The Borrowed World Series | Book 8 | Blood & Banjos

by Horton, Franklin

  “A happy face,” one of the children responded and the sentiment rippled throughout all of them.

  Nathan smiled at them. “I think that’s best. I’ve seen Mr. Oliver with his sad face. Ms. Sharon has too and it’s sad, isn’t it?”

  Sharon was impressed with the way Nathan was handling the situation.

  “How long will he live?” Kay asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sharon replied. “I suspect no more than another day or two. It’s hard to say.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Stevie asked. He was only ten but always trying to be helpful and take on the biggest jobs he could do.

  Sharon looked to Nathan, then back to Stevie. There was something they needed to talk about and it would not be easy. “Where do you think Mr. Oliver would like to be buried?”

  Stevie furrowed his brow before shooting a finger up in the air. “The Fairy Circle!”

  The Fairy Circle was a spot in the field near the dining hall where the children gathered to hear stories from Oliver, Sharon, or a special guest storyteller. There was a circle of logs and stumps for the children to sit on and a fire pit in the middle. Everyone loved the Fairy Circle.

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Sharon said. “Maybe close by so he can always hear the stories we’re telling. He loves that place.”

  “If you don’t need anything more from me, maybe I could go dig the grave,” Nathan offered. “The children can help if they want to.”

  “I want to help,” Stevie said. He wanted to do everything Nathan did.

  All of the children wanted to help, though Sharon wondered how long that enthusiasm would last once they actually tried heaving a shovel of dirt out of the ground. “That’s fine, Nathan. Maybe come back after dinner and check-in with me, if you don’t mind. I should be okay until then.”

  “If you’re sure it’s okay,” Nathan replied. “I’ll walk back with everyone else.”

  Sharon patted him on the back. She’d feel more comfortable with him going along with them anyway. It was only a mile and they hadn’t had any trouble, but you never knew. Stories of violence in the community had reached her through Oliver. It sounded like the world outside of their insular little nest was going to hell. “I’ll be fine. I have Honey if I need to come back any earlier.”

  With that agreed upon, the children handed their flowers over to Sharon. They each wanted to tell her where they’d found them. Some wanted her to deliver special messages to Mr. Oliver and she promised each child that she would. When they were done, they carefully descended the steps and set off in the same manner they’d arrived—hands held and swinging.

  Sharon couldn’t help but smile as she watched them go. She wasn’t a parent and they weren’t her children, but she felt they were thriving despite the circumstances. She was proud to know that part of that was her doing. Those children were surviving and they were growing into good little humans. Having met all of their parents, she couldn’t help but think they’d be proud if they could see them now. It made her wonder if any of them were still alive out there in the world. If so, they had to be terribly worried. She wished she could get a message to them, even a simple note to let them know that their children were alive and doing well.

  She spun and rolled back over the dark wooden threshold into the house. She closed the front door behind her and it took a couple of hard shoves to get it fully closed. She stretched to fasten the various locks and latches that secured it, then went to the kitchen. She found a tall blue Mason jar, the antique kind that used a zinc lid with a rubber gasket to form a seal. The house had a gravity-fed water system so she was able to use the tap to fill the jar halfway with water. She placed the flowers inside, carefully arranged them, then placed the jar in her lap.

  She rolled down the hallway, the sound of her wheels echoing off the hard floors and plaster walls. She twisted the knob on Oliver’s door and shoved it open. “The children brought you some flowers,” she announced, entering the room.

  She held the jar up with both hands for him to see. When she looked at his face to see his reaction, she instantly knew. His eyes were closed and the tense facial muscles were relaxed. His grimace was gone.

  Oliver was dead.

  Sharon closed her eyes and sat there in the utter silence of the room. The only sensation was the cool glass of the water-filled Mason jar beneath her fingertips. She said a prayer for her friend, then opened her eyes. He was unchanged. Part of her hoped that he’d be awake and looking. Another part of her understood that this was the most merciful outcome.

