Even when you take a turn off one of the state or federal roads that cut through the Barrens, you feel the isolation almost immediately. The forty-foot scrub pines close in behind you and quietly but oh so effectively cut you off from the rest of the world. I’ll bet there are people who’ve lived to ripe old ages in the Barrens who have never seen a paved road. Conversely, there are no complete topographical maps of the Barrens because there are vast areas that no human eyes have ever seen.
Are you getting the picture?
“Where do we start?” Creighton asked as we crawled past the retirement villages along Route 70. This had been an empty stretch of road when I was a kid. Now it was Wrinkle City.
“We start at the capital.”
“Trenton? I don’t want to go to Trenton.”
“Not the state capital. The capital of the pines. Used to be called Shamong Station. Now it’s known as Chatsworth.”
He pulled out his map and squinted through the index.
“Oh, right. I see it. Right smack in the middle of the Barrens. How big is it?”
“A veritable Piney megalopolis, my friend. Three hundred souls.”
Creighton smiled, and for a second or two he seemed almost … innocent.
“Think we can get there before rush hour?”
3. JASPER MULLINER
I stuck to the main roads, taking 70 to 72 to 563, and we were there in no time.
“You’ll see something here you won’t see in any place else in the Barrens,” I said as I drove down Chatsworth’s main street.
“Electricity?” Creighton said.
He didn’t look up from the clutter of maps on his lap. He’d been following our progress on paper, mile by mile.
“No. Lawns. Years ago a number of families decided they wanted grass in their front yards. There’s no topsoil to speak of out here; the ground’s mostly sand. So they trucked in loads of topsoil and seeded themselves some lawns. Now they’ve got to cut them.”
I drove past the general store and its three gas pumps out on the sidewalk.
“Esso,” Creighton said, staring at the sign over the pumps. “That says it all, doesn’t it.”
“That it do.”
We continued on until we came to a sandy lot occupied by a single trailer. No lawn here.
“Who’s this?” Creighton said, folding up his maps as I hopped out of the Wrangler.
“An old friend of the family.”
This was Jasper Mulliner’s place. He was some sort of an uncle—on my mother’s side, I think. But distant blood relationships are nothing special in the Barrens. An awful lot of people are related in one way or another. Some said he was a descendant of the notorious bandit of the pines, Joseph Mulliner. Jasper had never confirmed that, but he’d never denied it, either.
I knocked on the door, wondering who would answer. I wasn’t even sure Jasper was still alive. But when the door opened, I immediately recognized the grizzled old head that poked through the opening.
“You’re not sellin’ anything, are you?” he said.
“Nothing, Mr. Mulliner,” I said. “I’m Kathleen McKelston. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
His eyes lit as his face broke into a toothless grin.
“Danny’s girl? The one who got the college scholarship? Sure I remember you! Come on in!”
Jasper was wearing khaki shorts, a sleeveless orange T-shirt, and duck boots—no socks. His white hair was neatly combed and he was freshly shaved. He’d been a salt hay farmer in his younger days, and his hands were still calloused from it. He’d moved on to overseeing a cranberry bog in his later years. His skin was a weathered brown and looked tougher than saddle leather. The inside of the trailer reminded me more of a low-ceilinged freight car than a home, but it was clean. The presence of the television set told me he had electricity, but I saw no phone nor any sign of running water.
I introduced him to Creighton, and we settled onto a three-legged stool and a pair of ladder-back chairs as I spent the better part of half an hour telling him about my life since leaving the Barrens and answering questions about my mother and how she was doing since my father died. Then he went into a soliloquy about what a great man my father was. I let him run on, pretending to be listening, but turning my mind to other things. Not because I disagreed with him, but because it had been barely a year since Dad had dropped dead and I was still hurting.
Dad had not been your typical Piney. Although he loved the Barrens as much as anyone else who grew up here, he’d known there was a bigger though not necessarily better life beyond them. That bigger world didn’t interest him in the least, but just because he was content with where he was didn’t mean that I’d be. He wanted to allow his only child a choice. He knew I’d need a decent education if that choice was to be meaningful. And to provide that education for me, he did what few Pineys like to do: he took a steady job.
That’s not to say that Pineys are afraid of hard work. Far from it. They’ll break their backs at any job they’re doing. It’s simply that they don’t like to be tied down to the same job day after day, month after month. Most of them have grown up flowing with the cycle of the Barrens. Spring is for gathering sphagnum moss to sell to the florists and nurseries. In June and July they work the blueberry and huckleberry fields. In the fall they move into the bogs for the cranberry harvest. And in the cold of winter they cut cordwood, or cut holly and mistletoe, or go “pineballing”—collecting pinecones to sell. None of this is easy work. But it’s not the same work. And that’s what matters.
The Piney attitude toward jobs is the most laid-back you’ll ever encounter. That’s because they’re in such close harmony with their surroundings. They know that with all the pure water around them and flowing beneath their feet, they’ll never go thirsty. With all the wild vegetation around them, they’ll never lack for fruit and vegetables. And whenever the meat supply gets low, they pick up a rifle and head into the brush for squirrel, rabbit, or venison, whatever the season.
