by Ronald Kelly
“What’s what, Mr. Scott?”
Wes dropped his end of the flour sack and leaned in closer, leaving Fletcher still holding his end. “You’ve got a lash in the corner of your eye,” he said softly, nearly in a whisper. “Best get it out before goes in further.”
The boy’s heart beat like a trip-hammer as the man leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from his own. He brought one hand up toward his left eye. “Now hold still. This’ll only take a second…”
Fletcher expected the tip of the man’s thumb to brush at the corner of his eye to extract the stray eyelash, but that wasn’t what happened at all. Instead, the man’s hand snaked behind his head and grabbed a fistful of curly blond hair. The boy gasped as his head was forced forward. Before he knew it, the man’s mouth covered his own. He attempted to keep his closed, but Wes Scott’s tongue rooted past his lips and teeth. It invaded his mouth, probing deep, stroking his own tongue. Fletcher’s eyes widened as he struggled to pull free. The nasty taste of cigarette smoke, bad breath, and a hint of corn liquor coated his tongue, causing the inner lining of his mouth to grow hot and sickly. He felt as though he was about to throw up.
Then the man pulled his face away, grinning like a possum. He licked his lips and snickered. “Enjoy your first taste of man, son?”
Fletcher dropped his end of the flour sack and stumbled backward, losing his footing and falling across a heap of alfalfa seed. He gasped for air, feeling faint. Quickly, he struggled to his feet and started toward the door.
Wes laughed softly and winked. “You can run, Fletcher. But I ain’t through with you yet.”
Soon, the boy was back in the main room of the general store, surrounded by aisles of produce and canned goods, as well as bright sunlight streaming through the front windows.
Elijah Brice turned his eyes toward the boy and frowned. “I thought I told you…”
Wes Scott appeared through the doorway, struggling with the twenty pound bag of flour. “Aw, that’s alright, Mr. Brice. I can handle it. I reckon the boy got spooked by the dark back there. Kinda of a big young’un to be scared of his own shadow, though, if you ask me.”
Leland Tucker shot Fletcher an annoyed look. “Here, Wes. I’ll help you tote it to the truck.” Together, the two men hauled the flour sack outside to the customer’s pickup truck.
Fletcher opened his mouth to say something, but abruptly his father was there, grabbing him roughly by the bicep. His fingers burrowed in the flesh so forcefully that it shot pain through his arm from shoulder to wrist. “What are you doing, going and embarrassing me like that? Useless, good-for-nothing boy…if you should be called such.” He shook the boy violently, his face blood red in hue. “I have a mind to dress you in an apron and let your hair grow long. Let your ma raise you the way she would a daughter. ’Cause, so far, you’ve done little to prove that you’re a son of mine.”
The words hurt a dozen times worse than his bruised arm did. He yearned to tell his father about what had taken place in the storeroom of Tucker’s store. Wes Scott kissed me! He fastened his mouth over mine and stuck his tongue inside! But he knew he could never tell his father such an awful truth, for the man would never believe it as such. More than likely, his father would backhand him across the mouth and accuse him of acting inappropriately; such was his low opinion of him.
“Now get your sorry ass out to the truck, whilst I square my bill with Mr. Tucker,” he grated, shoving the boy toward the front door. As Fletcher stumbled forward, the two men came back inside. Leland ignored him, while Wes clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
“Don’t fret, young Brice,” he told him. “You’ll end up a man one of these days.”
Fletcher shot a glance toward his father, but reading the mountain man’s expression he knew exactly what he was thinking. “I’m not all that sure that’ll ever happen,” he could imagine his father saying. “Not that pitiful, scrawny child I supposedly sired. No sir, I wouldn’t lay down good money on that bet a’tall.”
