Sun pooled in shafts, caught in his hair, changed the color of the Spanish moss, flung limp and long like whiskers across the waterbay branches, from gray to pearl to blue to gray. A cicada called. Another answered. “Shut up, bettle-bugs! Whut you wanna be makin’ so much racket fer? You lonesome?”
The path was tricky, and sometimes, because it was really no more than a thread of trampled ground, difficult to maintain. At one point it sloped downward into a hollow that smelled of sweet gum and here began a thickly-vined stretch where it was night black and the brush trembled with who-knows-what. “Git out o’ there, all you devils! Ain’t nary a one of you kin scare Preacher. Ol’ buzzards and ghosts, bettah watch out! Preacher … he’ll bust you side de haid an’ skin off yo’ hide an’ gouge out yo’ eyes an’ stomp de whole caboodle down to de pit of fire!” But all the same his heart beat faster, his cane rapped searchingly before him; the beast lurked behind; terrible eyes, shining in hell, watched from their lair!
Evelina, he recalled, had never believed in the Spirits and this made him angry. “Hush now, Preacher,” she would say, “I ain’t gonna listen to no mo’ of dat spook talk. Why, man, dey ain’t no spooks ’cept in yo’ haid.” Oh, she had been unwise, for now, sure as there was a God in heaven, she belonged among the hunters and the hungry-eyed waiting there in the dark. He paused, called, “Evelina? Evelina … answuh me, honey.” And he hurried on, suddenly fearful that someday she would hear and, not recognizing, devour him whole.
Soon the sound of the creek; from there The Place was only a few steps. He pushed aside a thorny nettle and, with anguished grunts, lowered himself down the bank and crossed the stream, stone by stone, with studied precision. Nervous minnow schools made finicky forays along the clear and shallow edge and emerald-winged dragons plucked at the surface. On the opposite bank, a humming bird, whirring its invisible wings, ate the heart of a giant tiger lily.
So the trees thinned and the path broadened into a small, cubic clearing. Preacher’s place. Once, before the lumber mill closed, it had been a washing center for the women, but that was long ago. A flow of swallows swept overhead and from somewhere nearby an unfamiliar bird sang a strange, persistent song.
He was tired and out of breath, and he dropped to his knees, leaning his cane against a rotted oak stump on which clusters of devil’s snuff grew. Then, unfolding his Bible to where a silver ribbon lay pressed between the pages, he clasped his hands and lifted his head.
Several moments of silence, his eyes pinched narrow, intent upon the ring of sky, the smoky strands of cloud, like stray loops of tow hair, that seemed scarcely to move over the blue screen, paler than milk glass.
Then, in just a whisper:
“Mistuh Jesus? Mistuh Jesus?”
The wind whispered back, uprooting winter-buried leaves that turned furtive cart wheels across the moss-green floor.
“I’se back agin, Mistuh Jesus, faithful to de minute. Please, suh, pay ’tention to ol’ Preacher.”
Certain of his audience, he smiled sadly and waved. It was time to speak his piece. He said he was old; he didn’t know how old, ninety or a hundred, maybe. And his business finished and all his people gone. If there was still the family, then things might be different. Hosanna! But Evelina had passed away and what had become of the children? Billy Boy and Jasmine and Landis and Le Roy and Anna-Jo and Beautiful Love? Some to Memphis and Mobile and Birmingham, some to their graves. Anyway they weren’t with him; they had left the land he had worked so hard, and the fields were ruined and he was frightened in the old house at night with nothing for company but the whippoorwill. And so it was very unkind to keep him here when he longed to be with the others wherever they were. “Glory be, Mistuh Jesus, I’se ancient as de ancientess turtle an’ ancientuh than dat.…”
Lately he had fallen into a habit of pleading his case many times, and the longer he carried on the shriller and more urgent his voice became till it swelled fierce and demanding, and the bluejays, watching from the pine branches, flew away in rage and terror.
He stopped abruptly and cocked his head and listened. It repeated itself: an odd, disturbing sound. He looked this way and that way and then he saw a miracle: A flaming head, bobbing above the brush, was floating towards him; its hair was curled and red; a brilliant beard streamed down its face. Worse yet, another apparition, paler and more luminous, drifted after it.
Intense panic and confusion stiffened Preacher’s face and he moaned. Never in the history of Calupa County had such a miserable sound been heard. A crop-eared black-and-tan charged into the clearing, glared and growled with ropes of saliva dangling from its mouth. And two men, two strangers, stepped out of the shade, green shirts open at their throats, snakeskin galluses supporting their corduroy breeches. Both were short but magnificently built and one was curly-headed and sported an orange-red beard, the other yellow-haired and smooth-cheeked. A slain wildcat was slung between them on a bamboo pole and tall rifles stood at their sides.
This was all Preacher needed, and he moaned again and jumped to his feet and bounded like a jack rabbit into the forest and onto the path. So great was his haste that he left his cane resting against the oak stump and his Bible open on the moss. The hound wagged forward, sniffed at the pages and started chase.
“What in all fired hell?” said Curly Head, picking up the book and cane.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” said Yellow Hair.
They settled the cateymount, swinging on the pole where its paws were secured with hemp, over their broad shoulders, and Curly Head said, “Guess we better get after that dog; cuss him anyway.”
“Spec we had,” said Yellow Hair. “Only I’d give a pretty penny to rest a spell.… Got a blister the size of a half dollar about to kill me.”
Swaying under their weight of rifle and game, they struck up a song and moved towards the darkening pines and the cateymount’s glazed, golden eyes, fixed wide, caught and reflected the late sun, kicked back its fire.
In the meantime Preacher had covered considerable distance. Truly he hadn’t run so fast since the day the hoop snake had chased him from here to Kingdom Come. He was no longer decrepit but a sprinter stepping along spry as you please. His legs shot sturdy and sure over the path and it is to be noted that a wretched kink in his back, from which he had suffered twenty years, dissolved that afternoon never to reappear. The dark hollow flew past without his being aware, and, as he waded across the creek, his overalls flapped crazily. Oh, he was wounded with fear and the pad of his racing feet was a raging drum.
Then, just as he reached the dogwood tree, he had a tremendous thought. It was so severe and stunning that he stumbled and fell against the tree, which scattered rain and scared him badly. He rubbed his hurt elbow, flicked his tongue over his lips and nodded. “Lord above,” he said, “what has done been did to me?” Yes. Yes, he knew. He knew who the strangers were—knew it from the Good Book—but it was less comfort than might be supposed.
So he crawled to his feet and fled through the yard and up the steps.
On the porch he turned and glanced backward. Quiet, stilclass="underline" nothing stirring but shadows. Dusk was spreading fanwise over the ridge; fields and trees, bush and vine, were webbed in gathering color; purple and rose and the little peach trees were silver-green. And, not far off, the hound was baying. Momentarily, Preacher considered running the miles to Cypress City but that, he knew, would never save him. “Nevuh in dis world.”
Shut the door, bolt it good; there, that’s fine! Now the windows. But, oh, the shutters are broken and gone!