The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  I can’t see the man’s face.

  …too much blood.

  “Off that horse,” Randolph yelled to his son.

  Jonathan didn’t move.

  “You listening to me?”

  “Leave him be,” said Jake.

  “Mind your business.”

  “He’s scared, Randy.”

  “This’s between me and the boy.” And to Johnny, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get your ass off the horse now.”

  Slowly, Jonathan slipped down the mare’s side, afraid a sudden jog might send his stomach into a vomiting spasm, and wouldn’t Daddy love that. Nothing like throwing up to squelch Randolph Clayman’s fatherly pride; from telling folks about his good kid. It took the man twelve years to say those words once, for God’s sake. Put your mind on different things. You know, pleasant things. He couldn’t see, either. The hood was too big and the eyeholes flopped around as he walked toward his dad—did that when he rode Jessie, too—and he felt as if he were in somebody else’s clothes.

  “…gonna beat the shit out of you,” Randolph was saying. “Hey, get it in gear. You tryin’ to embarrass me, or what?”

  “No, sir.”

  Jonathan couldn’t look at the man tied to the tree, not like this, not up close. Then the stench of Ben Calloway reached him; smelled the piss and the shit.

  The boy started to vomit. He yanked off the white hood, falling on his hands and knees, all he’d eaten at the birthday party coming up in two gut-filled heaves.

  “Jesus Christ!” shouted Randolph. “What the hell you doin’?”

  “Easy,” Jake said. “Can’t you see the kid’s sick? Don’t go hollering at a sick kid.”

  “It ain’t your fuckin’ business, Jake.”

  “I’m making it my business, okay? Okay? That alright with you? Stop yellin’ at the goddamn kid.”

  Randolph cocked his boot, kicking Jonathan hard in the side, the force of it lifting his son from the ground, flipping him to his back. Another kick, this one went into the face, ripping the cheek, blood spraying a red, wet fan in the moonlight.

  Blackness swelled behind Jonathan’s eyes. He felt an explosion of pain, bright hot rays piercing the dark, his cheek and side pulsating within him, forgetting the nausea and cramping, forgetting everything.

  It worked, Daddy.

  I don’t feel sick.

  Do…

  …do you like your good boy now?

  Vague, angry voices: Jonathan heard them, though didn’t know who he was hearing or what they were saying. He couldn’t get past the blistering ache of his side and cheek enough to concentrate. But as the pain subsided, and with half-opened eyes, he saw Uncle Jake swing a fist at his father. “You son-of-a-bitch,” said Jake, knuckles slamming firmly into Randolph’s jaw, sprawling him butt-first on the grass.

  “Ain’t your boy,” muttered his father, already getting to his feet, legs wobbly.

  “My nephew; my sister’s son.” Jake hit him again; same spot. Randolph’s legs shot straight up, landing on his back. “Tired of how you treat Tamara, too,” said Jake. “I know you beat her, Randy. Don’t you think I know? And I’ll tell you somethin’—true as I’m standing here—you hit her or the boy one more time, and I’ll kill you. Are you listening? Don’t be thinkin’ I’m playing, either. I’ll put you in the ground for good, you son-of-a-bitch. Drag you like we done with the nigger, and shoot your ass.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No, no. Fuck you.” Jake drew a long-barreled pistol from under his white robe, aiming it at Randolph, holding the weapon with both hands.

  Stop. Jonathan had wanted to yell the word; what came out was a rusty croaking sound, “Stowwp!”

  Jake glanced at the boy; then looked down at the gun. His thumb gently released the hammer. “You’re a lucky man,” he said to Randolph, the long-barrel disappearing beneath the robe.

  He helped Jonathan stand, removing the hood and gown, examining the wounded cheek.

  “That’s gonna scar,” Jake said. “Can you get on Jessie?” The boy nodded. “Then do it. I’ll be goin’ on myself. And taking Ben there with me. Hate’s a bad habit. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  Jonathan mounted the mare, looking down at his uncle. “Daddy’s not always…you know…this way.”

  “Often enough.”

  “Don’t kill him Uncle Jake.”