Suddenly, Fletcher knew he had to get out of there. He rushed through the front door and, standing next to his father’s Ford truck, leaned against the front fender. He felt dizzy and bile rose into his throat. He could still taste the man’s tongue in his mouth, coated with sin and debauchery. Fletcher wanted to puke and purge himself of the awful taste, as well as the shame of the memory. But he knew he couldn’t or he would draw his father’s wrath once again. He swallowed and breathed deeply. Then he climbed into the cab of the truck, waiting for his father to finish his business inside. Spring drew into the hot, muggy days of summer and, eventually, that disturbing encounter with Wes Allen Scott in the back of Tucker’s store began to fade. Fletcher found that he had other things that occupied his mind: his books, his artwork…and the strange creatures that lived on the wooded slopes of Pale Dove Mountain.
Despite his father’s strict rule about no books, Fletcher couldn’t help but continue to check books out of the mobile library and bring them home on the sly: Tarzan of the Apes, Black Beauty, A Treasury of Greek Mythology, Moby Dick, and dozens of others. And he always sought out the illustrated edition if there was one to be found. Part of his reason for doing so was his artistic curiosity…he simply enjoyed studying the illustrator’s technique and diversity, comparing it to his own. But perhaps, on a subconscious level, he wanted to see what the albino changelings might conjure themselves into next, with a little inspiration. And, of course, the Dark’Un as well. Fletcher recalled the disturbing characters of Oz and their pursuit of him down the mountainside. Half of him shuddered at the thought, while the other half wondered what literary character the Dark’Un might choose to transform itself into next.
During his long hikes around the wooded slopes of Pale Dove Mountain, Fletcher would come across the pale creatures every now and then. Sometimes they showed themselves in the form of birds, sometimes small critters, sometimes larger ones like deer and bobcat. Once or twice, they even sat perched on the limb of a tree or upon a boulder, perfectly still, while Fletcher sketched them with pencil and paper. With time, they seemed to accept him and lower their guard. Fletcher did the same. He no longer feared the odd beings, but found comfort with them being there. He knew in his heart, that they belonged there and had been around hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years before he was born.
One afternoon, the twelve-year-old was wandering along the northern face of the mountain, when he came across one of the pale creatures. His father set out steel traps to catch animals to skin and peddle their pelts to interested buyers in Knoxville. This time instead of a raccoon or fox, one of the traps had sprung upon one of the albino critters. It was a snow-white possum with red eyes and a pink face and tail. It struggled to break free from the jagged metal jaws, but struggling was useless. The trap had its catch and it wasn’t about to let go.
Fletcher set his sketch pad aside and cautiously approached the unfortunate animal. “It’s okay,” he told it softly. “I’m here to help.”
The possum shied away at first, then complied as the boy knelt before it and, taking the jaws in both hands, pried them apart with some effort. The animal withdrew its injured limb just before the trap’s jaws popped back together with a loud snap. Fletcher reached out for the possum’s injured foot. “Please. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
The animal licked at its hurt limb and allowed the boy to take it gently in his hands. Although the bone didn’t appear to be broken, the skin and meat underneath had been lacerated and was bleeding freely. Fletcher thought for a moment and then sprang into action. He took a maple leaf from a tree nearby and, pulling a shoe string from one of his boots, quickly tied the makeshift bandage in place. The possum lifted its head and stared at the boy gratefully. Looking into those beady red eyes, Fletcher felt that he was facing something that was not only incredibly intelligent, but older than he could ever imagine.
It was at that moment, the twelve-year-old realized that they were not alone. He looked toward a dense pat
ch of shadow beyond a grove of mountain pine. He heard that tell-tale crackle and, suddenly, a coal-black wolf leapt from the gloom and into the sunshine. Startled, Fletcher stumbled backward, unsure of the thing’s intentions. He stood stone still and watched as the canine version of the Dark’Un crept closer. When it reached the possum, it gently took the animal in its toothy jaws. It regarded Fletcher for a long moment, nodded to the boy, and then disappeared into the forest.
He saw no sign of the Dark’Un again…until the following month. Fletcher was crossing the trickling currents of a mountain stream, when he stepped upon the opposite bank and found a coiled rattlesnake no more than three feet away. The diamondback’s buttons rattled noisily in warning and its head reared back threateningly.
