Quarrel with the Moon Page 14

  One of the pack, not yet old enough to mount a female, slipped away from the others. Padding softly across the dry ground, he occasionally glanced over his shoulder to see if he was missed. He wasn't. He reached the section of the mound where Harry Evers had been buried and, quivering with anticipation, ran his tongue over his lips. He had smelled the exposed hand. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he sniffed the air for the origin of the scent. He looked up and saw it protruding from the earth. Whining with anxiety, he pushed against the base of the ladder and moved it several yards. Then he clambered up the ladder halfway, steadied himself, and began to chew on the rigid flesh of the rotting hand.

  13

  Alex strolled up the path to the church. As he walked, he kicked loose some stones, gathered a handful and put them in his overall pocket. The youngster had never been inside the church, or any church, for that matter. He reached the bottom of the steps and contemplated the ruined building without emotion. Then he cried out in a harsh voice, "Rev'rend! Rev'rend! Come on out here!"

  There was no immediate response. Alex walked to the back of the building. A blackbird perched on a tombstone tugged at a dried piece of vine. A hard, humorless smile formed on the boy's face. He selected a stone from his pocket, took aim and threw it. The bird fell to the ground. It righted itself and tried to fly, but the stone had broken its wing. The bird hopped away to the safety of the underbrush.

  Satisfied, Alex turned his face to the stained-glass window. The symbolism was completely lost upon him. He called out once again, "Rev'rend!" There was still no response. Alex threw another stone; it broke a small hole in the sky-blue glass surrounding the face of Jesus.

  An eye and part of a crusty cheek appeared in the opening. "Who is it?" the preacher called in a tremulous voice.

  "You got a job, Rev'rend!" grinned Alex. "Faye Brooks is dead. The wake's at seven o'clock at her house. You clean yourself up an' get in an' out by then."

  There was a pause. Finally the preacher asked, "How did she die?"

  Alex hesitated. The Sin-Eater wasn't supposed to talk to anyone. Still, he was all too willing to share the morbid news. He scratched his genitals affectionately and replied, "She got drunk, fell down an' broke her head."

  The preacher cleared his throat and opened his mouth.

  Alex pretended to throw another rock. The preacher flinched. Alex ran away, his laughter trailing behind him like a sour odor.

  ***

  The remains of Faye Brooks lay on a plain plank, covered by a muslin sheet. Nearby, Orin Chastain, wearing only blue jeans and boots, worked on the plain pine coffin. He finished padding the inside with cotton and lined it with a smooth white material held down with carpet tacks. Then he painted the outside black with jet oil.

  Orin stepped back to admire his work. His beer was sitting on the edge of the plank supporting Faye Brooks; he picked it up and finished it. Using the edge of the cloth which covered her, he wiped the perspiration from his face, and returned to the casket to touch up a spot he had missed.

  When the coffin was dry, he picked up Faye's body and unceremoniously dropped it inside. Then he put the lid into place and, with swift, even strokes, nailed it shut. The shed echoed with the hollow sounds of the hammer.

  ***

  The interior of Sophie's General Merchandise Store reverberated with the sound of the loom. The sharp tinkle of the bell cut through the drone as the front door was opened. Sophie rose, hoping that the caller was the postman. She was expecting her latest order from Sears - a pink sundress and a pair of white patent-leather shoes.

  She stopped short, her smile of anticipation melting.

  "Good mornin', Mrs. Balock," Marinda said cheerfully. "An' how are you this beautiful Monday mornin'?"

  "What do you want?" asked Sophie.

  "Why, to make a purchase, of course."

  "What kind of purchase?" Sophie asked guardedly.

  Marinda walked over to a case of notions. "I want a length of black ribbon. Something shiny, 'bout two inches wide, or wider." She pursed her lips. "I suppose a foot an' a half of the stuff should do. After all, there's only myself an' Alex."

  Sophie quickly went behind the counter and opened the case. "I have this," she said, and held up a spool of two-inch satin ribbon. "It's thirty cents a yard, so that would make it...."

