Ben Murden wondered if the sunlight felt warmer on the flesh of a man who wasn’t further away from death than the crisp winds of autumn. In the course of seventy-five years, life had leveled its cruelest lessons upon his shoulders. Up until recently, he had taken most of the anguish in silent stride, only occasionally pausing to cogitate his shortcomings. Now, with disease ebbing into the marrow of his bones, Murden was humbled by his limitations. Perhaps there was no more humiliating aspect to growing old than for a man to feel his virility being siphoned slowly from his veins. Only a semblance of his former masculinity remained.
It had been long foretold that Murden would die out here in these woods alone, grasping for prayers that he no longer cared to remember. Maybe he preferred to be forgotten, too, and cast away like a leper without a colony to call his own. Like the bars of an impenetrable prison, these trees and thickets locked away his memories and sealed his sorrow within the earth’s roots. His cabin, like his mind, had become a cell from which there was no viable escape.
Sometimes, in the midst of his solitude, Murden scoffed at the notion that a long life was somehow superior to one of lesser years. If those who died before him could’ve experienced the misery and indignation that age old promised, he was certain they would not have felt slighted by their premature departures. Of course it must be noted that all men do not perish with such bitter contemplations. It was those fortunate few who Murden wished to have at his side as his days dwindled into darkness.
Today, Ben Murden could barely tug his crooked body from his rocking chair. His spine, once as straight and firm as a steel girder, now contoured itself to a degree where it was nearly impossible for him to stand erect. He limped at the pace of a wounded animal, using a polished hickory stick to support his weight. With each step he felt the bones in his knees grind and pop like the gears in a malfunctioning machine.
Gone was the shine of his silver eyes; a haze of white concealed the reflection of his thoughts. What remained of his hair had turned equally colorless, and the crown of his skull was peppered with oil-colored liver spots and crusty, purple moles. Where there weren’t moles or other imperfections instigated by the sun, sores festered, especially around his ears and the corners of his nostrils. Had he sought medical advice for these blisters, they would’ve surely revealed a malignancy or two. But Murden considered these minor ailments in comparison to how his innards must have appeared. He had been afflicted with a far more devastating disease, or at least one that caused him more immediate and devastating pain.
The symptoms almost seemed like a ritual for him now. Not a day passed where Murden didn’t find himself stooped over a toilet or on the fringes of a dusty pathway. Regurgitating gobs of blood in one’s spittle was enough to send any man to the hospital, but Murden was never one to burden others with his troubles. He accepted his fate without treatment, and now the tumors in his lungs had metastasized. Like a fire raging within his flesh, the disease devoured what remained of his healthy tissue inside of three months, leaving him gasping for breath at times, and clenching his teeth in agony as he sensed his life being consumed by an unrelenting foe.
If appearances alone could’ve accurately portrayed a man’s disposition, then Murden might have been a monster after all. His ailment caused a rancor to stir within him that he hadn’t any notion to tame. He was a recluse by nature, and lived what remained of his time with misanthropic tendencies. The land on which he resided was merely an extension of his apathy. A field of garbage, strewn across the pasture by those who still despised his presence, had mounted in heaps around his shanty. Some of the trash was several years old, rusted and entwined with the weeds and knee-high grasslands. Aside from the clutter, remnants of his past remained, too.
An old, tireless tractor had become a permanent fixture on his property; only the squirrels made a burrow of it now. He had also left stacks of rotted crates and cider barrels scattered along the perimeter of his home, serving as a reminder of his fruitful years. Beyond this, the bits of a crumbling stonewall lay as a gateway to his farmyard.
Kyle approached this forbidden land on foot, leaving his bike at the base of an adjacent hill, which he had visited earlier with Robby. From across a field of parched vegetation, he set his gaze upon an isolated wooden hovel nestled between the trees. The shanty sat crookedly on a stone foundation. Hurled rocks shattered all of its windows. Save for the occasional song of a chirping bird, all sound seemed muted here. Kyle heard the weight of his own feet crackling the brittle grass as he walked. In spite of his noisy approach, he inched closer toward Murden’s home without a fear of what lurked beyond its door.
No one had prepared Kyle for what he would actually observe if Murden decided to make himself available. Was there even a chance that he’d confide in a boy from town? And if evil truly dwelled in his heart, as everyone believed, why would he confess to his atrocities now? Kyle knew that the old man was quite ill; rumors of his pending demise passed from door to door like an invitation to a block party. Despite the reservations of those who trekked these woods before him, Kyle pressed onward as if being lured by the scent of an apple pie cooling on a windowsill.
When Kyle stepped onto the shanty’s front porch, he immediately sensed his sneakers sinking into the splintered wood. A prolonged CREAK caused him to tiptoe across the platform. Before the boards fully split, he managed to scamper to a secure spot near the door’s entrance, but by now he was uncertain as to how long his weight would hold. Sweat was popping on his forehead and cheeks now, too. He felt his heartbeat quickening as he balled his fingers and rapped his hand three consecutive times on the door.