It’s going to bite me! He thought in alarm. Fletcher knew if he was snake bit, he had little chance of recovering. The Brice cabin was all the way on the other side of the mountain. Even if he made it there, it would take him a good half hour of battling thicket and climbing over mossy deadfalls. By the time he collapsed on the doorstep, the venom would be coursing through his veins. Even if his father could get him to the hospital in Knoxville in that old, rattletrap pickup of his, it would be too late. He would be dead before the doctor could even attend to him.
Fletcher braced as the snake tensed and, a split-second later, struck. The boy prepared himself for the impact of the rattler’s bite and the sting of needle-like fangs burying themselves into the meat of his calf. But that didn’t happen. Instead, something leapt from a clump of honeysuckle in a black blur. The thing’s narrow head flashed forward, its sharp-toothed jaws catching the snake by the neck, stopping its strike a mere two inches from Fletcher’s leg.
The snake’s tail sent the brittle buttons into a renewed fit of rattling as it struggled to break free. The animal that had it in a death grip refused to relent, however. It was at that moment, while the two rolled upon the mossy bank of the creek, that Fletcher realized exactly what the animal was. At first he was sure it was a coal black weasel or shoat. Then he recognized it from a book he had read a few months before. It was a mongoose, an animal more common to the jungles of India than in the rural wilds of eastern Tennessee. He recalled the story about Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the faithful pet mongoose that had protected its master from the dreaded cobras, Nag and Nagaina. Now, watching the mongoose and the deadly snake in mortal combat, he recalled the story and its eventual outcome, and this conflict ended the same way. Moments later, the rattlesnake lay limp and dead on the bank of the creek. The ebony incarnation of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi licked its tiny lips, then cocked its small head and regarded the boy who stood there, staring in amazement.
Without warning, the mongoose seemed to sink into itself and flatten into a wet, inky pool. That peculiar crackling sound that heralded the creature’s transformation filled Fletcher’s ears as the tar black puddle expanded. The boy watched, fascinated, as the Dark’Un formed itself into an entirely different creature. A moment later it stood towering before him…a sleek, shiny stallion as black as black could possibly be, from ears to hooves. The horse lowered its head until it was scarcely a few inches from Fletcher’s own face. The gleaming, black marble eyes of the creature almost seemed to smile as it regarded him.
The boy looked down at the dead snake and then back to the stallion again. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.
The dark horse nodded its narrow head and winked.
Although he knew that he was pushing his luck, Fletcher reached out and attempted to stroke the stallion’s coal-black mane. It wasn’t the soft, flowing shock of hair that he expected. Instead it was hard and smooth, almost like the shell of a turtle.
The horse snorted, the air expelled from its flared nostrils as cold as a January night. Then that bold black beauty turned and galloped off into the woods, leaving him by the creek alone.
Fletcher’s heart pounded in his chest. The encounter had been both frightening and exhilarating at the same time. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and then opened them again. The Dark’Un was gone, but the snake was still there, slack in death, its neck snapped cleanly by the mongoose’s powerful jaws.
He prepared to leave that place. As an afterthought, he picked up the rattler and deposited it in the tow sack he toted his books and drawing pad in. His father would be glad to be brought such a prize. The skin would bring several dollars and the buttons—ten in all—would take a place of pride on the shelf next to Elijah’s bed, along with six other diamondback rattles he had collected over the years.
Fletcher would not tell his papa about the Dark’Un. Instead, he would allow the man to believe that he had been the one who had killed the serpent. Maybe it will change his feelings about me, the boy thought, but he knew better than to hope for the impossible.
It was a cloudy day in mid-September when hell came to Pale Dove Mountain.
Elijah Brice had gone to Knoxville for the day, to sell fifteen pounds of dried ginseng. The money would buy medicine for Mattie Brice, winter shoes for Fletcher, and likely carry them through the cold months between November and March.
It had stormed earlier that morning, bringing cool winds and the rattle of raindrops on the cabin’s tin roof. By noon, the shower had passed. Fletcher was sweeping the front porch, while his mother slept fitfully inside. The boy’s heart was heavy with dread. She had not been doing well at all during the past few days, growing weaker and weaker by the hour. Every so often he would go inside and check on her. Once, she had appeared so still and pale that he had been certain that she had passed away. But then her lungs hitched in that violent way she had of grasping for air, and he knew that she was still around to suffer another day.
