaggerated. There was no denying he drank more than he should, but so what? He seemed harmless enough. Kip had plenty of proof of that. There was no way this man could have done something as horrible as kill his mother.
The black tunnel of his vision narrowed until all Kip could see at the far end, like looking through the wrong end of a telescope, was Watson, leaning against the fallen tree.
A low, trembling whimper started to build inside Kip’s chest as he closed his eyes and thought back to that day five years ago. At first, all he saw was what had always been in his memory—swirling darkness, but then, so gradually he wasn’t really sure when it had started, he saw small, dark, slouch-shouldered figures resolving in the darkness in his mind. They looked like people seen through blowing billows of smoke.
Like what I saw outside my bedroom window.
Kip concentrated on those figures and eventually saw a group of them, maybe twenty or more huddled in a circle. Their arms rose above their heads and cocked back, looking like hawks’ talons in silhouette.
“Boy—? Is somethin’ the matter?” Watson asked.
The voice seemed to be coming to him from miles away. Kip kept his eyes shut, squeezing tighter...tighter...as he peeled away the pressi
ng darkness in his memory.
As Kip remembered it, the circle of figures appeared to be stunted. They looked a little like “adults,” but their shapes were grossly distorted, like deformed children or maybe the orcs in Tolkien’s books.
“What in hell’re yah doin’?” Watson sounded even more distant, but Kip didn’t let it break his concentration.
He focused his memory like a laser beam piercing the
darkness. He saw figures, bending low as they lifted their hands—their claws—above their heads and, in slow motion, brought them down.
Deformed children? Yes. Small, leathery creatures with claws.
In his memory, he heard the whistling slice of their claws and the tearing sounds they made as they shredded...whatever it was they had encircled.
“...Help! They’re hurting me! Help me!...”
The cry rang out in Kip’s mind, sounding closer than Watson, closer even than his own heartbeat.
“...Help!...”
The figures raised their claws higher and then brought them down in swift, vicious arcs.
“...They’re hurting me!”
Kip could see—he could remember seeing—shreds of clothing fly high above the creatures’ heads. A torn blouse, slashed jeans, a pale blue sneaker, a tattered red bandana—all flew into the air and then dropped on the ground outside of the circle. Some pieces of clothing floated gently to the ground, coming to rest in carelessly draped piles, but one piece—a blood-soaked, torn blouse sleeve—dropped at Kip’s feet where it made a soft splop that sounded like a fish, flopping to the ground.
“…Help me! Oh, God! Help!—” the voice screamed.
And then it cut off abruptly, ending in a watery, choking sound that, now—for the first time since that day—Kip knew was his mother, choking on her own blood. Drowning.
“Oh, Jesus... No,” he whined as he grabbed his head with both hands and squeezed in the vain hope that he could force the memory to dissolve. But when he opened his eyes and tried to see where he was, he knew the vision would never leave him—it had never left him. Five years ago. He had seen and heard more than he could possibly have absorbed. Only now—maybe because of something Watson had done or said—could he finally bring those terrible memories to light.