Black's Creek

by Sam Millar

  ‘C’mon. Let’s go,’ she said, her demeanour suddenly shifting.

  ‘What? You’re going? So soon? We only got here. You can’t go, not yet.’

  ‘Don’t ever try to tell me when I should go. I go when it suits me.’ She began swimming towards land. ‘C’mon! Hurry up!’

  I reluctantly followed, anger and disappointment boiling in me.

  On dry land she scooped up her clothes, but didn’t put them on.

  ‘This way. Hurry,’ she laughed, running away from me, her clothes gathered in her arms. ‘Bring my satchel.’

  Snatching my clothes and the satchel, I quickly followed her into the wild and camouflaging grass, noticing for the first time the constellation of miniature horseshoe-shaped bruises on her buttocks. The marks were frightening to look at, but I couldn’t take my eyes from them. I’d seen similar marks not too long ago. I shivered at the memory.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, stopping abruptly. I knew she’d caught me staring at her butt.

  ‘Nothing …’

  ‘Good,’ she said, removing objects from the satchel. ‘Ever been sketched?’

  ‘No. I mean … I don’t think so.’ Actually, Horseshoe had sketched me, but I’d come out looking like Ben Grimm from The Fantastic Four.

  ‘You don’t think so? What kind of stupid answer is that? You have or you haven’t – which is it?’

  ‘Haven’t, I suppose. Why?’

  From the satchel, she had removed a couple of small sketch-pads and some pencils, which she placed on the ground. I grabbed one of the pads and flicked through it – page after page of rough sketches of trees and wildlife. I couldn’t help but notice a family of hares, posing happily for the artist as they nibbled on grass. The morbid certainty formed in my mind that the hares she had killed the other day were one and the same crew. Once again, Devlin read my mind.

  ‘Sketched them before I killed them. I told them I was gonna keep them alive, for ever and ever.’ She gave me a wicked smile. ‘Now I’m gonna sketch you, so don’t even think of blinking. You move and you’re dead – just like them hares.’

  ‘I need to put some clothes on,’ I said, realising just how naked I had become. I quickly grabbed my jeans to cover my boyhood.

  ‘You even think of covering up, and I’m leaving. I’m naked, and I ain’t complaining. I mean it, Tommy. You put those clothes on, and you’ll not see me again.’

  ‘Can’t I just cover some … parts?’

  ‘Where would the fun be in that? Those are the parts that are fun!’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s not the size of the gun, but the bullets it fires, that really counts.’

  Slowly, I allowed my jeans to crumple to the ground. I was her slave, and she knew it.

  ‘Stop fidgeting,’ she ordered, selecting her weapons of choice for my death on canvas. ‘Just relax.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ I mumbled.

  I sat there naked, listening to the sandy scratch of pencil on rough paper. While she studied me, I studied her: her finger movements, her frown, as she wrestled to capture my likeness on the page.

  ‘Do you sketch everything before you kill it?’ I whispered through clenched teeth, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  ‘Keep talking and find out.’

  A long half-hour later, it was over.

  ‘Done,’ she said, packing everything up in the satchel.

  ‘When do I get to see my picture?’

  ‘Your picture? Who said you owned it? If you’re lucky you might see it soon; you might see it later. Perhaps you mightn’t see it ever.’

  Without warning, Devlin pulled me down onto the grass, quickly rolling on top of my willing body. Fallen apples carpeted the grass. Their fermenting aroma was everywhere, but it was Devlin’s smells that intoxicated me, filling me with a strange power I never knew I possessed. I could hear things that were impossible to hear: the mist settling on the lake; stones breathing in the baking heat. I could taste the sun in my mouth as we kissed, big wet kisses that seemed to last an eternity, bruising our mouths with eagerness.

  ‘Squeeze,’ she whispered, placing my hand on her breast.

  I squeezed. Her breast was warm and small, soft as uncooked bread dough. I could feel her heart beat, pulsating through the skin. My cock was stirring. I tried desperately to will it away, fearful of what she would think of me.

  ‘You love me, don’t you, Tommy?’ It was a statement, rather than a question.

  ‘Y … yes.’

