Outer Dark (12 page)

Once in the night they went through a shoal and he could hear the river going louder until it had risen to a babble and the ferry swung away in a sickening yaw and slid down some rocky flume, him sitting helpless and blind, clutching the bench, his stomach lapsing down black and ropy glides and the fog cold and wet upon him, praying silent and godless in his heart to the river to be easy. They came about in still water and went on. Much later the fog lifted. He rose and watched out over the river. He could see the face of it in sullen and threatful replication and after a while he could see a dark mullioned line of trees. He could not tell how fast they were going, he and this boat. He had not thought of them turning either, but now the gradied imprecision of the silhouetted trees swung slowly away into a colorless vapor and went behind him and crept forth again on the far side. And again. They had begun to move faster. When they swung a third time he began to think that they were closer to the trees and now too he could see the pale teeth of a rip in the river near the shore and he could hear it like the stammerings of the cloistered mad. Very soon after this he saw a light. It went away again before he could guess what kind of light it might be but he watched for it. The barge had swung twice more and now he was in eddy-water almost beneath the dark wall of trees. He could feel the slide and bump of debris on the hull, the dull grinding of a log sliding under. The light appeared again. A pin-flicker set in a glozed cup. He watched. It had begun to rain. He felt it very lightly on his arms and was surprised. He watched the light with his shoulderblades cocked against the chill and the rain falling upon him and soundlessly in the dark upon the peened and seething face of the river.

At first he thought it to be a cabin but it was not a cabin. It had no shape but what it took from breaking on the arch of trees above it and he knew that it was a campfire. The barge had slowed. Some trees passed across the front of the fire and he thought they were men and then a man did cross it, an upright shape that seemed to be convulsed there for a moment before going from sight like something that had incinerated itself. He was very close to the bank now but moving in a slick again and gaining speed.

Ho, he called.

He could see them move. He called again.

Who’s there? a voice came back.

He already had a rope up from the bow and in his hand. Now as the barge slid past a last clump of trees there were three men standing on the bank of the river in the gentle rain with the fire behind them projecting their shapes outward into soaring darkness and with no dimension to them at all.

Catch a line, he called to them.

How many of ye is they?

Just me. Here. He couldn’t see their faces. He was moving before them and before the light like someone in a stageprop being towed from wing to wing.

You want me to shoot him? a voice said.

Shut up. Thow the line, mister.

He held the line. He was trying to see them but they were only silhouettes. Then the boat began to turn and he could hear the sound of the river again and he threw the line. It uncoiled across the water with a hiss and he could see one of the men move and squat and rise again.

You got it? he called.

Hitch it, one said.

He had swung past them now and no longer could see them at all. He heard the rope saw along the gunwale and tauten and there was a creaking sound as the ferry hove about and he took two little steps to recover his balance. Some tree branches scratched along the hull and broke and came aboard. Then he was ashore, staving off brush with his arms and making his way through the woods toward the light.

When he entered the little clearing there were only two of them standing there. One was holding a rifle loosely in one hand and picking his teeth. The other stood with long arms dangling at his sides, slightly stooped, his jaw hanging and mouth agape in a slavering smile. The one with the rifle dropped his hand for a moment as if he might be going to speak, but he didn’t.

I was on the ferry and it busted loose, Holme said. That’s it yander. He pointed vaguely to the darkness. Neither of them looked. They were watching Holme.

You wouldn’t care for me to dry a little in front of your fire would ye? I’d be proud to tote wood.

Neither of them spoke. Holme looked about him. The third one was standing just in the rim of light to his left, watching him. He was dressed in a dark and shapeless suit that could not have buttoned across his chest and he wore a shirt with some kerchief or rag knotted at the neck. His face scowled redly out of a great black beard. He jerked his head at Holme. Come up to the fire, he said.

Thank ye, Holme said. I’m wet plumb thew and might near froze to boot.

The other two turned slightly to follow him with their eyes, a predacious curiosity. Holme nodded to them as he passed but they gave no sign of having noticed this.

