Northern Borders

by Howard Frank Mosher

  My grandfather said nothing more to me that afternoon about the fair. We spent the next several hours driving the back roads of the county visiting people he knew, mostly in remote mountain hollows and far up country lanes. He did not stay long in any one place. Some of the people he wanted to see were at the fair themselves. He said that was all right; he’d catch them there this evening. He did not invite me up into the barnyards and dooryards with him or tell me what he said to the men he spoke with. When I asked him who the people were, he said only, “Neighbors.”

  The Farm seemed preternaturally quiet when we arrived around five o’clock. Just knowing that my grandmother wasn’t there made me uneasy as I rounded up the remaining Ayrshires and drove them down through the pasture to the barn to be milked. We headed back to town as soon as chores were over, not bothering to fix supper; we’d snacked on crackers and cheese and soft drinks that afternoon during our long ride up and down the hollows.

  By the time we reached the fairgrounds it was growing dusky. The sky above the grounds was a rich indigo. Beneath it the midway lights gave off an alluring glow in the early fall twilight. I wanted to ask my grandfather if we could go back to the midway, but Kingdom Fair seemed destined to be a place of turmoil for us that day. No sooner had we finished milking the four prize-winning Ayrshires at the cattle barn than my Uncle Rob Roy ran in with alarming news. “Dad, quick!” he shouted. “They’re going to shoot Hannibal!”

  “What are you talking about?” my grandfather said. “Who’s going to shoot Hannibal?”

  “Preston Hill, the old son of a bitch.”

  “What, did Hermie die?”

  “No, Hermie’s got a fractured leg and arm, maybe a ruptured spleen, they aren’t sure. He’s going to be all right, more’s the pity. But Old Man Hill bulled right ahead and hauled that little moron they call Show up in front of Kip Pierce, and Kip fined him a hundred dollars for not keeping Hannibal properly confined. Show doesn’t have one hundred dollars. Now Kip’s saying the elephant has to be destroyed according to some town ordinance . . . I don’t know, just hurry.”

  My grandfather swore savagely. But he headed fast for the infield. Already a good-sized crowd had gathered around the elephant, which was staked out behind the truck again. Sheriff White was there, looking very uneasy. With him were Justice of the Peace Kip Pierce, Mr. Preston T. Hill, and Show. Mr. Hill was toting his deer rifle, and Show was pleading with Justice Pierce and Sheriff White, begging for just three days to raise the fine money from his elephant rides. Backlighted by the glowing midway, it was a nightmarish scene.

  “What’s the trouble here?” my grandfather said.

  “Nothing at all to do with you, Austen,” Justice Pierce said.

  “I’ll tell you what the trouble is,” Mr. Hill shouted. “This beast broke one of my boy’s legs and one of his arms and now he’s laid up in the horsepittle. He won’t be able to work for two months, never mind putting me in the poorhouse with doctor’s bills.”

  Mr. Hill was so mad that flecks of saliva were flying out of his mouth. “That animal’s been declared a public menace, Austen Kittredge. I’ve got authorization to destroy it. Right, Kip?”

  “That’s true, Austen,” Justice Kip Pierce said, not happily. “We can’t have an animal like that running loose on the rampage. The law on such matters plainly stipulates a fine not to exceed the value of the damages, which I estimate as no more than one hundred dollars medical bills, or forfeiture of the animal if it’s dangerous to public safety or private property, or both. I told this fella here if he’d pay the fine and clear out of town we wouldn’t destroy his elephant. I was as reasonable about it as I could be. But he says he rolled in flat broke. In view of that I’ve authorized Preston here, as poundkeeper, to shoot it.”

  “You men would shoot an elephant?” my grandfather said in an incredulous voice. “You’d do that? In cold blood?”

  “It’s a what-you-call-it—a rogue,” Sheriff White said. “It’s dangerous to the public safety, Austen.”

  “Clear out of the way now,” Mr. Hill said to the growing crowd. He began putting shells in his rifle. I noticed that his hands were shaking.

  “You fellas listen to me now,” my grandfather said. “Hermie asked for what he got. He provoked the animal, nearly put out its eye.”

