by Crowe (epub)
The hairs stood up on the back of Johnny’s neck. “You sure you didn’t see any little fellas runnin’ around here, Mister…”
“Scratch,” the man said. “Mr. Scratch.”
“… Mr. Scratch?”
“No,” said Scratch. “Maybe I scared them off when I found you out here, or maybe you scared them off with all that hollering.”
“Yeah,” said Johnny, feeling foolish. “I guess I was makin’ a commotion, huh?”
“I guess you were,” said Scratch.
Johnny stumbled to his feet and swayed on wobbly legs. Scratch leaped from his rock, put an arm out and caught him, helping Johnny get his feet under him. His hand grazed over the wound in Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny winced. It felt like someone had just stuck a hot poker in the hole. Scratch pulled the neck of Johnny’s shirt down and looked at the front of the wound, then the back of Johnny’s shoulder.
“Looks like the ball’s still in there,” Scratch said. “No hole on this side. It’ll need to come out if it’s going to heal. Even then, this shoulder’s not going to be much use to you anymore, is it?”
“No,” Johnny said, his teeth clenched against the pain. “I guess not.”
“You know,” said Scratch, “I think I’ve got something that could fix you right up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a new shoulder. This one… it has got to go.”
“Don’t take me back to those surgeons,” Johnny blurted out. “Anythin’ but that.”
“No,” agreed Scratch, shaking his head. “Not those surgeons. I can fix you up right here all by myself. How does that sound?”
“How’re you gonna to fix me up?”
Scratch looked off into the woods, but Johnny thought that maybe it wasn’t the woods that he was staring into. Johnny got the feeling that Mr. Scratch was looking back across a much larger span than the thin belt of trees and scrub brush.
“I met a man once,” Scratch said, his voice sounding to Johnny as if it were coming from far away. “A sort of medicine man, like a shaman. He was a magician to the Grand Sultan. He knew many tricks, most of them harmless little illusions that served to entertain the court. But some of them, some of them had real magic in them. Not a lot, mind you. He wasn’t that talented of a magician, but enough to make him think that he was better than the rest of the folks in the Grand Sultan’s employ. He even thought that maybe, just maybe, that he was better than the Grand Sultan himself.”
Scratch turned and looked at Johnny, who was startled by what he saw. It was another one of those moments where he thought he saw Mr. Scratch’s face change and become something else; this time it was the terrible face of an angry genie. Again, the image faded and Johnny saw that it was just Mr. Scratch.
“Well,” said Scratch, his voice much stronger and clearer, “I managed to teach that magician a few things about magic in exchange for a few of the trinkets he had concocted. He hadn’t wanted to part with them at first, but once he became Sultan and his kingdom fell ---”
“He became Sultan?” Johnny asked.
“For a time. Once his kingdom fell, I managed to secure my property, which I have in a chest of sorts that I carry with me. One of those trinkets just happens to be a new shoulder, which I assure you I don’t have any use for. But you…” Scratch’s voice trailed off.
Johnny nodded. Mr. Scratch was right, the shoulder would never be any good anymore. The events of the day had taken on a nightmarish quality, but like all dreams had already started to slip away. The darkness had begun to return, and Johnny began to feel numb and far away.
“You’re just foolin’ with me, ain’t you?” Johnny asked while black roses bloomed in his field of vision. “About the magician, I mean?”
Scratch grinned at Johnny, who thought he saw way too many teeth in the stranger’s mouth. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I can fix you up, if you’ll let me.”
“All right.” After all he had been through, why not let the man try?
Johnny lay on his back in a pile of wet leaves and felt his heart beating its slow rhythm in his ears. Mr. Scratch had removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves and had lit a ring of torches around the clearing to see by. He had then pulled a linen sheet from a trunk just outside of the ring of light and hung it from a tree branch so that he stood on one side with Johnny’s bad arm laid out before him while the rest of Johnny lay on the other. The sheet obscured Johnny’s view of what was going on, but he didn’t mind. Scratch was humming a tune, something that Johnny thought sounded familiar, though he couldn’t quite identify it or where he had heard it before. The humming had relaxed Johnny so much that he even took up the tune himself. Scratch popped his head over the sheet and smiled that toothy grin of his. A look of drunken contentment spread over Johnny’s face.
