by Jerry Sohl
There had been gypsy bands camped near Spring Creek many times. He remembered their tents, their colorful clothing, their signs which proclaimed their speaking acquaintance with things occult, the future. He and some other boys had watched the families at a safe distance, finding, to their disappointment, that they were no different from their own families, hanging up the wash, reprimanding the children, seemingly happy with their lot of continuous roaming. In that one thing they were different, however. Emmett was sure they didn’t need travel permits, were free to go where their spirits moved them.
He had never asked a gypsy if he was immune, had never been that friendly with one, heeding his mother’s advice to be careful and not go too near them, that the gypsies might kidnap him. He recalled several adolescent crises when he wished the gypsies had spirited him away. Now he only regretted that he had heeded the parental admonishment that had kept him at such a distance from them, for if they were immune and didn’t need travel permits, he would fit in very well with such a group—if they would have him. He’d have to find a band. But where to look?
The stars were fading and the sky brightening and the countryside quickening to the new day. Birds twittered in excitement in the trees he passed, and Emmett heard a rooster crow far away. He walked more slowly now, knowing that with each passing minute he would be less of a shadow in the woods and field, and knowing too that farmers are early risers and that he should move out of the fields and take to the roads.
By sunup he estimated he had walked a good ten miles, sat down to rest and wet his lips from his water flask. Then he withdrew the wrinkled, faded map and unfolded it on his knees as he sat under a bush at the side of a dirt road.
He was near Springfield; he knew he should head east or west to skirt the city. He looked at the map, decided to pass Springfield to the east, and in so doing pass Decatur to the west, heading in a northeast direction toward Chicago, keeping away from the hard roads. The dirt roads would be better for daytime traveling since their shoulders were narrower and shrubbery grew nearer the roads, offering quicker cover. On a highway he’d be easily spotted, just as easily stopped. He could hardly imagine officials using dirt roads; they had seldom passed his home near Spring Creek.
He walked, taking to the fields now and then to go by houses that were too close to the road. The sun in the cloudless sky bore down and it was warm. He decided to ration himself with the water when he found it half gone. He was immediately thirsty. But he knew his survival depended on his control. He kept his hands off the water flask.
Once he saw a shadow move across a field, walked and watched it idly, thinking how much like a bird it was. Then, in a single action, he looked up, saw the small flier whispering through the air, and fell to the ditch, rolling beneath a hedgerow, breathing hard, his heart hammering.
Another time he was luckier. He heard a turbo, was well hidden in the weeds beside a culvert before it came in sight. He was thankful for the whir of the turbocar which, though not loud, was a distinctive sound. Once again his heart thumped its protest as he watched the old car and its lone occupant buzz by.
At noon Emmett sought the seclusion of a small timbered area, spread out his blanket and ate the sandwiches his mother had prepared. He was hungry and ate with gusto, and as he finished he wondered where and when he would eat again. He examined his water flask, wished he had provided a larger one. It was hardly a quarter full now. Water, he could see, was going to be important soon.
It was near sundown. He had passed a thousand farms, it had seemed, had tumbled into a hundred ditches on as many occasions of passing fliers and turbos, skirting areas where farmers were out in the fields planting. He had to stop sometime, somewhere. He needed water first, a place to stay second. He could always sleep in a field or a forest—he had his blanket to cover him —but he needed to get near a farmhouse for water. How to do this?
He worked it out very logically, he thought. He might sneak into a barnyard, fill his flask from cattle drinking troughs. Or he might find an old hand-pump well, though this would probably be too near a house and would make too much noise. His other choice was being very open, just going up to a farmhouse, explaining he needed water. What reason would anyone have for refusing such a request? Everyone, all the people he had seen and all the people he was likely to see in the days to come, were oppressed people, were they not? They would have no feeling about him except perhaps envy in the joy he must feel in moving about. They might even be sympathetic enough to give him a meal and send him on his way with their blessing. That is what he was sure his parents would have done for such a traveler. It would have been an event, having someone such as he stop by. It would be much more sensible, therefore, to be friendly and open, he decided. To sneak water would provoke inquiry and possible unpleasantness.