  "Fifteen cents for a foot and a half," supplied Marinda. She unclenched her four-fingered hand, revealing a tarnished nickel and dime. Sophie measured and cut the ribbon. "Please cut it again, Mrs. Balock. Exactly in the center."

  "You want me to cut it into two pieces?"

  "That's right. Two pieces the same length."

  Sophie did as she was asked and placed the pieces of ribbon on the counter. She hoped that Marinda would not hand her the money. The thought of touching the youngster's hand repulsed her.

  Marinda smiled engagingly as she let the coins slip from her palm to the counter. Sophie scooped up the money and started back to her loom, hoping that the girl would leave.

  "Can you spare two straight pins, Mrs. Balock?"

  "Straight pins?" Sophie repeated.

  "Yes. Straight pins. Two, please."

  Sophie nervously opened the pin jar and managed to jab her fingers several times before withdrawing two. She placed them on the counter and stepped back, hoping again for Marinda's departure.

  Marinda took one of the lengths of ribbon. Then, deftly, she pinned the ribbon around the sleeve of her upper left arm. Sophie frowned. Marinda stretched out her arm to admire the ribbon.

  "It looks pretty, don't it, Mrs. Balock?"

  "Yes," Sophie replied hesitantly. "But what's it for?"

  Marinda's smile curled upwards. "Why, it's for Faye Brooks. Didn't you hear? She's dead. Yes, some children found her early this morning along the path. Seems like she got herself drunk at the social an' fell down an' hurt her head."

  The words swarmed around Sophie, stinging and paralyzing her. "Faye ... dead?"

  "I thought you knew. As a matter of fact, I was surprised that you weren't in the kitchen makin' somethin' for the wake." Marinda glanced at Sophie's grandfather clock. "Why, it's after ten, Mrs. Balock. You better get started if you're goin' to bring a covered dish. It's expected, you know."

  Sophie covered her eyes and turned away. Her elbow hit one of the keys on the old-fashioned cash register, and with a noisy clang the drawer flew open, striking her in the side. She was suddenly possessed by images of flowing blood and broken skin.

  Marinda paused at the door. "Mrs. Balock, why don't you make something sweet?" It was more a threat than a suggestion. "You know how us children enjoy sweet things." A smile clung to her lips like powdered sugar. With that she let the door slam. Casually, she tipped over a display of baskets Sophie had painstakingly arranged earlier that morning. Then she hurried across the porch to Alex, who was waiting there for her.

  ***

  Jewell Runion had already ruined three spice cakes, which she had planned to be her contribution to the wake. Now, using the last of her flour, she tried to concentrate on what she was doing. She was eaten up with sorrow and guilt. She should have walked Faye all the way home. She should have known that she'd had too much to drink. Such a sad and futile end.

  Earlier that morning a group of children playing in the woods had found Faye's body. They had called for Orin, and he had carried her to his shed. Ordinarily the granny women - Jewell and Avarilla - would have prepared Faye for burial, would have washed her and dressed her in her Sunday best, but Orin sent word that Faye's face had been badly bruised by her fall, and he didn't want to upset them. And so, he had nailed the coffin shut. Still, it didn't seem right. The granny women had always attended the dead. But then, times had changed. A nameless fear insinuated itself around Jewell, but steadfastly she refused its company. Carefully, she counted her strokes. "Easy now, not too many," she said to herself. "That's what ruined the last one."

  Jewell's garnet ring was lying on the kitchen table. She always removed it whe
n doing chores. The sight of it caused her to cry. Jewell had intended to will it to Faye, who had so often admired the beauty of its sanguine stones. But now Faye was gone. Tears coursed down Jewell's withered cheeks and fell into the batter.

  ***

  Through her kitchen window, Avarilla glanced uneasily at the sky. It had suddenly become overcast and held the promise of a hard rain. The Big Ben ticked away the afternoon. It was now past two o'clock. Avarilla hoped that Josh and Cresta would make it back from the river before the storm broke. She checked the ham she was baking in the oven, poured on more glaze, and sat down to sip her fourth cup of coffee. She knew that she shouldn't drink so much coffee, but it was the only thing that had kept her going through the day.

