by Leah Cutter
“Did you use it?” Franklin asked, curious. Because Darryl hadn’t seemed like he’d changed at all.
“Nope. Not once,” Darryl said. “I did take it out with me, hunting, one time,” he said. “Now, you might accuse me of making stuff up. And hell, maybe it was all in my imagination. But that blade wanted blood. And pain. It ain’t good.”
“I know,” Franklin said. He still had to try it. He had to do something. “But I got to help these ghosts pass. It’s my duty. Even if they don’t know how to leave this world. I got to help them.”
“And you think the knife will do that? Force the ghosts into Heaven?” Darryl asked.
“Or something,” Franklin said, nodding.
Darryl sighed, took a long swig from his beer. “I don’t like this,” he said.
“I don’t like it either,” Franklin told him. But he was desperate tired. It was the only thing his poor brain could think of.
Darryl nodded. “Okay then. Let’s go get the knife. But you don’t have to keep it, if you don’t want to. Don’t have to use it.”
“Where is it?” Franklin asked. He’d assumed that Darryl would have kept it in the gun safe, locked away. “You didn’t give it to someone else to keep, did you?”
“Hell no,” Darryl said. He walked over to the side of the garage and tried to get down a shovel hanging there.
Franklin hurried over to help, taking the shovel in both hands.
“And can you grab those as well?” Darryl said, pointing at a set of long-handled clippers.
“Where the hell is the knife?” Franklin asked, perplexed.
“I couldn’t keep it out here. It…it…I could hear it, okay? And I was afraid of how it might influence the kids,” Darryl said, angry.
“You should have given it back to me then,” Franklin told him quietly. “I would have held it.”
Though Franklin had also found the knife disquieting. He’d thought Darryl, though, would have been immune to it.
Darryl shook his head. “You asked me to hold onto it for you. I figured it was louder for you. So I buried it. In the backyard.”
Franklin looked down at his good dress pants. Damn it. He wasn’t prepared to do some kind of yard work.
Darryl mutely pointed to a pair of overalls.
Franklin pulled them down, grumbling. He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like this.
Not one bit.
Four
“WHAT ARE YOU two fools doing out there?” Georgia, Darryl’s wife, called from the back door.
“Franklin here’s gonna take care of that nasty thorn bush,” Darryl assured her.
“In the middle of the night?” she asked.
“No time like the present, ma’am,” Franklin replied respectfully.
“I don’t know what you two are up to. Just don’t hurt yourself,” she said, slamming the door shut.
Franklin looked dourly at the massive thorn bush. While he thought Georgia’s sentiment was good advice, he weren’t sure he could follow it.
The overgrown thorn bush lurked in the far corner of Darryl’s backyard. In the dim light, it reminded Franklin of the creature he’d fought the year before, massive and deadly, with nasty thorns hungry for his flesh.
“Why’d you bury the knife under this thing?” Franklin asked. The long-handled clippers would help, but he needed gloves lined with steel to protect his hands from those thorns.
“Didn’t,” Darryl said. “Bush grew up over the knife. Practically overnight. Never seen something grow so fast before. Not even your special popping corn.”
“Well, hell,” Franklin said.
“Trimmed it back regularly,” Darryl added. “Didn’t slow it down one bit. Even tried burning it, once. Damned branches are too green. Hot enough fire to take it out would also take out the fence.”
Franklin nodded. He’d bet that Darryl had wanted to try it anyway, and Gloria had told him just what kind of fool she thought he was. “You try sprinkling some holy water or something on it?” Franklin asked. The plant wasn’t necessarily evil. But it had an awareness that he didn’t like.
“No,” Darryl said slowly. “Do you think I should?”
Franklin shrugged, knowing the motion would be lost in the darkness. “Maybe after we pull it up.”
“You sure you want to dig up that blade?” Darryl asked.
Franklin sighed. He needed to do something about the ghosts haunting him. Plus, now he felt bad for asking Darryl to hold it for him.
“I’ll deal with it,” Franklin promised. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to try to give it back to Eddie after he finished using it. Or where he’d put it after he was done with it.
He sure didn’t want nasty vines like this taking over his fields.
But that was a problem for another day. Right now, he had enough of a fight ahead of him with the damned thorn bush.
When Darryl made to reach for the clippers, Franklin held them out of reach. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I was aiming to help,” Darryl said patiently, as though he was trying to explain something to May’s youngest.
“You’re already injured,” Franklin told him. “And while I wouldn’t care too much if you decided to be an idiot and hurt yourself again, I don’t need first Georgia, then May, tearing strips from my hide over it.”
They stood glaring at each other for a moment, before Darryl shrugged and said, “Have it your way, then.”
“Good,” Franklin said. “Now the way you can help is to shine that big ol’ flashlight of yours on the bush so I can see what I’m doing.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Darryl said.
Franklin ignored the insult. It was just Darryl being Darryl, calling him by a white man’s term.
Darryl’s light set the thorn bush into stark contrast. The branches stretched out on either side from the corner, like it was preparing for a deadly embrace. It looked frozen in time and space, like a criminal that had just been caught by a prison spotlight. It had an air to it, though, like it was just waiting for some fool to come along and challenge it.
