Jewelweed (26 page)

They ate in silence, and after Jacob finished he looked out the window and said, “July Montgomery would have liked this.”

“Why?” asked August, alert to any information about his father's friend.

“He liked anything homemade.”

“Why?”

“That's just the way he was.”

“Did July Montgomery grow up around here?” August asked.

“No.”

“Where did he live before?”

“I don't know,” said Jacob, and then he looked sad. “I should have known him better. He was my friend and I should have known him better.”

But then Jacob smiled. “Say, those were great peaches. Really great.”

“Why?” asked August. “Why did the Wild Boy leave the jar here?”

“He wanted you to have it.”

“But he might not have enough to eat himself.”

“If he didn't, he wouldn't share with you. I promise, August, there's nothing to worry about.”

“I have to find where he lives.”

Jacob took their bowls and spoons and washed them, then he turned back to August. “Look, I can't tell you where he lives, but if you give me a couple days I think I can tell you someone to talk to. In the meantime, I'd like you to keep this between the two of us. Do you think you can do that?”

“I can.”

When August went back to his room he sat at the window for a while, looking outside. The moon was covered by clouds, and the leaves shook in the wind.

A
fter supper a few days later, August quietly went out of the back door of his home, walked through the yard, and headed up the ridge. Three full hours of daylight remained.

The overhead clouds bunched tightly together in a central area of the sky, like a handful of marshmallows in the bottom of a big blue bowl. The grasses had grown taller than knee-high, and the leaves had changed from spring's light green to the first phase of summer's darkening glossy green.

August followed trails that he and Ivan had found, and Milton flew on ahead, clearing bugs and checking out noise from the sky. They continued climbing Old Baldy, and from the top of it August could see into three valleys. Then he took a drink of water and began walking downhill.

At the bottom of the first valley he found the swampy path with empty bottles and cans strewn along it. About a half mile later he came to the melon field, which stretched out flat, open, and wide before him. On the other side, where the second valley began its rocky climb, stood the dirt house.

August remained in the cover of trees and bushes, hesitant to walk into the open field. He watched Milton fly over it. His father had said he could visit Lester Mortal and ask him questions about the Wild Boy. But he'd also told him to be particularly respectful of the old veteran and not stay very long, and August wondered about the meaning of these added precautions. Was his father attempting to warn him of some potential danger, or did he caution him simply because of his own discomfort in talking to him? After thinking about this for some time, August decided he could not resolve either question without more information, and so he started into the field.

He walked slowly, watching for signs of movement and trying to keep from trampling on watermelons, muskmelons, and pumpkins, which were everywhere, most of them a little smaller than softballs. After what seemed to August like a long time, he reached the middle of the field, where he felt exposed on all sides.

Milton saw the hermit first, standing in front of the hut. Then August saw him cross his arms in front of his chest and stand motionless. Milton swooped down and dove into August's shirt pocket.

“Stop right there, stranger!” shouted the hermit. “Stop right there.”

His voice seemed bigger than life, August thought, but he didn't look overly large. His dark hair and beard were his most arresting features. Both flared out beyond his face in an explosion of untamed growth. People at the shop said he hadn't shaved or cut his hair since he got out of the military. His mouth didn't seem to move when he talked, and he was dressed in camouflage fatigues with black combat boots. Even from this distance, his shirt and pants appeared shiny—the way clothes look when they haven't been washed in a long while. His eyes glowed like hot coals.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked in an angry tone.

“My name is August and I want to know about the Wild Boy.”

“Are you friend or foe?”

“Friend.”

“What have you got in your pocket?”

August wondered briefly how the hermit knew there was anything in his pocket, then fished out the camp knife he'd brought to give to the Wild Boy.

“Not that pocket. Your chest pocket.”

“Milton's in there.”

“Who's Milton?”

“He's my bat.”

“What do you mean?”

“He belongs to me. He's a long-eared bat. And he's mine.”

“I don't believe you. Take him out.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn't want to come out.”

“Take him out so I can see him.”

“No. He's afraid of people he doesn't know.”

“I'll give you twenty dollars if you take him out.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You're that preacher's kid,” the hermit said. “The woman preacher.”

“That's correct,” replied August. “And I'm proud of it.”

“I guess I can trust you, then. Come on ahead.”

As August walked forward, he asked, “Why did you decide to trust me, Mr. Mortal?”

“If you'd protect a bat, you'll honor the truth.”

He talked odd like that. August didn't understand exactly why, but he wasn't afraid of the hermit. He looked frightening enough, with all that hair and those red, glowing eyes, and he'd heard a lot of bad things about him at the shop. But his dad had let August come, and though he was uncomfortable he wasn't afraid.

“That was a long walk,” the hermit said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

“No, thank you. I brought along my thermos.”

August couldn't take his eyes off the hermit's hut.

“I guess you've never seen a home like this before,” the hermit said, watching him.

“I guess not.”

