“What child?” Jamey whispered.
“The one they talk about in the Book of Revelations. The child that was supposed to grow up and become the Antichrist.” Larry said. “The thing is, my mom, she knew the girl. She used to teach her in Sunday school. She told me once how the girl used to talk about Jesus like...like she could really see him and hear him. It was kind of spooky, you know? Anyway, Hattie told me that was why Luther picked her. Because she was so good. Because it was worse that way. And that was why he did those other things to her.”
“What other things?” Jamey asked, his eyes still on the shack.
It was for Larry always the worst, most terrifying part of the whole story. “Hattie told me she woke up the night the girl was taken. It was right before sunset, when it’s darkest. And she said she went to the window of her shack. And she could hear it, this sound, coming from back in the woods. And she knew what it was.”
“What sound?”
“It was like laughing. Only it wasn’t. And Hattie said she knew where it was coming from. It was coming from this place called the snake well. And Hattie said she could see it, like in a vision. She said she saw how Luther had tied a rope around her ankle, and had lowered the girl into the snake well, headfirst. And how all night long he had kept her down there, only inches above where all the water moccasins were squirming and slithering. And how he kept whispering down the well to her, “Where’s Jesus? Where’s Jesus now?” And Hattie said how the girl kept begging and crying to be let back up, but Luther wouldn’t do it. He just kept saying, “Where’s Jesus to help you? Where’d he go to?” Larry bit the edge of his lip. “Pretty sick, huh? Anyway, Hattie said, that finally the girl stopped begging, stopped crying even. And for a while there was nothing. Not a sound from the well. And then this other sound started up, coming out of the well. And that’s when Luther knew she was ready, knew that she had come to hate Jesus as much as he did. Because she was. . . laughing. Like the laugh somebody gives to mock something they hate. And that’s what Luther had wanted. For her to laugh at Jesus, to mock and hate him, and to mock and hate herself for having trusted Jesus to help her. Only she was crazy with it, crazy with the hatred and the mockery. Like her mind had snapped. And that’s when he brought her back up.” Larry shivered and glanced over at Jamey. “Anyway, that’s just one of the stories Hattie told me.”
But Jamey didn’t seem to hear him. He had walked over to the ruins of the shack. He was staring down at the blackened wood-burning stove. “I’ve heard laughter like that,” Jamey said.
“When?”
“It was back at one of the places where they sent me. This home. The night this fire broke out. A fire like this one, only worse. All the children there got killed.”
“Were you in it?”
Jamey, his eyes fixed on the stove, nodded yes. Larry looked at him. “How did you get out?”
“I don’t know,” Jamey said softly.
“What d’you mean? You said everybody got killed. How come—”
Suddenly Jamey looked up at Larry, looked at him straight in the eyes. Please, Jamey’s eyes said, please don’t ask me anything else. And Larry got the message. He turned away and glanced at the sun. It was just over the top of the trees. There would only be an hour or so of fishing time left. “Come on,” Larry said, “the river’s only a little further.”
Ten minutes later, the two boys had set up their fishing poles. Larry told Jamey a couple of stories about fish he had caught from this spot, in an effort to get their mood back to normal. But his heart wasn’t in it, any more than Jamey’s. He was sorry now that he had told as much of Hattie’s stories as he had. Sorry, too, that Jamey had been reminded of something that was better forgotten. And yet as much as Larry wanted to put it out of his mind, he kept recalling what Jamey had started to say. How he had heard such laughter—- such terrible mocking laughter—before. Had heard it the night the fire broke out. Who, Larry wanted to ask Jamey, who had been laughing? And why?
“Shit, doesn’t look like we’re getting even a bite.” Larry said after a little more brooding. He stood up and was about to ask Jamey if he wanted to go on back to Lucerne when something caught his attention. Larry turned around and peered into the bushes that came right up to the riverbank. “I thought I heard something back there.”
The bushes were rustling. “Who is it?” he yelled.