  “Let your momma fix that cut.”

  “Promise me.”

  His uncle looked away; seemed to consider the implications of such a promise. “That temper of his doesn’t care who it hurts.”

  “Just promise.”

  “I won’t kill him. But I will give your daddy what he gives to you and Momma. I can promise that much.”

  A gray flimsy cloud drifted across the moon, darkening the meadow and Jake’s face.

  Jonathan figured his uncle’s promise was better than nothing; felt his aching body start to relax. “Momma was right. I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “She’s definitely got the brains in that marriage.” Jake hesitated; then quietly, “…didn’t mean to scare you, kid.”

  “The whole thing scared me.”

  “You’re a good boy. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

  Uncle Jake patted the mare’s flank and Jonathan lead the horse into the woods. Gonna have a scar. When he thought about it, he liked the idea; remembered the preview of a new movie he’d seen last Saturday—some really amazing space thing—where the hero, Han Solo, had a pretty cool scar on his chin.

  Uh-huh. That’d be okay.

  The clouds were growing thick and full, showing only a sliver of the moon. Jonathan noticed the trees seemed closer together, tightly clustered, the branches forming a canopy. God, don’t let me get lost. Please, I just wanna go home now. He thought of his warm bed, the covers pulled over his shoulders, head flush against the soft pillow. His side and cheek ached, especially the cheek. Dried blood streaked the front of his white cotton T-shirt.

  Please…

  Let me find my home.

  III

  He watched the boy on the horse—ten, maybe fifteen yards away—trotting toward him. And Snatch smiled. Perfect, so very perfect, a good choice. Given time and the right situations, he could do a lot with Jonathan Clayman.

  Oh, yes.

  Extremely workable.

  His kind of game. No, better: his occupation: what he’d done everyday for…

  How long?

  Since the cities devoured the forests; since Feebs exchanged mud huts for brick and walked on cobblestone. A long fuckin’ time, Johnny boy. And he enjoyed his work; had a talent for it. Inflicting anguish lent itself to a certain excitement. Intoxicating, habit-forming: his drug, so to speak.

  Ah, the smell of napalm in the morning.

  Mr. Destructo.

  Want to go home, do you?

  You’re not alone there.

  No sir, no sir.

  He’d give up his Drug of Choice in a heartbeat—goodbye little Feebs, farewell, farewell from Mr. Destructo—shut down the abyss forever and…

  Please…

  Let me go home.

  That was the deal, after all. Just do what he normally did, gather the Feebs, a single Feeb. But this time Snatch could get out of Dodge. And with a bonus: Benjamin and the rest would spend the final millennium of the abyss in its bleakest place, an atonement for his former confidant’s worldly involvement and, no competition here, his ultimate failure.

  How…symmetrical.

  I’m stronger, quicker and better at this than you, Benjamin.

  …know why?

  I don’t give a rat’s ass about them, that’s why. Let the Feebs feel the shit I’ve felt.

  …more…

  I want YOU to feel it.

  Yeah, you, Benjamin…

  …screaming for a thousand years.

  Snatch was still watching the rider, only a few yards away now, the boy leaning against the neck of the horse.

  Hu
rtin’ are you, Johnny boy?

  Daddy putting the fear of God in you? Or maybe something else.

  —most probably something else.

  Good. We can use that, you and I.

  No Momma tonight, Johnny boy; no hot chocolate and cookies; no sweet dreams about pretty little girls.

  Tonight, it’s just us.

  Tonight, you’re mine.

  Snatch gazed up at a tall old oak to the right of his young rider.

  A long jagged burst of light ripped through its branches, down into its trunk, the leaves erupting into a blaze.

  Mr. Destructo.

  A deep rolling thunder followed the light, the ancient tree cracking in two, falling across the boy’s path, consumed by flames that raged briefly and disappeared.

  Through dense billows of smoke, Snatch saw the horse rearing, front hooves jabbing the air, a high-pitched noise came from the animal, closer to a screech than a whinny, and, as the horse took off, the boy tumbled down the mare’s back, landing on the forest floor with a solid, hard thud.

  Jonathan didn’t move.

