Evil Heights, Book IV: In the Pit

by Michael Swanson

  Carl changed his machete over to his left hand, wiped his fingers on his pants, then stuck the thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled a sharp blast you'd think would have shattered his teeth. Taking in another breath he then let loose with two more shorter blasts.

  Daryl didn't wait for Lee to ask. “Carl's signalin',” he told Lee. “Lettin’ him know we're comin’ in. We don't want him thinkin’ we're the Sheriff and get our butts shot off."

  Lee momentarily thought of the humorous but remote possibility of Fat Larry making it back in here.

  "Come on,” Carl stepped forward. “Don't let Daryl feed ya any of his bullshit. Porter's probably known somebody was back in here ever since we hit the river. There ain't nothin’ goes on back here Porter don't know about. I was just making sure he knew it was me."

  The clearing they entered was maybe fifty yards around. Since the trees were long gone, clumps of thick reedy marsh grass had moved in. In the center of opening was a tall thatch of standing pines and dense green brush surrounded as though held together by an outer fence consisting of three strands of barbed wire hung with hundreds of bottles, cans, pie plates and anything else that rattled and clanked. Strangely enough, emanating from within the thicket, Lee could hear a somber voice speaking in a steady rhythm. It reminded Lee exactly of Reverend Hauser when the spirit was full upon him, and he would drone on unmercifully down at all the hungry sinners sitting in the pews below, more worried about their wretched stomachs and what they were going to do for Sunday lunch than their eternal souls.

  The three hugged the fence line, rounding the central thicket until they came to a gate. It was just some joints of scrub pine lashed together with rope. The maker had used a twisted length of barbed wire in a hoop to hold it closed around the fence and gate poles.

  Carl lifted up the wire, picking up on the gate and dragging it open. A great surprise to Lee was the recently rutted out tire tracks which disappeared into the woods on the opposite side from where they had come into the clearing.

  "Is this really a road?” Lee asked, as Carl dragged the gate closed behind them.

  Carl worked at replacing the wire loop over both poles. It had come off easily enough, but he had to strain to bend the two poles close enough together to let the looped wire slide down. Lee pitched in, pulling with one arm and holding the loop ready with his free hand.

  "Yeah, there's an old logging road that runs back through here a couple of miles over yonder.” Carl nodded with his head to the west since his hands were occupied. “If someone wants to drive in here, he's gotta go clean out of Parson's county down into Appachoola county, and then come ‘round back in from the southwest. I bet they ain't but four or five people who know's ‘bout the road, and even less who's got a truck that can make it back up in here. Even if you got a four-wheel-drive, you better bring a shovel and a winch ‘cause you're gonna get stuck."

  Lee slid the loop over the pole. “Why would anyone drive back in here?"

  "For the moonshine, dummy,” Daryl smirked.

  Carl picked up his machete. “Old Porter makes the best damn cane liquor around.” He fished into the pocket of his jeans and produced a dollar bill. “If you got yerself a buck, you can get yerself a bottle."

  Lee took some time to look around.

  What had appeared outside to be a stand of woods was really a circle of trees and brush so dense it acted as a natural fence. All about the circular interior, hanging from every branch and bramble, even high up, were freshly skinned pelts and aged hides along with the skulls, bones, and shells from every type of animal that had ever walked, crawled, swum, or flown through these woods.

  Strewn about at various odd angles were hulks of junked cars, pieces of farm equipment and even a fuselage from a small airplane. Growing between the haphazard machinery were sewn random stalks of tall, green corn and patches of other vegetables including beans and tomatoes. In the far back was a tall lean-to of pine poles providing cover for a steaming still. Just to the side of the lean-to was an outhouse, Lee could tell by the quarter moon cut into the door.

  "Hey Porter,” Carl called out. “Whooeee,” he yelled. “Porter!"

  Nothing came back but the constant droning mumble.

  "He's here,” Carl said to Lee's questioning gaze. “His still's runnin'."