At first there was no response from the door’s opposite side. In the distance, Kyle still heard the bird singing—a surprisingly pleasant melody for a bird perched around such a dismal environment. After a moment mixed with impatience and uncertainty, Kyle raised his hand and struck the door again, this time spilling particles of rotted cedar on top of his head. He wiped the settling dust from his eyes, but not before the door swung open on its hinge.
At that instance, Kyle, alarmed by the door’s sudden motion, reeled backwards. His left heel caught into the wedge of a splintered platform beam, causing him to stumble to one knee as his foot collapsed into the porch. “Damn,” he cried, while trying to tug his foot from its trap.
By now the figure in the door affixed a suspicious gaze on the intruder. As he emerged from the shadows of his home’s interior, Kyle saw the grotesque image of Ben Murden for the first time. The man’s mouth twisted into a frown almost at once, exposing a row of jagged, tawny-colored teeth. Purple sacks rimmed his sunken eyes. His skin appeared to have the texture of worn rawhide. With a shriek that was hoarse and painfully feeble, the old man raised his hickory can above his shoulders. Sensing as if he might bash the stick over his skull at any second, Kyle leaned backwards so that his body lay prostrate on the porch.
“Please don’t hit me,” Kyle pleaded, covering the crown of his head with both hands.
Between his wheezing, Murden paused and forwarded a perplexed look at the young boy. He did not know this face. Instead of lowering the stick onto Kyle, he pounded it into the boards a few inches from his backside.
“You’ve come here to cause me trouble, haven’t you?” Murden snarled. When Kyle pivoted to look at the old man again, he saw dried blood creased in the corner of the old man’s mouth. When the man’s lips shivered with rage, flecks of blood and phlegm spewed from under his tongue. Though his disease made him almost impossible to stare at without wincing in disgust, Kyle forced his eyes to remain focused.
“I—I just came to talk,” Kyle stammered, now freeing his foot from the porch. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Too late for that,” Murden whispered. He then pulled his cane back in front of his body and used it to support his weary legs. Kyle saw that the man’s Murden-colored shirt and trousers were appallingly filthy, soiled beyond the recognition of their years. By the putrid odor hovering in the humid air, Kyle gu
essed that the old man hadn’t showered in days—perhaps weeks. Clumps of silver hair stuck out from his chin like the fractured silk of a spider’s web. Crust was caked beneath his fingernails, and layers of black grim embedded the wrinkles of his neck.
“You’ve got no business here, boy,” Murden warned, wielding his stick as if to strike with more accuracy.
Kyle hadn’t yet tried to stand on his feet. He feared that his movement might provoke Murden to attack. “Please,” Kyle implored, attempting to sound helpless. “Mr. Murden, I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Had it not been for the limitations set for him by his chronic malady, Murden may have chosen to laugh at the boy’s inquisitiveness. Instead of attempting to inhale what air he could, Murden cleared his throat and spat a wad of sallow-colored pus upon the porch. Kyle watched the spittle ooze between the creases of the wooden beams.
“You’re trespassing,” Murden announced dispassionately, now making his way out on the porch next to Kyle. He immediately felt the sun’s rays stinging the lesions in his pink nose. “Because you’re so young and apparently stupid, I’m prepared to let you leave with a warning.”
Without shifting his eyes from Murden’s face, Kyle scuttled to his feet and backed off the porch. He sensed a shade of anger flourishing in the old man’s expression, but it seemed to diminish with each passing second. Maybe Murden was a ruthless killer, but it still seemed remote. Kyle guessed that someone capable of unprovoked murders would have surely used the opportunity to inflict harm on a vulnerable person again. If this logic was true, why hadn’t Murden struck him with the stick when he had the chance?
“I only came to talk,” Kyle repeated to the old man.
“Talk?” Murden echoed the boy’s words. “Haven’t you heard, boy? I don’t speak to anyone in this town.”
“I’ve heard,” Kyle admitted. “But maybe that’s because nobody ever speaks to you.”
Murden’s brow knotted as if the sun had reflected directly into his eyes. But he was leaning against the balustrade under the overhang now, practically shadowed from the day’s brightness.
“Don’t you know who I am, boy?” Murden wheezed. “I got nothin’ to say to you.”
“I know all about your past,” Kyle said, standing his ground with his arms crossed in front of his body. “And truthfully, that’s why I wanted to see you.”
Murden rolled his eyes in discontent and grumbled, “If you’re looking for danger, boy, there’s plenty of other places to find it.”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Murden. I didn’t come here thinking that all those terrible things people say about you are true. Really, I don’t believe you did anything wrong. That’s why I’m here.”
