Believe it is some, Warn said. He stood up and was closed from sight by the smoke. Hell’s bells, he said, let’s get out of here.
This is the way the cave-men done it, Boog said.
Cave-men be damned, we’re fixin to get barbycued.
They crawled and stumbled to the mouth of the cave—a shifting patch of murky light weaving beyond the smoke combers, came red-eyed and weeping from their crypt, their jacket fronts encrusted with slick red mud. When they had dried their eyes and could see again they were in some volcanic and infernal under-region, the whole of the quarry woods wrapped in haze and smoke boiling up out of the rocky ground from every cleft and fissure.
Mr Eller stood at the counter and watched them come in, the clothes steaming on the backs of the men as they stomped off the slush from their shoes and stood about the stove making cigarettes with chilled fingers, the stove popping and whistling with the snow-wetted coal, the women excited with the cold, making their purchases with deliberation, some towing small children about in the folds of their skirts, leaving again, young boys with shotguns and rifles buying shells not by the box but by fours and sixes and lending to the bustle a purposeful and even militant air. He rang the money up in the cash register or marked it in his credit books.
Odor of smoke and cold, wet clothing and meat cooking. The snow was falling again and they watched it. Lord, Mr Eller said, reckon it’s ever goin to quit.
Boog and Johnny Romines came in with a rabbit and they each got a dope.
Whereabouts you get him, Johnny? Mr Eller asked.
Over on the creek.
Warn Pulliam caught a skunk in a hole, Boog said. That right? How’s he smell? He don’t smell too purty.
The men laughed. He’s a fat’n, one said, nodding toward the rabbit. How’s them pups run? Purty good?
Purty good little old rabbit dogs, Johnny said. They jumped two more but I never got a clear shot.
Them’s beagles, said Boog.
The old man came out on the pike road at the gap where the Green Fly Inn had stood. There was no trace of the inn now but the black and limbless pine trunk that stood in the hollow. Snow had started again, dropping like a veil over the valley or riding the wind through the gap, stinging his face a little. He walked down until he came to the Twin Fork road and took it into the Hopper and homeward. From a lightwire overhead, dangling head downward and hollowed to the weight of ashened feathers and fluted bones, a small owl hung in an attitude of forlorn exhortation, its wizened talons locked about the single strand of wire. It stared down from dark and empty sockets, penduluming softly in the bitter wind.
At the head of the hollow there was a springhouse and they stopped to drink, the water green and pulsing up from the rocks where a scalloped fringe of ice jutted just above the waterline.
I figured to set here, Warn said, but they’s too many people come by and you’d get your traps stole. Come on I’ll show you where I got my culvert-set. He dipped up another mouthful of the numbing water, took the rifle and trap and handed the skunk to the younger boy. He don’t smell so bad out in the air, he said. The old lady’ll pitch a hissy when she gets a whiff of me though.
They came out on the road and crossed to the other side where the creek ran. Warn got down on one knee and peered back through the culvert under the road where the spring run trickled through.
It don’t never freeze in here, he said. I done caught me one muskrat here but what I’m lookin for is a mink. See? I got the trap jest back inside where nobody won’t notice it.
The boy peered into the dark tunnel, the water loping slowly down the corrugated metal and flaring where it passed over the trap.
I seen mink sign here back in the fall and some lately, Warn said. They’s mink on Stock Creek too. Used to be some on Red Branch but they ain’t any more is how come I don’t trap it no more. You ready to go?
See, they ain’t been no cars in here yet, Warn said. Ain’t but jest a few people live over here in the holler and mostly they ain’t got cars. You see that house up yander?
He looked where Warn pointed. Set back off the road was a squat saddle-roofed structure with a thin wisp of smoke swirling and circling about the top of the chimney.
That’s where Garland Hobie lives, he told him. You mess around there you get your ass shot off.
How come?
On account of he makes whiskey, Warn said. Him and his old lady. Here. I’ll show you somethin directly.