The shack looked like a large mound or a small hill with steep sides. There were two large windows in front, but they were covered by vines and couldn't be seen from a distance. Even the front door was covered with moss. And when the hermit reached out and opened it, there was a tearing sound, like when a piece of sod is ripped out of the ground by its roots.

“Come inside,” he said.

“How did you get the dirt to stay up like that?” asked August, feeling the wall with his hand as he went through the doorway.

“This isn't really a sod house,” he said. “It just looks like one. The basic structure is made of straw bales covered with wire and mud.”

From what August could see there were only three rooms. It was dark inside, with several kerosene lamps glowing orange and yellow. The first room, the biggest, had a rack of guns along one wall—maybe thirty rifles of different sizes, and an open case of a dozen or so pistols. Boxes and boxes of ammunition were stacked alongside the weapons. Along
another wall stood shelves of canned and dried foods, but there wasn't enough light to recognize the different kinds.

August stared at the guns until the hermit asked, “Do you like guns, August?”

“I know little about them,” he said. “But my mom is against them.”

“How does your father feel?”

“Dad's feelings don't usually come out from under Mom's.”

“You mean he doesn't say anything that disagrees with her?”

“Right.”

“So you probably won't tell them about these.”

“Probably not.”

The floor appeared to be covered with several inches of mulch. In the middle of the first room stood a woodstove made from an oil barrel. There were also two painted statues made of wood. They were large, and at first August thought they might be giant cigar-store Indians. He'd seen several of those on a vacation in North Dakota last year, but these seemed different. He couldn't see them very well, but there didn't appear to be any feathers, tomahawks, or cigars sticking out.

One of the statues hadn't been completely painted yet, and around it were paint cans on top of the wood chips. The hermit sat down on a stool next to them. He dipped a brush and started painting. August wondered how he could see well enough in the dim light.

There was a room off to the left as well. August could make out the corner of a table and some boxes in there. And then off to the right was another room, but the door was closed.

“So, what is it you want, August?” the hermit asked.

“The Wild Boy,” August said. “He put a jar of peaches on the window outside my room and I saw him up close.”

“The child left peaches?”

“That's correct,” said August. “A jar of canned peaches with a smidgeon of honey.”

“I wonder where those came from,” said the hermit. “How were they?”

“My dad liked them more than me, but they were good. If you could please tell me where he lives, I'd like to talk to him.”

“I can't do that,” said the hermit. He changed brushes and started painting with a different paint.

“Why not?”

“For one thing, the child doesn't talk.”

“Why?”

“Just doesn't.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

“Everybody can talk.”

“Not that child.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Sure, many times—the child stayed here several nights last winter.”

“Here?”

“Slept in that room,” said the hermit, jabbing his brush in the direction of the closed door.

“He came inside?”

“It was cold out there.”

“He slept here?”

“A couple nights at least.”

The hermit changed paintbrushes and began working in yellow.

August looked more closely at the statue. He could make out a leg and a foot and the outline of a head.

“What did the two of you do when he was here?”

“We slept, got up, ate something, carried in firewood, watched the snow fall, and boiled water for bergamot tea—things like that. And then one night we put a pine knot I'd been saving in the fire, and watched it burn. It was a pleasant evening. Have you ever seen a pine knot burn, August?”

“No, I haven't.”

“Then you've got something to look forward to. The colors are better than anything you can imagine. It's like watching the soul's fire.”

“He watched the colors?”

“We both did, for hours.”

“He drinks tea?”

“Yes.”

“What's he like?”

“A lot like you, August. A lot like you.”

“Is he stupid?”

“Not at all.”

“But he can't talk.”

“That child is smarter than most people I know.”

“But he can't talk.”

Milton climbed out of August's pocket, climbed up on his shoulder, opened his leather wings, and flew around, exploring. He seemed to enjoy the interior of the shack.

“There's your bat,” said the hermit.

“I hope you don't mind him flying around.”

“I don't. He can't hurt anything.”

“Good,” said August. “Most people don't seem to like him.”

“That's probably because they think Milton's stupid.”

“He's not stupid,” August said, stiffening.

“But he can't talk, can he?”

August thought a moment and then said, “Okay, okay, I see what you mean. When was the last time you saw him—the Wild Boy?”

“Oh, let's see.” He stopped painting, leaned back, and looked at the ceiling, which was made of round timbers with mud plastered between. “Not that long ago.”

“Where?” asked August, sitting down on the wood shavings.

“A mile or two north of here.”

“What did he say? Oh yeah, I'm sorry, I forgot he can't talk.”

“It's a hard thing to wrap your head around, isn't it, August?”

“Someone should teach him how.”

“Why?”

“Because he needs to learn.”

As August's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he recognized first one part of the statue, then another, and then he finally saw the whole thing together. He'd never seen anything so horrible. It was a man screaming. One of his eyes had been burned out and there were deep cuts on his face and neck. His stomach was sliced open and you could see his insides. His penis and testicles had been cut off, and there were pieces of rope around his ankles and wrists.