  “A fine not exceeding the damages incurred or forfeiture of the animal or both. That’s the written law,” Mr. Pierce intoned.

  “Give me three days,” Show implored. “I’ll raise the money from elephant rides.”

  “Who’s going to ride your elephant after what he did to young Hermie?” Sheriff White said. “You won’t be any closer to raising that money three days from now than you are today. You didn’t have a single customer this afternoon once word about Hermie got out.”

  More fairgoers were pouring in from the midway. News of the elephant’s impending execution had evidently spread to the entire grounds and everyone seemed eager to be present. Mr. Hill was still fumbling to get his shells into his gun. Sheriff White was directing the crowd away from the line of fire. I felt as though I was about to witness a murder I was helpless to prevent. Show was frantic, running here, there, everywhere.

  “Simmer down,” my grandfather told Show. “Can’t you get your carny cronies down on the lot to pony up that hundred dollars for you?”

  “They ain’t my cronies,” Show said. “They hate my guts. I’m circus, they’re carnival.”

  “That’s the Jesus truth, mister,” Mrs. Twist said. “For once in his life the runt’s told the truth. Carnies ain’t like circus folks. With carnies, it’s dog eat dog, except maybe they gang up on some rubes with their billies and such.”

  “Preston,” my grandfather said, “you seem to be having some trouble loading that gun. You sure you want to go big-game hunting here tonight? You hit old Hannibal in the wrong place, he’s going to trample you before you can shoot again.”

  Mr. Hill hesitated. He looked warily at Hannibal. “Put him back in the truck,” he said to Show. “We’ll shoot him through the slats.”

  “God Almighty,” Sheriff White said. “I don’t know about that. Shooting a helpless animal inside a truck?”

  “Come on,” a man in the crowd said. “Shoot him. We footed it clear up here from the girlie shows to see an elephant shot. Now blast him, goddamn it.”

  “Austen’s right,” Kip Pierce said with all the magisterial deliberation of a Supreme Court justice. “Do you good folks have any idea what mayhem this animal is capable of wreaking if Preston here don’t put the first bullet in its brain? Do you want a wounded rogue bull elephant loose on the midway? I don’t believe so. We’ll put him in the truck and drive it out to the town gravel pit on the river road and fill it full of holes.”

  “Yes!” Preston said. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Let’s get to it, then,” a drunk yelled, and some other men growled in assent. In the dusky glare from the midway the faces of the nighttime fairgoers were hard and unyielding. Mrs. Twist sobbed and ran to Hannibal and put her arms around his trunk.

  In that moment a sense of collective hesitation seemed to fall over the entire fairgrounds, broken only by the faraway noise of the midway and the creaking of the truck springs as Hannibal, oblivious to his fate, once again began to rock to the distant music.

  Then my grandfather spoke, breaking the spell. “Kip, I’ll pay your one-hundred-dollar fine and take personal responsibility for the elephant. I’ll guarantee the public safety if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “How can you do that, Austen?”

  “I’ll take him up on my farm. I’ve got plenty of work he can do up there. We can keep each other company when the boy’s off at school. An elephant’s the best company there is for a fella who understands them and doesn’t abuse them.”

  “No one can prove I ever abused that animal,” Show said. “It cannot be proved.”

  My grandfather made a harsh sound in his throat, a sardonic approximation of a laug
h. But I was thunderstruck by his announcement that he would take Hannibal home with us. I wanted to shout out loud. An elephant! An elephant on the Farm in Lost Nation. Through my mind flashed a wildly improbable montage of Hannibal plowing our cornfields, Hannibal hauling logs out of the woods to my grandfather’s sawmill, Hannibal pulling our hay wagon and myself high on the load of hay, driving him. Then almost as quickly I was overcome by a great wave of despair. Surely such a marvel as this could never come to pass, except maybe in one of my storybooks.

  “I’ll pay the fine and take the elephant,” my grandfather repeated.

  “Like hell you will!” Mr. Hill said. “I intend to haul that animal out to the gravel pit and shoot it, Austen Kittredge. He half-killed my boy.”