Franklin gave a low whistle. The thorns was three inches long, with hundreds of shorter thorns circling each limb.
It didn’t shrink back as Franklin approached with the clippers. That was just his imagination.
Franklin took another step forward, reaching for one of the near branches.
“Watch it,” Darryl warned suddenly.
Franklin stepped back, out of reach as one of the branches suddenly whipped around, aiming for him.
“Did you see that?” Franklin asked, turning toward Darryl.
“It must have been the wind. Or something,” Darryl said, looking uncomfortable.
Franklin snorted. “Yeah. The wind.” The evening was completely still, without even the promise of a breeze to come.
Franklin hoisted his clippers in front of him, like a knight with a shield. Then he darted forward, clipping one branch and jumping back. Then the next. He danced away before he tried for a third, Darryl warning him again.
Slowly, Franklin sheared the bush of its deadly limbs, only getting caught once on the arm and once on the side. He knew both points were infected, and he’d need some kind of antibiotic gel on them before he went to bed.
Franklin realized, too late, that the limbs he’d trimmed from the bush now lay like their own barrier, a massive wall of thorny branches. Any time Franklin tried to pick one up, even with the leather gloves, the thorns reached through and pricked his hands.
He let Darryl help a little then, kicking the branches away enough until Franklin could finally get at the trunk of the bush.
The clippers Franklin was using weren’t wide enough—or sharp enough—to give him enough leverage to hack all the way through the trunk.
“Leave it,” Darryl said.
“You think it’ll just let me dig up its roots without falling over or trying to impale me?” Franklin asked, exasperated.
Then he stopped and loo
ked at Darryl. Even in the dim light, and with Darryl’s dark skin, Franklin could still see how ragged he looked, his skin taking on a coating of ash.
“Dude. Go to bed. I got this,” Franklin assured his cousin, walking over to him and taking the flashlight from his hands.
Darryl shook his head. “No, no. I can do this.”
“You got a broken arm. We’re through the worst of it. All I got to do now is dig,” Franklin pointed out. “You don’t need to stay here. You can go to bed. Get some rest. Get yourself out of pain. Before Georgia, and then May, come and yell at me.”
Darryl gave Franklin a weak grin. “They would yell at you too, wouldn’t they?”
“That they would, Cuz,” Franklin said solemnly.
“It don’t feel right, leaving you to fight this thing on your own,” Darryl said.
“It ain’t got much fight left in it,” Franklin assured him, though he was afraid the bush was playing possum again.
“You sure?” Darryl asked, swaying as he stood.
“I’m sure,” Franklin said firmly. “Go to bed.”
“You just holler, you need anything,” Darryl said, turning and yawning hugely.
Franklin nodded, though he was determined not to ask for more help.
He could fight this damned thorn bush on his own.
How bad could it be?
Ξ
Franklin had been right. The bush had been playing possum. As soon as he shone the light on it, he realized there were more branches, hidden in the back.
He was exposing himself by getting close enough to trim them. They’d whip around for certain, lash his back, maybe his face.
Instead of continuing with his front attack, Franklin cleared out one of the sides and started attacking from there. Though the branches tried to slide out of the way, he kept attacking the main stalk, until it was bare.
But not defenseless.
Franklin took the shovel next. He stood still for a moment, feeling the full night wrapping around him. It wasn’t as peaceful here. Neighbors sat on the other side of the fence. But Georgia wouldn’t let Darryl move them all the way out of town—she wanted a safer place for the kids to play, and not as long of a trek to their schools.
It wasn’t that the neighbors were making noise. But Franklin still knew they were there. He shook his head. They weren’t taking his air. It just kind of felt like that sometimes, in closed-in spaces. But his frustration was building, tearing apart the peace that normally filled Franklin.
Damn it. He needed that knife. And then he needed to sleep for a month.
With a silent scream, Franklin hefted the shovel and brought it down, bashing the side of the thorn bush.
He could almost feel the bush’s surprise. It hadn’t been expecting that at all.
Franklin went to the other side and bashed it as well, breaking off the thorns still bristling from the trunk.
It weren’t enough to merely bend them down. The bush was wily. It could make those thorns spring up again.
But Franklin breaking them fully off—well, it would take some time for the bush to recover from that.
Time Franklin didn’t intend to give it.
Finally, Franklin had pushed enough of the vines out of the way, bashed off enough of the thorns, that he felt like he could start digging.
Of course, the roots of the thorn bush were prickled with thorns as well. Not as sharp as the ones above ground. But the roots wove together in a hard thorny ball, making it difficult for Franklin to break the ground and really dig in.
He wouldn’t be denied, though. He wished he had his digging pole. He should have asked Darryl for one.
But wishes weren’t fishes…something Mama used to say.
Franklin kept digging, jumping out of the way when the branches above him creaked.
Damned bush was trying to make another attack. Franklin bashed it with his shovel, panting and sweating hard in the cool evening.
He might have to call Karl and take Monday off, at this rate.
Finally, Franklin dug down deep enough to see the blade, glittering darkly at the heart of the root ball.