  Sharon moved closer and placed the jar of flowers beside his bed. She touched his wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none that she could detect. She held her palm in front of his lips and nose, feeling for the warmth of his exhalation, but felt nothing.

  She backed away from the bed and stared at it. “Oh, Oliver, what am I going to do?”

  In some ways, she was not surprised it had happened this way. She’d seen it before. When the dying were surrounded by people they cared for, it was harder for them to let go. When their family stepped out for a cup of coffee or to run home for a shower, that’s when they passed. Family members felt bad about it, that they hadn’t been there at the bedside holding their loved one’s hand.

  Sharon felt otherwise. She knew that leaving the bedside for a few moments was sometimes the most merciful thing the family could do. It allowed the spirit to leave if it was ready. It gave the loved one the strength to die and the permission to move on.

  21

  Laurel Bed Lake

  Clinch Mountain Wildlife Management Area

  Jim’s stomach was going off like an alarm clock as he rode back toward the boat landing. The sound of banjo music got louder. He could hear Lloyd and Andrew singing a tune together now, a sound like two animals caught in the same trap, mutually dissatisfied with their state in the world. That impression, however, could not have been further from the truth. The two singers had not a care in the world.

  By way of their rising voices, the two broadcast their position with no regard for what ill-intentioned man or beast might be lurking in the woods. Were there men in the area with a predisposition toward violence and theft, they would have no difficulty locating an easy target on that boat ramp. If a hungry bear was seeking to add variety to his diet, he would but have to cock his furry ear to locate a meal of a fragrant old man and a pickled banjo player.

  They stopped their caterwauling when Jim arrived, but not immediately. Instead, they marked the finale of the song with a rising crescendo and a flurry of banjo strumming that moved like a cheese grater over Jim’s soul. As those final strains of struggling harmony faded, Lloyd and Andrew sat there with their eyes closed and faces raised to the evening sun in utter musical bliss.

  Jim could do nothing but shake his head. He and Lloyd had been friends since childhood. This was what you got when you took him places. His inner hillbilly could not be contained any more than the musician that also resided within him. Jim slid off his horse, tying it and his packhorse up by the water. He returned to the old RV and retook a seat on the same dirty bucket he’d perched on earlier.

  Andrew gave Jim a wide grin. “Find that campsite, partner?”

  Jim let out a long breath. “I did. Looks like some folks stayed there for a while. There’s an old hunting camp or something set up there.”

  Andrew looked off in recollection. “That would have been them Saltville boys. They hiked up in here back in the spring. Took a couple of deer and a bear. Smoked the meat and hauled it out of here on plastic sleds. Hooked them up to their belts and towed them, like there was snow on the ground and they was sled dogs.”

  “They stay long?” Jim asked.

  “Eh, about a week, I reckon. Had good hunting and wanted to get the meat home. That’s the way it’s been the whole time. A group shows up here or there. Some camp but others just pass through.”

  “Any trouble out of them?” Lloyd asked, pecking at the muffled strings of his b
anjo.

  “Nary a bit. You’d never know the world outside of here had taken a crap from the way these people acted. It was just like running into hunters in the woods during regular times. You shoot the shit and talk about what you saw that day. If they camped close by, we might swap a few stories and share a meal. They was all good people though. Never had a bit of trouble out of any of them.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Jim said. “And a bit surprising. We’ve seen a lot of violence. I’ve got friends who had to move out of their neighborhoods and come join up with us because it got too dangerous to live out there on their own. You must have made the right call in coming up here.”

  Andrew shrugged. “Could have gone either way. I knew that when I came up here. I could just as easily have been set upon by rogues intent on killing me and taking all my worldly goods. Just got lucky.”

  “You best stay up here, then,” Lloyd said. “The lowlands is thick with rogues and criminals. There’s been days my fingers was so stiff from digging graves that I couldn’t even pick a tune on the banjo.”

