The Weirdo Page 3

  As she tried to ignore the chill and stiffness, what was mainly on Sam's mind was getting to John Clewt's place as soon as possible. She'd seen him several times at Dunnegan's, across from the Feeder Ditch entrance, a long-haired, bearded man who appeared to be about her father's age. Early forties maybe. The previous spillwayman had died about four years ago, and Clewt had taken the job. Local people said he was an unsociable loner. Anyone like Clewt, living back in the swamp, gathered stories like spilled sugar gathers flies. Some people said he was an artist. Some people said he was an alcoholic. His teenage son was supposed to be a real weirdo. Few people ever saw the boy.

  Whatever the Clewts were, however unsociable, all Sam wanted to do was use their phone and ask for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. Buck was the least of her worries now. Two miles of walking in the swamp were ahead.

  ***

  AT GRAY first light, still more night than day, shadowy and mist-pocketed, the swamp silent at last, Sam came out of a short doze and became aware that one of the shadows was moving. She heard splashing in the ankle-deep water, thought it might be a deer or bear, then realized, straining her eyes as it came closer, that the form was human.

  The sound was suddenly comforting, but terrifying at the same time—a steady plusht, plusht as boots broke the oxblood surface.

  A yell almost escaped her lips, but then some wise inner voice said, "No, Sam, don't," as an image of murdered Alvin Howell, eyes locked forever in the blank stare, filled a screen in her mind. Her heart began to drum, her breath to catch, her own mouth to open.

  The form came into sharper focus, still vague, but sharp enough for her to know that it was a man, a big man. He was carrying something over his shoulder. Onward he came, splashes louder, and she saw that he'd pass no more than five feet away. Pushing her back into the charred hollow, Sam hoped he wouldn't spot her chalk white face against the black background. Even her chin was tucked in.

  Onward he came, much too big to be the elder Clewt. If he was the weirdo son, he was monster sized.

  Without moving her head, she could look past the left edge of the stump. When he was about ten feet away, she saw what he was carrying: something wrapped in a blanket or drop cloth, and she thought she saw—thought she saw—a shoeless foot sticking out of the end.

  "My God," she murmured to herself. Was this another Alvin Howell dream? Or was it real?

  She closed her eyes as he splashed on by, splashes ending as he reached hard ground again. His sound died away, but the sound of her heart, like a huge kettledrum in a symphony, seemed to fill the entire stump and echo outside.

  For a moment, she wondered if she had been, in fact, dreaming. If he hadn't been there at all. Her mind whirled frantically. Yet she was also sure she had seen him and heard him, that plusht sound; seen that he was carrying something.

  She suddenly remembered the two shots she'd heard at twilight. Did they have anything to do with what she'd just seen? She debated leaving the hiding place but decided against it for fear she might meet him. No, the best thing to do was wait awhile. Wait until it was lighter, when she could see exactly where she was going, then go quickly.

  A few minutes later, she knew she'd made the right decision. Brush crackled behind the stump. Then she heard splashing as he retraced his steps back eastward. Saw him again.

  No, she hadn't been dreaming. And he was no longer carrying that "something" wrapped in a blanket. She watched him disappear into the brown thickets almost a hundred feet away. They swallowed him like thatch doors closing.

  A few minutes later she heard a starter grind, then the low throb of a vehicle engine. Sam guessed it was a four-wheel-drive car or truck. A mound of light appeared above the mist bank and began moving southward.

  Now she knew where Trail Number Six was. Over there, about a hundred feet away.

  The sound of the engine died out, leaving silence to clamp down again.

  Now that the man was gone, her heartbeat slowly began to subside. But the moment of terror had drained her.

  Collecting her thoughts, she could guess only that what he'd been carrying was a body. Now she knew where the Sand Suck was. Directly behind her.

  Finally, a half hour later, Sam eased out of the hollow tree, still thinking about the predawn swamp-walker and what he had been carrying. She bent over and tossed the cypress-flavored cold water into her face for a quick jolt, then cupped her hands and drank from them. Though it was that oxblood color and tasted medicinal, the water was pure.

