The woods encompassing Shade Tree Pond glimmered with emerald prisms on this morning. By the time Kyle and Robby rode their bicycles along a path through the sylvan-shrouded meadow, a swarm of mosquitoes had taken flight from the stagnant marshlands. These insects flitted wildly between the patches of quack grass and skunk cabbage, invigorated by a scent of warm blood mixing with the baking weeds.
Though there were undoubtedly finer spots to fish outside of Meadowton, few environments equaled the sense of isolation found at Shade Tree Pond. The pond itself was not very large or deep, only about fifty yards in circumference and ten feet in depth at its center. A cluster of willow trees encircled it. Some of the branches of these weeping trees draped over the water’s surface like a veil of verdant lace. Lily pads and frogs made a home in this cinnamon-colored muck. Muskrats and painter turtles scuttled within the miry confines, too, occasionally emerging to bask in the filtered sunlight.
Robby Taylor had been exploring this woodland area for years. In his frequent excursions, he learned to maneuver skillfully through the underbrush. He knew all the pathways and shortcuts, some of which carved three-mile trails into a virtually unexplored terrain. Most of this uncharted land was referred to as The Bogs, but only a small portion of it, currently mapped in the lower valley, actually lived up to its name. As far as Robby discerned, the woods did not have many watering holes left. Just as it had been for over fifty years, Shade Tree Pond remained the only significant body of water in the entire forest.
After looking over the grounds, Robby dismounted his bike on a dirt trail about thirty yards from the pond’s embankment. “We’ll have to hike in from this point,” he told Kyle. “The dirt is too soft down near the pond.”
Since Kyle was not as familiar with these woods as Robby, he took his friend’s advice. After Kyle leaned his bike against an oak tree, he grabbed his fishing gear and followed Robby’s lead. Ten steps later, the boys’ sneakers sank in the black muck.
“Doesn’t this ground ever dry out?” Kyle complained, remembering that it hadn’t rained in nearly two weeks.
“We don’t got much farther to go,” Robby explained, motioning to a grassy bluff between a row of weeds. “It’s a little firmer over there. That’s as good as spot as any.”
Kyle cautiously looked around himself before his tone became more apprehensive. “Are you sure we’re not gonna get lost out here, Robby?”
“Not unless you don’t want to.”
After the boys maneuvered gingerly beyond the thorny underbrush, they set their gear on a flat rock near the water and began to string their fishing poles. Just as Robby had suggested, the embankment provided a relatively dry surface to fish from.
Robby cast his line into the pond first, allowing the baited hook to sink into the muddy water. Kyle imitated his friend’s cast, dropping his line about ten feet in the opposite direction.
“I guess we just wait now, huh?” Kyle asked, while squatting to the grass with his legs crossed underneath him.
Robby casually leaned backwards against a rock and adjusted the brim of his baseball cap so that the sun was shadowed from his face. “That’s the beauty of fishing,” he yawned. “Waiting is part of the game.”
Forty-five minutes and a dozen mosquito bites later, Kyle had enough of this game. Up until now, he hadn’t snared a single nibble. Robby’s luck didn’t fair much better, but Kyle guessed that his friend wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere.
“It’s sure getting humid out here,” Kyle said, wiping his brow with the backside of his hand. “Maybe it’s too hot for the fish today.”
Robby reeled in his line before replying, “You’re not in any kind of a rush, are you?”
Kyle shrugged his shoulders and recast his line to the pond’s far side, near a section of lily pads. “I’m starting to wonder if there are any fish left in this place,” he huffed.
“You just got to give it some time,” Robby simpered.
Kyle continued to reel in his line until he felt a sudden tug, bending the pole in the process. He immediately sprang to his feet, with both hands clasped around the rod and reel. His voice was laced with excitement when he announced, “Hey, Robby, I—I think I got one!”
Robby appeared more astounded than his friend as he rushed over to join in the catch. “What are you waiting for? Reel him in!” he shouted.