But there was no answer. Larry stepped closer to the bushes. He was about to call out again when Clemson jumped up out of the undergrowth, over by Jamey, shouting: “Orphan boy! Retard! Don’t even know who your momma was. Your daddy, neither. Why, I bet she sold it on the street. I bet she was a whore. I bet she dumped him in some trash can, seeing how he was a retard. Orphan boy, orphan boy—”
“You bastard!”
“I ain’t the bastard. It’s that retard’s the bastard.”
Larry lunged toward Clemson, but Jamey took hold of his arm.
Larry jerked his arm away running up the slope. He fell on top of Clemson, smashing him in the face and screaming, “You take that shit back, you son-of-a-bitch! You take it back, every word. You apologize to him. You hear? Right now!”
Knocking Clemson’s face, the two boys rolled down the slope, right to the riverbank. Alvin, who hadn’t said a word, came after them. Managing to get on top for a moment, Clemson knocked Larry in the side of the head. Suddenly Alvin shouted something. As the boys had fallen toward the water, Clemson’s foot had knocked a dead log out of place.
“Goddamn, look!” Alvin cried.
“Larry!” Jamey shouted.
Clemson had ended up on top of Larry when they stopped rolling. Prying his head around, Larry stared at what the other boys were screaming about. There, only about six or seven inches from his face, he saw the huge, white, open jaws of a water moccasin. Its eyes were fixed on Larry.
“Clemson, get up.”
That was when Clemson saw the snake, too. “Shit, it’s going to bite us,” he said, whimpering.
“Get up.”
“I c-c-can’t,” Clemson stuttered.
Going to the edge of the bank, Alvin picked up a stone and threw it down at the moccasin, missing it by a couple of inches. Then, when he leaned down to get another one, Jamey ran over to him, grabbing hold of his arm. “Don’t!”
“You blind? It’s going to bite them. Look at how it’s all reared up.”
But Jamey’s grip tightened on Alvin’s arm.
“Goddamn,” Alvin squealed, dropping the stone, “let go...”
Then, a second later, easing himself carefully down the bank of the river, Jamey stood just a few feet from where the snake was, his eyes fixed on it. Without looking at Larry and Clemson, he started talking to them, his voice calm and reassuring. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just don’t move. It won’t do anything if you don’t move. Just. . . just be real still.”
“It’s going to bite me!” Clemson wailed.
“Hush, don’t say anything,” Jamey said in the same soft, even soothing voice. “Just he as still as you can. . . .” Then, easing himself a little closer to the moccasin, Jamey kneeled down. Larry, pinned under Clemson’s dead weight, watched as Jamey lifted up his hand, moving it slowly, without any sudden jerks, imperceptibly reaching it around the blind side of the moccasin. By now the snake had noticed him kneeling there. The snake turned its head, its jaws still wide open, its yellow eyes fixed on him. Jamey stopped, staying absolutely motionless for a few seconds. Then, moving his lips as little as possible, he went on to the two boys: “I’ll tell you when to get up, okay? Then, when I say so, you get up and run behind me. It’s not going to hurt you. I can tell it’s not the kind that can hurt you.”
Larry stared at the snake, his heart beating a hundred miles an hour. It was the biggest moccasin he had ever laid eyes on, five or seven feet at least. It sure as hell looked like the type that could hurt you.
“Shit,” Alvin said, a good safe distance back, “he’s talking to it.” He picked up another rock.
“Don’t throw anything,” Jamey said without turning around. “He’s okay now. He’s going to be okay.”
Then suddenly, moving like lightning, Jamey grabbed the neck of the moccasin.
“Run!” he shouted.
But Clemson didn’t move. Larry watched as the huge length of the snake flared up into the air, writhing wildly. But Jamey kept it there, holding its head in the same spot, while the snake’s tail lashed furiously, thrashing the water’s edge, and then, as it hit the back of Clemson’s legs, the boy screamed and jumped up from Larry. A second later, Larry was up, too.