Though it burned his lungs with an acute discomfort, Murden could not contain his amusement. “This is more than an old fool can withstand,” he finally chuckled in a raspy melody. “Let me get this straight, boy, you’ve come to me to discuss my past—a past you’re convinced never existed?”
“Well,” Kyle replied sheepishly. “I guess I wanted to hear your side of the story.”
Still laughing in a contrived sort of way, Murden snorted, “And you’re absolutely certain that I’ve got one worth hearing?” The old man stopped laughing now and clutched at his chest as if his heart ached with some unnatural rhythm. He cleared the phlegm from his throat again before saying, “Boy, I admire your spunk, but I’m afraid you’ve arrived about thirty years too late.”
“If you can convince me that you’re innocent, Mr. Murden, then I think you can prove it to others, too. There’s still time.”
Murden expelled a breath that seemed to stagger off his tongue and die in a vague mist within two inches from his face. At close range, Kyle discerned that not enough air passed through his body in order to replenish his blood with oxygen. His lips were a pale shade of indigo as he struggled to form words.
“I appreciate your gesture, boy, but I reckon it don’t much matter what people think of me now.”
“But if you’re innocent….”
“In their minds I’m guilty, a killer pure and simple. That’s my legacy, boy. That’s what I’ve become to them all.”
Kyle felt a tinge of bravery nudge him forward. Instead of stepping away from the porch, where Murden stood like a tormented solider, he edged closer. With his voice bubbling with confidence, Kyle announced, “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trick you, Mr. Murden. I’m not sure if anybody will listen to me or not, but I’m willing to try and make sense out of whatever you want to tell me.”
Silence lingered between the man and boy. The bird still twittered somewhere from a surrounding trees. Although Kyle couldn’t be certain, when he glanced at Murden’s face again, he thought he detected a single tear welling in the corner of his sloped eyes.
“It’s been so long,” Murden muttered, his teeth grinding into his upper lip. “But it’s fairly clear to me that nothin’ I say now will change anything, boy.”
“You can’t give up, Mr. Murden. I can help you.”
Murden raised his chin from the shadows to study the boy’s features more discerningly. It was true that his memory wasn’t as clear as it once had been, but he was partially certain that this boy hadn’t ventured on his property before. Why would a stranger in this town—no matter what his age or disposition—suddenly possess an urge to show benevolence for such an abhorrent man? Was this an ill-timed prank—another way to belittle an already dejected man? Murden felt embarrassed for craving to entertain the company of a boy, but his prolonged isolation had rendered him far more vulnerable than he ever thought possible.
Finally, Murden conceded to the boy’s request. “If it’s the real story you want, boy, then I’ll give it to you as best I can.”
Kyle stood beneath the overhang adjacent to the old man now. After hesitating slightly, the boy forwarded his hand in a gesture of friendship. Sensing that the boy was in quest of some confirmation of trust, Murden snickered, “It’s not necessary, boy. We’ll keep our little conversation as impersonal as possible.”
Kyle lowered his hand and nodded his chin numbly before saying, “Okay, Mr. Murden. We’ll do it your way.” And with those words, Murden smiled tentatively, displaying the raw gangrenous gums of a man who appeared to gnaw on barbed wire.
As Kyle tried to become acquainted with Meadowton’s foulest personality, Robby and Casey arrived at the bottom of the hillside, where Kyle had left his bike in haste. They dismounted their own bikes just as swiftly, but paused before dashing after their friend.
“Do you really think he’s stupid enough to go up there, man?” Casey asked, nervously studying the footprints leading into the thicket.
Up until yesterday, Robby thought he knew Kyle well enough to answer such a question without hesitation. Now, as he surveyed the woods, he wasn’t certain. “Something has gotten into that kid’s head,” Robby decided. “And it’s up to us to make sure that he doesn’t get himself killed.”
Robby started into the underbrush toward the hill, but Casey restrained him by pulling on his shirt. “Hold on, hold on,” Casey panted, still trying to calm down. “Let’s think about this for a minute, okay?”
“Kyle might be in big trouble,” Robby countered, pulling Casey forward by his arm. “C’mon, we’ve got to help him.”
Casey wasn’t so eager to be a hero on this day. He paused again. Robby sensed the fear glowing in his friend’s eyes. “Hey, I’m scared, too, Casey,” he offered, “but we got to do something.”
“We’ll wait ten minutes,” Casey suggested. “If he ain’t back by then, I’ll go get the sheriff.”
Suddenly, ten minutes didn’t seem so unreasonable, especially for a boy who was shivering as if blasted by an arctic wind. Still—in order to maintain his aura of bravery—Robby had to make it seem as if such a proposal was a burden to his better judgment. “Just ten minutes,” Robby thought. “Okay—ten minutes. After that, we’ll both go and get the sheriff.”
