The Warblers

by Amber Fallon

  THE

  WARBLERS

  AMBER FALLON

  Eraserhead Press

  Portand, Oregon

  ERASERHEAD PRESS

  P.O. BOX 10065

  PORTLAND, OR 97296

  WWW.ERASERHEADPRESS.COM

  ISBN: 978-1-62105-240-1

  Copyright © 2017 by Amber Fallon

  Cover art copyright © 2017 by Erik Wilson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Printed in the USA.

  ONE

  It was early on in the summer when Pa finally saw fit to do something about the warblers what had taken to living out in our back shed. He’d been putting it off all spring while we were getting the crops ready for planting, tilling the soil and the like. Not just by cause of the expense, you understand, although I’m sure that played a part in it. No, Pa’s real hesitation came on account of the cure for warblers being damn near as bad as the disease, or at least that’s what I’d heard tell of.

  Before that summer, I’d never seen a Warbler for myself, less’n you count the dead ones they showcased during the county fairs over to Montgomery. Let me tell you, those dried up old shells were frightening enough without coming face to face with the live article when you went to the outhouse to do your business. Ma had that experience all to her lonesome but I reckon everyone in Hussock County heard her scream that morning. I never will forget the chill it sent down my spine to wake up in that fashion - hearing your own dear Ma scream fit to rattle a banshee. But even that wasn’t enough to force Pa’s hand. It wasn’t until after my old sheepdog met her fate at the claws of the cursed beasts, leaving me to find what was left of my friend and companion that Pa finally agreed to take action. I do believe it was Ma’s insistence at the end of things what caused him to respond and not so much the death of my dog, much as I’d like to think different. Womenfolk have a way of convincing the men in their lives to do whatever it is they want of them. It’s the damnedest thing, really. I wonder what a wife’ll get me to do one day what I don’t have aim to.

  The warblers had been a real nuisance before they had got to my dog, Ginger, but afterwards it was closer to home and heart. Ma was awful scared for my little sister Mabel, as she liked to go out back of the shed to pick wild flowers and chase butterflies all by her small self. I didn’t like to ponder what could happen if she went out there and one of those things was waiting for her. My sister was young and sweet and didn’t yet know the ways of the world. I don’t believe there was a trace of fear in her pretty little head of those beasts or anything else. It was up to us, her kin, to protect and preserve her. It was a duty I took damned serious. As long as I was living, not a one of those things would come near to sight of her, let alone lay a claw on so much as a single blonde hair.

  I know that Pa felt the same, and I’m sure that had some sway on his eventual decision, as well what Ma had been up to. All things spoke for, I did have cause to wonder just what it was my pa was fixing to do what had set his back up so hard in the corner. I knew that were it something effortless he’d have done it on the double back at the end of autumn when I first found trace of the beastly infestation. Not much more than scat and discarded bones back then, but I knew what it was clear sign of. Pa did, too. The day I’d taken him out to the back shed and shown him what I’d seen, I saw the careworn worry lines in his face deepen as he frowned. He’d tried hard to put it away in his mind like it was a light summer shirt, not needed until the air grew hot again, but try as best as he could, those things were still out there, still a menace to our farmland home and all who might come calling.

  After months of fighting and cajoling the likes of which I’d never known my parents to do, it looked as though Pa would have to give in to Ma’s insistence that he rid our farm of the warblers lest she pack up and take herself and Mabel to our relations out of fear of the dangers alone. Pa tried to convince her that they weren’t that bad, really. Misunderstood, he called them, but from his own tone of voice it didn’t ring true. He knew they were awful mean and nasty and he knew that sooner or later one of us’d find ourselves laid up injured or worse. Still he tried to fight it, but eventually he gave in. With a sigh and a scowl he turned his back on Ma and Mabel as they finished their breakfast of molasses and oats. He didn’t glance in my direction as he passed by. He simply said, “Come on, boy, we’re off to town.”

  TWO

  Pa and I rode with Ben and Larry Scullory in the back of Ben’s old clunker of a pickup into town to make the necessary arrangements. We didn’t have a telephone at the house. In those days, few did. They were a modern convenience and quite the expense, or so I’d heard. Ma was none too keen on the idea, said it’d cause the neighbors reason not to come around to visit if they could just pick up a ‘fool contraption’ and send word that way. And so the call would have to be placed at McRory’s General Store. It would cost two cents, something Pa was already complaining about as we bounced along the pitted dirt road. I listened to the pattering sound of gravel being thrown by the tires and felt the warm touch of sun on my skin.