He walked a few more miles until he came to a farm that looked a little better than others he had seen. The fields were neatly plowed, the house was newly painted and the barn was still bright with paint from a year or two ago. He saw a clean yard, white fencing, the farmer himself in his overalls and straw hat, the woman coming in from the chicken yard. They must be an industrious couple, keeping their place like that, he thought. There was a turbo in the yard. A new one. A dog was asleep on the stoop.
The dog was first to notice him as he stepped into the driveway from the road. It looked up as if trying to recognize him. Then it must have rejected any resemblance to anyone it knew and suddenly moved down the steps and across the yard, barking.
“Hi, old fella,” Emmett said, stooping a little and holding out his hand, palm upward. “Come on, fella. Come on.”
The dog looked uncertainly at him, whined a little in its confusion, then, as if deciding there could be no evil in someone who spoke so nicely, lowered its head, wagged its tail and came forward.
Emmett scratched the offered ears, saw that the farmer had turned in the middle of the yard and was watching him. The woman stood on the steps.
“Here, Bill!” the man called, walking toward Emmett. “Here, boy!”
The dog lurched away and ran for the man, walked obediently at his side as the two men approached each other.
“How do,” the farmer said heartily, showing wide-set white teeth in a disarming smile. He was a large man in clean overalls, a sunburned man, wisps of white hair jutting from beneath his straw hat. “Where the devil did you come from?”
“Just passing by,” Emmett said. He was pleased with the friendliness of this man. “Thought I might get my water flask filled here.”
“Well, now, waters one thing we got plenty of. You just come on right in.”
The farmer turned and together they started up the driveway.
“Name’s Tisdail,” he said. “Cad Tisdail. The Cad’s for Cadwallader. Ain’t that a name for you?” He laughed a little.
“My name’s—” caution slowed his tongue—“Elmer Pease.”
“Glad to know you, Elmer.”
“Nice farm you have here, Mr. Tisdail.”
“Oh, it’s nothing special. Been farming all my life. Wouldn’t rightly know how to do anything else, I 'spect.” He called to the woman. “We have a visitor here, Ma. Name’s Pease. Elmer Pease. Wants a little water. This here’s Mrs. Tisdail.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Emmett took in the cold, gray eyes, the appraising look.
Mrs. Tisdail nodded slightly, went into the house.
“By golly, Elmer, it’s been a long time since we had somebody drop in like this so casual like. You look like you’ve been traveling some.”
“Yes, sir, I have,” Emmett said. “I’ve been traveling all day.”
"I 'spect."
Emmett saw the quick glance down at his forearm, drew his left hand up to his face to run fingers along the bristles of his jaw. The eyes did not follow.
“You come on in with me. We’ll get that water right out of the tap.”
Emmett followed him into the house. The kitchen was neat and clean and he found th
e smell of food in the electrocooker almost overpowering. It made his saliva run.
“Is there,” he said impulsively, “anything I could do for a meal, Mr. Tisdail?”
Tisdail was halfway to the sink. He turned and looked at Emmett in surprise. “Why, you must be hungry, son. I hadn’t thought of that. You just stay and have something with us. We’d be glad to have you. And you don’t have to do a thing. Sure mighty happy you happened along. Don’t know when we’ve had anybody to supper. Hey, Ma!” he bawled. “Elmer’s going to stay
for supper.” At the sink now, he turned on the faucet, let it run. “There’s your water for you.”
Emmett dropped his bag to the kitchen floor, undid the cord around the neck, picked up the water flask.
“Sure nice of you to let me do this, Mr. Tisdail,” he said, going to the sink.
“Don’t you think a thing of it. Just glad to have somebody besides Mrs. Tisdail to talk to.” He chuckled. “You should have come a little earlier, around dinnertime. We really had a meal then. This is just a little leftovers.”