  Finally, before starting out for the lake, she took off her boots, crying out in pain from the blisters, eyes closed. Removing the left one first, she saw that the sock was crusted with blood. She soaked the foot for a few minutes until it turned numb with cold, then did the other one.

  At a few minutes after seven, eerie, cottony mist rose from the water like slow smoke. The first faint sun glow appeared to the east, and she started off for the lakeshore, wincing with every step.

  She'd thought about wading over to Number Six, where the going would be easier, but decided against it. She didn't want to risk a meeting with that swamp-walker.

  ***

  The concrete spillway dam is about fifty feet wide, with ten flumes, or channels, to drain water from the lake into the Feeder Ditch that leads straight into the George Washington Canal three and a half miles eastward.

  From May to December, during the more or less dry season, my father and I would open the gates with huge cast-iron valve wheels after an electronic signal indicated the George Washington was dropping. As spillwayman, he was responsible for the well-being of the canal and received a modest salary and a house from the Army Corps of Engineers.

  The Feeder Ditch is about forty feet wide and three or four feet deep. Mules had pulled drag scoops to remove the mud and peat deposits when it was dug in 1812.

  Thick branches overhang the banks. There are folktales about snakes falling into boats from them. Snakes do sun themselves on the branches, but they don't drop down unless shaken loose. Just the same, I always navigated in the middle of the ditch.

  As lakes go, the Nansemond is a young one, like the swamp itself. Scientists estimate it isn't much more than four thousand years old. Fed by natural streams from the north with names like Confederate Creek and Dinwiddie Slough, the Nansemond remains mysterious, probably due to the oxblood color in its waters.

  Sometimes dense fog—not the thin, misty early morning variety—lies over the swamp, the cries of unseen birds muffled by its thickness. Sometimes those quick summer storms pass by, drawing lightning to the cypress snags, "drums of thunder enough to awaken the dead," swampers say.

  It was on Nansemond's shores that we lived, in the house by the spillway.

  Powhatan Swamp

  English I

  Charles Clewt

  Ohio State University

  ***

  SAM STOPPED after about a mile to shoo off blackbirds and robins from wild grape clusters. A big patch of the grapes grew on the swamp's edge, near their farmhouse. Sam's mother made jelly from them annually. They'd never tasted better than now.

  After resting about twenty minutes, she got to her feet again and plodded on toward John Clewt's. Each step felt like razor blades were in her boots. Around nine o'clock she broke out of the brush at the edge of the lake, knowing that if she walked due east she'd run into Clewt's and the dam spillway.

  The clouds had retreated; the sun was now shining strongly, laying yellow wands across the lake water, chasing away the mist. Though there was some bird chatter—wood ducks quacking now and then, fluttering across the still water—there was a comparative quiet around the lake, unlike in the swamp's noisy interior.

  Rising out of the surface like gaunt witch fingers, some only a few feet high, others towering up thirty or forty feet, were cypresses, both dead and alive, their fluted trunks flaring at the bottom, with "knees," exposed roots, dotted around them. Of the cedar family, bald cypresses are almost decay-proof, good for shingles or coffin
s.

  She'd first seen them on fishing trips. They'd reminded her of those grotesque dancing trees in Fantasia, the ones in "Night on Bald Mountain." They were scary then, and none too friendly now.

  After slopping slowly along in the soft mud at the edge, sometimes circling around when a cypress knee stuck out into the water, Sam finally saw Clewt's place about a quarter of a mile ahead. For the first time in more than twelve hours, she could breathe easily. Help at last.

  Time had colored the one-story spillwayman's house dark silver. It had to be as old as the one she lived in. Though she hadn't seen it for eight or ten years, it looked the same. A house from another time, a good house for a horror movie.

  Sam was less than fifty feet from it when two dogs attacked, seemingly out of nowhere, barking loudly. She ran for safety. Later, she couldn't remember how and when she made the decision to go onto the roof above John Clewt's back porch. Within seconds, as she struggled to raise her body, one of the two raging dogs had his teeth sunk into her left wader.

