* * *
The Amen Corner lasted for two weeks instead of ten days.
On the eighth day, Mother was making dinner when Patience walked past me into the kitchen.
I heard her say, “Mother, may I ask you a question about the Bible?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Is the chapter in the Bible called Cowboys of the Wild West about Moses or Goliath?”
“Patience, don’t be silly.” Mother paused for a second, then said, “Why do you ask?”
Pay said, “No real reason; just curious.”
It took Mother two seconds to come into the Amen Corner and snatch my Western novel from under the Bible.
It didn’t take her that long to add four more days to my sentence.
On the fifteenth morning, the day I finally got out, I have to admit I felt more holy and kind from my weeks of reading the Bible. I stumbled into the sunshine and stretched to celebrate.
My first stop was at the shed, where I got a crowbar, a hammer, and an ax. Within an hour or two, there’d be no more Charming Little Chalet in the Woods; there’d be a Charming Huge Pile of Toothpicks at the Base of a Maple!
I put the tools in a wheelbarrow and went to fetch Spencer so he could help me. Even he would see that this was the right thing to do.
* * *
Spencer Alexander is no longer my friend. For the second time, he refused to help tear the tree house down. I went into the woods of the north fifty on my own.
When I got to where the tree house was, it was my turn to slap my hand over my mouth in shock.
It was gone! There wasn’t a scrap of wood or even a nail left. The only proof it had ever been there were the scars on the tree.
I noticed a group of mule tracks and travois drag marks leading from the back of where the tree house used to be to the road.
I understood.
Patience and Stubby must have known that once my time in the Amen Corner was done, I’d look for revenge. They’d come up with the cookie jar scheme to give them enough time to take the tree house down and move it away.
They knew that once they got to the road, I wouldn’t be able to track where in the woods they’d rebuilt it.
It didn’t take me long to know the day’s headline would read:
EVIL WINS A BATTLE! WAR MAY NOT BE LOST, BUT THINGS NOT LOOKING GOOD!
The Baylis brothers, Curly Bennett, Hickman Holmely, Petey Demers, and I were on the bank of the Thames River with a considerable good haul of fish. As so often happens when things are slow and the sun is warm and the fish have tired of our night crawlers and minnows and have moved to deeper waters, the conversation turned to one of our favourite subjects: the South Woods Lion Man.
If, on a Thursday morning, one were to start relating all of the rumours about him, the tales would not be exhausted until the following Wednesday afternoon.
There were as many theories and stories about who or what he was as there were different bolts of cloth in Curly’s mother’s shop. And the tales were just as colourful.
The only things that all those rumours and legends had in common were that the Lion Man was over a century old, escaped from slavery in the southern United States of America, spoke no English or other civilized tongue, wanted nothing to do with other human beings, was or soon would be a vicious murderer, was as mad as a hatter, and should be avoided at all costs.
The Baylis boys were the authority on the subject. They were the only ones to have actually laid eyes upon this mystery man of the pine forest that lies south between Chatham and Buxton.
Buster stretched the huge perch he had caught between his upheld hands.
“So, lads, the fish have quit biting and you need to line up to take your punishment. There’s no doubt that this little beauty makes me the winner today!”
Whoever caught the day’s biggest fish was allowed to punch each of the rest of us once in the arm as hard as he chose to. Buster hadn’t won in quite a while, so we all knew he was sorely excited about getting revenge. His punches would be harsh.
Hickman said, “Not so fast. Yours is longer, but my bass is heavier.”
Buster said, “This isn’t a forensics competition, Hickman. You can’t talk your way into having the biggest fish. Fellows, tell him.”
After hefting each of the fishes, I felt that not only was the perch longer, it was heavier; plus, even though it had already died, it was a much more impressive fish than the bass that wiggled weakly on Hickman’s stringer.
I passed both fish to Bucky and said, “Sorry, Hickman, Buster’s is bigger.”
Bucky said, “I don’t think so. This bass weighs a bit more; it’s the biggest,” and passed the fish to Curly.
Curly opined, “Naw, the perch is heaviest.”
Buster smiled. “Ha! Two to three. Line up and take your punches like the men you boys pretend to be.”
Hickman said, “Wait. We haven’t asked Petey. Let’s wake him up; his vote could make a draw.”
Petey said from under his straw hat, “I’m not asleep.”
He propped himself on one elbow, squinted to look at the fish, then stood.
Hickman handed the bass to Petey.
Instead of giving his opinion, Petey took the fish to the water, squatted down, pulled the groggy fish off the stringer, gently put it in the river, and kept his hand underneath until it regained enough strength to swim sadly away from the bank.
Hickman wanted to complain, but this was Petey, and no one was certain how long his new peaceful attitude was going to last, so Hickman’s silence was a wise choice.
Bucky asked, “Uh, why’d you let him go, Petey?”
“Her,” Petey said. “She was heaviest because she’s full of eggs. Leave her be until she lays ’em.”
Curly said, “You’re getting to be more of a wild woodsman every day, Petey. I bet if the South Woods Lion Man ever retires, you’ll apply to take over his job.”