“Our meeting was fortuitous,” Scratch sang. “Just here between the two of us.”
“Ahh…” Scratch said from his side of the sheet. “Do you know any words that rhyme with ‘fortuitous’?”
“No,” answered Johnny.
“Hmm…” Scratch said, rubbing his chin.
“Well, let’s make a new man out of you.”
Johnny felt a tug on his shoulder from the other side of the sheet, but it wasn’t too bad.
“Strong as an ox, that’s what you’ll be.
Quick as hiccup, full of speed.
Why, you’ll be as smart as ol’ General Lee.
Once we make a new man out of you.”
Johnny looked at the sheet, saw the silhouette of some small, five-legged creature that he didn’t recognize crawling toward Scratch from the line of trees.
“Fierce and determined, a heart of stone.
Right at the top, you’ll be all alone.
Why it’ll be easy, who could have known.
That’d we’d make a new man out of you.”
Johnny heard a long, sucking noise, followed by a loud “pop”. All around him, the light from the torches seemed to dim, as if the darkness of the woods was closing in around them. He thought he heard the soft padding of feet and saw pairs of red eyes reflecting the firelight back at him.
“When you make a new man out of me,” Johnny sang.
Scratch stood and admired at his handiwork.
“When we make a new man out of you!”
Johnny awoke and squinted in the morning sunlight. The air around him was full of birdsong and chatter, but he could still hear the low rumble of cannons and the sharp cracks of musket fire in the distance. His head swam and stomach rolled, so Johnny closed his eyes to block out the sun’s glare and lay still, feeling its heat warm his body.
Except for his left arm; it remained cold.
“Up and at ‘em,” said Mr. Scratch.
Johnny shaded his eyes with his right hand and peeked between the slits of his eyelids. Scratch’s dark form was sitting on a stump nearby and smoking that pipe of his, the sweet scent of the burning tobacco drowning out all other smells.
“Ugh,” Johnny moaned, closing his eyes again. He rode a wave of nausea as it crested through him until it passed. How long had it been since he had something to eat?
“Got a little breakfast for you over here,” Scratch said, reading his thoughts. “When you’re ready.”
Johnny rolled to his right. Already the instinct to avoid and protect his wounded left shoulder had become ingrained in him ---
Johnny shot up, overcome by the realization that his shoulder no longer hurt. The shock of both sitting up too fast and the flashing images from the night before made the world go gray before his eyes. Scratch moved like a cat, he leaped from his stump and caught Johnny before the boy passed out and tottered over.
“Easy now,” Scratch said, supporting Johnny’s weight against his own thick body. “Easy.”
Johnny focused on Scratch’s face in order to stop the world from spinning around him. He saw the deep lines, the thick black hair framing his face, and the shining eyes. How old was Mr. Scratch? His body was cracked and weathered like old leather, but his eyes shone bright and fierce, as though some fire burned deep within. Maybe it had burned low, but Johnny thought it could flare up at any moment. The thought made him shudder.
“My arm…” Johnny began, his voice seeming to his own ears to come from down a deep, dark well.
Scratch smiled and nodded at Johnny’s left shoulder. Johnny looked down and forced down the lump in his throat; what if it had been too far gone to be saved and had to be cut off? The image of the pile of amputated limbs forced another shudder in him. To his relief, Johnny saw the form of his arm in the sleeve of his coat. His eyes swept down the length of the arm, all the way to where it ended in a gloved hand. Johnny flexed the fingers and watched them squeeze into a ball at his command.