Kyle took two steps backwards and braced his feet against a nearby rock to prevent from falling into the pond. He was yanking back on his pole with all his strength when he yelled, “This sucker doesn’t want to give in.”
“Hold on a minute,” Robby advised, noticing the line’s inflexibility. He then gestured to Kyle, indicating for him to relax his grip. “Ease up. I think you got your hook snagged on the bottom.”
Kyle frowned after he realized that Robby was right. He then lowered the pole, allowing the line to sag into the algae-covered water. He was obviously disappointed when he spoke again. “I should’ve known better than to think that I could’ve caught a fish in this mud hole.”
Robby forwarded a chuckle and turned away from the pond. As he returned to his own pole, Kyle fidgeted with the line until he felt it uncoil slightly beneath the water’s surface. Then, with a disgusted gaze, he reeled in the line. As the hook surfaced, Robby noticed that Kyle had in fact caught something after all.
“See that,” Robby giggled, pointing toward the cylinder-shaped object attached to Kyle’s line. “You got one.”
As Kyle brought the object closer to the bluff, he noticed that he had hooked a rusty tin can. “Great,” Kyle murmured. “It doesn’t look like any kind of catfish to me.” He leaned forward and grasped the line with his hand. After untangling the can from his line, Kyle saw another object dangling from the end of his hook. He carefully smeared away the sediment to find a tarnished piece of jewelry. It appeared to be a silver bracelet, with four multi-colored gemstones set in its weave.
Kyle studied the bracelet for another moment, trying to scratch away the muck that concealed its luster. He then turned toward Robby for his opinion. “Hey, Robby,” he called, “check this thing out.”
Robby raised an eyebrow as Kyle held the metal bracelet between his fingers. He simply shrugged his shoulders and remarked, “It looks like an old piece of jewelry to me.”
“I can see that,” Kyle said, partially excited by his discovery. “But do you think it’s worth anything?”
Robby edged closer to his friend and rubbed his fingers over the different stones. “It’s probably just a piece of junk,” he surmised. “I can’t even remember how many times I’ve pulled that kind of stuff out of here.”
Kyle remained indifferent to Robby’s criticism when he mused, “I wonder how long it has been down there.”
“Who knows,” Robby sighed, shrugging his shoulders with disinterest. “Kids have been hiking back through these woods for years. It could be a lot older than us.”
Kyle finished polishing the bracelet against his dungarees before saying, “I bet I can clean this thing up like brand new. It might be real silver.”
“Maybe, but what are you gonna do with a bracelet? It looks like it belonged to a girl.”
“I’m not planning to wear it, Robby. I just want to hold on to it—sort of like a good luck piece.”
Rather than spoil Kyle’s only catch of the day, Robby watched him stuff the bracelet in his tackle box. Moments later, Robby tended to his own line, which remained motionless in the pond. By now, both boys had enough of Shade Tree Pond for one day. They promptly packed up their gear and started back toward their bicycles. During these seconds, Kyle listened to the cicadas buzzing in the thickets. He felt as if the eyes of these insects were watching him on all sides of the woodland.
After reclaiming his bike from the side of the tree, Kyle exclaimed, “I sure wouldn’t want to be out in these woods after dark. I get a weird feeling in my stomach every time I come out here.”
Robby offered his friend a blank stare before stating, “I’m not surprised to h
ear you say that. Most kids around here think like you do.”
Kyle directed an innocent gaze at Robby and said, “Hey, it’s not what you’re thinking, Robby. I don’t believe any of those old rumors about these woods.”
Robby diverted Kyle’s attention to the dirt trail winding through the tree-lined meadow. Just beyond a cluster of evergreens, he pointed to a natural rise in the landscape. Then, in his most frightful voice, Robby whispered, “Are you telling me that you’ve forgotten who lives on the other side of that hill?”
“Like I told you before, I don’t pay attention to those kind of stories anymore. Older kids just made up all that rotten stuff to scare younger kids like you and me.”