“It will be mighty welcome, Mr. Tisdail, believe me. I don’t know when I’ve been so--”
He sensed rather than heard movement, flinched and caught a heavy glancing blow on the side of the head. Next he felt the full force of Tisdail’s body. The flask clattered in the sink. He put up hands to ward off a second blow. He caught the force of the heavy object on the back of his hand, slid along the sink, fell, hit an obstruction that tossed him sidewise. He rolled across the floor.
He saw the livid face of Tisdail coming toward him now, the smile gone, the eyes bright with fury, the mouth open, the teeth clenched. He saw, too, the wrench in the man’s hand.
As Tisdail fell on him, Emmett rolled to one side, found his face among the items on his blanket. The blade of his hunting knife gleamed in the bright kitchen light. He lashed out for it, caught it, clutched it tightly and rolled from the man.
Tisdail spun toward him, eyes white, the wrench poised. It rushed for his head, hit his shoulder a deadening blow, Tisdail twisting to bring it to bear again.
Rallying diminishing strength, Emmett brought the knife up from the floor in a quick arc, felt it hit something, then sink home.
Tisdail stopped with the wrench poised in the air, surprise on his face. For a moment the smile almost returned. Then his face went flaccid, his eyelids drooped. The wrench clunked to the floor, Tisdail’s head lolled forward and he fell heavily against Emmett.
Emmett moved to get out from under the man, stopped when he saw Mrs. Tisdail standing in the doorway, transfixed, her eyes round and wide, her face white, her jaw working convulsively, a hand on the doorframe for support. Then she slowly brought her other hand to her throat as she sank slowly to the floor, moaning and staring at her husband.
CHAPTER - 3
Emmett twisted free of the man, lurched upright, his hand on the table for support. Then he looked down, saw that his hand was covered with blood.
Sickening, he staggered to the kitchen door, went outside and retched. The dog watched him curiously.
IVe killed a man. Eve killed a man. The thought, so foreign to his nature, throbbed in his brain. It was as if his old life had ended just before the attack and that this new life, this new person he was, had been born of the violence of it. He didn’t like it, didn’t want any part of it, killing a pleasant fellow like Mr. Tisdail. But why had the man assaulted him?
The calm of evening, the lengthening shadows, the reassuring sounds of the farm steadied him. It couldn’t be that a man he had killed lay just inside the door behind him. It had been some horrible dream. In a moment he would awaken in his room at home. He wanted to think that, but he knew it wasn’t true. He was seized with a sudden impulse to run, to get away from there, to strike off across the fields and go until he dropped from exhaustion. He drew a long breath and put the thought away from him. He had to go back inside to get his blanket and the things on it.
He turned and opened the door with his unsullied hand, forced himself to walk through it.
The woman was where he had left her, in the doorway, staring. She seemed to be unaware of his presence.
“Mrs. Tisdail,” he said, fearful that she might come alive at any moment to seek revenge. But she did not move.
He went to the sink, washed the blood off his hand, watchful of her. He used a dish towel to wipe away the blood on his sleeve.
He turned to her again. “I—I didn’t want to—kill your husband.” There, the words were out in a rush, the admission of what he had done, and they seemed to be too loud for the kitchen. They reverberated among all the things in it, the chairs, the table, the cooker, the pots and pans and dishes and silverware, and the meaning of what he had said did not comfort him.
“All I wanted—was a little water for my flask—and Mr. Tisdail said I could have some. He even turned on the tap for me. Then—”
Mrs. Tisdail turned her head slowly and looked at him. The eyes were blank, uncomprehending.
“And then he came at me. I was filling the flask. He even invited me to stay for supper. It was right after that, while I was filling the flask that he started to come after me with that wrench. I—I had to fight, Mrs. Tisdail. Had to. It was him or me. I didn’t even think what I was doing. I didn’t have time to think.”
She stared at him, still unmoving.
