by Brian Keene
“Could we get arrested for it?”
“I don’t know. Reckon we’d get fined, at least.”
Hodgson paused, seeming to consider this. “So, every year, you come out here to look at some rocks?”
“Sort of. There’s one petroglyph in particular that I come to see.”
Hodgson stroked his mustache. “Well, I don’t guess it’s any weirder than the Arabs making their pilgrimage to Mecca, or all that carrying on the Baptists do during those tent revivals.”
Nelson smiled. “It’s something I have to do. That’s why Patricia don’t get mad at me. Cause she understands.”
“So her daddy practiced powwow just like yours did, huh?”
“Both her parents did. They were both great healers.”
“Yours, too?”
Nelson shook his head. “No. Just my father. My mother went away when I was younger. Daddy caught her with another man, and there was hell to pay. My father had a wicked temper.”
“That so?”
“Yep. He worked powerful powwow, though. Hexed the river witch over in Marietta once, after he found out she’d put a blight on our cattle. Hexed a man who he caught stealing from our root cellar one year, too. Fella’ went blind and deaf.”
Hodgson grinned, bemused. “Sounds like your Daddy wasn’t one to piss off.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“And he really did all of that? Actually hexed people?”
“Sure. Loathe as I am to admit it. Like I said, he wasn’t a nice man.”
“And it really works?”
“It worked on you well enough, didn’t it?”
Hodgson shrugged. “I reckon that’s true. But that was healing. Hexing is something different, right?”
“It all comes from the same source. And it don’t matter who you are and which kind of powwow you practice—sometimes, you’re called upon to do the other. That’s one of the prices.”
His companion nodded, but Nelson could tell from Hodgson’s expression that he didn’t really understand, and was just humoring him.
They fell silent again as they approached Walnut Island. Lightning bugs twinkled on the shore. When they were close enough, Hodgson shut off the engine, and the silence deepened. Using an oar, he guided them in the rest of the way. The bottom of the boat scraped along the rocks. He hopped out and dragged it up onto the bank.
“I’ll wait here for you, like always.”
Nelson shook his hand. “Appreciate it. I’ll be back soon as I can.”
“Take your time. It’s a nice night. I don’t mind waiting.”
Nelson took off his orange life vest, and pulled a small, plastic bag from the boat. It rustled, catching Hodgson’s attention.
“What you got there?” he asked. “Magic stuff?”
Winking, Nelson wagged his finger at the man. “A magus don’t ever reveal his secrets.”
He removed his orange life vest, grabbed the flashlight from the boat and then headed off into the island’s interior. An empty beer can, a torn pair of women’s panties, and the burned-out remains of a campfire told him that someone else had been there recently. Frowning, Nelson continued onward. Birds rustled nearby, disturbed by his intrusion. The lightning bugs disappeared as he approached. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted. Otherwise, the island was silent. Lifeless.
The gentle breeze cooled the sweat on his neck. The plastic bag slapped against his thigh with each step. The flashlight beam bobbed up and down.
Walnut Island was small, little more than a large outcropping of bedrock covered with sparse trees and vegetation, and he didn’t have to go far before encountering the petroglyphs. Some were clearly recognizable—animal tracks, birds, deer, bear, foxes, snakes, trees, and human faces. Some depicted scenes of everyday life—a hunter with a bow, a mother with her baby, a group attending to a field of corn. There were abstract designs—spirals and geometric shapes. Others were of more mysterious figures—bird-men, goat-men, reptile-men, a massive serpent (that many, including Nelson, thought depicted Old Scratch—a legendary giant water snake rumored to haunt the Susquehanna River), and a snail-like creature with a headdress. There was a smattering of what looked like Chinese, Hittite, and Cypriot characters. He’d seen those before but hadn’t mentioned them to Hodgson. No sense in confusing the man. Nelson knew better than to argue with the popular conception that Columbus had been the first non-Indian in America.