“You did it,” Johnny said, amazed, looking up into Scratch’s face again. For a moment Johnny was sure he had seen a look of, what, hunger, maybe, on the stranger’s face, but now it was gone, replaced by that toothy grin. “You managed to save my arm,” Johnny said.
“Not exactly,” said Scratch. “That arm was only going to cause you problems. Maybe get infected. No,” he said, “it had to come off.”
Johnny was puzzled. He looked down at his sleeve again, bent his elbow, flapped his arm up and down like a chicken wing. What was Scratch talking about? His arm wasn’t gone, it was right here.
Scratch reached out and grabbed Johnny by the flapping arm. “Cut that out,” he said. Scratch held Johnny’s arm out in front of him and removed the glove. What Johnny saw made even less sense to him than what Scratch had said about taking Johnny’s arm off.
His left hand was made out of gold.
“No,” Scratch said, “we had to take that wounded arm off at the shoulder. Lucky for you, I happened to have this golden arm with me when I found you. Like I said, I’ve not had a use for it and I’ve been dying to give it a try. I’d say it fits you just fine.”
Johnny stared at the golden hand, then took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The more he rolled it up the more of the golden arm was revealed, reflecting the sunlight off of its smooth surface. When he couldn’t roll his sleeve any further, Johnny unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off of his shoulder. His flesh was whole across his chest, but ended with a line of gold stitching that ran up his collar bone and under his armpit and all the way up the back side. From the shoulder down, his arm was solid gold.
“Well,” asked Scratch, parking himself back down on the stump and poking the pipe back between his lips, “what do you think?”
Johnny fought to find some word that could express what he felt. All he could come up with was, “Ain’t it somethin’?”
Scratch laughed, a harsh cawing that flushed the songbirds from the trees. “It’s something all right. But, it won’t do you any good if you starve to death. Grab yourself some of this breakfast I laid out for you before you dry up and blow away.”
Johnny followed Scratch’s long, knobby finger to where it pointed. A quilt had been laid out on the ground and covered with plates that were piled high with all kinds of food. His mouth watered just looking at it: ham and bacon, beans, taters, fruits and greens. Feeling like he was in a dream, Johnny sat down on the edge of the blanket, looked once to Scratch for approval, then tucked in.
“Better slow down,” Scratch said, watching Johnny shovel great handfuls of food into his mouth. “You’ll make yourself sick going about it that way.”
“Ymmff,” Johnny said, his mouth full of bacon and biscuits. He looked around for something to drink and saw a steaming jug of coffee. Had it been there before? Johnny poured himself a cup and took a long draw from it, washing the food down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand, still amazed by the sight of the golden hand. “It’s just been so long since I ate,” said Johnny. “It must have been at least two days ago now.”
“Oh, it’s been longer than that,” said Scratch, puffing away at his pipe. “The… procedure… to attach that new arm took a lot out of you, I’m afraid. No, I found you,” he sat back and looked up at the clouds overhead, lost in thought, “would have been six days ago.”
“Six days?” Johnny asked, spraying a mouthful of food.
“That’s right, six days.”
Johnny stood and looked toward the sounds of battle in the distance, the steady bass of the artillery and the broken staccato of the muskets went ever on.
“Battle’s to the east,” Johnny said, thinking out loud. “That means we must’ve pushed ‘em back!” Johnny looked over at Scratch, trying to contain his excitement. “Do you know much about the fightin’?” he asked. “They must’ve come by here when we pushed ‘em back.”
“Your Confederate army hasn’t pushed the Federals back,” said Scratch, looking down at the ground. “The Feds are still marching forward, pressing on toward Richmond. I’m afraid your boys are on the run.”
Johnny looked first to the west, toward Richmond, but there was no sound of fighting that way. He looked again to the east, where the battle had been going on all morning. “But… if they’re marchin’ toward Richmond… what’s that fightin’ over yonder?”