  Intense pain shot up her leg as he broke through the rubber, puncturing flesh. Yelling at him, kicking hard, she slammed his broad head against the porch railing. The dangling dog fell back to the dirt, and Samantha went on up.

  Panting heavily, she sat on the edge of the roof to catch her breath. The two shaggy brown mongrels, defeated momentarily, big bodies still tense with anger, barked hard enough to spray spittle. Their paws pranced with each hoarse volley.

  Dogs! She'd had enough of dogs to last a lifetime.

  Where was Clewt? Where was he? Where was his weirdo son? That's exactly what local people called him, "the weirdo."

  Unless they were deaf, the Clewts weren't in the house. Wherever they were, Sam didn't plan to go anywhere until they returned.

  Soon she realized that her left ankle was bleeding. Below her ankles, Sam was nothing but a swollen mass of pain. Trying to relax, she blew out a breath. Where was Clewt? She hoped he hadn't gone for the day. The dogs were still down there, still raging. They had a vicious mind-set, those two.

  She stayed on the edge of the roof, scratched up, smudged, and dirty, hair a mess; char on her face and clothing. A wreck she was, all over. When John Clewt saw her, he'd probably ask, "What'n hale happened to you, girl?"

  There was a good view around the yard and over toward the dam and spillway. Except for a TV dish and a roof antenna, rusting machinery and a couple of rotting rowboats, the place didn't look too much different than the last time. In fact, it had probably looked the same twenty-five years earlier, fifty years earlier.

  A beat-up Jeep was parked down there. Maybe they used it to tool around the swamp trails. It was old and derelict, like everything else in the yard except the TV dish.

  Sitting on the edge, closing her eyes, gritting her teeth, she eased out of her waders to relieve the pain. One dropped to the ground and was immediately snatched by the dogs.

  She thought of home. Nine in the morning, and no one knew where she was. They were a close and caring family. Her mother would be frantic by now, maybe even her father.

  A photo taken two years previously sat in the living room: the bo'sun proudly in uniform, Delilah seated in front of him, the children flanking her. While the bo'sun was forever slender and bone-hard, her mother had a bit of a weight problem. She described herself as chunky-plain. Attractive possibly, not pretty. "Plainly attractive," if there was such a category.

  On the other hand, Dell said she'd been lucky with genes. The children benefited, in her opinion. They were both slender, like their father. Both had shiny, dark hair, as Dell did; cut close, Sam's hair was naturally curly. They both had clean, strong, country-people faces.

  Dell said Sam's wishing she was somewhere else, someone else, with another body and another face, was just a natural part of being sixteen. After a while she'd be more satisfied with who she was, Dell promised. Dell talked about when she was sixteen and had the same thoughts as Sam. Light on her feet, she'd wanted to be a dancer. She could understand Sam's wishes and dreams.

  ***

  Claws on its rear legs digging into the black gum bark the way a telephone lineman ascends a pole, forepaws doing little more than retaining balance, a bear shinnies up.

  Passing by, it hears a buzzing from the top of the tree and knows that wild bees have a hive up there, hidden in a hollow. A hive means honey, and honey is the choicest of all foods.

  Never mind the sting of the bees. They can't penetrate the thick coat; they are unable to furrow down through four inches of glossy hair. Even so, the bear's tough hide is a shield of armor, and it feels nothing as bees cover its face and lips.

  Soon, clinging to the tree with the left paw, it uses the right one to reach in and gather handfuls of the sweet goo, along with its makers, consuming both with great delight. The bees go down the gullet still buzzing.

  Below, the smooth, oval leaves soon drip with honey, and flies rise to share the dessert within minutes.

  Bears are always messy eaters, I discovered.

  Powhatan Swamp

  English I

  Charles Clewt

  Ohio State University

  ***

  SOME wood-framed wire cages, off to the right down below, which she hadn't seen as she ran across the yard, caught her eye. There were at least fifteen of them, and in all but two or three were wild birds.