  ‘Say you love me.’ The timbre of her breath was soft and resonant, making my ears tingle sweetly.

  ‘I … I love you,’ I managed to say, throat sandpapery-dry with anticipation.

  She began kissing my mouth again, only this time harder, her tongue stabbing in and out frantically like a tiny bird fearful of capture. Her saliva tasted heavenly. There was a soft purr in her throat, a low-frequency gurgle, elevating the mundane experience of kissing to the level of something sexually dark.

  Rolling off me, she lay on her back, fully exposed. My eyes sneaked a look at her most private of areas. The skin there was coated with fine, fair hair, so fine it looked as though a breeze could steal it away.

  ‘When you’ve earned it, I’ll let you go further than just touching my breasts.’

  ‘Further?’ My voice was a croak.

  ‘Much further,’ she smiled, and then winked. ‘I’ll show you things that’ll make even your mama blush.’

  I wish she hadn’t mention Mom. There was something uncomfortable about sex and Mom in the same conversation.

  ‘Why do you have to talk like that, Devlin?’

  ‘Shhhhhhhh!’ she whispered urgently, placing a finger firmly to my lips, bridging them. The sharp attention in her eyes derailed for a second, focusing on something else. ‘Someone’s here, watching.’

  The sweaty phantom of fear touched me for a second, making the hairs on the back of my neck tighten. My cock instantly deflated and went into hiding. I stopped breathing, listening intently. I thought of Horseshoe watching. Had he followed me, just to see what I was up to? Could it be Armstrong? But all I could hear was the lake touching the rocks with soft groans, like the hiss of a nail in a tyre.

  For the longest time, we remained motionless.

  Suddenly, there was a heavy movement behind me. I wanted to get up and run like hell, but Devlin pulled down on my arm. A hare came charging through the long blades of grass, jumping over our naked bodies and scaring the shit clean out of me.

  Rolling onto her back, Devlin began laughing.

  ‘Oh, Tommy! Your face! You’d think you’d just seen a ghost!’

  ‘You were scared too.’

  ‘Wasn’t!’

  ‘You were!’

  She stood up and started dressing.

  Disappointed, I reluctantly stood too.

  ‘Why’re you going, Devlin? Angry at me poking fun at you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She kissed me on the lips. ‘I’ve got to go. My ma needs looking after. She has … problems. I can only get out for a couple of hours, every other day.’

  ‘Oh … I’m sorry.’ I was filled with remorse, embarrassed by my own craven selfishness.

  ‘It’s okay.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ve been looking after her for years.’

  ‘Don’t you have a dad?’ I asked, regretting it the moment my big mouth opened. ‘Sorry … that’s none of my business …’

  ‘He’s a distant rumour. Walked out on us when I was a baby. I never knew him.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying sorry. It’s not a word I like. It’s weak.’

  Keep quiet and leave, the voice of reason kept telling me. But I was never good at reasoning with anyone, least of all myself.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Devlin?’

  She looked at me suspiciously. The skin between her eyebrows creased into a small, angry V.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Promise you won’t get mad.’

  ‘I don�
��t believe in promises. They’re always broken. What?’

  I wished now I had let things be.

  ‘Those … those marks, on your … butt …’ I felt my face getting hot.

  ‘What about them?’ Her face was nonchalant, but her voice turned cold. The pupils of her eyes looked like gunshot wounds.

  ‘What … what are they? They look like burn marks.’

  ‘If that’s what they look like, then let them be just that. Best they be what you think, and best you keep your nose on your face, rather than in my business.’

  Had I been an adult, perhaps the corollary of her words would have had meaning, and the summer’s sweetness might not have tasted so wickedly good. But it would be a long time before I knew the true meaning of those sinister marks. Too long, and too late.

  ‘Are you finished questioning me?’ she said, pulling on her jeans, zipping them so loudly they sounded like a serrated knife cutting into my bones.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She made a movement to go.

  ‘Can I walk you home?’

  ‘No. I can make my own way. I don’t need you or anyone to walk me home. Been doing it since legs sprouted from my body.’

  She was visibly annoyed now, all thanks to my stupid questioning. I felt my throat tightening, as if an invisible hand was slowly squeezing. The thought of her leaving was killing me.

