And now? Now I was a shrunken head…
In the cabin some jazzy swing had commenced. Any other day it would’ve been a finger-snapping bop for Lucky Strikes and gimlets and velvet gowns on creamy skin, spiffed up wingtips and watches on fobs, dipping your darling with her mouth full of giggles and hot white teeth — Bobby Darin crooning for the sharks and the billowing blood. But that was not the case tonight. Tonight was a heckler in the dark.
I remembered in the midst of my shouting the light I’d seen through the trees when after the wreck Super brought us home. Dinky had said he had no neighbors, but if that were true, what was behind the light? A couple hundred yards down the road, I met another that spliced away, made just of dirt albeit. At first I couldn’t see zilch, much less a would-be light. The wind roaring as it was, the water coming down as it was, not from the sky at the moment, but from the trees, with needles and leaves and dirt, and the groaning of the trees and rush off the mountain of water still in sheets, it was all I could do to keep from turning back. It seemed to me the notion of a boob to walk up that road alone — surely I’d deserve whatever I got. Who knew what I’d find, if not Super or a neighbor then may chance a pissed off lion, as scared as I was scared and hungry as hell besides. And what if I did find a man, but that man was no neighbor or even a neighborly man, but the kind Basil had always feared, the freak in the plastic suit, with six fingers and toes and a penis on his chin, wielding a flamethrower and Sawzall both? Not good, not good, any way you sliced it, not a bit of it was good. On the other hand, who the frick cared what I found? If I did nothing, chances we all croaked up here on the mountain wouldn’t be so slim. Certainly Dinky wasn’t going to mend. The guy needed a doctor, pronto. Not to mention if I ran off now, down the line I’d have to live with myself, a prospect at its best unspeakably vile. Getting killed was preferable to such a fate, honestly. I hoofed it up the road therefore on a bit less than faith, my adrenalin pumping as I stumbled along. And then I saw it, like before, a single light shining faintly through the trees. So it was actually there. So I had not been totally tripping. And lights meant power, and power, human beings. My eyes swelled bigger, then, I was ready for the worst, though just what I’d do when the worst came down, the best could never say. The road wound toward the light, but dwindled soon to a shabby trail leading higher up the mountain than the light had had me guess. Oh well. I’d gone this far, and now I had to see it through. The trail wended on, this way and that, until abruptly it debouched onto a tiny glade crepuscular with the light of a bulb on a wire through trees about twenty feet up. In the middle of the glade was a grimy tent, that was all, shaking in the wind. I cast about, struggling to discern a figure or shape, something squirming hogtied in a bag near the edge of the glade, I didn’t care, I only wanted the what-was-what, even if that what was drastic. But I saw nothing but the rickety tent — not a clothesline, not a fire pit, not a chair or box or ice chest or stove, just a rickety, grimy tent. It simply didn’t make sense, this scene. What was the source of this odd light’s power? And who needed light to sleep in a tent, since pretty plainly nothing else was happening here? And why even a tent, in this of all wicked places? The last thing I wanted was to look inside, but knew I couldn’t do other. That no doubt would be the test. The tent could even have been booby trapped, I thought. The freak with his bear-hide cowl and dick-chin and bones could be lurking anywhere, really, patiently waiting me out, itsy bitsy fly that I’d then be. And that was all it would take, my stepping into the creepy glade, whereon the fiend could drill an arrow through my neck or maybe just wait snaggletoothed and grinning till I stepped in the jaws of the trap he’d camo’d at the front of the tent, then rush up to hack out the pieces of me he’d forthwith set to slobbering on while writhing in eldritch pain and eldritch horror I lay by watching, pathetic. A few minutes of this whimsy later, having been struck that I could stand there forever conjuring the scene of my demise, I set toward the tent, listening through the wrack for some atypical sound, however teensy, however bright, anything to presage if only by an instant my impending harm, pressing on through the aura the hammer of my heart had generated round me, turned by now half-puke/half-stone, my legs prehistoric sarcophagi. My vision had contracted into the space of the tent itself, buffered all around by a band of quivering mist. And the closer I drew, the farther away the tent seemed to get, until in the space of a step the distance vanished, and there I stood before the tent. It seemed almost a being itself, the tent, its canvas in the wind like the skin of a creature from the sea or the north, a leviathan, suddenly, hunkered in the mud, I could easily have believed. Somehow I’d taken the zipper in hand, itself already half undone, and slid it till the entrance material had crumpled at my feet. And yet when I leaned into the tent, expecting who knows what to materialize before me — a stack of corpses, a cache of grub, magazines of ammo, maybe, tent-top high — what should I find but… nothing. The tent was as empty as a dead man’s mind, not a scrap to be found, nothing so much as a wayward battery or dented cup, nor candy bar wrapper nor length of string nor nubbins of some candle. And it was then I saw the nature of terror, because it was then the nature of my predicament, like a toxic cloud, swallowed me utterly up. Terror, I realized, had nothing to do with time and space but with the absence of them, and with the incomprehensibility of that absence. There before that rotting little tent empty in the night in the glade in the forest in the heart of a pulsing storm, the emptiness of my life, and of my aloneness in it, usurped my thoughts with cruelty I couldn’t fathom. A cipher just the moment before, the tent was now clothed in the powers of a totem, implausibly vicious, and I was numb head to toe, not a single atom free. I turned away in my deadness and broke through the night, blind, numb, thoughtless, empty, dead, Frodo in his fog of malice having donned that hideous Ring. I don’t know how long I ran, but only that I ran till the earth resolved to steal my feet. My face had hit the mud at the base of the trail. I’d tripped on a branch, and lay in the mud, now, gasping for breath as once again the rain came down. When finally I rolled over and planted my hand, instead of the sense of slimy mud, the crinkle of cellophane brought me to. And what should that cellophane be part of, I saw, but an empty pack of smokes, Pall Malls, no doubt, goddamn. I dropped the thing and ran up the road shouting once more for Super. I shouted and cried, but come the fork at the road to the cabin, I’d seen nothing, Super most of all. What was the use. There was no use. Nothing mattered. Uselessness ruled. The numbness had left me. I had returned, my body in woe, the wet and the cold and the bitterness of my presence in their midst. I put my hands in my pockets and chin on my chest and stumbled toward the cabin.
It wasn’t long before, unbelievably, he reappeared, that weird old man, hobbling up from a path to the lake, Fortinbras at his heel. My heart at first leapt with fright — after all I’d been through, my expectations lapsed, I no more thought I’d see him again than a witch. But there he came, lurching along with his earwig mouth, and I knew it would help little to speak of the tent and certainly of where he’d been. Super hadn’t been merely out there, but out there and everywhere else. He liked it out there. Out there was where the bastard lived.