“If he’d hit me square with that thing I’d be on the floor where he is right now. Believe me, Mrs. Tisdail, I didn’t want to do it. I swear I didn’t. Can’t you understand that, Mrs. Tisdail? Can’t you? Can’t you see it was him or me?”
The sight of the woman, so gaunt, so small, so slight, and the knowledge of what he had done to her life with this man, tightened his throat. His eyes smarted with tears.
“I know what he must have been to you, Mrs. Tisdail,” he said, trying to find some way to ease her pain and his own. “And I’m sorry. But he shouldn’t have tried to kill me.”
She blinked her eyes and she saw him now. And the look was strange, not what he expected, for it seemed to hold no malice.
Then she looked away, at the floor, and opened her mouth a little to speak, the lips hardly moving.
Tm glad he’s dead,” she said so softly he wondered if she had spoken at all.
She looked up. There was a little color in her face now and her breasts rose and fell as she breathed more deeply. Her eyes held his.
“He was no good and I hated him.”
Emmett’s senses reeled. This admission did not go with the pretty farm, the white fencing, the neatness and industry evident in every part of it. He examined her face, saw tragedy there, and the hopeless look he had seen so many times. It was a wonder he hadn’t seen it before. But the farm had fooled him.
Mrs. Tisdail struggled to her feet. She looked older than her husband, a wisp of a woman with short, graying hair, a pale face with sunken cheeks and lines around her mouth, a face without vitality, a face ready for wrinkles. She looked as if she had been drained of life but continued to live only because her heart had refused to stop beating.
Now she stood there looking at him steadily. “Yes, I hated him.” She seemed to take strength from the words. “Can’t you guess why?”
Emmett said nothing, wondered what could have engendered such a feeling in such surroundings. The Tisdails were far better off than any farmers he had ever known. What could it have been? Why should he have been able to tell?
“You saw the fields, didn’t you? Did you see how nicely planted they are? Did you see the new paint on the house? The barn was painted only last year. Do you suppose Mr. Tisdail did all that? Do you?”
“Well, it’s quite a job, considering all there is to do on a farm,” Emmett conceded. “Didn’t he do it?”
“He did not. Not Cad Tisdail. Why should he lift a finger when all he needed to do was phone the county office to have some men sent out to do it?” She looked down at the inert form on the floor.
“Well, Cad, you can’
t go to the viewphone now, can you? You can’t tell them you’re dead and to send some men out to help you, can you? You’re beyond all that.”
Mrs. Tisdail caught her breath, wrenched herself away from the door, came over to the sink where Emmett was standing and looked out the windows there. He could see tears in her eyes. “He asked them for help?”
“That’s right. The man on the floor is the Turncoat of Christian County. The man who would sell your soul if he could make connections. A collaborator.”
Emmett looked at the huddled shape and found new revulsion there.
“After the bombs fell and the plague came, Mr. Tisdail let the commies know which side he was on. There was no favor small enough for him to render, there weren’t enough hours in the day for him to prove his loyalty to them. That’s why this farm looks the way it does.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tisdail. I didn’t know.”
She turned to him. “Do you know why he attacked you? He could have killed you easily. He has an arsenal of weapons here. He could have done you in with a heater, or he could have used a sleeper. But not Cad Tisdail.”
“Why did he try to use that wrench then?”
“When he brought you in I knew what he was thinking. You live so long with a man and you know what he’ll do. Cad had a flair for the dramatic. His plan was to knock you out, put a few bruises on himself, a few scratches here and there—he might have asked me to put them on—then he’d call the county office over in Taylorville and tell them what a struggle he had with you. And then he’d think his stock would have gone up a few more points. But he didn’t have to do that. His stock was already at the top. They didn’t need any more proof of his loyalty. But Cad was always afraid they’d tell him some day they didn’t need him any more.”
“I wish I had known. I wouldn’t have come-”
Tm glad you did come. Only I felt sorry for you when you walked up the driveway. But there was nothing I could do.”