  Sissy was on the porch, playing with her "babies." Avarilla had substituted an old beaver hat for the foul, maggot-infested squirrel Sissy had somehow acquired. Her daughter had been strangely calm since the previous evening. She might even have been called serene as she devoted her complete attention to her "toys" - Josh and Orin.

  Avarilla finished her coffee, then opened three jars of home-canned beans - green, white, and red - for a cold bean salad. As she was cutting onions into paper-thin slices, Reuben came into the kitchen. Avarilla looked at him with exasperation. He looked more haggard than ever and his clothes were filthy. "Let me fix you sometin' to eat, Reuben."

  He shook his head. "I was wonderin' how much corn I ought to bring over."

  "Two or three gallons should be God's plenty."

  Reuben shifted his feet. "Who's going to pay me?"

  Avarilla didn't bother concealing her irritation. "Pay you? Why, that's your contribution to the wake."

  "Seems like I been doin' a lot of contributin'."

  "Since that's your only good deed," Avarilla replied tersely, "I suggest you cling to it. Now hurry, an' get the stuff over there before it starts to rain." Reuben slouched out of the kitchen.

  Avarilla had finished the onions when the first heavy drops of rain spattered against the windowpane. She went to the door. "Sissy. You come inside now. The wind's risin' an' you'll get drenched out there."

  ***

  Roma Underwood had never learned to cook properly. Her kitchen was a suburban housewife's nightmare. The kitchen table was littered with dirty dishes, sewing and containers of kerosene. Unwashed pots and pans, old magazines, gardening tools, and a black-and-white cat, who watched Roma through passive eyes, sat on the unscoured sink.

  A shelf holding canned goods was cluttered with bags of dried herbs, burnt and unburnt candles, and pieces of homemade jewelry. Clothing, some dirty, some clean and waiting to be pressed, hung around the room on nails. Above, stuck to the walls by a flour-and-paper paste, were pictures of dark and sultry sirens cut from magazines. They paid homage to Roma's own egotism. A washboard balanced across two chairs held a mirror, a kerosene lamp and Roma's few cosmetics.

  The windows were so streaked and dirty that it was a while before Roma realized it was raining outside. She shrugged and finished washing the few dishes needed to make her specialty - caramel apples.

  Water had splashed against her thin shift; the material clung to her full breasts and rounded belly like wet tissue paper.

  While the mixture of sugar and Karo syrup was cooking on the stove, Roma washed twenty or so apples. Then she laid them aside, along with the sticks Orin had cut for her, and went to the stove to check the caramel mixture. She lifted the wooden spoon to her lips, blew on the sticky brown substance and licked it.

  Roma stabbed the sticks into the apples and dipped them, putting them on butter-greased plates to cool in front of the window. Even though it was mid-afternoon, the sky was as black as endless night. The wind whipped the rain against the small house; the sound of it had made Roma drowsy. She sat down on a kitchen chair and contemplated the neat rows of apples as bright and golden as Christmas tree ornaments. She picked up the nearest one. Her pink tongue slid out and stroked the gleaming surface. With a sigh she let it drop in her lap and savored the weight pressing against her there. As she flexed and un-flexed her shapely legs, Roma's eyes were drawn to a photograph which had captured the New York skyline. She continued flexing and unflexing her legs and thought of Josh.

  ***

  The sun had been swallowed up by the turbulent clouds, and the wind tore across the mountains. As the storm came closer, the trees writhed and struggled as if in agony.

  Josh and Cresta hurried up the trail, hoping to reach the mine before the storm broke. They were nearly there when the clouds broke, and the heavy rain pelted them like gunshot. Within seconds they were soaked clear through to their skin. They couldn't see where they were going; the earth became as slick as grease.

  Clutching one another, half-stumbling, half-crawling, they reached the mine. The mud surrounding it was like quicksand. Cresta slipped and fell. Josh grabbed her arms and dragged her to the entrance of the main shaft. He struggled with the boards haphazardly nailed across the opening. The wood was rotten and came free with little effort. Josh pulled Cresta inside.

  "Josh, do you think it's safe?" she gasped.