Beyond the curve of the road there was an old frame church and Warn pointed it out. See that church? Well, that was a nigger church. They used to be a bunch of niggers lived in the holler and they built this here church and commenced singin and hollerin of a night till old man Hobie, he’s dead now, he run em ever one off. He’s been dead since afore you and me was born and they ain’t none of em come back yet. That’s how strong he was on niggers. They say Ef was even meaner’n the old man. He died right at the store back a few year ago. Jest got out of Brushy Mountain. Garland, he’s meaner’n hell too. They raided em one time here back and he give em the old lady to take off to jail. His own mama. That’s how bad he is. Then they’s Uncle Ather lives up here—nodding ahead of them—he’s a purty good old feller.
Is he your uncle?
Naw. Him and Grandaddy Pulliam worked together cuttin sleepers for the K S & E. So the old man always called him Uncle. He’s purty old. Got a dog pret-near old as you and me both.
That’s purty old, the boy said. How old is he, Uncle …
Uncle Ather? He must be ninety or better. He’s older’n Grandaddy Pulliam and Grandaddy Pulliam’s daddy fought in the Civil War. He owned a lot of land in Knox County and when the war was over they took it away from him on account of him bein a Confederate. Grandaddy Pulliam says they wouldn’t even let nobody vote ceptin niggers and yankees.
Why was that?
On account of back then this was the North I reckon.
Late in the afternoon the old man was sweeping the snow from his front porch when he saw them coming up the road, two small figures dark against the unbroken fall of snow, laboring through the drifts. One of them was carrying a dead skunk. They came abreast of his mailbox and the taller one raised his hand. Heyo, Uncle Ather, he called.
The old man squinted his milkblue eyes against the glare. Hiram Pulliam’s grandson. He grinned and waved them up and they came, toiling on the slope, bowlegged for a better grip in the snow, the Pulliam boy leaning on his rifle and the other one sliding and waving the skunk about in the air.
They sat around the stove with their shoes off, their socks steaming. The old man wrinkled his nose and laughed.
I believe you must of fit that there polecat hand to hand, he said.
Can you smell it? Warn said. I cain’t smell it myself.
He had to crawl back in a hole to get him out, John Wesley said.
I crawled past where he was at, Warn said. I thought he was way on back and then I come to see the wire and it went off into a little side-hole, but I was already past it then. I was all hunkered up down in there and couldn’t hardly turn around, but directly I got to where I could poke my pine knot in the side-hole there and I seen his eyes. I got my rifle turned around and aimed the best way I could and when I shot, it like to busted out my eardrums.
We could hear him shoot, John Wesley said. It sounded like a little old popgun or somethin from on the outside.
Well, when I shot he cut loose too. I mean it really steamed things up in there. I come scootin out hind-end first and we waited a while and then directly I went back and got holt of the wire and come draggin him out and he’s shot between the eyes.
The old man laughed. That puts me in mind of a coon hunt I was on one time, he said. Feller with us shot a coon in a tree and it hung in a limb. So I helt the light and he went up after him. Time he got to the limb where the coon was at it come to life and made at him. He figured purty quick he didn’t want no part of it, but stead of comin down he scooted up another limb and there he set.
Ever time he made like he was comin down the coon’d go at him, growlin like a bear. Well, directly he got mad and he decided he’d come on down anyway. So here he come. He was goin to kick the coon off of the limb is what he hollered down to us. We had the lannern on him and could see purty good. He made two or three swipes at the coon and about that time the old coon latched on to his foot. I never heard the like of hollerin. He commenced swingin that coon around on the end of his toe and he got so took up with it he kindly eased up his holt on the tree. Well, wadn’t but a few minutes one of us hollered to Look out! and here they come pilin down out of the tree. He hit the ground like a sack of feed and jest laid there and the dogs piled on to the coon and they commenced walkin all in his face and fightin till we got em kicked off. We thought he’s dead, but directly he begun to breathe a little and his eyes to flitter some and we seen he wadn’t hurt, jest the wind pooched out of him and scared purty bad. We all laughed considerable and he set there and cussed us, but he was a purty good old boy and I reckon he never helt it against us. I remember he used to tell it on his own sef for years and years and laugh jest like anybody.
The old man sighed. Used to be good coon huntin hereabouts, he said.
What about painters? Warn asked. Was that a painter was hollerin around here one time?