  The house, really a rambling shack, was thrown together from materials scavenged from the river, woods, and surrounding countryside. Panels from roadside billboards made up the left wall and front. Lee could easily see one was from a bread ad and another showed a tire. The rest, what appeared to be later additions, was fashioned from various boards, car hoods, and trunk lids. The two windows Lee could see were car doors, and it looked as though it would be possible to roll the windows up and down from inside the house.

  The roof was composed of lengths of corrugated tin, though most of the pieces were so oddly shaped or bent, that rocks had been placed around on top to hold the layers of metal down. This added to the sorrowful demeanor of the structure, as it appeared to have once suffered a rain of stones. The place sagged and leaned dangerously, undoubtedly from the sheer weight of rock holding the roof down.

  Regardless of any other oddity, the most bizarre component to the whole shambles was a stainless steel door at the front entrance, which must have once hung in a butcher's shop or supermarket meat freezer, easily six inches thick and complete with center glass window and massive, latching chrome handle and hinges.

  The source of the droning voice was a 1930's cathedral styled Philco radio. It was sitting on a crooked table under the lean-to next to the still, and the automotive batteries, which provided the power, were underneath.

  Porter blended in so well with his surroundings, he wasn't noticeable at first, kneeling by the still, tending to a piece of copper tubing.

  "Porter!” Carl hollered out again. “Whooo, Porter!"

  Porter jumped up as steam suddenly began whistling out of the copper tube. He reached up and turned a key at the top of the winding of tube, then stuck his thumb in his mouth while the whistling subsided.

  Carl, Lee, and Daryl individually worked their way over to the lean-to as there appeared to be no one path through the junk.

  This was an old, old man was Lee's first close up impression. Porter was worn, and weathered, nature having worked on him over his years in the same way it lays a hand to a piece of driftwood marooned in a dune by the sea. He had a decidedly avian face, with a long beak-like nose, and a few sparse tufts of hair sprouted about atop a bony skull that didn't appear to have any scalp at all, only an ample lacing of purple veins.

  Barefoot, all the man had on was a pair of Lil’ Abner bib overalls. They might have fit a normal sized man well, but Porter was so lanky, the bottom hem came up almost to the knees, and the bib was at the top of his stomach. Cleverly, he'd added strips of silvery snakeskin to lengthen the shoulder straps, which held the thing up.

  Surprisingly, nothing about how he moved or stood gave any sign of being aged or feeble. The long, bare arms that ranged out of the faded overalls were corded with muscles that slid easily under the grayed, leathery skin. He was just the type of creature you'd expect could even scare grown men if he went out on the streets on Halloween night, except for the eyes. His eyes were so clear, alert, and shockingly aquamarine they seemed to cast light about where ever they looked.

  Porter plucked his singed thumb from his mouth and pointed at the three. “I know you, you're Carl.” He pointed at Daryl. “And you're Daryl."

  Bringing his hand around to Lee, the outstretched finger curled in slowly like a day flower drawing in at dusk. Keeping his eyes on Lee's he dropped his arm. “You and me, we need to talk."

  Lee thought, surely he'd misunderstood what the old man had said. The radio was droning so loudly, he could barely make out one word in three the speaker was saying. It was the merely the tone and cadence that told Lee he was listening to an Evangelical preacher from some far off studio in Nashville or maybe Baton Rouge. />
  "We want some shine,” Carl shouted.

  Clear as a bell, the old man came back. “I know what y'all want. I heard ya'll comin’ more'n an hour now. Y'all go set over yonder while I tend to this still ‘fore it explodes and kills us all."

  By the side of the lean-to were a number of tires half buried in the earth, most had different types of chairs fixed on top. There was one with a tractor's seat attached, another had a rocking chair, and three in a row supported a bench seat, which had once seen the world from the back of a car.

  Lee eyed the tractor seat, thinking that it might actually be fun.

  "Not you,” Porter kept his light eyes on Lee. “You come lend me a hand."

  Porter walked to the corner of the lean-to and picked up an enormous carpenter's box filled with tools. Coming back, he set the heavy box down and quickly fished a tubing cutter out of the clutter.