When I neared fourteen, my father bit the bullet and moved us close to Pemberton, where he took a job with a well-drilling crew. It was steady work, with benefits, and I got to go to Pemberton High. He pushed me to take my schoolwork seriously, and I did. My high grades coupled with my gender and low socioeconomic status earned me a full ride—room, board, and tuition—at Rutgers. As soon as that was settled, he was ready to move back into the Barrens. But my mother had become used to the conveniences and amenities of town living. She wanted to stay in Pemberton. So they stayed.
I still can’t help but wonder whether Dad might have lived longer if he’d moved back into the woods. I’ve never mentioned that to my mother, of course.
When Jasper paused, I jumped in: “My friend Jon’s doing a book, and he’s devoting a chapter to the Jersey Devil.”
“Is that so?” Jasper said. “And you brought him to me, did you?”
“Well, Dad always told me there weren’t many folks in the Pines you didn’t know, and not much that went on that you didn’t know about.”
The old man beamed and did what many Pineys do: he repeated a phrase three times.
“Did he now? Did he now? Did he really now? Ain’t that somethin’! I do believe that calls for a little jack.”
As Jasper turned and reached into his cupboard, Creighton threw me a questioning look.
“Applejack,” I told him.
He smiled. “Ah. Jersey lightning.”
Jasper turned back with three glasses and a brown quart jug. With a practiced hand he poured two fingers’ worth into each and handed them to us. The tumblers were smudged and maybe a little crusty, but I wasn’t worried about germs. There’s never been a germ that could stand up to straight jack from Jasper Mulliner’s still. I remember siphoning some from my father’s jug and sneaking off into the brush at night to meet a couple of my girlfriends from high school, and we’d sit around and sing and get plastered.
I could tell by the way the vapor singed my nasal membranes t
hat this was from a potent batch. I neglected to tell Creighton to go slow. As I took a respectful sip, he tossed his off. I watched him wince as he swallowed, saw his face grow red and his eyes begin to water.
“Whoa!” he said hoarsely. “You could etch glass with that stuff!” He caught Jasper looking at him sideways and held out his glass. “But delicious! Could I have just a drop more?”
“Help yourself,” Jasper said, pouring him another couple of fingers. “Plenty more where this came from. But down it slow. This here’s sippin’ whiskey. You go puttin’ too much of it down like that and you’ll get apple palsy. Slow and leisurely does it when you’re drinking Gus Sooy’s best.”
“This isn’t yours?”
“Naw! I stopped that long time ago. Too much trouble and gettin’ too civilized ‘round here. Besides, Gus’s jack is as good as mine ever was. Maybe better.”
He set the jug on the floor between us.
“About that Jersey Devil,” I said, prompting him before he got off on another tangent.
“Right. The ol’ Devil. He used to be known as the Leeds’ Devil. I’m sure you’ve heard various versions of the story, but I’ll tell you the real one. That ol’ devil’s been around a spell, better’n two and a half centuries. All started back around 1730 or so. That was when Mrs. Leeds of Estellville found herself in the family way for the thirteenth time. Now she was so fed up and angry about this that she cried out, ‘I hope this time it’s the Devil!’ Well now, someone must’ve been listenin’ that night, because she got her wish. When that thirteenth baby was born, it was an ugly-faced thing, born with teeth like no one’d ever seen before, and it had a curly, sharp-pointed tail, and leathery wings like a bat. It bit its mother and flew out through the window. It grew up out in the pine wilds, stealing and eating chickens and small piglets at first, then graduating to cows, children, even growed men. All they ever found of its victims was their bones, and they was chipped and nicked by powerful sharp teeth. Some say it’s dead now, some say it’ll never die. Every so often someone says he shot and killed it, but most folks think it can’t be killed. It gets blamed for every missing chicken and every pig or cow that wanders off, and so after a while you think it’s just an ol’ Piney folktale. But it’s out there. It’s out there. It’s surely out there.”
“Have you ever seen it?” Creighton asked. He was sipping his jack with respect this time around.
“Saw its shadow. It was up on Apple Pie Hill, up at the top, in the days before they put up the firetower. Before you was born, Kathleen. I’d been out doing some summer hunting, tracking a big ol’ stag. You know what a climb Apple Pie is, don’tcha?”
I nodded. “Sure do.”
It didn’t look like much of a hill. No cliffs or precipices, just a slow incline that seemed to go on forever. You didn’t have to do much more than walk to get to the top, but you were bushed when you finally reached it.
“Anyways, I was about three-quarters the way up when it got too dark to do any more tracking. Well, I was tired and it was a warm summer night, so’s I just settled down on the pine needles and decided I’d spend the night. I had some jerky and some pone and my jug.” He pointed to the floor. “Just like that one. You two be sure to help yourselves, hear me?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
I saw Creighton reach for the jug. He could always handle a lot. I was already feeling my two sips. It was getting warmer in here by the minute.