The old man leaned back in his rocker, a wise grin settling among his sagging skinfolds. Well now, he said. Shore, I remember that right well. Been about ten year ago I’d say. There followed a moment of silence in which he seemed to be contemplating with satyric pleasure some old deed. Then he crossed one knee over the other and leaned forward. Shore, he repeated, I heard it. Many’s the time. Had folks stirred up and scared all of one summer. Yessir, stirred up a blue fog of speculatin,
What’d it sound like? the boy asked.
Oh, purty fierce …
Well, you reckon it was a painter?
Nope, the old man said.
After a minute Warn said, What was it?
The old man had begun to rock gently, a benign look upon his face, composed in wisdom, old hierophant savoring a favorite truth … He stopped and looked down at them. Well, I’ll tell ye. It was a hoot-owl.
He studied their fallen faces, the hopeful incredulity. Yep, he said, a hoot-owl. One of them big’ns, screechin and a-hollerin on this mountain of summer evenins like any painter. They’s folks said painter, folks said not. But I knowed what it was right along. So I let em do their speculatin and arguin … I recollect one evenin I was at the store gettin some things, late summer it was and nigh dark, bout eight o’clock I reckon, when it commenced hollerin. Well, I never said nothin. In a little bit it come again. Boys, I mean it got quiet in that store to where you could hear the ants in the candy jar. Stit I never let on nothin and after a while Bob Kirby—he’s there—he hollered at me and he said, Hey! Uncle Ather. You fixin to walk crost that mountain tonight?
Well, I turned to him kind of surprised-like and I said, Why shore. A feller’s got to get home sometime, and the best way he can. How come you to ast me that?
He jest looked at me for a minute, then he kind of grinned and he said, Cain’t you hear that wampus cat?
Why, I said, shore I hear it. Anybody’t wadn’t deaf could hear that, I reckon.
Well, he kind of figured he had me then so he says, Ain’t you skeered of painters, Uncle Ather?
Why shore, I says. Anybody ceptin a fool’d be skeered of one, a full-growed one leastways.
Then I never said nothin, jest went to the dope box and got me a dope and commenced drinkin it and lookin at my watch ever oncet in a while. I could see he was plenty puzzled and he tried to slip a grin to the rest of the fellers there once or twicet cept they wadn’t grinnin and I reckon was more puzzleder’n he was. So he never said nothin neither, but after a while they’s a young feller there, he piped up and ast me if that wadn’t a full-growed one that was raisin all that hell out there. Well, about that time it come again, hollerin, and I looked at him and I said, They Lord God, son, I don’t know what you’d do if a growed one was to squall. Why that ain’t nothin there. But then course they ain’t painters round like they used to be. Back fifty, sixty years ago they’d sing out back and forth crost these mountains all night of a summer till you got to where you couldn’t sleep lessen you did hear em. But it takes a big old tom painter to set up a fuss. That there ain’t nothin. I told him that and about that time shore enough that owl let out another screech couldn’t of been a hundred yards off and I could see the hackles come up on his neck and on Bob Kirby’s too.
I finished my dope and set it down and made like I was fixin to leave then and Kirby, he says, stit grinnin kind of, You mean, Uncle Ather, that you can tell one painter from anothern by its squall?
Well, I said, I don’t reckon I can so good any more. He grinned right big at that.
But, I says, since I seen this’n t’other night I guess it jest don’t worry me none.
Well, they all jumped up with somethin to ast then, how big it was and all. I was already half out the door, but I figured to give em somethin to think about while they walked home, so I turned to em and I says, Why it ain’t more’n a kitten. It’s right up here in the gap not even dusk-dark t’other night I seen it scoot crost the road. Old Scout was layin there on the concrete. Now he’s fell off some of late but used to be he come a good bit higher’n my knee—to where you jest could straddle him, and weighed better’n a hunderd pound. So I looked around and I seen him there and I jest pointed to him and I said, Why he ain’t a whole lot bigger’n Scout here, and said em a good night and went on.
Down the small panes of glass behind the old man’s chair the sun lowered, casting his head in silhouette and illumining his white hair with a prophetic translucence. A little later he rose and went to the table and lit the lamp.