  Don’t go getting all unconscious on me. This is your night, Johnny. No naps allowed. I need your full attention.

  C’mon Feeb…

  …wake.

  Snatch heard him start to sob somewhere behind a wall of gradually diminishing smoke.

  That’s it.

  What a good fellow.

  Jonathan Clayman: Keeper had whispered the name. “I want you to see about this one,” he’d said —almost in the same breath with, “A young Feeb’s been picked for us…” Snatch took the hint, no option here. But an okay choice, even though the kid seemed dumb as wood, failing every school subject, never studying, never home to study. After two weeks of observing him, not seen but there, Snatch suspected his would-be protégé was more troubled than stupid, and Jonathan’s trouble was Randolph Clayman. The boy both feared this angry little asshole and desperately needed his approval. Incomprehensible: asking love from a man who had nothing, save his own resentments, yet a man who demands loyalty, deference, praise, attention, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum. Snatch didn’t know why the boy allowed the mad fool to live. On those occasions when Jonathan did well in school, and he had done well earlier, Randolph acted envious, as if his son’s success lessened him in some way; failure met equal results, the father feeling embarrassed and responsible for producing this deficient child.

  Keeper’s “decent boy” had a hunger; more than that: greed, raging greed.

  Workable.

  Yes, a useful affliction.

  Now he listened. The boy had stopped crying, his breath audible, soft, gasping sounds, and Snatch gazed into the smoke and darkness of the woods.

  He could use Johnny boy’s hunger, his lust, convince him—no, no, advise him—You must only advise, Keeper had said—an extremely malleable word—alright, he’d advise him to fulfill this hunger elsewhere.

  Seek out…

  …new friends.

  Clouds were beginning to go silky and break apart across the sky. A full moon showered the branches of the trees, lustrous against the smoke.

  Snatch walked toward the boy who still lay on his side, arms wrapped about his knees, rocking slightly. Skinny kid, curly rust-colored hair, small bones in a big T-shirt, blood dried on the once white front and shoulders, his jeans looked old, frayed at the knees. Snatch felt doubt, an unsettling apprehension. He wondered if the child would be able to do much of anything. Maybe the Twit-Who-Is made a mistake. Shit does happen. But you didn’t want to question Keeper, particularly his negotiations; you just don’t say, “Pardon me, sport, I think you and the Big Twit screwed up here. Shouldn’t you reevaluate the plan?”

  Best to go with the flow; hope they saw a talent in the kid. Had Keeper ever been wrong? No incident Snatch remembered, unless you counted being cast down into the abyss. That wasn’t the brightest move in the world.

  IV

  “Help…me,” Jonathan moaned, staring up at the man. No, not a man; more a kid, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with dark slicked-back hair like the pictures of the Fifties Elvis before he’d become a blimp and started wearing those Vegas Halloween costumes. This kid seemed caught in a time-warp, black motorcycle jacket, jeans rolled at the cuff and showing hobnail boots, what Randolph would’ve called a “hood.” But the stranger’s face really got to Jonathan: baby-faced, yet worn and tanned, tiny creases lined the corners of his eyes and mouth, eyes that went right through you.

  “Help me,” Jonathan said, again.

  “Sure, of course.”

  “You got a bike or something?” The stranger looked like a biker.

  “Bike?”

  “A motorcycle. Please, I gotta go home.”

  “Yes…a bike,” He purred out the word, bikkke. “What sort of bike do you prefer?”

  Freaky question.

  Jonathan didn’t know. Whatever the bike guy had, whatever would take him home. His father had pictures of Harleys in his store and always talked about how much better they were than the “Jap shit.”

  “…Harley it is,” said the bike guy. Like reading his mind or something.

  Bright moonlight pierced the trees, cutting through the last of the smoky air. A low-ride Harley appeared, red and orange flames across its black pan, chrome pipes glistening.

  “Holy crap,” Jonathan muttered, propping himself up on an elbow. That motorcycle was the most beautiful machine he’d ever seen. Early Sixties, he figured, maybe a sixty-two.

  “Let’s go for a ride, kid.”

  “What’s…what’s your name?”