  Lee watched as the man worked quickly and with great ease.

  He put the cutter on the tube, spinning it round and round, while tightening down on the knob on top, until it cut cleanly through. Flicking around in the toolbox with a long finger, he selected a small length of copper tube and slid it over one end of the cut tubing and then back down over the other.

  "Hand me that iron in the fire,” he said to Lee.

  Lee saw an old-styled soldering iron in the coals amid the burning kindling under the kettle-shaped bottom of the still. The wooden handle was intensely hot, and it was a relief when Porter took it from him quickly.

  Porter had already uncoiled a length of soldering wire, and touching it to the tip of the iron where the outer piece of tubing covered the inner. He quickly drew a bead of silvery molten metal around both edges, sealing the leak.

  Lee heard each knee crack as Porter stood up. With a simple twist to the valve at the top, the still was back in operation.

  "You know a lot about mechanical stuff, don't you?” Lee asked. “My dad's a pretty good mechanic, too."

  "I've been around a long time,” Porter replied. “Before the turn of this century, I studied engineering at a college in Massachusetts. Machines are a lot easier to learn than people. Machines are predictable. After I left that school and began to wander around, I learned how important it was to keep my eyes open. You'd be surprised what you can pick up doing that. You know, book learning isn't everything.” He gazed down seriously at Lee. “But I can tell you're a boy who already knows that, don't you?"

  "My daddy told me it doesn't pay to go just by how things look,” Lee replied, “Especially when it comes to people.” He took a moment to think about what he wanted to say next; if this really were the man Javier had told him about, he'd understand where others wouldn't. “You for instance,” Lee offered, “you're different."

  Even though Porter was intent on the spigot at the end of the tube, Lee could tell that he was listening. Lee watched along, until at last a line of condensed liquid had wound its way down the copper coil and began trickling out into an empty milk bottle which was already half-full below.

  Porter turned back to Lee. “How do you mean?"

  "You look scary.” Lee spoke hesitantly, knowing somehow that what he said was important. “You look to me exactly how I'd imagine a hermit who lives in the swamps would look. But—I don't know—if I was to go by my gut feeling. If I was out here and I was scared or in trouble, you seem to me to be the person I'd want to run to, not from."

  Porter barely moved his lips. “And now you've come because you're both."

  "What?” Lee put a hand to his ear. “I can't hear you over the radio."

  Porter stepped over and turned down the volume, though he didn't turn it off.

  Lee was relieved. “That's some kind of church sermon or something, isn't it?"

  Porter nodded and went back to the still, squatting down to watch the milk bottle fill.

  Lee walked around so he could see, too. “Are you religious?"

  Porter didn't look up. “I just like to know where my enemy is."

  Lee didn't understand. “What enemy? Wasn't that a preacher?"

  Porter, still squatting down, swung around. “One of the most important lessons you'll ever learn is that the devil comes in many forms. His favorite is that of a liar. That man on the radio pretends to speak about salvation, but all it is, if you listen closely, is a sermon in hate, bigotry, and intolerance, cleverly disguised to deceive the ignorant and foolish. Hate disguised as religion is the favorite tool of the devil; he can accomplish his goal of corruption and discredit the competition all at the same time.” Porter was eye to eye with Lee. “I listen to him, because I'm much more comfortable, knowing where he is and what he's up to."

  The Liar, that reminded Lee to get to the reason of why he'd come. Still, he felt awkward to just come out with it.

  There were at least twenty milk bottles stacked up to the side of the discharge tube, all brimming with white lightening.

  "That sure is quite a bit of hooch, you've got there,” Lee said appraisingly. “You sell all of it to the folks ‘round here?"

  "Mostly.” Porter swiveled back, and using the soldering iron poked about in the fire below the kettle rearranging the coals. “Human beings are contradictions. For example, some feel compelled to enact laws that say moonshine is illegal; and others, who don't agree, are forced to suffer risks to provide it or obtain it. It's the childish and selfish side to human nature, always has been, that some insist upon denying others. It's not enough for these people, who don't want or like something to just do without themselves. To them, it's their consuming passion to save you from yourself, even if that ultimately means punishing you and causing you even greater harm."