You boys care for some … here, jest a minute. He excused himself and went flapping off to the kitchen from where issued in a moment sounds of cupboards and glassware. When he came back he was carrying two glasses and a cup, a mason jar of some dark red liquid. Here, he said, handing them each a glass. He unscrewed the lid of the jar and poured their glasses. A heavy and evil-looking potion the color of iodine. Muskydine wine, he said. Bet you-all ain’t never had none.
It beaded black and sinister in the soft lampglow. He settled himself in his rocker and filled his cup, watching them taste it.
Mighty fine, Warn said.
Yessir, said the boy.
They sipped their wine with the solemnity of communicants, troglodytes gathered in some firelit cave. The lamp guttered in a draft of wind and their shadows, ponderous and bearlike upon the wall, weaved in unison.
Uncle Ather, said the boy, was they really painters back then?
Warn’s face, a harlequin mask etched in black and orange by the lamplight, turned to the old man. Tell him about that’n, Uncle Ather, he said. That’n you had.
Uncle Ather had already started. Oh yes, he said, allaying doubt with an upthrust of his chin. Yes, they was, long time back. When I was a young feller, workin on the road crew at that time, I caught one.
Caught one?
Yep. He smiled mysteriously. Shore did. Caught him with my bare hands, and I got the scars to prove it. Here he extended a leathery thumb for inspection. The boy slid from his chair and bent studiously over it.
Right here, the old man said, pointing to a place on the inside just above the web. See?
Yes, he said. The skin was wrinkled like an old purse; in that myriad cross-hatching any line could have been a scar. He sat back down and the old man chuckled throatily.
Yessir, he said. He was a vicious critter. Must of weighed all of five pound.
Warn laughed softly. The boy raised his head. The old man sat complacent and mischievous in his rocker, his eyes dancing.
Well, he said, this is what happent. They was a place called Goose Gap—it’s up t’wards Wears Valley. Well, it was when we was blastin in there. Bill Munroe, he’s dead now, he went up right af
ter, soon as rock quit fallin, and then he hollered for me to come up and look see. They’s stit lots of smoke and dust and I couldn’t see too good but I got on up a little ways and directly I seen he’s holdin up somethin. Looked like a groundhog or a little old dog. When I got to where he was at I seen what it was. I hadn’t never seen one afore and it was all tore up and bloody, but I knowed right off what it was. Bill, he couldn’t make nothin out of it. What it was was a painter kit.
We started up through them rocks and directly we come up on anothern. It wadn’t tore up as bad and Bill allowed as to how it must not of been blowed as fer and so we was headed right. Anyway it turned out he was right and in a little bit we come up on the den-hole. It was all blowed out in the front and about a yard and a half of bones layin all around, and back in the back under some rocks we found this’n, the third’n, he’s alive and mewlin jest about like a housecat.
Old Bill, he backed off some, said that old she-painter might be around. Well, I was younger’n him and likely didn’t have as good sense, so in I goes and grabs the little feller up by the scruff of the neck. That’s when he hung his tushes in my thumb here. I turnt loose right fast, I’ll tell ye. Well, I figured a minute, and then I took off my shirt and scotched him up in that and brought him on home with me.
Here the old man paused and helped himself to a chew of tobacco from a huge paper pouch. I lived five mile this side of Sevierville then, he continued. I—you boys don’t chew, do ye? no—I had bought me a place off a man named Delozier—twenty acres, mostly sidehill and not much of a house neither, a old piece of a barn … I was married then and that was my first place so I reckon I was kindly what you might say proud of it. I kep some hogs and chickens and later on I had me a cow and a wore-out mule, put me in some corn … I never had nothin, ain’t got nothin now, but I figured it was a start. I wadn’t a whole lot older’n you fellers, nineteen, I think I was. But anyway what I was fixin to tell was about that painter. I brought him on home and give him to Ellen. She took to it right off, kep it in a box and give it milk and sech as that. It got to where it’d folly her around the house like a everday walkin-around cat. It wadn’t but about the size of a cat too … I recollect he’s speckled kindly like a bobcat. Well, they’s even a feller come out from the newspaper and wrote it up about us havin him; folks come from pret-near everwhere to see him.
The Orchard Keeper (1965) Page 12