  Larry Scullory had a son, Nathan, who was near to my own age but we barely knew each other on account of him being military bound and me being nothing more than a simple farm boy. What I knew of Nathan could just about fill one of Ma’s thimbles, but none of it was good. I’d heard he was mean as a junkyard dog and liked to pick a fight whenever the opportunity presented itself. Clyde Evans had lost his eye that way to Nate, or at least that’s how the rumor went. I could recall seeing him a few times when we were younger, as the Scullorys did live on the next farm over from ours, but those memories were hazy with childhood. People liked to talk, and those tales may or may not have truth to them, I knew. But even as little as I knew of him, I had no love for Nathan Scullory. Ma had taught me from the time I was small not to be impolite or disrespectful at all, especially when a person wasn’t present to defend themselves, so I always held my tongue when it came to news of Nathan Scullory and his accomplishments in the military. We saw his pa fairly often, my pa and I. At that time, community meant something and a man had to help his neighbors as they helped him, it was expected. Larry Scullory had been nothing but kind and helpful to us, and so I repaid that favor.

  THREE

  Larry mentioned our errand only once. Just before he started up the truck, the turn of the key making a noise like shaking a can full of rocks. He’d looked at my pa, real serious, and said in a low voice, “You know, Lang, you don’t have to do it this way. My boy’ll be back any day now. He’s bound to have some rifles with him. I bet he could take care of your whole problem in a matter of hours. Be proud to do it, too, helping out his neighbors with his military ways and all.”

  My pa only shook his head in response.

  Larry’s face fell and he seemed to deflate like a balloon with a hole in it. After a minute he perked up and continued on as if nothing had happened.

  FOUR

  I could tell by the signpost on the corner that we were getting close to town. I was fit to bust with excitement at accompanying the menfolk on important business such as the matter of ridding our farm of the infestation of warblers. I had only been to town a few times in my life what I could recall and I felt the same sort of jittery excitement each and every time. I could not imagine what it must be like to live in a real city like Nathan did. I thought it must be the most glamorous and exciting thing in the world. I told Larry as much and he took his eyes off the road long enough to beam at me, swelling with pride at the mention of his son and the great ho
nor that came with being a Military Family now. It pleased me to see that my talk could have such an effect on a grown man. I did not ever intend to mention my true feelings toward his son.

  The day was bright and warm, and despite the business at hand, the terrifying monsters in our back shed couldn’t have been further from my mind. I had in the pocket of my worn overalls my savings, which amounted to a wadded up dollar bill, a quarter, three pennies and a nickel all wrapped up in one of Ma’s old hankies. It was practically a fortune to me then. I rubbed it between my fingers as if it were a mystical charm or ward against evil. I was wondering if I’d have time to spend my wealth before Pa swept us back to the farm and the plantings and waterings that had begun to fill my days, with only more to come as it marched on till summer. I had my heart set on a shiny new hunting knife and I aimed to spend a fair amount of time choosing one if I had my say, though the thought of going hunting without my dog by my side put an awful cramp in my heart. Life moves on, just as ever, even when we are forced to leave things we love behind. The knife wouldn’t ease that, I knew, but it might take my mind off it for a while. Ma said that was just what I needed, and I do believe she was right. I couldn’t think about anything but Ginger in the days since the accident. Sometimes I’d forget what had happened and I’d call to her out in the fields before I remembered she wasn’t there to answer me. It weighed heavy on my heart when I remembered, and more than once I’d had to turn away to hide a tear or two that had begun to fall. Pa said I was being soft, and that there’d be a new dog for me once the money from the crops come in, but Ma knew how I felt. She helped me bury my dog under an old sycamore tree when Pa wasn’t around. She and Mabel had even planted some flowers on the grave after I’d marked it with a piece of scrap wood I’d carved “GINGER” into with my pocket knife.

  FIVE

  Ginger’d been my companion ever since I could remember and it did things to me—unmentionable things that rotted out the pit of my stomach like an old melon—to see her that way, just a tangled pile of fur, bones, and bits of her insides, all that was left after those things had gotten through with her. I suppose it should’ve put the fear of them into me, but all it did was make me godawful angry. Angry at them, and angry at myself for letting my poor old dog out that night all those weeks ago. I well knew that those things liked to hunt after dark come on. After the sun would go down I’d hear them out there, back by the shed, shrieking their twisted warbling cries out there in the night, followed by the squeals of whatever prey they’d managed to hunt down, but Ma got mad something fierce if I kept Ginger inside of doors and she let her bladder go somewhere in the house. She was only supposed to go so far, just to relieve herself and come back inside, but you never can predict the whims of an animal. I didn’t ever reckon she’d catch scent of something and run on out into the night. Once she’d left my sight I found I was too scared to go after her and that just made me angrier at the whole mess. What good is a boy that can’t even save his own dog? I felt a tear forming in the corner of my eye and that made the ball of anger in my chest burn like fire. I wanted those things dead and it couldn’t happen fast enough. I only wished I could do it with my own two hands. I thought about it sometimes. Then I remembered what had happened to the Tate’s boy, Lee, when he had tried to catch a warbler himself last summer when Mayor Connolly started offering a bounty on them. They hadn’t found much more of him than shards of bone and bits of skin. His own mama didn’t recognize him. I’d heard tell that they had to identify the body by the scraps of fabric from the clothing he wore. The mayor called off the bounty after that. Thinking about what had happened to that boy, not much younger than me, put visions into my head of my own Ma, tears in her eyes as she tried to remember what I’d worn that day, looking at scraps of bloody cloth held out to her by the constable. No, I didn’t dare try anything that foolhardy by my lonesome. I wondered if maybe I should save my money and see if old Eddie Pickering would mount one up for me after they was killed like he did for Pa when he caught that big mouth bass last spring. I reckoned that would be a right fitting way to pay homage to my dog and to show for all who saw it that I wasn’t afraid of no slimy, spineless old warbler.