Set down, the bearded one said, motioning with his hand.

Thank ye, Holme said. He squatted before the fire and extended his palms over it like some stormy and ruinous prophet. The small rain fell upon them silently and wet wood sang in the flames. The bearded one watched him.

That river sure is up, Holme said.

It is.

Ferryman went overboard.

What ferryman?

Holme looked at him across the fire. The ferryman, he said. The one that was runnin that there ferry.

You ain’t the ferryman.

No. I was just crossin the river. We never made it. They was another feller on a horse and I reckon it got him too.

The bearded one was leaning forward with interest. Ah, he said. You ain’t the ferryman.

No, Holme said. It knocked him plumb out of his boots. That cable did when it busted. Sounded like a cannonload of cats goin by.

Well now, the bearded one said. I allowed you was the ferryman.

No, Holme said. It was like I told ye.

The bearded one was watching him very intently. He looked down at the fire. On a rock was a pan of black and mummified meat. He watched the fire and rubbed his hands together. The other two men had come up and were squatting half in darkness watching him. The bearded one looked toward them and Holme looked at the pan of meat again.

Help yourself to some meat there if you’re hungry, the man said.

Holme swallowed and glanced at him again. In the up-slant of light his beard shone and his mouth was red, and his eyes were shadowed lunettes with nothing there at all.

What kind is it?

The man didn’t answer.

Holme looked to the fire. I really ain’t a bit hungry, he said, but I’d admire to dry this here shirt if you don’t care.

The man nodded.

He started to pull the wet shirt off and as he jerked his arms forward he felt the cloth part soundlessly down the back. He stopped and reached behind him gingerly.

Looks like you about out of a shirt, the man said.

Yes, he said. He peeled the shirt from him and looked at it, holding it up before the fire.

You ain’t et, the man said.

Holme’s stomach turned coldly.

Ain’t no need to be backards about it. Get all ye want. We’ve done et.

He laid the shirt across his knees, reached gingerly and took a piece of the blackened meat from the pan and bit into it. It had the consistency of whang, was dusted with ash, tasted of sulphur. He tore off a bite and began chewing, his jaws working in a hopeless circular motion.

The bearded one nodded. And a rider, he said.

A what? Holme said.

A rider.

Yes.

Ah, he said.

Old crazy horse like to of killed me, Holme said. Whatever it was had swollen in his mouth and taken on a pulpy feel warped and run with unassailable fibers. He chewed.

Where was it you was headed? the man said.

He worked the clot of meat into one cheek. I was just crossin the river, he said. I wasn’t headed no place special.

No place special.

No.

Ah, the man said.

Holme chewed. I don’t believe I ever et no meat of this kind, he said.

I ain’t sure I ever did either, the man said.

He stopped. You ain’t et none of this? he said.

The man didn’t answer for a minute. Then he said: They’s different kinds.

Oh, Holme said.

The one with the rifle across his squatting thighs giggled. Ain’t they, he said. Shitepoke, pole …

The bearded one didn’t say anything. He just looked at him and he hushed.

Ain’t no such a thing, he said. Don’t pay him no mind, mister. Pull in a little closter there. You Harmon, get some wood.

The one with the rifle rose and handed it to the one who had not spoken and disappeared.

I’d be proud to help fetch some wood, Holme said.

You just set, the man said. You don’t need to worry about it.

He chewed.

That is a jimdandy pair of boots you got there, the man said.

Holme looked at the boots. He had sat and they were stretched sideways along the fire, one crossed over the other. They all right, he said.

Yes.

I wisht it’d let up rainin, Holme said. Don’t you?

Yes, the man said. What did ye do with the horse?

What horse?

The rider’s horse.

I didn’t do nothin with him. He like to of killed me. Commenced tearin up and down like somethin crazy till he run plumb off in the river.

More horse than you could handle was it?

I couldn’t even see it.

Or maybe you was afraid to take it. That makes sense.

I don’t need no horse, Holme said.