Amidst all of these petroglyphs was a smattering of modern graffiti. Its presence angered Nelson. There were declarations of love, crude little hearts, names, dates, and genitalia, not to mention the numerous pentagrams and swastikas, all carved by stoned teenagers who hadn’t the slightest understanding of the latter two symbols’ true meanings or power.
He passed by all of the petroglyphs with barely a cursory glance. He was seeking another.
In the center of the island was a huge slab of rock. The flashlight beam trailed over it as he neared the spot, illuminating a life-sized petroglyph of a woman. The figure was about five and a half feet tall, naked, and incredibly lifelike and detailed. Her hair, facial features, and even the blemishes on her skin had all been painstakingly recreated. Unlike the other carvings, erosion and vandalism had not faded or damaged the petroglyph.
Nelson cleared his throat.
“Hello, Mom. Happy birthday.”
Nelson opened the plastic bag and took out a bouquet of fresh followers—tulips, roses, petunias, Queen Anne’s Lace, and daisies. All of them had been grown on his farm, and all of them had been picked by his hand that morning. He talked to the carving for twenty minutes, telling her what her grandchildren had accomplished in the last year, and of how much he missed her. He repeated his annual promise that some day, he’d figure out a way to bring her back again. Then he leaned over, kissed the rock on the cheek, and said goodbye.
As he made his way back to Hodgson’s boat, rainwater leaked from the corners of the petroglyph’s stone eyes.
STORY NOTE: Regular readers will note that this is not the first appearance of Nelson LeHorn. He first appeared in my novel Dark Hollow. This story takes place years before the events that occur to him in that book. Hopefully, it gave you a little more insight into his character and his motivations.
The Susquehanna River petroglyphs are real, as are Walnut Island, Big Indian Rock and Little Indian Rock. I was unaware of them until several years ago, when a local reader mentioned them in a post on my message board. Since then, I’ve become fascinated with them. Some replicas of the carvings are on display at the Indian Steps Museum, located in Airville. If you’re ever in the area, the museum is worth visiting. Much like the characters in this book, I have undertaken a midnight journey to see the real, remaining petroglyphs. They are, quite simply, awe-inspiring, even despite the ravages of time, nature and human vandalism. To the best of my knowledge, however, there is no life-sized carving of a human female.
If you’re interested, there are also two very good books examining the petroglyphs. The first one is Petroglyphs in the Susquehanna River near Safe Harbor, Pennsylvania by Donald A. Cadzow. As the title suggests, it is dry, academic reading—especially for the novice. But that doesn’t make the material it presents any less fascinating. The second book is Indians in Pennsylvania by Paul A. W. Wallace. Both books were published by the Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission, and are (as of this writing) still in print and available at various locations, including online.
RED WOOD
“You ever fart while a chick was going down on you?”
Groans and laughter drowned out David Allen Coe’s lament about the woman who had never called him by his name.
“Smitty,” Frank Lehman said, “you are one sick son of a bitch!”
The big man grinned, his double chins wiggling. “No, I’m serious. Have you?”
“Not me.” Luke shook his head.
Smitty leaned forward between the driver and passenger’s seats. Frank, riding shotgun, shoved him back.
/> “How about you, Glen?” Smitty asked.
Concentrating on the dirt road in front of him, Glen chuckled. “No, Mr. Smith, I can’t say that I have.”
Smitty frowned. “Knock off that Mr. Smith shit. Christ, you boys have known me for thirty years!”
Luke took a swig of beer. “Even if Glen or Mark did fart while a chick was going down on them, they’re not going to say it in front of their old man.”
“That’s right,” Frank said. “I brought these boys up better than that.”
Luke and Smitty looked at Mark, mashed into the rear passenger’s side door.
“How about it, Mark?” Smitty nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. “You ever bust one while getting head?”
“He’s never even got head,” Glen teased, eyeing his younger brother in the mirror.
“Screw you.” Mark took a sip of cold coffee from his travel mug. Despite the alleged roominess of the SUV, he was uncomfortable. He’d been stuck in the back with his father’s fat co-worker and his older brother’s friend for the past two hours, the last
twenty-five minutes of which had been spent on one narrow, winding back road after another. He wished that he’d brought along his laptop or something else to occupy him.