  We hit a bump and I looked up from my day dreaming, startled to see my pa staring at me like I’d been up to something shameful. I sighed and looked over the side of the truck at the gravel and dust as we drove over it, speeding past trees and signs like we were running from something.

  SIX

  A short time later, Larry slowed the truck so we could get ourselves out and walk the rest of the way into town. It wasn’t a long walk, but it would take some time. I wondered if Pa would say anything about my day dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d boxed my ears over what he called “Having my fool head in the clouds.” I couldn’t help my imagination. Sometimes I just thought up things and before I knew it, time had slipped away. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. Ma tried to defend me once or twice, but Pa would have none of it. That was where he chose to put his foot down. I didn’t know what it was that burred him that way, but I felt ashamed of it nonetheless.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets and waited for Pa. Larry told us he had some feed to pick up and would swing back by to get us once it was loaded. Pa and I nodded our thanks and took our leave. The walk was quiet. We didn’t say nothing to each other. I reckon neither of us could think of anything to say. The air was growing hot and thick already. Bug chatter and bird calls came from the tall grass to either side of the dirt road. Pa and I saw a man just outside of town. I guess he was a preacher or something on account of the way he was dressed, all in black, balmy as it was, with a stripe of white at his throat. His white hair was wild and bushy and his eyes were all filmed up like something dead. I believe he had gone blind. It gave me a start when he grabbed my arm though. He seemed to see right into me with those white eyes of his and his grip was powerful cold despite the weather being so warm. He held my arm firm when I tried to pull away. Pa looked angry and I thought he might take a swing at him, but then the preacher man started to shake and his breathing quickened. He spoke through clenched teeth spraying spittle all foamed up like an animal what gone rabid. He said, “BOY! There are some things what are supposed to be left to the dark places!” Pa grabbed my other shoulder and pulled me loose. We left that man standing by the side of the road, trembling and spitting like he was possessed. Pa didn’t know what to say I guess. I couldn’t think of a thing either. I felt bad of it, but somehow I was relieved to have Pa’s focus put on something other than the warblers or myself. Thinking of the warblers, my thoughts returned to what was waiting for me out in the back shed at home. Ma and Mabel were alone with those things for right now, and although I did know that they didn’t like to hunt in the daylight on account of their sensitive little eyes, it made me worry. A knot formed in my stomach. In my head I saw the same scene as before, with the constable and the bloody scraps of clothing, only this time he was holding out bits of Ma’s apron and Mabel’s dress to Pa and me.

  SEVEN

  I didn’t feel quite so excited anymore. Truth be told I was more eager now to get the whole matter over and done with than I was to buy me a hunting knife. I started to get this feeling like something Ma would have said was like someone standing on your grave. I didn’t know much about what was done to get rid of warblers. Growing up as I did, they were always a threat, but before this summer I’d never had to worry much about them myself. They were always some other family’s problem. I suppose that’s the way it goes for everybody. Things like that are always someone else’s problem; that is until they become your problem.

  The whole thing was so exciting and new to me at the start that I hadn’t given it much thought. Now I was thinking about it and I was getting mighty worried. The warblers were bad. Bad as any animal I had seen or heard tell of in my life. They were big and they were ugly and mean and they stunk something terrible. They made too much noise and tore things to shreds and killed and ate
up livestock and even people when they could manage it. They had taken up residence in our shed sometime over the winter so there was no livestock to speak of for them to slaughter, thankfully, or else we’d have had that mess on our hands as well as poor old Ginger. We had sold our last cow to the Ellerys that fall and no more chickens until Pa could repair the henhouse. We had mouths to feed, Pa said, and that came before paying some fancy exterminator to clear out some pests. Ma and my baby sister were awful scared though. The two of them wouldn’t go anywhere near that side of the house, daylight or no. I can’t say as I blamed them, especially Mabel. She was only four years old and small enough that one big Warbler could carry her off and maybe swallow her up all by its lonesome. I hadn’t seen a living one up close as yet, only the dead ones they displayed over in Montgomery come fair time. I knew the ones we had must be larger than those by the size of their scat and by the noise they made when they flew past my window at night, but just how much larger, I couldn’t rightly say. If Pa had any indication, he wasn’t telling. I knew he wanted me to be strong like he was and to “get my head out of the clouds”. I wanted to make him proud of me, like all boys want of their fathers. I helped out when I could in the fields and with the farm like a good boy should, even when it pained me to do so. There were times when I wished I were smarter like the Ellery boy what went to get more schooling over to the fancy University in Redfield some years back, or strong and brave like Nathan Scullory, but I was plain old Dell McDale and that would just have to do.