Petey smiled before he pulled the straw hat over his face and stretched back out. We all laughed.
Bucky said, “Petey wouldn’t get the position. He’s too young, too short, and nowhere near crazy enough.”
Curly said, “Plus, Petey’s got white blood in him!”
All eyes went to Petey. Petey never encourages any conversations about his ancestry, but there are times when he’s more sensitive than others. We gave Curly quizzical looks that he’d risk riling Petey. He’d apologized for his previous rude remarks and the newly kind Petey had accepted, but perhaps this was too much. It appeared Curly wouldn’t be content until he’d poked the sleeping bear into a rage.
Curly said, “What? I ain’t said nothing wrong, did I, Petey? Saying that somebody’s got white blood in ’em is the highest compliment you can give.”
Hickman said, “So what does that make me, Curly Bennett?”
Curly said, “Aw, come on, Hicks, half the time I don’t even notice you’re a black boy. You’re just like the rest of us to me.”
Hickman said, “You’re all kinds of ignorant, Curly. You best tread lightly what you talk about or I’ll give you a second thumping.”
I tried to direct the conversation to subjects less explosive. “Buster, that’s not true, is it? Petey is larger than most full-grown men. It seems impossible that the South Woods Lion Man is bigger than he.”
Both Baylis boys blurted, “The Lion Man’s a whole lot bigger!”
None of us believed everything Buster and Bucky said about their encounter with the South Woods Lion Man, but the absolute sincerity and panicked air that overtook them when they talked about the meeting showed they had indeed seen something horrifying in the woods one evening last September.
Hickman saw where this conversation was now heading and said, “Here we go again.”
Buster said, “You can act scornful only because you haven’t seen him. Tell ’im, Bucky.”
“He’s right. If you saw what he really looks like, you wouldn’t be so bold.”
I fanned the flames
. “But come on now. Snakes? For his hair?”
They had told us the stories were true; the Lion Man had snakes where his hair should have been.
Buster said, “Scoff if you must, but he is a modern-day Medusa.”
Hickman said, “If that’s true and he does have Medusa’s hair, why weren’t the two of you turned to stone when you saw him?”
Bucky and Buster exchanged a glance. Perhaps they’d already given that question a great deal of thought. Or maybe not.
Bucky said, “Well, we figure it’s ’cause we had the good sense not to look for long. We each took a quick glance before we ran. I bet you only get turned to stone if you look at him and stare.”
Buster said, “Bucky’s right. I looked a little longer than he did and I swear my left big toe started stiffening and hasn’t been able to bend at the joint since that day!”
Curly said, “I heard that he carries a hundred-year-old oak tree for a club, and he’s fast enough to run a deer down and rip the throat out of its neck with his teeth!”
Hickman said, “I heard that too, and that if the deer is dead before it hits the ground, he won’t eat it. He won’t eat anything that’s not screaming and fighting for its life. He steals the animal’s spirit that way and becomes more like it. That’s why he can walk through the forest like a ghost.”
Buster said, “And he’s about eight feet tall! And I know it’s true that he’s an escaped slave from the United States of America. He’s still toting the chains ’round with him! They’re thick as the chains that hold the elephants down at the circus.”
Bucky said, “Yup, and the chains are made out of the gold the Lion Man stole from his old master before he slit his throat! His master put a curse on him just before he died and now the Lion Man can’t spend the gold but has to wear it around his waist and ankles forever!”
Hickman said, “Pshaw!”
Bucky said, “No! I swear! Why else would he still be carrying those chains?”
I am not a coward and like instead to think of myself as sensible. Some of the stories seemed far-fetched, but Father said that, twenty years ago, nothing was more far-fetched than imagining there would be carriages that raced down roads without horses or oxen or any other type of animal pulling them. One has to keep an open mind until the truth unfolds.
Since he is the wisest man I know, I’d asked Father about the stories the Baylis boys told right after they met the Lion Man.
Father had said, “Alvin, it’s human nature to embellish. Don’t blame the Baylis boys. That’s what naturally happens to any story over time, especially an eyewitness story. I had a professor in law school who lectured us on eyewitnesses and told us that ninety-nine percent of the time, they are worse than worthless.”
“But how is that possible, Father? They actually saw him. With their own eyes.”
“Their observations, like all people’s, evolve and change with time. Memory is imperfect.”
Father went on, “For example, will you have a better recollection of this conversation tomorrow or six months from now?”
“Tomorrow, of course.”
“Right, our memories are always in the process of falling apart; they’re constantly fading. Keep that in mind when people tell you about the past. Your friends aren’t necessarily being malicious or trying to frighten or deceive you. They’re probably doing their best to recall, but even the sharpest memory becomes more unreliable with the passage of time.”
There are only seven of the original thirteen settlers of Buxton still living here, and they’re different from the rest of us. And not just because they’re tired and move slow.
Those who escaped from slavery have this way of always looking over their shoulders, and if you believe even half of their stories about the southern United States, that’s easy to understand.