  “You’ve nearly killed him yourself a dozen times over,” my grandfather said. “But you aren’t going to harm that elephant. No one is. I said I’ll pay the hundred dollars. I’ll pay it by ten o’clock tonight. In the meantime, Kip, you better stand guard over Hannibal so nobody gets an itchy trigger finger. Mason, you might want to escort these people”—nodding at Show and Mrs. Twist—“to the county line. The quicker they get out of here the better. Is that fair?”

  “I guess it is,” Justice Pierce said after a pause. “But where are you going to get a hundred dollars between now and ten o’clock, Austen?”

  “Yes, how do I know I’ll get my money?” Mr. Hill said.

  My grandfather looked at him. “Did I say you’d get it, Preston?”

  “Well,” Preston T. Hill said.

  “You wouldn’t be questioning my word?” my grandfather said softly.

  “The written law says forfeit the animal or pay the fine or both,” Justice Pierce said. “If Austen can pay the fine and guarantee the public safety, as he says . . .”

  “Can you keep the last of the great ivory hunters here off Hannibal until ten o’clock?” my grandfather said. He jerked his head at Mr. Hill.

  “Nobody,” Kip said, “but nobody, will touch one hair on this elephant’s hide until ten tonight.”

  “If you ain’t here at ten sharp with the money, I intend to shoot him,” Mr. Hill said.

  “Well,” my grandfather said, “I intend to be here, Preston. With the money. If only to deprive you of the great satisfaction of slaughtering an elephant shut up in a truck.”

  “Are you folks all set to skedaddle on out of here?” Sheriff White said to Show.

  “I don’t know,” Show said slowly. “One hundred dollars is a mighty cheap price to pay for the third largest land animal in captivity. Especially when I’m not getting nothing out of it.”

  “You’re getting out of having the elephant shot, damn it,” Kip said. “I thought you didn’t want the elephant shot.”

  “He’s old anyway,” Show said. “I don’t know as I want this fella to have the benefit of him.”

  “Mister,” Kip said, “I am giving you one last chance to get out of this mess and this county scot-free, with a safe-conduct escort from Sheriff White. Or would you rather go to jail for a hundred days? Because you are one half step away from there this minute.”

  “Get in the truck,” Show said to Mrs. Twist. “We’ll go back down to Albany and hire a lawyer.”

  “Good luck,” Kip said. “To you and your Albany lawyer.”

  Mrs. Twist ran up to my grandfather. “You really going to buy Han, mister? You promise you won’t let nobody shoot him?”

  “Nobody’s going to shoot him,” my grandfather said. “Best get going now.”

  Mrs. Twist gave Hannibal’s trunk one last hug, then got in the truck with Show, who leaned out the window and called to my grandfather, “Hey, you, pops. You’re such a free spender. You got a loose five-spot on you? Gas tank on empty, and I wouldn’t want to run out on the road in this forsaken state. Probably get lynched.”

  My grandfather thrust a few bills in through the window and Show grabbed them and without a word of thanks drove off across the infield toward the nearest exit. Halfway to the gate Sheriff White passed him and flicked on his blue light to lead the way.

  “That’ll take care of him for an hour,” my grandfather murmured.

  “Show?” I said, surprised.

  “No. Mason White.”

  My grandfather looked at me and shook his head slightly as if all the furor over Hannibal was nothing more than a momentary nuisance. “You and I have some unfinished business, Austen. Come on.”

  My grandfather started toward the cattle barn with me at his heels. Inside the barn, in the dim light of the few bare overhead bulbs, I spotted a shadowy group of men near the far entranceway. These men were not loud and fast-moving and half-drunk like the raucous gang of townies who’d come rushing like sharks to a kill to see Mr. Hill shoot Hannibal. They were standing quietly in the weak light, dressed in checked shirts and wool pants or overalls. Most of them were tall and lean and wore slouch hats or caps embossed with the names of feed brands and tractors. Some carried log peaveys and pulp hooks. Others carried shotguns nearly as tall as I was.

  As we approached, I recognized half a dozen of the men from the hollow farms my grandfather and I had visited that afternoon. Neighbors, he had called them then. That is what he called them again now, tilting his head toward them and saying to me quietly, “Neighbors, Austen. Being good neighbors.”

  There could not have been fewer than thirty armed neighbors in the entranceway of the barn.

