Joey Mills

by Crowe (epub)

  Johnny led the officers to the rim of the bowl and all agreed that it was their best chance, assuming the Devil came down from the Knob in that direction, to the south and not toward the town. “Give me a small group,” Johnny said while they surveyed the sunken ground. “We’ll head into town at sundown… make sure the Devil doesn’t have any nasty surprises planned there. Once we know it’s clear, we’ll head up to the top of the Knob and see what the old fella’s up to. You be ready and we’ll lead ‘em down to you.”

  The Colonels assigned men into units and spent the rest of the day positioning them around the rim of the bowl. Johnny set to work clearing underbrush and felling trees, creating firing lines for the men along the hills. It was hard going. Though his muscles ached and burned, it felt good to use them once again. On more than one occasion Johnny wished he had that golden arm and those silver legs back, but he knew that if given the opportunity, he would have turned them down. This was his work to do, and he would see it through to the end without any more magic to either aid him or to get in his way.

  Throughout the day, soldiers approached and saluted Johnny, introducing themselves as part of the team that would be heading into town with him after dark. Johnny thanked them and told them to be ready as soon as the sun set, which had already dipped below the rim of the bowl and painted the sky with various shades of orange and pink in the west. Satisfied that there was little more that he could do down here, Johnny headed up the side of the bowl to where the officers were stationed.

  Colonel Morris waved his hat overhead, calling Johnny over. A couple of the ghosts coaxed and called behind the Colonel, leading something across the hilltop. The men smiled when they saw Johnny and parted, revealing what must have taken them the better part of the afternoon to get up the hill.

  Johnny couldn’t believe his eyes. He had never seen Bart looking so healthy. The old mule had fattened up, his coat glossy in the light of the setting sun. Johnny’s mouth hung agape and he rubbed his eye to make sure that it wasn’t just an illusion. Bart trotted like a dog over to Johnny, nuzzled his right hand, and brayed.

  “Every scout needs his… well, mount,” Colonel Morris laughed. Bart blew a raspberry at the Colonel, then looked up at Johnny.

  Johnny felt the tears coursing down his left cheek. “It’s good to see you, ol’ boy,” he said, scratching Bart behind the ear. Bart’s eyes rolled back and he leaned into Johnny’s hand, his upper lip curled with pleasure.

  The soldiers stirred again. Johnny and Colonel Morris turned toward them. Emmit had returned and made his way over to the Colonel, a single ghost with him. The stranger was dressed in a full military uniform, but not one that any of them could place.

  Emmit saluted the colonels and smiled at Johnny. “Glad you decided to join us, soldier,” he said. Johnny nodded.

  “Who’s this with you?” Colonel Morris asked, inspecting the other ghost.

  “This is the only one I could find that was willing to help,” Emmit said, sadness spreading across his face.

  The strange ghost saluted Colonel Morris. “Major Buford Fiddler, at your service, Colonel.”

  Johnny had excused himself from the others and made his way back to the hill, their hill, to watch the sun set like he and Anna Lee had done so many times before. Only the top of the sun remained, swollen and red as it disappeared. He felt someone moving behind him, a ghost, but did not turn to see who it was. A short time ago, there had arose a cawing of crows in the direction of Green Hill such as he had never heard before. His mind had drifted since then, hoping that they had managed to turn Anna Lee around. The last place she should be tonight is up on the Knob.

  “It was never meant to be anything other than a joke, really,” said the voice behind him. “I mean, ‘Fiddler’s Picket’? Who would ever name a town that?”

  Major Fiddler sat down next to Johnny and gazed off toward the Knob.

  “Some piece of ground over there, eh?”

  “That’s right,” said Johnny. “Some piece of ground.”

  “You know, when I settled here, I found something I wasn’t expecting.”

  “The Devil.”

  “That’s right,” the Major said. “The Devil. Needless to say, I wasn’t too keen on having him roaming around, and he sure didn’t want me interfering in his affairs. So, we had words and those words led to other words… and eventually we fought it out.”