  ‘When will I see you again, Devlin?’

  ‘When I decide. Okay?’

  No, it wasn’t okay. ‘Okay.’

  Just as I thought she was going, she turned and stared at me. Her beautiful face had lines of anger. I tried reading her thoughts, wondering what that stare meant. Was it over, our relationship? Was she deciding never to see me again?

  ‘Follow me. Don’t talk. If you talk, I’ll hurt you so much you won’t even feel the pain, it’ll be that painful,’ she said, walking briskly ahead, never looking back at me.

  I followed quickly behind, like an obedient and happy puppy, uttering not a word, lest my mistress became angry.

  We walked for what seemed like hours, going beyond the lake’s influence, and entering into Dust Hill territory. Dust Hill was a stretch of struggling land where the poorer people of Black’s Creek lived, beyond the outskirts of town, mostly in rusted trailers or homemade shacks. The unfortunates who lived here were nicknamed ‘dusties’, or ‘hillies’. Mom had warned me plenty of times never to go near Dust Hill, as if a fate worse than death awaited anyone foolish enough to venture near it. ‘They never work, but always seem to have money for liquor,’ was one of her kinder descriptions of the inhabitants. Dad, outside of Mom’s earshot, would say the folks of Dust Hill were just like people everywhere, good and bad.

  Just as I began to wonder how much further we had to walk, an isolated farmhouse came into view. The place looked disjointed, like a mirror fractured. A massive barn clung, crab-like, to the side of the house. I could make out rusted machinery, poking from the barn’s dilapidated siding. Everything seemed chaotic and unused, as if no human hand had touched it for decades. A battered, rust-covered truck stood silently like a great beached fish, its heavy shadow streaking the heads of wild and rotted wheat.

  ‘This is where I live,’ Devlin said. ‘Come on, but be very quiet. I don’t want Ma hearing or seeing us.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, practically tiptoeing onwards. No sooner had we started than Devlin stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Get down!’ she commanded, pulling me quickly down between the skinny necks of wheat.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Shhhhhhh! Over there,’ she said, pointing. ‘Listen.’

  I listened, but could hear nothing other than the sound of tree branches rubbing together like stridulating crickets. The only visible movement came from a pageant of crows swooping in for landing in the haggard-looking field, where a ternary of scarecrows took centre stage. Ignoring the ragged sentinels, the crows rummaged at will, drilling with hardened beaks against the unyielding ground. The scene was like something from an old black-and-white horror movie, and it transfixed me. It was then that I noticed one of the scarecrows moving.

  ‘That scarecrow just moved,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘That’s Bob McCoy. A rattlesnake. He does mostly odd jobs in some of the farms. People pay him in food. Sometimes, he sells stuff for Ma.’

  ‘I’m certain he’s looking over at us.’

  ‘Just keep still.’

  We both did just that, for a tortuously long period of time. Finally, Devlin gave the okay by gently touching my arm.

  ‘He’s moved on. Let’s go,’ she said. ‘Just be careful.’

  Finally reaching the front of the barn, I waited for Devlin to open the doors. Up close and personal, there was something eerily quiet and intimidating about the place.

  ‘You must never, ever come here alone,’ Devlin said, ushering me quickly inside. ‘Do you understand? It wouldn’t be safe.’

  ‘Why? What’s the big deal?’

  ‘Because Ma uses McCoy as her eyes and ears. He reports everything to her.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of McCoy,’ I said, filled with false bravado.

  Her face became very serious. ‘Just do as I say. McCoy isn’t the only one you should fear.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  She ignored my question, and flicked on a switch.

  The dull light melted, magically revealing an artist’s workshop. Paintings rested on a few homemade easels, some shrouded in dustcovers. Paintbrushes lay scattered on a large, paint-stained table, alongside numerous jars of thick paint.

  ‘Wow! Is this your art studio?’ I walked over to the paintings and was immediately mesmerised by how skilfully they were created. ‘You did all these?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, removing dustcovers from some of the hidden paintings. Despite the gruffness in her voice, I detected pride. A small half-smile appeared on her face, and it delighted me that I should have this wondrous power.