  “All right, gentlemen,” my grandfather said, “if you’ll just follow along about ten paces behind me and my grandson here, and only step forward should I give the word.”

  My grandfather looked soberly at his neighbors: men from the far mountain hollows, the last full-time hunters and trappers and six-cow farmers in Kingdom County. They looked soberly back at him. No doubt some of these men had been on the big river drives with him long ago. They were men he’d helped in haying and sugaring time, as they’d helped him. They had helped each other milk in times of sickness. Some of them had eaten and slept in his deer camp.

  “Just one thing more,” my grandfather said to his neighbors. “Earlier I told you this would take about five minutes. I miscalculated. I’ve got a friend who’s in bad trouble. I’ve got to bail him out and that will take closer to an hour.”

  One or two of the men nodded. The rest just waited silently. No one objected.

  My grandfather had not often taken my hand that summer, except maybe to cross fast water in the river when we went trout fishing. Now he took my hand and led me up to the midway. Our neighbors drifted along some distance behind us, shadowy in the night. The dew-soaked grass under our feet smelled fresh as morning and the scent of fried food was pungent and mouthwatering on the damp night air. The strings of Christmas lights adorning the rides and booths, the hurdy-gurdy music and snapping cracks from the shooting gallery and crescendoing shrieks of kids on the fair rides were a thousand times more exciting tonight.

  My grandfather made a beeline to the baseball throw booth. There was the Snake Man, right where he’d been that morning. “Step on up, give her a whirl, win a prize for your pretty little girl.”

  My grandfather shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. “We’re back,” he said.

  The Snake Man glanced at my grandfather. He gave a short laugh of recognition. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “It’s Old Gramps. Old Gramps and Babe Root, the kid who can’t throw and can’t count change. Sic ’em, Satan.”

  The blue-and-yellow snake-arm with the frightful green head struck at me. I jumped back and the crowd laughed. But my grandfather calmly took a dollar bill out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “Play the game, Austen.”

  I gave the bill to the barker, who held it up in Satan’s mouth and shouted, “See, folks. It’s a one. Not a ten or a twenty or a hundred. A one.”

  He tossed me the punky, lopsided baseball and this time I threw quickly, with no windup. The ball grazed the rim of the top bottle. It teetered momentarily but didn’t fall. I was disappointed. More than a
nything I still wanted to win that stuffed pink crocodile for my grandmother. It, or one identical to it, was still hanging above the booth with the other stuffed prizes.

  “Got to hit ’em to knock ’em down, kid. Play again?”

  “Give the boy his change,” my grandfather said.

  “Sure, Gramps. Whatever you say. Make change, Satan.” The green snake-head spit the change out into my hand. In a loud, hissing, mocking voice, the Snake Man said, “Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, eighty-five, ninety-five, one dollar, rube.”

  Satan reared up his head and hissed at me in derision, and as fast as chain lightning my grandfather reached out and seized the barker’s wrist just behind the tattooed snake-head, as he might grab a real snake that was threatening to strike me.

  “Hold it,” my grandfather said. “The boy gave you a ten.”

  “Like hell he did!” the Snake Man yelped. “He give me a one.”

  “He tendered you a ten-dollar bill,” my grandfather said, not loudly. “You owe him nine dollars.”

  “Where are your witnesses, old man? I’ll blow one long, two short, one long and yell, ‘Hey, rube!’ In thirty seconds flat you’ll be—Hey! Hey!”

  The Snake Man yelled hey, all right. But he did not yell ‘Hey, rube.’ My grandfather had yanked the whistle out of his mouth and tossed it high over his shoulder into the swirling confusion of the midway. Just the way my grandmother might deadhead a rusty blossom on her moss rose in the dooryard at home—with no more thought than that.

  “Boys,” my grandfather called over his shoulder. Out of the shadows along the edge of the midway came our neighbors, the one-horse loggers, the eighty-acre hill farmers, the poachers and moonshiners and mountain men from the wild northern hollows along the Canadian frontier.

  “How much did I give this fella, boys?”

  “I see you hand him a ten-spot, Austen,” Henry Coville from Lord Hollow said. “I’ll swear to it in any court in the land.”