  Johnny turned to look at the Major.

  “I trapped him in that damned piece of stone over there. Made sure to put it in my will that the Knob wasn’t to be disturbed. It should have been prison enough to hold him. Then some fool got to poking and banging around up there. Woke him up and set him free.”

  Johnny started to say something, but thought better of it.

  “So, here we are again, facing the old adversary.”

  “How did you beat him?” Johnny asked.

  “Beat him?”

  “You know,” Johnny said, “the first time.”

  “Haven’t you been listening, son?” the Major asked. “I didn’t beat him. As far as I know he can’t be beaten.”

  “But you said ---”

  “I said I trapped him in that piece of rock over there. Trapped him, but didn’t beat him.”

  “Ain’t it the same thing?”

  “No,” said the Major. “Not at all. If you go into this thinking you’re going to beat him, then you’re wrong. I’m not sure that he can be beaten.”

  “Then what are we supposed to do?” asked Johnny. “What are we doin’ all of this for if we can’t beat him?”

  The Major sighed and continued to stare at the Knob. “He’s like that stone over there. This might be the most beautiful valley on the face of the Earth, save for that stone. No, you can’t beat the Devil. You got to learn to live with him… warts and all. That’s what I did.”

  Johnny turned the Major’s words over in his head while the sun dropped below the horizon.

  As soon the sky was dark, Johnny returned to camp to find his team already assembled. He mounted Bart, riding the mule bareback, enjoying the feel of the beast’s muscles taut with excitement and ready for action. He led the scouting party down from the hill and circled around to the far side of the town, watching and waiting until the last of the lights had gone out and the town lay asleep before riding in.

  Their first order of business was to make sure that neither the Devil nor any of his imps had already infiltrated Fiddler’s Picket. Johnny rode at the head of the party and ordered the men to fan out, checking everywhere for sign of mischief. The ghosts spread across the town, poking their heads in and out of barrels and hay bales, searching high and low for anything that looked even a little out of place. Johnny rode on alone, through the market square, which had all but shut down now that the last of the fall’s harvest was past. The soldiers reported in to him as they cleared sections of the town. So far, so good.

  They pressed on, leaving the square and approaching the churchyard. All at once, flames leapt high up on top of Devil’s Knob, startling Johnny and the ghosts. The soldiers closed ranks around Johnny and the group watched in horror at the smoky silhouette that stood out against the flames, reaching high into the darkened sky. The Devil stood on the flat stone top, one foot at either end of the plateau, straddling the Knob. Like a symphony conductor, the devil gestured to the flames, which rose and fell in time with some unheard, discordant overture. Johnny felt the rhythm of the flames searing his eyes and recognized it to be the song of the imps and the surgeons, the Oh ho hos and He he hes, as well as the pulsing beat from his dream of the train and the trunk. Casting his arms wide and raising them high above his head, the Devil urged the flames higher and higher, reaching a crescendo, then brought them crashing down to the ground where they went out.

  Unable to move, the party stared up at the Knob. Though the fires
had been snuffed out, they were just able to make out the shape of the Devil in the light of the full moon. Two spots of flame burned high in the air, the eyes of the Devil gazing on the town below. Johnny felt the ground quake when the Devil laughed, the shock wave rolling down from the Knob and through the surrounding land. Bart spread his legs wide to brace himself, but still Johnny was tossed about as the ground rolled and bucked beneath their feet. Buildings swayed, the tremor shaking the town. To their right, the rumbling tipped over tombstones in the churchyard and caused the bell tower to sway. The church bell pealed once, then the quake passed and all was still.

  No, thought Johnny, not everything is still. A light was shining, faint at first, but growing stronger all the time. Johnny heard one of the ghosts exclaim and turned to see him pointing toward the bell tower, the rest following his gaze. Johnny looked up and was forced to shield his eyes. The cross at the top of the church’s bell tower was blazing, illuminating the town in its white light. It was as if the cross was claiming the town was under its protection, burning bright, defiant of the Devil looking down from the Knob. Some holy power had been awakened by the pealing of the church bell and was turning back the darkness.