  "It's dry." Josh opened his backpack. The canvas had kept everything dry. He withdrew a flashlight and flashed the beam around the interior of the mine. The main area was about twenty feet high and twenty feet wide. Further on, the mine branched into three tunnels. The ceiling looked solid and the timbers which supported it were still intact. Dry leaves had been blown inside by several seasons of wind. Josh began gathering them up and collecting loose boards. He soon had a fire going. Cresta was huddled against the wall, shivering. He gave her a dry blanket from the pack and said, "Here, love, strip out of your clothes and wrap up in this. The fire should be giving off some heat soon. I'm afraid it's going to be a bit smoky in here, but at least we'll be warm and dry."

  Cresta stripped and wrapped herself in the warm blanket. She made an attempt at a joke, but her teeth were chattering. "Your face is all sooty, Josh. You look just like a minstrel man." Josh laughed in response and wrapped his arms around her. He was alarmed at how cold her flesh felt.

  "I'm going to brew you something hot. I'll fill the canteen with rain water and boil it over the fire. At least you can have a cup of hot tea."

  "Good. I'm chilled to the bone. That rain feels like it came straight from the North Pole."

  After tea and a meager meal of cheese and dry bread - the last of the supplies - Cresta professed to feeling better. Josh felt her forehead. She was running a temperature. He looked over his shoulder to the mine opening. The rain was still coming down in silver sheets. "It looks like we're on the other side of a waterfall," remarked Cresta.

  "I hope to hell it lets up soon. I want to get you back to the camper and to bed. I'm afraid you're liable to end up with a cold, or worse."

  "I never get colds," said Cresta. "I'm as healthy as all get out."

  Josh regarded her. Her face was paler than he'd ever seen it. Two great spots of red glowed hotly on her cheeks, and her eyes were glazed. He stood up. "I'm going to look in the tunnels for some more loose boards in case the rain doesn't let up."

  "Oh, Josh, be careful. You know what Aunt Avvie said."

  "I won't venture far, love."

  Cresta watched him until he disappeared into the shadows, and only the distant flickering of the flashlight identified his whereabouts. She drew the blanket around her and moved closer to the fire. Cresta knew she was getting sick, and she was unreasonably irritated with herself. She never fell ill. She disliked being a bother to anyone, even those closest to her. The yellow flames danced in slow motion before her eyes, and Cresta nodded off. She drifted into unconsciousness, her head resting on a knapsack and her body drawn up in a fetal position.

  Josh followed the center tunnel for thirty yards without finding any loose wood. Even in the belly of the mountain he could hear the wind hurling itself against its side like a demented animal. Trickles of water seeped through the tunnel ceiling and down the walls.

&n
bsp; Blackness yawned before him. It was so dark that the light would not penetrate it. Josh eased one foot in front of the other. Suddenly he felt nothing but space. He pitched himself backwards and fell on his buttocks. Then he examined the path with his hands. A sheer drop lay just ahead of him. It was impossible to ascertain its depth.

  Shaking with relief, he backed up until he came to the main cavern. This time he chose the left tunnel, which veered sharply away from the center of the mountain and went steadily downward. He laid aside several planks which he would pick up on his way back. He wanted to make sure there was enough wood for the fire. Cresta must be kept warm.

  The tunnel suddenly widened and opened into a cave which was about the size of a modest living room. Here Josh's nostrils were assailed by a scent which was excruciatingly vile. Josh held his breath and felt his confidence evaporate.

  At first the floor appeared to be covered with snow. Then, as a faint wind stirred the billowy white drifts, he saw that it was not snow, but feathers - thousands of feathers, with occasional sharp flashes of polished bone. Some were broken, some were whole, and some remained strung together: a raccoon's skeleton here, a snake's there ... it was a hideous underground graveyard. He surmised that the cave was a den used by a pack of wild animals who returned here to eat their prey.

  He forced himself to move forward. Feathers stirred around his feet, bones snapped beneath his weight. He felt as if he were wading through the surf of the River Styx, towards the land of Death. The stench was overpowering.

  Suddenly Josh found its source. A stretch of bare earth was covered with excrement.

  The feces did not look like any animal's. It appeared to be human waste.

  One thought and one thought alone possessed him.