“Well,” Smitty said, “I have. Did it while Linda was gobbling my knob. Spread my legs and just let it rip. Then I held her head down there and laughed my ass off!”
“It’s no wonder she divorced you,” Frank said.
“Fuck it.” Smitty dismissed the comment with a shrug of his shoulders. “She never had a sense of humor anyway.”
Luke twisted around behind him, fumbling with the cooler lid. “Does anybody want another beer? They’re still—”
Glen slammed the brakes. The Explorer skidded to a stop, kicking up dust in its wake. Luke pitched forward, bouncing off Glen’s seat. Smitty was thrown into Mark,
crushing him against the door, and popping the lid from his mug. Coffee soaked through Mark’s jeans. In the front, Frank clutched the dashboard and cursed.
“What the hell are you trying to do, Glen?” Luke shouted. “Break our fucking necks?”
“What happened?” Smitty asked. “Deer run out in front of us? Don’t tell me you got one before season even started!”
“See for yourselves.” Glen opened the door. He glanced over at Frank. His father was breathing heavy, his face ashen. “You okay, Dad?”
“Yeah,” Frank wheezed, “I’m fine. Just startled me a bit, is all.”
The older man grasped his door handle and swung it open. The others followed, walking to the front of the vehicle.
A massive oak tree, its trunk rounder than even Smitty, had fallen across the road. Beneath its splintered branches lay the carcass of a deer. The animal’s belly had ruptured and its hind legs were splayed. The rest of the deer was obscured by the gnarled tree-trunk.
“Shit,” Smitty gasped. “You weren’t kidding.”
The other’s stared. Glen straddled the tree, yelping in pain as he clambered over it.
“What’s wrong?” his father asked.
“Splinter,” Glen said, rubbing his thigh. “Damn tree bit me.”
Glen knelt down, parting the branches to get a better look at the deer, and then whistled softly.
Mark frowned. “What?”
“It’s a twelve point. What a waste.” Glen let the branches fall back in place and stood up.
“Probably the only deer we’ll see during this whole trip,” Luke said. “We ought to take it with us. Have some venison in the morning before we go out hunting.”
Frank shook his head. “It’s no good. This happened early this morning, maybe even last night, judging by the condition of the corpse. Meat’s spoiled by now, for sure.”
“Grab that axe out of the trunk,” Glen said. “Let’s get to work on this tree before it gets dark. We’ve still got another two miles to the cabin.”
He threw the keys to Mark, and his younger brother disappeared around the back.
“Why don’t we just park off to the side, grab the stuff, and walk it?” Frank asked.
“No, Dad,” Glen said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re worse than your mother! It’s only two miles.”
“Forget it, Dad,” Mark said, returning with the axe. “Besides, Smitty would never make it.”
Smitty scowled at him, and then turned to Frank. “That’s a real smart mouthed kid you got there. Like father, like son. Both assholes.”
Frank, Glen, and Mark laughed.
The brothers and Luke took turns chopping at the tree, while Smitty supervised them from his seat on the bank. Each time Frank made an effort to help, he was gently rebuked by his sons. Finally, after they cut the fallen trunk down to size, he ignored their protests and helped drag the tree sections and the deer carcass out of the way. By the time they’d tossed the final branches into the ditch, he was panting and pale.
“Fucking Agent Orange,” he wheezed, clutching his side.
The others said nothing. Glen’s and Mark’s eyes met.
They got back into the vehicle and drove on in silence.
• • •
A mile down the road, Luke asked, “What do you guys think did that?”
“I’d say lightning,” Frank speculated. “Except that it didn’t really look like it had been struck.”
Glen and Mark sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts.
“It wasn’t a deadfall either,” Smitty said. “Leaves were still green. Ain’t that weird? Two days after Thanksgiving and the leaves hadn’t changed color yet.”
“We’re here,” Glen said, pulling to a stop in front of the cabin.