No. Get ye some more meat there.

I still got some, Holme said.

The man turned his head. Harmon had come up with a load of wet limbs and now he dumped them on the ground and knelt in the loamy river soil and began to arrange them before the fire to dry. The man waited. Then he said: Set down. Harmon squatted on his haunches and folded his arms about his shinbones.

Well, the man said, turning to Holme. You’ve set there and dried and warmed and et but you’ve not said your name. A feller didn’t know he’d think you wanted it kept for a secret.

I don’t care to tell it, Holme said. Folks don’t commonly ast, where I come from.

We ain’t in them places, the man said.

Holme, Holme said.

Holme, the man repeated. The word seemed to feel bad in his mouth. He jerked his head vaguely toward the one with the rifle. That’n ain’t got a name, he said. He wanted me to give him one but I wouldn’t do it. He don’t need nary. You ever see a man with no name afore?

No.

No, the man said. Not likely.

Holme looked at the one with the rifle.

Everthing don’t need a name, does it? the man said.

I don’t know. I don’t reckon.

I guess you’d like to know mine, wouldn’t ye?

I don’t care, Holme said.

I said I guess you’d like to know mine wouldn’t ye?

Yes, Holme said.

The man’s teeth appeared and went away again as if he had smiled. Yes, he said. I expect they’s lots would like to know that.

Holme wiped his mouth on his naked arm and tried to swallow and then went on chewing. It was very quiet. He listened but he could hear no sound anywhere in the woods or along the river. Not of owl or nightbird or distant hounds.

Some things is best not named, the man said. Harmon here—he gestured toward the squatting figure—that’s his right name. I like for him to set and listen even if he cain’t understand much.

Holme nodded.

I like for him to have the opportunity.

Yes.

Harmon did not appear to be listening. He was gazing into the fire like a lean and dirty cat.

He might know somethin and him and me neither one know about it, the man said. Asides I like for him to set there and listen and maybe mend the fire.

Harmon moved. He did not stop looking at the fire but he leaned and groped with one hand until he had hold of some wood and he poked a few pieces into the wasting flames. Holme could see the third one squatting on the far side with the rifle upright between his knees and his face resting against the side of the barrel.

I like to keep the fire up, the man said. They might be somebody else comin.

Holme swallowed the leached and tasteless wad of meat, his eyeballs tilting like a toad’s with the effort. I would doubt they was, he said.

The bearded one didn’t seem to hear. He stretched his feet forth and crossed them and recrossed them. Holme reached toward the pan before he thought and checked too late. He lifted a sour black chunk of meat and bit into it.

Now these here old boots of mine, the man said, is plumb wore out.

Holme looked at the boots. They were cracked and weatherblackened and one was cleft from tongue to toe like a hoof. He looked at Harmon and he looked at the fire, chewing.

Ain’t they? the man said.

I reckon, Holme said. He rearranged the shirt and felt of it.

Get ye some more meat there, the man said.

Thank ye, Holme said. I’ve a plenty.

Did that ferryman not have nary better shirt than that?

What?

I said did that ferryman not have no better a shirt on him than that? I never noticed his shirt.

The man watched him. After a minute he turned to Harmon. He says he never noticed his shirt, he said.

Harmon squeezed his shins and giggled and nodded his head up and down.

The man had stretched out before the fire and was propped up on one elbow. He said: I wonder where a feller might find him a pair of bullhide boots like them you got.

Holme’s mouth was dust dry and the piece of meat seemed to have grown bigger in it. I don’t know, he said.

Don’t know?

He turned the shirt again. He was very white and naked sitting there. They was give to me, he said.

They look a mite turned up at the toes, the man said. Did they not know your size?

They was bought for somebody else. He died and I got em give to me is how come they a little big. They all right.

The man shifted slightly and raised one of his own broken boots and looked at it and lowered it again. Holme could see part of one naked foot within the rent leather.

I reckon a dead man’s boots is better than near no boots a-tall, the man said.