“Anyways,” Jasper went on, “I was sitting there chewing and sipping when I saw some pine lights.”
Creighton started in midpour and spilled some applejack over his hand. He was suddenly very alert, almost tense.
“Pine lights?” he said. “You saw pine lights? Where were they?”
“So you’ve heard of the pine lights, have you?”
“I sure have. I’ve been doing my homework. Where did you see them? Were they moving?”
“They were streaming across the crest of Apple Pie Hill, just skirting the tops of the trees.”
Creighton put his tumbler down and began fumbling with his map.
“Apple Pie Hill … I remember seeing that somewhere. Here it is.” He jabbed his finger down on the map as if he were driving a spike into the hill. “Okay. So you were on Apple Pie Hill when you saw the pine lights. How many were there?”
“A whole town’s worth of them, maybe a hunnert, more that I’ve ever seen before or since.”
“How fast were they going?”
“Different speeds. Different sizes. Some gliding peacefully, some zipping along, moving past the slower ones. Looked like the turnpike on a summer weekend.”
Creighton leaned forward, his eyes brighter than ever.
“Tell me about it.”
Something about Creighton’s intensity disturbed me. All of a sudden he’d become an avid listener. He’d been listening politely to Jasper’s retelling of the Jersey Devil story, but he’d seemed more interested in the applejack than in the tale. He hadn’t bothered to check the location of Apple Pie Hill when Jasper had said he’d seen the Jersey Devil there, but he’d been in a rush to find it at the first mention of the pine lights.
The pine lights. I’d heard of them, but I’d never seen one. People tended to catch sight of them on summer nights, mostly toward the end of the season. Some said it was ball lightning or some form of Saint Elmo’s fire, some called it swamp gas, and some said it was the souls of dead Pineys coming back for periodic visits. Why was Creighton so interested?
“Well,” Jasper said, “I spotted one or two moving along the crest of the hill and didn’t think too much of it. I spot a couple just about every summer. Then I saw a few more. And then a few more. I got a little excited and decided to get up to the top of Apple Pie and see what was going on. I was breathing hard by the time I got there. I stopped and looked up and there they was, flowing along the treetops forty feet above me, pale yellow, some Ping-Pong sized and some big as beach balls, all moving in the same direction.”
“What direction?” Creighton said. If he leaned forward any farther, he was going to fall off his stool. “Which way were they going?”
“I’m getting to that, son,” Jasper said. “Just hold your horses. So as I was saying, I was standing there watching them flow against the clear night sky, and I was feeling this strange tightness in my chest, like I was witnessing something I shouldn’t. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away. And then they thinned out and was gone. They’d all passed. So I did something crazy. I climbed a tree to see where they was going. Something in my gut told me not to, but I was filled with this wonder, almost like holy rapture. So I climbed as far as I could, until the tree started to bend with my weight and the branches got too thin to hold me. And I watched them go. They was strung out in a long trail, dipping down when the land dipped down, and moving up when the land rose, moving just above the tops of the pines, like they was being pulled along strings.” He looked at Creighton. “And they were heading southwest.”
“You’re sure of that?”
Jasper looked insulted. “Course I’m sure of that. Bear Swamp Hill was behind my left shoulder, and everybody knows Bear Swamp is east of Apple Pie. Those lights was on their way southwest.”
“And this was the summer?”
“Nigh on to Labor Day, if I ’member correct.”
“And you were on the crest of Apple Pie Hill?”
“The tippy top.”
“Great!” He began folding his map.
“I thought you wanted to hear about the Jersey Devil.”
“I do, I do.”
“Then how come you’re asking me all these questions about the lights and not asking me about my meeting with the Devil?”
I hid a smile. Jasper was as sharp as ever.
Creighton looked confused for a moment. An expression darted across his face. It was only there for a second, but I caught it. Furtiveness. Then he leaned forward and spoke to Jasper in a confidential tone.
“Don’t tell anybody this, bu
t I think they’re connected. The pine lights and the Jersey Devil. Connected.”
Jasper leaned back. “You know, you might have something there. ’Cause it was while I was up that tree that I spotted the ol’ Devil himself. Or at least his shadow. I was watching the lights flow out of sight when I heard this noise in the brush. It had a slithery sound to it. I looked down, and there was this dark shape moving below. And you know what? It was heading in the same direction as the lights. What do you think of that?”
Creighton’s voice oozed sincerity.
“I think that’s damn interesting, Jasper.”
I thought they both were shoveling it, but I couldn’t decide who was carrying the bigger load.
“But don’t you go getting too interested in those pine lights, son. Gus Sooy says they’re bad medicine.”
“The guy who made this jack?” I said, holding up my empty tumbler.
“The very same. Gus says there’s lots of pine light activity in his neighborhood every summer. Told me I was a fool for climbing that tree. Says he wouldn’t get near one of those lights for all the tea in China.”
I noticed that Creighton was tense again.
“Where’s this Gus Sooy’s neighborhood?” he said. “Does he live in Chatsworth?”
Cthulhu 2000 Page 3