“But you’re forgetting something,” Robby tittered with fiendish delight. “Ben Murden is still alive, you know, and that’s not just a rumor.”
The mere mention of the name Murden triggered a latent fear in every child who came to age in Meadowton in the last thirty years. Even in protest to the tales of yore, Kyle sensed his hands growing clammy and his mouth drying as if he consumed a bucket of sand. Though he tried to deny the terrible stories connected to the township’s oldest living resident, it was nearly impossible to hide his consternation.
A one-time prominent fruit farmer and community leader, Ben Murden was now living as a recluse in a three-room shanty on his once-glorious farmland. Many years ago, the locals had accused him of being a murderer. Although his guilt was never verified in any courtroom, Murden’s reputation could not survive the onslaught of slander that followed. Those who once trusted Murden now shunned him.
At one time, Murden owned and operated the largest and most profitable peach grove in the state of New Jersey. Those who savored peaches immediately recognized the name. But shortly after the crime that secured his downfall, Murden’s peach trees withered and died. Today, all that remained was the remnants of these lifeless trees. They still stood in the grove’s soil, shriveled and decayed, serving as a crude reminder to his ruptured past.
In subsequent years, as word of Murden’s corruption drifted like a poison gas from town to town, he became a bona fide legend in the minds of those searching for cheap thrills. In time, the woods surrounding his farm attracted many youths who had assembled to badger the demented codger into submission.
They incessantly taunted the old man, burned garbage, and littered his property with beer cans and assorted trash. With no lawmen willing to protect him or what remained of his home, the reckless gang of so-called avengers continued their antics for numerous years. No one really calculated what toll this abuse claimed on Murden’s sanity, nor did they care. To them he was a deviant who had no more reason to live and breathe than did his victims to suffer and die.
After mulling over these details in his mind, Kyle straddled his bike. He was now curious by the subject that Robby had instigated. Before their conversation swayed in another direction, he prodded Robby for more information.
“You don’t really believe all those things they say about that old man, do you, Robby?”
“I haven’t really decided,” Robby stated, “but a whole lot of folks around here do. Can they all be wrong?”
The trees’ branches stirred in a pocket of humid air as Kyle continued with his questions. “It just never made much sense to me. I mean, if all those people thought that he truly murdered someone, why would they keep pestering him? Wouldn’t they be afraid of him?”
“Look, Kyle, I can’t explain why people do what they do. Maybe they like to be scared. Or maybe they want to see how far they can push the old kook before he snaps again.”
“I still think it’s a bunch of crap.”
Robby hopped on his bike and stared apprehensively at the dirt trail in front of him. “I guess you’re not gonna be satisfied until you see it for yourself.”
“See what?”
“Murden’s peach grove, of course,” Robby offered teasingly. “I bet you’ve never been up in those part of the woods, have you?”
Kyle hesitated before admitting, “I’m not really supposed to go up there. My mom and dad don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why? It’s just a bunch of dead peach trees—right?”
“I guess so.”
“Then let’s go take a gander at it. If Ben Murden is as innocent as you say he is, then we got nothin’ to be afraid of.”
Kyle paused again to consider his options. It would have been too easy for him to turn away from this challenge now. Besides, Robby would have never let him live it down.
“Okay,” Kyle agreed. “Let’s do it—let’s go.”
Robby seemed momentarily startled by his friend’s sudden show of bravery. “You really want to go there?”
“Yeah,” Kyle replied, calling Robby’s bluff. “I want to finally see this place with my own eyes.”
Though reluctant to share in Kyle’s enthusiasm, Robby had no intention of letting his friend see him sweat over this decision, even with the temperature soaring near 97 degrees. As usual, Robby took control of the situation by directing his bike toward the hillside overlooking Murden’s peach grove. Kyle couldn’t see Robby’s eyes from his vantage point along the one-lane trail, but they were no doubt peppered with fear as they focused on the foothills before them.
Chapter 4
Songs of a Peach Tree Page 4