  Johnny forced his attention back to the Knob. He saw the Devil, illuminated by the white light. The demon had his arms raised to his face, shielding it from the light while he twisted and writhed in pain. The cross burned brighter still, pushing back the night. Wasn’t a church here before, Johnny thought. Not back when Major Fiddler got the better of you. Hadn’t bargained on that, had you?

  But the Devil was far from finished. He dropped his hands from his face and screamed in rage. The sound tore down from Devil’s Knob, carried on a hot blast of wind. Johnny covered his right ear with his good hand, but it was no good; there was no keeping that sound out of his head. Bart kicked out with his back legs, his lips curled back in a snarl. Windows exploded outward, showering the street with shards of glass. The light from the cross pulsed and waned, fading against the Devil’s fury. The Devil cried out again, reaching his hands toward the town. The shadow of his arms grew long in the moonlight, rushing toward town and covering the land below in darkness.

  Johnny forced himself to watch through the tears streaming from his eye while the Devil’s screams echoed in his head. It was impossible to think, the screams were rending his sanity. Through the tears he saw the shadow of the Devil’s hands wrap around the cross, its faint light spilling out between the shadowy fingers, and wrench it from the top of the bell tower. The Devil’s hands jerked back, burned by the cross. The wooden cross dropped into the churchyard, where its light blinked once more, then was extinguished.

  Just when Johnny thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, the screaming stopped. He wiped his eye and shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. He looked around to check on his men, but the scouts were gone. Had they been blown away by the blast? Had they ran, screaming, from the Valley? Were the rest of them still positioned in the hill to the south of the Knob, or had they, too, left him to face the Devil all alone?

  Does it matter? Johnny asked himself. The two plans were in motion. All Johnny could do was trust that his own still held together.

  For a time, it was quiet down in Fiddler’s Picket as well as up on Devil’s Knob.

  Johnny nudged Bart forward and rode into the churchyard to inspect the damage. The broken cross jutted at an odd angle, the top and one arm buried in the broken ground. Some of the tombstones had done more than just fall over in the quake; they were split down the middle, leaving the names etched on them unreadable. A couple of trees had been uprooted, barring entry into the church itself.

  For a moment, Johnny thought that the previous night’s fog had returned. A low mist swirled around the tombstones, filling the churchyard. Johnny looked up and saw the moon still shining bright; there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Not the kind of weather that brings on a fog, he thought. Looking down, he watched the mist swirl around Bart’s knees and thought he saw faces in the fog. Arms and legs took shape, becoming full heads and torsos. The fog began to thin and part in places as the ghosts of those buried in the churchyard took shape and rose from their graves.

  Johnny had spent a lot of time around ghosts in the last month or two, but nothing about these ghosts was anything like the soldiers that he hoped were still waiting for him. The forms rising from the ground looked decayed: their flesh rotting, their clothes hanging from them in tatters. Johnny had heard the stories from the hired hands when he was younger, back when he worked for Farmer Dugan. Stories of the town’s sordid past, of the men and women who had been brought to justice at the gallows and buried right here in this very churchyard. “If’n you stood all the corpses in this town and lined ‘em up, they’d far outnumber the livin’,” Buck Jackson used to tell him. Johnny hadn’t believed Buck. You never could tell when Bucky was having fun just pulling your leg or when he was being serious, but Johnny believed him now.

  He recognized what must have been the Wicker Brothers, rising from a shared grave, nooses still hanging around their necks. There was Bloody Anne, carrying her hatchet. Over yonder, Justice Kagan, “the hangingest man the Valley has ever known”, his judge’s robes billowing out behind him as he glided over the ground, shouting “Guilty! Guilty!” at every ghost he passed.