“We couldn’t stay where we were,” said Scratch. “No, those Federals would have marched right over us.” Scratch stood up from his stump, reached his arms above his head and stretched, his back popping and joints creaking. “I had to move us.”
“We’re behind the fightin’?” asked Johnny.
“Yes,” said Scratch. “We’re at your army’s back, between it and Richmond.” He followed Johnny’s gaze to the east. “How long do you figure that line will hold?”
Johnny reckoned that he didn’t know. He clenched his fists, looked down and saw the tightened golden hand on his left and his flesh one on the right. Why, now that I’ve got two good arms, there’s no reason I shouldn’t be out there, Johnny thought. That’s why I came here to begin with, why I left home and Anna Lee behind in the first place.
Scratch nodded. “I know,” he said. “You need to go. To get back out there.”
Johnny stood silent, his mind whirring. Scratch rolled down Johnny’s sleeve, got the boy his coat, and slid the glove back on his left hand. “You should go,” he said. “They need you out there. I’m not sure what difference one man can make, but if anyone can do some good, it’ll be you.”
Johnny cast about for something to say, but came up empty. How do you thank someone for giving you a new arm? Johnny looked down at his left hand and realized that with the sleeve down and glove on that he looked just like any other soldier. There was no sign of the magnificent golden arm underneath.
Scratch handed Johnny the right hand glove. “You’ll want this,” he said. “Won’t do any good to wear just one glove. People will start asking about it, and that’ll lead to all sorts of questions. Where you got the arm. What it cost you. Stuff that, quite frankly, you’re not going to be able to answer and that, if you’ll pardon my saying so, you’re not smart enough to lie about.”
“Thank you,” Johnny said, slipping on the matching glove. It didn’t sound right, didn’t sound like enough after all Scratch had done for him. He’d never be able to tell Scratch what it meant to him to be able to rejoin the troops, to see his dream through to its end.
“Don’t thank me yet,” said Scratch. “There’s one more thing you need to know about that arm before you take off. You remember what I told you about it? About the magician?”
Johnny nodded.
“Well, that arm has a bit of magic in it.”
He hadn’t thought about it before now, but it made sense to him that a golden arm that worked just as good as his old arm must have mighty powerful magic in it.<
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“Well, you have to feed that magic, just like you have to keep yourself fed.”
Johnny looked at the feast spread out on the blanket. “What does it eat?”
“Not food. At least, not like you think of it,” said Scratch. “No… it feeds on meanness.”
“Meanness?” Johnny asked. His stomach rolled. The food in his belly wasn’t sitting quite right.
“That’s right,” said Scratch. “One meanness a day.”
“What kind of meanness?” asked Johnny.
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be much,” said Scratch. “Just one little bit of mischief a day, like a prank or a joke.”
“The kind of joke where no one laughs?” asked Johnny. No, his stomach didn’t feel well at all anymore.
“Well, that’s certainly one kind of meanness,” said Scratch. “It doesn’t have to be much, just one tiny little mean thing every day.”
Scratch watched the color drain from Johnny’s face. “Look,” he said, “I can see this is upsetting you, although I’m not sure why. One harmless little prank every day is no big deal. Certainly a price worth paying in order to get you through this war, to get back home to your Anna Lee where you belong, wouldn’t you say?”
His words had the desired effect on Johnny. “But, if that’s too much to ask… just a little discomfort… why, I can take that arm right back off.”
Johnny looked up, horrified. “No,” he blurted out, his right arm grasping the left. “No,” he said again and sighed. “I’ll do it.”
“Excellent,” Scratch said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll see it’s no big deal.”
“What do I have to do?”
Scratch smiled, and for a moment Johnny thought he looked like a wolf ready to pounce. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
It was late afternoon when Johnny saw the first signs of the battle. His eagerness to rejoin the troops had waned a little since Scratch had told him about feeding the magic in his arm. Before he had left, Scratch had told him what would happen if he forgot or refused to do his one little meanness every day.