  An enormous canvas, titled ‘An Effigy of Calvary’, took centre stage. It depicted crucified scarecrows, barking at the moon. Barbed wire squeezed out purple blood from each ragged face, which spilled down to form a puddle, shaped uncannily like the town. The second painting was titled ‘Still Life’, and was similarly unnerving: it portrayed a dead baby, painted in painstaking detail, decapitated by a piano string. The child’s face was fully developed, its eyes terrifyingly real.

  But it was the next painting, beautiful, yet repulsive, which seemed to cast a spell over me. The painting’s theme was animals – pigs, to be exact – mating, watched by a goddess, herself comprised of animal and insect parts. It was a mosaic tapestry of the exotic, titled ‘Guilt of Man’, despite the fact that the painting’s central character was clearly a woman. The nude’s butterfly-wing ears protruded from black, cascading hair, partly covering a field-mouse nose that twitched with delight. The shadowy mound of hair resting between the nude’s legs resembled a tarantula wrapped menacingly around a bloody, severed-phallus-shaped mushroom. The spider seemed to stalk the canvas, as if it were ready to leap. The pigs mated in groups in the painting’s background, aroused by the nude. Their faces bore grotesque, almost human similitude. A filthy-looking boar, eyes shadowed, stood over a sow, ready for mounting, its large, lance-like penis erect and angry.

  I tried to look away, but failed. My heart rattled like a dried pea in a tin can. The pigs seemed to be calling me, whispering my name. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. It sounded like Gregorian chant echoing through my head. They wanted me to join them. Come and join the fun, said the ugly boar, winking at me. Eerily, the boar reminded me of someone, but I just couldn’t put a name to the horrible face.

  ‘Oink oink!’ hissed Devlin into my ear, making me jump, but thankfully breaking the dark, hypnotic spell the painting had put me under.

  ‘Shit! Don’t do that.’

  ‘My paintings freaking you out? Shocking, aren’t they?’

  ‘Shocking? Ha! Very little shocks me.’ I was s
hocked. I wondered what kind of mind could create such nightmarish scenes? More importantly, perhaps, why?

  ‘I watched your face. My paintings scared you.’

  ‘They’re nothing to what I’ve seen in real life. I’ve seen photos of dead people. Some of them murdered.’

  ‘Such a liar!’ She started laughing. It annoyed me.

  ‘I’m not a liar. My dad’s the sheriff. Lots of times he brings his work home. Sometimes he has to examine photos of car crashes, stabbings … even shootings.’

  She looked at me for a few seconds, her expression now one of curiosity. ‘You’ve actually seen photos of dead people?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen them. All in gruesome colour. If you don’t believe me, I can show you one or two, the next time Dad brings them home.’

  ‘Perhaps I could paint them, bring them back to life …?’

  ‘Paint them? I don’t think that would be a nice thing to do, Devlin. Not the dead.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it? They’re dead, aren’t they? The way I see it, they aren’t gonna be complaining too much.’

  ‘I was always told to respect the dead, not make fun of them.’

  ‘I’m tired listening to you, sounding like some old preacher from the mountains,’ she said, pushing by me. ‘Time for you to go.’

  ‘Go? But … I only got here.’

  She walked to the barn door. Opened it.

  ‘You can find your own way back.’ The mischievous smile was back with a vengeance. ‘Unless of course you’re scared of meeting someone dead on your way home?’

  ‘Will I … will I be able to see you tomorrow?’ I said, walking reluctantly towards the opening. ‘Will you be at the lake?’

  ‘No, not tomorrow. In a few days. Perhaps a week.’

  ‘A week? But why do I have to wait a week to –’

  ‘Just go!’ she shouted, practically pushing me out. ‘I’m sick listening to your whining voice.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m going! No need to push!’

  ‘Remember what I told you: never come here uninvited. Ma’s got … mood swings, when she doesn’t take her medicine. She would gobble up a little boy like you, turn you into something you wouldn’t like.’

  ‘She a witch?’ I smirked.

  ‘Oh, she’s far worse than a witch,’ said Devlin. ‘She’s a monster.’ The barn door was slammed in my face, leaving me staring at the decaying wood.