  Andrew jerked his head toward Lloyd as if this were the most appalling thing he’d ever heard. “Don’t say!”

  “I do!” Lloyd held up his hand, curling it into a gnarled claw. “Like this, it was. Cramped like I was clutching a shovel.”

  “That’s a tragedy,” Andrew said.

  “A blessing,” Jim clarified. “He misses one night on the banjo and the world’s a different place. The wild game returns, the flowers open again. The clouds part and the sun shines. A chorus of angels sings from the heavens.”

  “Yeah, quit being dramatic. If you’d slow up on the killing, we wouldn’t have to do as much burying,” Lloyd chided.

  “I ain’t the one being dramatic. Besides, some people need killing,” Jim said, repeating a line he used all too often. “It must be true because I’ve read it in books and heard it in movies all my life.”

  “It is true,” said Andrew. “There are people out there whose existence is a very affront to our Creator. Sometimes it’s up to man to correct that.”

  Lloyd frowned. “If that’s the case, then why did the Creator create them in the first place?”

  “I’ve got two theories on that and I’ve had a long time to arrive at them. One is that bad people exist to serve as lessons to the rest of us.”

  Lloyd laughed. “My friend here used to have a t-shirt that said ‘I’m not useless, I can be used as a bad example.’”

  “Exactly.” Andrew cackled. “The other possibility is that God creates us but gives us the freedom to choose our path. It’s up to us whether we become good folks or evil shithead bastards.”

  “Which of those do you believe?” Jim asked.

  “Both,” Andrew replied. “Just depends on when you ask me and who we’re talking about at the time.”

  “You think some people are born bad?” Lloyd asked.

  “Nah, that’s just in the movies. I have a hard time believing that,” Andrew said, “though some do turn dark early because of things beyond their control. Things they’ve either seen or had done to them.”

  “Sometimes going from good to bad is a spontaneous thing,” Jim said. “Someone makes a half-cocked decision in the heat of the moment that ends up having larger repercussions. It’s one impulsive act, like flipping a switch, except you can’t un-flip it no matter how bad you’d like to.”

  “Oh, you’ll find no one who believes that more than me,” Andrew said. “My whole life I’ve lived with the consequences of decisions like that.”

  “What did you do?” Lloyd asked.

  Jim shot him a look. “Ever think it wasn’t any of your damn business, you nosy bastard?”

  Lloyd shrugged. “If it’s a secret, why’d he mention it?”

  “Ain’t a secret. I’ll tell you,” Andrew said. “But only ‘cause you and I are hitting it off on such a high note. I’ll tell you because you’re a musician and since the beginning of time musicians have been men who got out and saw the ways of the world. They’ve seen the good, the bad, and the ugly.”

  “That’s true,” Jim said. “Lloyd has seen the world and thrown up in the bushes of some of the finest establishments in the whole country.”

  “And I’ve spent the day riding with the bad and ugly,” Lloyd countered. “It goes without saying, of course, that I’m the good.”

  Andrew ignored their banter. “My daddy was a doctor there outside of Richlands. He was a classic country doctor. You could barter for services and he’d give you credit. Lord, people loved him. He was a well-respected man in the community. One night he’d been out late delivering a baby. On his way home, he run up against a roadblock outside of Raven. Anyone from that area knows that in those days the miners were bad to get drunk on the weekend and block off the road. Sometimes they’d rob people or just give them a bit of a hard time. I mean, you’re talking about a town of less than two acres that had seven bars. That’s just asking for trouble.”

  “Did he stop?” Lloyd asked.

  “Nope. He suspected it was drunks so he stomped the gas and ran right through it. He had this 1955 Plymouth, two-tone with white and baby blue. What he didn’t know was that it was actually the law had the road blocked off.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jim said.