  Several blue herons. A hawk. An owl. A grackle and a blackbird. A bobwhite, a woodpecker. A couple contained birds she didn't recognize.

  What on earth were the Clewts doing with them? Eating them? Sam made a face at the thought. Heron stew? Grackle pie?

  The silent, caged, cold-eyed birds were just another reason to leave this house by the spillway as quickly as possible.

  Suddenly she shivered. Wondering about the Clewts reminded her of what she'd seen earlier in the swamp shadows, that hulking, faceless man carrying the bundle over his shoulder.

  Had that really been a foot sticking out of the end?

  Clutching her arms, hugging herself to keep warm, she sat hunched on the roof.

  A LITTLE after ten, she heard the sound of an outboard motor and looked southwest across the lake. In the distance, a small boat was headed toward the house. Soon she made out a single figure standing in it. Must be one of the Clewts, she thought. No one else was in the boat.

  As the noise grew louder and the boat came closer, the dogs lost interest in Sam and ran down to the lake-shore. Their tails wagged a welcome.

  By the time the engine shut down and the prow of the boat touched land, Sam could see that the sole occupant wore a dark jacket, probably wool, and a black baseball cap. He hopped out, tossing ashore a pronged anchor to make sure the small craft wouldn't drift away.

  Sam guessed she was looking at Clewt's son. He had no beard, wasn't a man in size. Wasn't the swamp-walker. Here was the weirdo few people had seen.

  The dogs jumped on him gleefully, and he bent to scruff them, talk to them.

  When he was about a hundred feet away, limping toward the house, Sam thought she'd better let him know someone was on the roof. "Hey, there!" she yelled.

  The boy stopped, surprised at the voice.

  "I'm up here, on your roof."

  He looked up.

  Sam felt idiotic.

  Coming closer, he finally spoke. Gruffly. "What are you doing there?" A pair of binoculars hung from his neck.

  "Your dogs chased me."

  "They guard the place." He sounded annoyed at the intrusion.

  Sam laughed weakly at the understatement.

  He was almost directly beneath her now, looking up, and she could see that the right side of his face was normal—but the left side was slick and almond-colored. His left eye drooped at the corner, and there was no eyebrow above it. His left ear was a brown rosette. It was almost as if he had two faces, the marred left side making him a "Phantom of the Opera" without a mask. He wore a glove on his left hand, none on his right. Several wisps of hair curled out from under the
baseball cap. No wonder people who had seen him said he was weird.

  Spotting the wader, picking it up, he asked, "This yours?"

  Sam nodded.

  "I'll get you down."

  "Thank you."

  However weird he looked, he didn't seem threatening, and the dogs, docile at the sight of their master, were now acting as if they hadn't attacked in the first place. He disappeared around the side of the house and came back a moment later carrying a ladder.

  Sam swung her feet out. Her socks had turned a reddish black from the dried blood, almost the color of old fireplace brick.

  "What happened to your feet?" He was now at roof level. The gruffness had gone out of his voice at the sight of her bloody socks.

  "I walked five miles through the swamp yesterday afternoon and this morning."

  "You had the wrong boots."

  "I had the wrong everything."

  She stood up and let out a cry, almost losing her balance. The needled pain was so intense it brought tears. She grabbed at the top of the ladder to keep from falling.

  The boy said, "Don't try to come down. I'll carry you." He moved up another two rungs. "Put your arms around my neck and hold on."

  It couldn't hurt any worse if he dropped her. She nodded and, closing her eyes, locked her arms around his neck.

  "Just hang on."

  She did as instructed, feeling herself being lowered to the ground; then he cradled her and began limping around toward the front of the house. Whatever was wrong with him, there was no lack of strength.

  "Why were you in the swamp?" he asked.

  "A dog that I was taking care of chased a bear. I chased after the dog."

  "I guess you didn't catch it."

  "I guess I didn't."

  As they went through the door, she said, "I'd like to make a phone call. My parents don't know where I am."