  The ghosts poured in a line out of the churchyard and wound their way through town. Johnny followed them with his eye and saw them circle the base of Devil’s Knob, ascending in a spiral up to the top, where the Devil awaited them with open arms.

  When the first of the ghosts reached the top of Devil’s Knob, flames burst forth once more on the plateau. Smoke billowed up, lit from below by the fires, giving the Knob the appearance of a volcano. Only rather than lava pouring down the sides, the ghosts continued to glide up the sides, making their way to the top.

  Never realized just how many folks were buried here, Johnny thought, remembering Buck’s words. He wondered whether that might not be the work of the Devil, too. Maybe all the time he was trapped in the stone prison of the Knob he was drawing evil men and women to him. Maybe his presence was poisoning the good folk of the Valley, causing them to do things they otherwise wouldn’t. Johnny remembered all the meanness he had done since he had been “saved” by Mr. Scratch and thought that the latter was more likely the case. I’ll bet havin’ all these spirits here was part of his plan as well.

  Johnny dismounted and walked across the churchyard, oblivious to the ghosts taking form around him and passing through him. In the far corner of the cemetery, standing next to an unmarked grave, stood a single ghost. It didn’t seem to be a part of the swirling mist, nor was it giving off the menacing vibe that the others ghosts were. The lone ghost stood with his back to them, reading the inscription on his own headstone. As if in a dream, Johnny walked toward the ghost, Bart moving at his side. There was only one person who had ever been buried back here, away from all the rest of the graves in the yard.

  Just like he lived his life, Johnny thought, choking down the lump that had risen in his throat.

  “Grandpa?”

  The ghost turned around, looked from Johnny to Bart and back to Johnny again. He didn’t seem to recognize them; it had been nearly fifteen years since he had seen either of them. Bart walked over to the ghost of Grandpa Crowe and brayed.

  “Bart, that you?” Grandpa asked. Bart nodded his head, as though he understood the question. “Never seen you look so good.” Grandpa reached out to scratch Bart’s neck, but stopped short. He could see through his own hand.

  “Grandpa,” Johnny said again. Grandpa looked from Bart to the young man standing in the cemetery. Johnny removed his hat, wringing it in his hands. “It’s me, Grandpa.”

  “Johnny?”

  No words came, so Johnny just nodded his head. Tears began to spill down his cheek again. Goin’ to be all cried out, he thought, wiping at them with h
is sleeve.

  “Look at you, boy,” Grandpa said. “Why, last time I saw you ---”

  “You said, ‘Get some more wood for that fire, boy. Gonna be a cold one tonight’.”

  “Yeah,” said Grandpa. “Went on into town after that. Met up with Prudie Nelson and Gus Sewell… you remember Gus, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnny said. “He’s the one that came up and told me you was dead.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I was five,” said Johnny. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “What are you now?”

  “Goin’ on twenty.”

  “My God. Fifteen years.”

  The two stood in silence while more ghosts rose from their graves and filed out of the churchyard.

  “You know what happened, then?”

  Johnny nodded. “They said you was drunk. Slipped on the ice and fell all the way back down to the bottom of the Knob. That’s where Gus Sewell found you.”

  “Who told you that?” Grandpa huffed.

  “Doc Lawson.”

  “Stuff ol’ Doc Lawson,” Grandpa said. “You ought to have known better than that. I been up and down the Knob in a lot worse shape than that. I didn’t slip on no ice. I was murdered!”

  “Murdered?” gasped Johnny. “By who?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Grandpa, scratching his cheek. “Didn’t get a proper look at him. He kept to the shadows, mostly, and it seemed like the shadows moved with him, if you catch my meanin’… like they was hidin’ him.”

  Grandpa Crowe had made it a good three-quarters of the way up the Knob, staggering and slipping along on the frosty rock, when he got the feeling that someone was there with him. He stopped and looked around but didn’t see anyone. Turning to continue on up he saw a pair of eyes watching him from the shadows.