  The bike guy did a slow grin, white perfect teeth. “Eddy,” Snatch said. “You can called me ‘Eddy’.”

  Jonathan remembered his mother’s instructions when he would leave the house; she said them so much he chanted them with her: Don’t Accept Rides From Strangers. Momma should’ve added, Especially strangers who make Harleys appear from NOwhere. But what do you do in this situation, Mom? How am I supposed to get home?

  Eddy didn’t seem all that weird…

  …except for the hair.

  The chopper geared up—hot thunder in the chest—and Jonathan grabbed Eddy’s waist as the Harley leaped away from the ground, over rocks and brush, bouncing abruptly, once, twice, swift jolts through the boy’s body. Eddy shifted, and the fire decals on the gas pan reached out on both sides of Jonathan—alive—flames rolling over his legs. The bike, shooting between pines and oaks with decisive moves. He yelled, Yahooo! Felt a sudden burst of pain in cheek and side, but, Jesus, this was totally rip-shit. Jesus! Then he peeked over Eddy’s shoulder, cold wind stinging his face, and Jonathan let out another scream. Fifty or so yards ahead the woods ended, a drop-off, a little clearing, a patch of grass—and nothing. He knew the place.

  A drop-off…

  …seventy-five, eighty feet straight down…

  …onto a highway.

  Eddy was aiming the Harley right for it.

  Jonathan shut his eyes, tightening his grip around the guy’s waist, pressing his good cheek against the back of the leather jacket.

  Oh, holy crap.

  Ohhh, nooooo!

  The bike left the ground, and a cold night wind whipped him. He opened one eye, squinting. They were airborne, sailing across a clear starry sky, the full moon close enough to touch; and below them—way, way below them—the thin yellow lines of the highway.

  Jonathan, screaming again, the sound echoing from the wooded mountains, the asphalt road; and in the middle of a fast, sinking fall that seemed to go on forever, Eddy turned to him, black hair lashing his face.

  The young man smiled, those small white teeth stark under the moon, touching Johnny boy’s forehead with his fingertips.

  “—A present for you, mu’ man.”

  Something flowed from his fingers, a shocking something, a deep current that burned into the brain. Jonathan thought his head might explode. He reeled backward, and Eddy caught the bloody T-shirt.

  “Whoa,
Johnny. It’s a long trip down.”

  Don’t hurt me.

  Please, don’t—

  “Hurt you? Hey, buddy boy, I just changed your fuckin’ life. Now hold on.”

  Eddy swivelled around, grasping the handlebar. Jonathan didn’t have to be told twice. He circled his arms about the biker as the Harley hit the pavement, flew and struck the pavement a second time—jarring the hell out of his hips and chest—the tires landing on a angle, skidding across the road and up a grassy shoulder; Eddy, yelling: “Hold on, mu’man!”, swerving onto the road and shifting gears, the Harley giving a metallic howl and speeding down the dark highway.

  Jonathan had wet his pants.

  “Fun, huh, bud?”

  “I-I…yeah.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” the boy called out.

  “Wanna do it, again?”

  “Maybe later,” he said, and heard Eddy laugh. Then Jonathan felt the inside of his head pulsing; remembered being touched by him, and shouted against the wind, “What did you do to me back there?”

  Eddy slowed the low-rider, cutting the engine, gliding off the road and stopping on the graveled shoulder. He dug a heel into the kickstand, swinging his leg over the bike to face the boy.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Eddy said, his most sincere voice, seeming to study Jonathan’s eyes. “What would you like to do? With your life, I mean.”

  Elvis, the counselor.

  “I…dunno.”

  “Want to stay in this pisshole town?”

  “…no.”

  “How you doin’ in school?”

  The boy shrugged; glanced down, feeling embarrassed, a little on the spot. “Not all that great, I guess.”

  “Daddy won’t let you shine, will he?” Beneath Eddy’s sincerity, Jonathan could hear the shadow of a taunt. “Beats the shit out of you when you fail; but if you get too smart, he beats the shit out of you for that?”

  The boy looked up, eyes wide, bewildered. “You…know my dad?