That wasn’t the only thing that distressed him. There was something wrong on the mountain. He could feel it. After the storm, a noticeable pall of silence covered the wooded peak like a blanket. Nary a bird or bug could be heard…just an unsettling silence. Something was about to happen. But what?
He knew when he heard the swish of high weeds parting at the far side of the porch and turned his head. There stood Wesley Allen Scott. He grinned drunkenly at the twelve-year-old. The veteran held a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a Winchester rifle in the other.
“Heard down at the store that your papa was away for the day,” slurred Wes. “Thought this would be as good a time as any to come calling.”
Fletcher stood stone still. His pulse pounded in his ears. “What do you want?”
Wes laughed and took a swig from the liquor bottle. “Hell, boy…we’ve traded spit. You know what I want.”
From inside the house, his mother’s voice echoed weakly. “Who’s out there, son?”
“It’s Wesley Allen Scott,” said Fletcher. On his tongue the name could have just as soon been Lucifer or Beelzebub.
He heard the creak of bedsprings as Mattie Brice pushed herself up on her elbows. “Run, boy!” she croaked fearfully. “Run as fast as you can!”
Fletcher didn’t hesitate. He flung the broom aside and leapt off the opposite end of the porch. Soon he was bounding across the muddy side yard toward the chicken coop and the outbuildings beyond. Behind him he heard Wes laugh. The metallic click-clack of the Winchester’s lever being worked came to his ears, followed by the brittle crack of the rifle discharging. The boy flinched, expecting to feel the bullet burrow between his shoulder blades, but the drunken man’s aim was off. The round hit the corner of the outhouse, shaving a sliver of wood from the weathered boards. Splinters burrowed into the side of the twelve-year-old’s face like shrapnel, one fragment striking him in the left eye and nearly blinding him.
“Run!” screamed his mother from the house. Her sickly voice rang across the mountainside like the reedy shriek of a loon.
Fletcher leapt into the thicket out back of the privy and began to run. Behind him, he heard the ka-klump, ka-klump of the man’s wooden leg as he made his way across the side yard.
“Run if’n you want,” called Wes Scott. “You’re faster than me, b
ut you’ll give out eventually and then I’ll lay you to ground and have what I came for.”
The boy knew that he was right. Running as fast as he was—and uphill at that—he would lose ground before long. His breath would give away and his muscles would turn to rubber until he could go no further. If he could only reach his secret place at the top of Pale Dove Mountain, then…what? Exactly what did he expect to find there on that rocky pathway? When he finally reached that point, it would be the end of the line. There would be no relief, no escape…only pain, humiliation, and perhaps even death.
Onward he pushed, through knee-high kudzu, blackberry bramble, and thick stands of mountain pine and sycamore. A couple of times he had hoped that Wes had given up, but a rifle shot and the shaving of bark off a nearby tree told him that the crippled veteran was bound and determined to do what he had come there to do. As the vegetation gave away to raw granite and sharp shale, Fletcher’s breath burned in his lungs like pure fire. He stumbled and fell several times, cutting the palms of his hands on the flint. The boy didn’t want to cry, but exhaustion overcame him and he sobbed like a baby. He thought of Elijah Brice and how he would have reacted to his weakness. At that moment, Fletcher hated his father for leaving them alone that afternoon, to fend for themselves.
Finally, he reached the stone pathway. He staggered wearily along its incline, his legs wobbly and weak. The rocky trail with its rolls of pure-white roses held no comfort for him that day. He didn’t know what he expected to find there, but the only thing that greeted him was the great stone pinnacle of Pale Dove Mountain with its shadowy opening in the wall of gray stone. Storm clouds rumbled overhead, much closer than he could have imagined. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. He heard the ka-klump, ka-klump of his pursuer on the pathway behind him and prayed for the heavens to send lightning to strike him dead. That demise would have proven more merciful than the one Wes Scott had in store for him.