As
the boys settled into the grass with anxious gazes directed at the hillside, Kyle positioned himself on one of the larger stones in a collapsed segment of the wall bordering Murden’s property. The old man joined him in time. From where they sat, the peach grove was clearly visible in the distance. Since these trees had no leaves, they were easy to spot. Murden immediately cast a rueful stare in the direction of his grove. Kyle could read the anguish in the old man’s sagging expression.
Kyle motioned toward Murden’s hickory stick before saying, “You know, for a minute I wasn’t sure if you were gonna hit me on the head with that thing.”
“Well, don’t be too certain that I won’t do it just yet,” Murden said with a sinful chuckle. “You ain’t out of the woods yet, boy.”
Kyle lifted his eyes and peered across the field before realizing how literal the man’s words sounded. He tried not to appear timid as Murden dug the tip of his cane in the soft dirt surrounding his feet.
“I must confess, boy,” Murden stated. “You’re the first kid to come up to me in the past thirty years who actually tried to talk to me. I admire your courage. It sort of makes up for all the rotten cowards who’ve passed through these woods.”
Though it didn’t seem conceivable at first, Kyle found himself growing somewhat comfortable with this man’s company. The longer he sat with him, staring tentatively into his dim eyes, the more he realized how people had unfairly branded him. At least for now, the only thing that appeared to be vaguely true about Murden was his reclusive nature, but even this seemed to have been delivered onto him without the benefit of choice.
“Mr. Murden, I don’t think you should be living out here all alone. There must be someplace else where you can go.”
“First of all, boy, you can call me Ben. I’d prefer that.”
“Okay, Ben.”
“And did your mama have the good sense to give you a name?”
“Oh, it’s Kyle. I—I mean, I’m Kyle—Kyle McCann.”
“Well,” Murden sighed with a thoughtful pause. “Let me tell you something, Kyle McCann.” Murden flipped his cane upward and motioned it in a circle above his head. “This forest happens to be my home. They’ve been trying like hell to drive me out of here since before you were sucking milk from a nipple, but I ain’t got no reason to leave.”
“Don’t hear me wrong, Mr. Murden—I mean, Ben. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just think you might need some help.”
Murden shook his head and settled back into a slump with his cane pressed against his torso. “You’re much too eager to presume what I need, boy.” He then took a moment to observe Kyle’s clothing. In his opinion, the garments were much too clean for a country boy’s liking, especially the sneakers. He had never seen anything like them before. A pair of bright leather and rubber shoes was a telltale sign of a privileged upbringing. Boys who dressed in such a fashion usually caused Murden the most grief.
Kyle sensed the old man’s agitation before he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“You are, boy,” Murden said, astutely. “You’re all wrong for these woods. What part of town do you come from?”
“Uptown,” Kyle answered, somewhat defensively. “I’ve lived in Meadowton all my life.”
“And your folks?”
“My mom’s from southern Jersey, and my dad was born around here, right outside of Meadowton, I think.”
This bit of information didn’t do much to alter Murden’s sour expression. He glowered at Kyle before attempting to speak again. “You got yourself some fine clothes there, boy, and most likely a hot meal in your belly every night to boot. I reckon you come from a good ilk, maybe too good for your own taste.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be prowling around these woods. A child your age must got better things to do with his time.”
“Not really,” Kyle confessed. “It’s sort of boring living in this town.”
“So that’s it,” Murden cackled as if he had discovered something about the boy that was unbeknownst to him. “You need to be entertained?”
“Not exactly. Like I told you before, Ben, I just want to help.”
Murden’s stare softened as he leaned forward on his cane. Kyle noticed a great deal of strain gathering in the man’s features as he hobbled to his feet again. He offered his assistance, but Murden brushed his hand away. Kyle watched the old man pause briefly while casting a fond gaze toward his peach grove.
“I reckon I should start from the beginning,” Murden mused.
Kyle observed Murden vigilantly as he limped onward, progressing across the weedy field toward the dead peach trees. Kyle immediately stood up and called out to the old man. “Hey, Ben, where are you going now?”
Murden did not turn around to acknowledge the boy’s question. For several minutes his eyes remained fixated on the lifeless arrangement of trees. After a few more seconds of silence, Murden bellowed, “C’mon, boy. We’ve got some answers to dig up, don’t we?”
Kyle agreed, but he wasn’t certain if he favored Murden’s choice of words. Still, he had come farther than anyone would have dared to believe on this day, and there was no reason to suspect that he couldn’t delve deeper into the mystery at large.
“Wait up,” Kyle shouted, rushing after the old man with an unrestrained urgency.
Within moments, the boy and man were walking in tandem into the peach grove where few had ventured without pause in the past thirty years.
Chapter 8
Songs of a Peach Tree Page 8