  Lee was astounded that this man had twice now spoken to him as he had. It made him feel more than a little unsure.

  Lee dug the toe of his shoe into the soft, loamy soil, then just blurted it out. “I know a man named Javier. He told me a story about an Indian he says you once told him."

  Porter stood up, his eyes now brighter than ever. “You're talking about Osia."

  "The Liar,” Lee wielded the word with all the weight it commanded.

  Porter nodded. “Yes, the Liar."

  Lee almost leaned a hand against the still, but caught himself before he got burned. “Was it true?"

  "I don't know what Javier told you,” Porter poked at the fire beneath the kettle with a long stick, breaking the fire apart, “But the story I told to him was true. It's a legend among the tribes hereabouts, taught to the children when they're old enough to understand."

  Lee found a place to lean, putting a palm down on the table. “Osia was one of those selfish people, wasn't he?"

  "The worst,” Porter said, staring grimly. “To him the lives and suffering of his victims meant nothing, nothing at all compared to his enjoyment of their fear and pain."

  Lee stared back in earnest. “I know about Captain Limpkins, too. He had something to do with Osia, didn't he?"

  Porter replaced the full bottle with a fresh empty. He set the full bottle on the table, then picked up a square of wax paper from a stack, and wrapped it over the mouth of the bottle, finally sealing it by wrapping a rubber band around and around. “Let me take care of these boys,” Porter said. “Then we'll talk some more."

  "What about your bottle?” Lee asked pointing to the bottle under the spigot that was now about a quarter full."

  "I banked the fire,” Porter replied. “I think that'll be the last one for today."

  He hooked a finger of each hand into the finger handle of the two one-gallon bottles. Before stepping out of the lean-to he said, “It's important that you get home before dark."

  Then coming into the sun, Porter called out. “That there's one hell of a reptile y'all got there. Would someone be wantin’ to trade it for a little taste?"

  Daryl jumped up. “I'll let you have ‘em for both them bottles."

  Porter towered over both Carl and Daryl. “I don't figure, I'd know what a boy like you'd do with a bottle of ca
ne liquor. You know I'll only deal with Carl."

  "But it's my snake, Mr. Porter,” Daryl protested.

  "You work it out with your brother,” Porter came back. “What y'all do with the liquor once you leave my property ain't none of my business."

  Carl got to his feet. “Okay, then I'll take two for the snake."

  "I'd allow the best I can do is one bottle, y'all smashed up its head a bit. Fact is, if I really need me rattler, I expect I could go out yonder and scare one up right quick."

  "Alright.” Carl didn't hesitate. “One'll do for the snake."

  Daryl handed over the rattler.

  Porter put one bottle down, and then threw the snake around his neck like a debutant might sport a scarf.

  "I'll need to be taking two more,” Carl said, digging around in his pocket. Once he had the two bills, he held them out and added, “If you don't mind, Mr. Porter?"

  Porter handed over the two bottles and took the bills, stuffing them down into the small pocket on the bib of his overalls. “Carl, you go on into the lean-to and fetch yourself which ever ones you like."

  Carl wasted no time in selecting two filled to the very top.

  Porter sat down on the tractor seat, which faced the car seat. “Now Carl, don't go enjoying yourself none with that ‘til y'all get home, ya’ hear?"

  Carl who had removed his belt and was tying it through the glass handles to carry the bottles back didn't look up, but said, “Yes sir, Mr. Porter."

  Daryl chimed in with a, “Yes sir,” on his own.

  Once again, Lee was astounded. He didn't even think those two had ever heard the words sir or mister.

  When Carl had his belt properly tied, he sat on the edge of the car seat and took a drink from his canteen. “I suspect you'll be havin’ yourself a little snort?” he asked.

  Porter was examining the snake's rattles, running his finger over them one by one. “Nope. Least not right yet. I always wait for the sun to set before I have me a drink or two. Then I don't mind breakin’ out my blues harp and doin’ a little howlin’ at the moon."