  “Damn right,” Andrew said. “They wasn’t in any mood to be trifled with so they drew their guns and opened fire on him. Of course, he should have known better than to run and they should have known better than to shoot at him. Everyone in those parts knew his car. Wasn’t another one like it in that community. They could have figured out who it was by asking around, but it never got to that. Both of them deputies emptied their guns at him, then they jumped in their cars and went after him.”

  Lloyd reached into his banjo case and removed a jar of moonshine. He passed it to Andrew, who oddly enough had no question as to what was in the jar. Jim figured out then that they’d been drinking the liquor in his absence, but had hidden the jar when he returned. Lloyd knew he’d be in for an ass-chewing over day-drinking in strange territory, but he was motivated by the understanding that all good tales go better with liquor.

  “I figure my old daddy was in a panic by that point. Folks found blood in the car later—lots of it—so they knew he’d taken a bullet or two. He headed for the office where he saw patients in town. We guess he must have been looking for something to stop the bleeding, trying to bandage himself up. The law followed him there though. They opened fire on him from outside and shot all the windows out. My daddy always kept a pocket gun on him. Everyone did in those days. He pulled it out and started shooting back. We don’t know if he ever figured out it was the law shooting at him or not. In some ways it didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they were trying to kill him, so he fought back.”

  “Didn’t anyone in town notice this was going on?” Jim asked.

  Andrew paused and took a drink from the jar proffered to him. When he was done, he passed it back to Lloyd. “The bars had closed for the night but there were people out and about. They ran toward the scene. When they saw those cops shooting into the office of their beloved doctor, they didn’t take kindly to it.”

  “What did they do?” Lloyd asked.

  “They drew their own guns and opened fire on the deputies,” Andrew said. “Those lawmen saw they were outnumbered so they climbed into their cars and took off. Someone called out to my dad to tell him it was safe to come out, but he didn’t answer. They went inside to check on him and found him dead. The law had shot him all to hell and he’d bled out right there on the floor.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jim said. “That must have been awful.”

  “I was just a boy so I don’t recall much of it. Barely remember my daddy at all. The story didn’t end there. Folks was outraged about what happened. They loaded up in cars and headed for the police station like villagers heading for Frankenstein’s castle.”

  “Were they going to lodge a complaint?” Lloyd asked.

  “You be
tter believe it. Complaints was lodged different in those days, though,” Andrew mused. “Those two lawmen locked themselves up inside and wouldn’t come out to face that angry mob. A couple of men busted out windows, dumped some gas inside, and set the place on fire. It wasn’t long before smoke was pouring out the windows and those two deputies came stumbling out the front door, choking and coughing.”

  “What happened then?” Jim asked.

  “They lynched them,” Andrew replied. “Someone had some rope in their pickup truck and they strung them up on a maple right there in the yard of the police station. The two must have had time to make a phone call while they were inside because it wasn’t long before the sheriff and a state trooper showed up, but it was too late by then. Both of those men were hanging dead, twisting in the firelight like a couple of snared coyotes.”

  Lloyd laid the banjo down on the case and took a drink from the jar. “That’s awful.”

  “The whole lot of it was awful.” Andrew shuddered. “It was awful my daddy was dead and awful the town lost a doctor. It was awful those men hung the two deputies. It was awful what come of it later too. There was a hearing but no one ever got charged. Nearly tore the town apart. People were all taking sides over what happened. Took years for everyone to put it behind them. Some of us were never able to put it behind us. Not me, and not the families of those dead lawmen.”

  “I see what you mean,” Jim said. “That was all a string of impulsive decisions, all of them adding fuel to the fire until it was too big to put out.”

  “That’s exactly it,” the old man agreed. “My daddy’s decision to stomp the gas instead of stopping at the roadblock. The lawmen’s decision to open fire on him instead of trying to track him down later. Their decision to shoot into his office even after they knew who he was. The mob’s decision to chase those deputies down and lynch them instead of letting the judge handle it. Every fucking decision was a bad one.”