What I can’t understand is why, after more than thirty-five years of being free, they can’t seem to relax. There haven’t been any slave catchers around here since Hector was a pup, and slavery was outlawed down in America after the rebs got whipped, so the old-timers really don’t have anything to worry about. But even knowing that, the hardest thing for them to do is take an easy breath.
I don’t know if that same uneasiness is in my blood or if I picked up the watched feeling by being raised in a town full of nervous old people, ’cause many times I feel the same way. Lots of times, I feel itchy that someone is watching me, mostly when I’m in the woods.
It was happening again.
Some of the time when I’m in the forest and this feeling comes over me, I’ll look up into the boughs of a tree and I’m relieved to spot an owl. I tell myself that the owl was what was causing my nervousness.
Owls have a way of looking at you that makes you feel they’re thinking, “Not only do I know what you just thought, I also know what you’re about to say,” and that can’t help but make your stomach jumpy.
It’s bad enough when it seems like there’s a person reading your mind; it’s even worse when the thing that’s staying two or three thoughts ahead of you is doing it with a bird’s brain.
I slowly looked at the trees from top to bottom. No owls.
The feeling wouldn’t leave. I was being watched.
I noticed one branch of a tree, maybe twenty paces off to my left, sway one time to the right and one time to the left. It was such a tiny movement that I wasn’t sure I’d seen it at all.
A good woodsman learns to trust what he’s seen, so I had to look away from the branch before I talked myself into believing it hadn’t moved after all. The branch had moved and whatever had brushed against it was still close, maybe watching from right behind the tree.
I was going to figure out who or what this was. The woods are like a pond: Nothing can go through them without leaving ripples; you only have to be able to read the ripples to know what has moved.
There was no breeze and this wasn’t a wild animal. The only animal left in these woods bold enough to follow and watch a human being is another human being.
That was one ripple.
I didn’t let on I knew I was being spied on. I poked the stick I was carrying into the ground and dropped my head, as if I were interested in a stone I’d overturned. But my eyes stayed locked upon the area around the branch that had swayed.
Higher up in the same tree, a pair of mourning doves lighted in the branches and, just as quick, squawking like they were being squeezed, they took off.
Another ripple.
Mourning doves are the stupidest birds on the face of the earth; about the only time one will move is if you step right on top of it. Plus, one had flown east and one had flown west, a sure sign something at the base of the tree had startled them.
A third ripple.
My pride was pinched. This person was good. I’d prove I was better.
It wasn’t Spence or any of my other chums. The words that describe the way they move in the forest are trounce, stomp, and break. No, this was someone who was just as at home in the woods as me.
This was a hunter.
Which meant there was a good chance they would be armed.
I went from wanting to play a game to knowing I’d better protect myself by losing whoever was trying so hard to keep an eye on me.
Then, like a rock to the head, an idea hit me and made me want to leave the woods as quick as I could. What if this was the Madman of Piney Woods? It was silly, but what if it really was true?
Just in case, I picked up a large stone.
I slowly kept going to my right, my head down, moving away from that tree, putting many, many other trees between me and the one I thought my spy was behind. As soon as I knew they couldn’t see me, I changed directions and darted to the left, making a huge circle to come up behind whoever this was.
I’d moved with perfect silence; they’d be just ahead of me.
I held the stone over my head ready to throw, held my breath, then jumped out to see who was behind the mourning dove tree.
All th
at was there was the back of the tree.
Even though I was positive the person had been here, there were no tracks or no disturbed ground to prove it.
Whoever had been there was very good.
I stood stock-still to hear anything unusual.
I felt as though I’d been hit by a bolt of lightning when I heard, “You ain’t half bad, boy. Nope, and you getting better.”
I dropped my rock and whirled toward the voice.
Mother and Father always tell us we must be grateful for the little things, and this was a time I was. I was very grateful there were no other reporters around to describe the way I looked when I saw the face of the person who’d spoken to me and stood just five feet away.
I’m not entirely sure how much showed, but I felt everything in my face go loose and saggy whilst my jaw quivered. If those reporters had written there was drooling involved, I couldn’t honestly say they were lying.
But who can blame me?
How many times had somebody’s mother or father told us that this very man had gone down into the devil’s own house and slapped him in his face?
How many times had one of the originals warned, “If y’all stay out too late or wander too far and he snatch ahold of you, leave a trail of bread crumbs or a note telling which direction you got dragged off in so’s we can find your corpse and give it a proper burial”?
How many times had we heard that anything that went wrong or went missing in Buxton was because of this man?
The boy in me was terrified while the newspaperman in me thought, This is great! In all the stories told about this man, there has never been one of a person ever coming face-to-face with him and actually hearing his voice! I’m the first person he ever spoke to!
Or maybe not. Maybe there were other people he’d spoken to … but maybe they hadn’t lived to tell the story!
The Madman of Piney Woods said, “Wanna know how I got behind you?”
All I could do was nod.
He smiled. “ ’Tain’t none your business, boy.”
I took a deep breath.
He shut his eyes and threw his head back to laugh. It was the exact kind of laugh you’d expect from a madman, except it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t as though he was laughing at me; it was more as though he was one of those irksome people who think their own jokes are really funny.