“Run, Jamey!” Larry shouted. “For Christ’s sake, drop it!”
Then, in a sudden twist of the head, the moccasin jerked around and Larry watched with horror as its fangs went into the side of Jamey’s hand, right between his index finger and his thumb, sinking in.
“JAMEY!” Larry screamed, running toward him.
“No! Get back!” Jamey yelled. Then, prying open the snake’s jaws with his other hand, he flung the huge, hideous thing into the river. A moment later, it slithered into a patch of reflected sunlight and disappeared.
Larry stood there a second, then ran toward Jamey.
“Jesus, it bit you, Jamey. We gotta get back.”
“No, it’s okay. It just grazed me a little.”
I saw it. I saw the teeth go in, Larry said. “Give me your hand.”
“No, I’m okay.”
Grabbing Jamey’s hand, Larry looked at the palm. He saw the two little holes, a trickle of blood easing from them. “I told you. Look. . . we got to do something.” Then, turning around, he yelled at Clemson and Alvin, both standing stunned on the edge of the riverbank, “You got a knife?”
Alvin shook his head, but Clemson nodded, his mouth still open. “Here,” he said, passing it down to Larry. Hesitating a little, he came down to the water’s edge. “Goddamn,” Clemson said, looking at Jamey’s palm. “You got to suck it out. I remember from when I was in Boy Scouts. If a snake bites you, you got to suck that poison out, quick.”
Larry took the knife. “It’s going to hurt,” he said, looking right at Jamey.
“Go ahead,” Jamey said, sitting down on the sand. Holding his hand out, Larry took it, hesitating a moment. Then, swallowing hard, he took Clemson’s knife and began cutting into the other boy’s palm, his teeth clenched, his hair matted to his forehead. As he made the four cuts, two each way, he glanced up at Jamey. He hadn’t made a sound. Not even a whimper. He just sat there, staring into the water in front of him.
“You need one of them turny kits,” Clemson said. Taking his shirt off, he ripped the sleeve, and kneeling down next to Jamey, he began tying it around his arm.
Not too tight, Alvin said, coming down to where the other boys were.
“You okay?” Larry asked when he had finished.
Jamey nodded, just looking a shade paler than usual.
“We got to carry him back,” Clemson said. “In Boy Scouts, they said you ain’t supposed to move no one after no snake bite.”
And so, together the two boys eased Jamey to his feet and started back up the slope. At the top, Clemson stopped a moment. “That was the bravest thing I ever seen in my life,” he said. “I don’t care what them stupid rednecks say about you no more. You’re all right. You hear? Ain’t nobody going to go pushing you around no more, calling you names, neither, not while I’m around,” Clemson said. “No, sir. Ain’t that right, Alvin?”
And Alvin, still not knowing what to make of the whole thing, nodded. “I seen it all. I seen it. . . way he had hold of that moccasin. I seen him take hold of it. With his bare hands.”
“Come on,” Larry said. “We got to hurry.”
5
In the emergency room of Matilda Henderson Memorial Hospital over in Willard, Larry was still numb from the shock of the experience. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Dad. Even on TV. He just kept holding it there, it seemed like for an hour. I mean, I know it wasn’t an hour really, it just seemed like it.”
Just then the doctor stepped out into the waiting room. Larry quickly jumped to his feet. “Is Jamey okay?”
“He’s an awful lucky boy, let me tell you that,” the doctor said. Looking at Larry, he frowned. “You sure it was a water moccasin?”
“Yes, sir,” Larry said in astonishment. “I know a water moccasin when I see one.”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured, too, but I just wanted to double-check. Not that any venomless snake could do what this one did. The fangs went pretty deep, nearly an inch and a half. The best I can figure is maybe the snake was dry because it had just struck at something else, maybe only a few minutes before. But even then you’d think there’d still be enough venom to cause a fair degree of swelling around the wound. You can look at it and see there isn’t, though. I put a bandage on anyway and gave him a tetanus shot. Otherwise he’s good as new.”