Franklin reached out with his hands, then hesitated.
Too many thorns.
But he couldn’t break the root ball apart with his shovel. It was too springy. The blade of the shovel just bounced off
Franklin stepped back, considering. Maybe he could clip at the roots with the clipper, but that would take forever. And the root mass was more likely to grow back together, and the bush itself was poised for another attack.
What could he use instead?
Franklin raised the flashlight, turning and looking through the yard. What else was there? What could he use?
On the far side of the yard, on its back with the wheels up in the air, was the culprit of Darryl’s injury, the new mountain bike.
Sorry, Darryl, Franklin whispered as he stalked across the yard.
The bike chain came off easily enough, particularly when Franklin popped one of the link pins. The front tire came off as well, merely clipped on, a modern design that Franklin didn’t approve of.
He’d have to talk to Darryl about his choice of bicycle later.
Armed with familiar parts, Franklin swaggered back across the yard. “So you think you’re bad?” he sneered.
He realized if any of the neighbors looked outside at this point, they’d think he was crazy.
Then again, most of the people in Katherinesville who were merely acquainted with him and his talking to ghosts already thought he was crazy.
“You’re nothing,” Franklin sneered. “You can’t reach me and you can’t hurt me. And I’m well on my way to annihilating you.”
The remains of the thorn bush trembled, but not in fear.
A dare.
Do your worst.
Franklin lashed out with the bicycle chain. It whipped around the top of the bush, then he yanked it away, shredding vegetation as he untangled it.
Then he had to duck. Thorns loosed by the chain flew toward him. One caught him in the shoulder.
“That’s it,” Franklin said. He looped the bicycle chain through the wheel, then whirled it over his head, like some kind of ancient discus. He bashed into the bush again and again, knocking it to one side, then the other. He pushed the bush further back, making it tilt.
As it pulled back, the root ball holding the knife came closer and closer to the surface.
Finally, when the handle of the blade had cleared the hole, Franklin whirled the tire one last time, letting go of one end of the chain at the same time.
The wheel spun as it flew through the air, the tire already badly punctured and the spokes bent. It bashed straight into the bush, making it shiver. Then it hung there, like some kind of modern art, a tire sacrificed for y’all’s sins.
With the bush distracted by the tire, Franklin used the chain to whip the ball root holding the knife, tearing it away from the main roots.
With a daring leap, Franklin snatched the blade from the ball root, then hurriedly leaped out of the way again, before the thorn bush could make another grab for him.
Franklin stood panting in the center of the yard. He bled from half a dozen scratches, his shoulder ached from where the one thorn had imbedded itself, and it felt to him as though the knife still pulsed, evilly, in his hand.
The thorn bush slumped over, defeated. Its branches lay abandoned on the ground, no longer a deadly barrier.
Franklin still didn’t trust it. He left the wheel there, where it was, hanging from the single trunk. It wouldn’t surprise him if the bush grew more branches overnight, just so it could tear the wheel apart.
Somehow, Franklin didn’t think Darryl would be riding his bike again anytime soon.
After collecting up the other tools and putting them on the steps next to the back door, Franklin let himself out the side gate.
He had a long bike ride home that he wasn’t looking forward to. And his own ghosts to deal with once he got there
.
He was definitely gonna take a day off next week.
Franklin put the blade in one of the leg pockets of his overalls, buttoning it carefully, making sure that it was secure. It wouldn’t do now for him to just lose the thing.
Though the way the knife pushed at him, trying to make its intent clear, he weren’t sure if that wasn’t just the best thing for it. For it to be lost, buried, out of sight.
But he’d started down this path. And he didn’t know of any other way to get rid of his unwelcome guests.
He just hoped Mama would forgive him for what he was about to do.
Ξ
Franklin pushed his bike into his shed, exhausted. It had seemed as though he’d felt every single bump in the road coming home. He’d known that the thorns on that damned bush had probably been tainted with something—he just hoped it weren’t poisonous.
Sweet Bess glared at Franklin from the corner of the house, but he couldn’t pay her no mind. He had to get inside. Get some rest.
He pulled out his phone and flipped it open. It was gonna take him forever to send Karl a text message, pressing each key carefully until it reached the right letter.
But he didn’t see how he’d get himself up again in only four—no, three and a half hours, by now. Plus, though the ghosts were quieter, he could still hear ’em moaning something fierce out back.
Franklin slowly climbed the two steps up to the porch, still pressing buttons on his phone. “Dang it,” he said when he realized he would have to redo the last word. It had all come out garbled.
He unlocked his door and stepped inside, still focused on his phone, grateful for the light.
Wait.
Light?
Franklin looked up.
Someone had dragged his kitchen table out from the corner where it usually sat and placed it in the center of the kitchen floor. An odd, yellowish glow came from the center of it, like a sickly mist.
A white man dressed in blue surgical scrubs stood behind the table. He wore a doctor’s mask across his face, and a blue cap over his head. He waved his hands across the table, in and out of the yellow glow, as if he were one of those fancy orchestra conductors.
“What are you doing?” Franklin asked, confused. That weren’t no ghost standing there, or some kind of creature from Franklin’s exhausted imagination.