Frank had built the deer camp in 1970, three years after returning from Vietnam. He’d been coming here with Smitty ever since. Glen started joining them when he’d turned fourteen, along with Luke, whose father never hunted.
Mark had never been a hunter either. He’d tried, just like any male who grew up in central Pennsylvania had tried. Hunting was a required rite of passage, from the orange vest and hat down to the mandatory hunter safety course in junior high school.
The year Mark turned fourteen, he’d gone along hunting with his father, brother, and their friends, and had been miserable. They’d gotten up at four in the morning and left the relative warmth and comfort of the cabin, so that they could find a spot. This involved trekking into the woods in the dark. The others had glared silently each time he’d stepped on a branch or rustled the leaves under his feet. It had been cold—the type of cold that soaked through your feet and fingers no matter how many pairs of socks you wore. He couldn’t wear gloves, he was told, because they’d interfere with the trigger and safety on his rifle. The cold made his ears sting, and he’d longed for nothing more than to go back to the camp and crawl into his sleeping bag. They’d positioned him at a tree and left him there, each going off to find their own spot. And so he had waited. And waited.
And waited.
By the time the sun had dragged itself reluctantly above the horizon, Mark’s extremities were throbbing and numb. Bored and miserable, he’d made his way back to the cabin, alone. They’d found him there that evening, reading a Micronauts comic book and happily munching potato chips. His father and Glen had both gotten deer—a spike and a four point, respectively. Smitty had missed one, and Luke, succumbing to buck fever, had killed an old toilet somebody had dumped in the woods.
That was the last time Mark Lehman ever went hunting.
Until now, he thought, grabbing his gear from the back.
He glanced at his father. Frank beamed with excitement as he surveyed the rolling woods and fields that he’d hunted for so long.
Mark tried to forget that his father was dying.
He rummaged around in the back of the Explorer, fishing out his camera case and untangling it from the other gear. Glen stepped up beside him and grabbed a sleeping bag.
“I’m glad you came along,” Glen
said.
“Yeah, well...” Mark didn’t look up. “I promised you and Mom I would.”
“It means a lot to him. You know how Dad is. He’d never say it out loud, but he’s really happy you’re, even if the only scope you’re using is that camera lens.”
He playfully punched Mark’s shoulder, and then grabbed a rifle and slung a sleeping bag over his shoulder. Then he grew quiet.
Mark looked up. His brother was crying—his face twisted with silent grief.
“This’ll be the last trip,” Glen said, “and I—”
He broke off and turned away as Luke approached them.
“Your Dad really looks happy, guys,” Luke whispered. “I think this trip will do him some good.”
They nodded in agreement; both afraid to speak aloud lest their voices fail them.
“Hey, Mark,” Smitty called. “Grab my stuff, will you?”
Frank shook his head. “Grab it yourself, you fat fuck.”
They got the gear, and clomped up the stairs onto the porch. A vacant hornet’s nest hung from the eaves. While Frank searched for the right key, they surveyed their surroundings.
The cabin sat along a seldom-used dirt road. After passing the cabin, the road led to the old LeHorn farm, but the farmhouse and buildings had long been empty. Nelson LeHorn had killed his wife in 1985, and then disappeared. His children were now scattered. His son, Matty, was doing time in the Cresson State Penitentiary. His daughter, Claudia, was married and living in Spring Grove. And his youngest daughter, Gina, taught school in Brackard’s Point, New York. Because the old man was legally still alive, the children were unable to sell the property—so it sat abandoned, providing a haven for rats, groundhogs, and other animals.
Behind the cabin, and to its right, lay miles of vast woodlands, untouched by the explosive development that had marred other parts of the state. Across the road was more forest, this portion used by the Gladstone Pulpwood Company for its paper mill. As employees of the company, Frank, Smitty, Glen and Luke had permission to hunt the land. To the left of the cabin stretched a vast expanse of barren cornfields. The rolling hills had not been worked or plowed since LeHorn’s disappearance.
