April 21, 2008
WOUNDED MAN AND THE QUESTING BEAST
| BERRIEN C. HENDERSON |
That afternoon Art and C.V. knocked on a screen door and peered in.
”Come on in!” said Old Man Fisher.
The screen door eeee-riii-ed a rodent sound on ancient hinges. In a gold slipcovered recliner sat Old Man Fisher. The past year’s convalescence hadn’t helped an otherwise active man and sometimes farmer. The pink stump of shin just below the right knee was an eye-magnet, and Fisher, cognizant of this, pulled a purple woolen fleece over his legs.
”Take a seat,” he said and motioned to slipcovered chairs.
”Hey, Fisher,” said C.V.
A nod. “C.V. Art, been a while. You through with your schooling off to Valdosta way?”
”Yes, sir.”
Old Man Fisher’s eyes glittered for a moment, the way Art remembered them from his own childhood and from when the man drove a school bus part-time, too.
”You doing all right, Art?” said Fisher. Which was to say: “Sorry your daddy saved some folks’ lives down at Dixon’s Country Store during a robbery two years gone. A good man, your daddy.”
Art said, “Gettin’ good at gettin’ by.”
”’bout all you can do. How ’bout your land and legal issues?”
”Just glad I’m shed of it.”
”Lawyers,” grumbled Fisher.
”Well, ‘cept Mr. Martin,” said Art.
”Coulda done worse.”
”Might’ve cost more.”
Fisher laughed. “Anyhow, what can I do for you boys?”
C.V. said, “Need us to run any errands?”
”Take some money to that girl down at the Satilla River Landing down Voight Bridge way for some preserves she brought the other day.”
He grabbed a crutch and went into the kitchen and put some money in an envelope and wrote something on that.
”Takin’ your insulin like you ‘pose to?” said C.V.
”Since when do I need you to nanny me?”
C.V. said, “Well, look what gettin’ a frog gig stuck in your calf earned you.”
”Helluva note when you lose a limb, and it hurts where it used to be.” He handed the envelope to C.V. and then took some Vicodin. “Yeah, still hurts,” he said.
So, C.V. had impressed the anecdote upon Art: The runaway lived at the old Gill house and in thrall to a ten-foot-long albino rattlesnake that hypnotized her into taking care of it under the crawlspace of the house. “She’s been calling it a Questing Beast,” said C.V.
The name unhinged something anchored deep in synaptic wrinkles as the dirt road’s tongue lolled amid acres of planted pines—all dry, wasted after a few years of drought. They came to the old Gill house, standing on cinder block columns a good four feet off the ground. Cream-colored paint peeled off the warped wood siding. It had been an accepted (though frowned upon) haven for squatters like Morgan—black-haired and a cream-faced with jade eyes like sunlight on spring leaves in April after a rain.
And it was understandable the circumspect way she looked at these two men getting out of the pickup.
Art offered a smile and waved. “Afternoon. Old Man Fisher says you brought him some strawberry preserves.”
”And?” She folded her arms.
”He says thank you.” He held up the envelope so she could read the flap. “For the two jars’ worth.”
”Appreciate it.”
From nearby came the most regional and peculiar of warnings from a brace of rattles. Morgan’s eyes widened; Art felt an icepick jam itself in his psyche.
Come see why you rode out here.
Morgan’s eyes had glazed over.
Don’t mind her. Now, you. You’re a treat.
The words undulated through his head, and he followed Morgan like an automaton. Oblivious, C.V. sat on the open tailgate and continued his smoke.
Art and Morgan stooped to duck-crawl under the house. They could see where stray dogs had once dug pits in which to flop and slumber, but no more. Gaping mouth-holes where woods rats had burrowed peppered other spots. In the cool dark under the exposed floor joists hung any number of spiderwebs. All a haunt for things stray and feral and opportunistic.
Its head the size of a man’s fist, its body thigh-thick and ten feet long, waited the rattlesnake. The head lifted off the ground and gauged them with ever-flared pits while the bifurcated tongue tasted the air.
The rattlesnake was albino.
Reverently, Morgan mumbled silently—and Art imagined a mute’s liturgy—while unwrapping a piece of burlap sack. She shoved the flaccid offering, nudged it, so that the snake might accept it. Art’s nostrils quivered when he detected some gamey odor.
The serpent eased to the dead rat, then looked up at Art.
It’s so much easier this way. And I am old.
”How old?” said Art. His own voice sounded far away. He glanced at Morgan, whose face was slack.
Then came the dried-beans-in-their-pods noise of the rattles. I weigh over one hundred pounds. Am albino, as you clearly see. Can mesmerize and sling glamour with the best of them. In fact, you and your friend will barely remember this encounter—just your bringing the Wounded Man’s money to this minx who so readily feeds me rats and the occasional feline. Oh, and the best strawberry preserves in three counties.
The snake seemed to smile.
I will give birth soon. My own young will kill and eat me.
”Didn’t know rattlesnake young did that,” said Art.
They don’t because they aren’t. Just the best avatar under the circumstances. If you somehow find yourself dreaming of this moment, this conversation, I suggest taking a stiff drink.
”I quit last night,” said Art, “but resuming won’t be a problem.”
A prolonged hiss. Poison of choice?
”Southern Comfort.”
Capital. Now, go.
Art backed out of there as his clarity returned by degrees. He dusted himself off and hurried to the truck. Morgan stayed behind and sang softly like a priestess who’d lost her way.
foot » Blog Archive » WOUNDED MAN AND THE QUESTING BEAST said,
April 21, 2008 at 1:49 pm
[…] Robert Hogan wrote an interesting post today onHere’s a quick excerptSo, CV had impressed the anecdote upon Art: The runaway lived at the old Gill house and in thrall to a ten-foot-long albino rattlesnake that hypnotized her into taking care of it under the crawlspace of the house. … […]