That night, back in Lucerne, the two boys were lying out in the tree house. Since he had left the hospital, Jamey had hardly spoken a word. Larry kept wanting to talk about the incident. After all, it had occurred to Larry that Jamey had succeeded in what he had set out to do. He had taught
Clemson a lesson, but in a way that Larry could never have imagined. Jamey hadn’t beaten Clemson up. Instead, he had saved his life. For no matter what the doctor over in Willard said, Larry had looked right into the moccasin’s mouth, at the fangs. He had actually seen the venom oozing down them.
For the third time since they were in the tree house, Larry reached over and looked at Jamey’s hand, at the place where the fangs had gone in. He kept expecting to see something. At least a black-and-blue mark, or a little swelling.
“I still don’t understand why it didn’t hurt you any,” Larry said. He looked over at the other boy. Jamey was staring out into the woods behind Larry’s house. And once again, he was trembling.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared,” Jamey whispered.
Larry frowned. “Of what?”
Jamey shook her head. “I d-don’t know,” he said feebly. Larry moved closer to him.
“What is it? What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“It h-happened before,” Jamey stammered. “The same thing. That fire, the one in that home I was in, it should have killed me, too. But it didn’t. Just like that moccasin didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fire started next to my bed. The place, it was way out in the country. By the time the firemen got to it, the fire was all over. They started going through the home, to pull out all the bodies. And that’s when they found me.” Jamey whispered. “I was asleep. I wasn’t burned at all. Nowhere. But even my mattress, it was burned black. But I was okay.”
“Damn,” Larry muttered softly.
“Remember what I said about that laughter, hearing laughter like that. That was the night I heard it.”
“Who was making it?”
Jamey trembled. “The nightmare man. Sometimes I can still hear the way he laughed that night, and the things he said to me. The crazy things...” Just as Larry was about to ask: ‘What things?’ Jamey sat up. “I want you to tell me the rest of those stories. About the things that happened here. The stories that old woman told you.”
Larry blinked. “You mean, right now?”
Jamey nodded.
“Okay.”
A minute later, the two boys were back on top of the sleeping bags. Jamey sat there with his head down on his knees while Larry gathered his thoughts. Then he began, speaking awkwardly at first, having to repeat this and backtracking to explain that, but graduall
y putting together all the various pieces of the intricate mosaic of the story. He began by going back to how he had first heard of the story and how Hattie had sworn him to secrecy. “Some of the stuff she told me I’m not too sure about. Like I told you before, she was kind of. . . crazy, I guess. But some of the other stuff everybody knows about. Anyway, there was this real rich man who used to live here, called Simon Randolph.”
Jamey sat and listened as Larry went on, telling him about the Randolph family and the huge, fantastically designed mansion that Simon’s grandfather had built about five miles out of Lucerne, long before Simon was born, and how many rooms it was supposed to have and of the ballroom on the third floor that, according to Hattie, was larger than a football field. And Simon himself, well, all the women in that part of Georgia had tried to attract his attention, but without success. Instead, it seemed there was only one thing in the world that Simon showed any feeling for, and that was his painting. At first his passion was indulged; but as Simon grew up, his father became concerned that Simon’s artistic bent might jeopardize the family’s business. After all, Simon was the only Randolph heir, male or female, and as Simon went, so went the whole Randolph fortune. Still, despite his father’s disapproval, Simon continued to pursue his painting to the exclusion of all other interests. Finally, when he was nearly twenty, his father died, and the first thing Simon did upon taking over the estate was to shut up the huge old house he had been raised in. He set off for Italy, where he spent the next couple of years studying painting and where it was also rumored that he had been converted to the Roman Catholic Church. There was even a story circulated for a time that Simon had contemplated taking some kind of religious vow, but nothing seemed to have come of that.
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