Manly Wade Wellman - John the Balladeer SSC (6 page)

 
          
I
looked at him then, and knew what most he wanted on this earth. He wanted to be
boss. Money was just something to greaten him. His idea of greatness was
bigness. He wanted to do all the talking, and have everybody else do the
listening. He had his eyes hung on that desrick, and he licked his lips, like a
cat over a dish of cream.

 
          
"Let's
go in," he said.

 
          
"Not
where I'm not invited," I told him, as flatly as anybody could ever tell
him. "I said I'd come to the top. This is the top."

 
          
"Come
with me," he said. "My name's Yandro. This mountain's name is Yandro.
I can buy and sell every man, woman and child in this part of the country. If I
say it's all right to go into a house, it's all right to go into a house."

 
          
He
meant that thing. The world and everybody in it was just there to let him walk
on. He took a step toward the desrick. Somebody hummed inside, not the words of
the song, but the tune. Mr. Yandro snorted at me, to show how small he reckoned
me because I held back, and he headed toward the big door.

           
"If she's there, she'll show me
the gold," he said.

 
          
But
I couldn't have moved from where I stood at the edge of the clearing. I was
aware of a sort of closing in all around the edge, among the trees and brushy
clumps. Not that the closing in could be seen, but there was a
gong-gong
farther oft", the voice
of the Toller norating to the other creatures their feed was near. And above
the treetops sailed a round, flat thing, like a big plate being pitched high. A
Skim. Then another Skim. And the blood inside my body was cold and solid as
ice, and my voice turned to a handful of sand in my throat.

 
          
I
knew, plain as paint, that if I tried to back up, to turn around even, my legs
would fail and I'd fall down. With fingers like twigs with sleet stuck to them,
I dragged around my guitar, to pluck at the silver strings, because silver is
protection against evil.

 
          
But
I didn't. For out of the bushes near me the Bammat stuck its broad woolly head,
and it shook that head at me once, for silence. It looked me between the eyes,
steadier than a beast should look at a man, and shook its head. I wasn't to
make any noise. And I didn't. When the Bammat saw that I'd be quiet, it paid me
no more mind, and I knew I wasn't to be included in what would happen then.

 
          
Mr.
Yandro was knocking at the axe-chopped door. He waited, and knocked again. I
heard him growl, something about how he wasn't used to waiting for people to
answer his knock.

 
          
Inside,
the humming had died out. After a moment, Mr. Yandro moved around to where the
window was, and picked at the rawhide.

 
          
I
could see, but he couldn't, as around from behind the corner of the desrick
flowed something. It lay out on the ground like a broad, black, short-furred
carpet rug. But it moved, humping and then flattening out, the way a measuring
worm moves. It moved pretty fast, right toward Mr. Yandro from behind and to
one side. The Toller said
gong-gong-gong,
from closer in.

 
          
"Anybody
in there?" bawled Mr. Yandro. "Let me in!"

 
          
The
crawling carpet brushed its edge against his foot. He looked down at it, and
his eyes stuck out all of a sudden, like two door knobs. He knew what it was,
and named it at the top of his voice.

 
          
"The
Flat!"

 
          
Humping
against him, it tried to wrap around his foot and leg. He gasped out something
I'd never want written down for my last words, and pulled loose and ran, fast
and straight, toward the edge of the clearing.

 
          
Gong-gong,
said the Toller, and Mr.
Yandro tried to slip along next to the trees. But, just ahead of him, the
Culverin hoved itself half into sight on its many legs. It pointed its
needle-shaped mouth and spit a pebble. I heard the pebble ring on Mr. Yandro's
head. He staggered against a tree. And I saw what nobody's ever supposed to
see.

 
          
The
Behinder flung itself on his shoulders. Then I knew why nobody's supposed to
see one. I wish I hadn't. To this day I can see it, as plain as a fence at
noon
, and forever I will be able to see it. But
talking about it's another matter. Thank you, I won't try.

 
          
Then
everything else was out—the Bammat, the Culverin, and all the others. They were
hustling him across toward the desrick, and the door moved slowly and quietly
open for him to come in.

 
          
As
for me, I was out of their minds, and I hoped and prayed they wouldn't care if
I just went on down the trail as fast as I could set one foot below the other.

 
          
Scrambling
and scrambling down, without a noise to keep me company, I figured that I'd
probably had my unguessed part in the whole thing. Seventy-five years had to
pass, and then Mr. Yandro come there to the desrick. And it needed me, or
somebody like me, to meet him and sing the song that would put it in his head
and heart to come to where his granddaddy had courted Polly Wiltse, just as
though it was his own whim.

 
          
No.
No, of course, he wasn't the man who had made Polly Wiltse love him and then
had left her. But he was the man's grandson, of the same blood and the same
common, low-down, sorry nature that wanted money and power, and didn't care who
he hurt so he could have both. And he looked like Joris Yandro. Polly Wiltse
would recognize him.

 
          
I
haven't studied much about what Polly Wiltse was like, welcoming him into the
desrick on Yandro, after waiting inside for three quarters of a century.
Anyway, I never heard of him following me down. Maybe he's been missed. But
I'll lay you anything you name he's not been mourned.

 
          
1
hat valley hadn't any name. Such outside folks as knew about it just said,
"Back in yonder," and folks inside said, "Here." The mail
truck dropped a few letters in a hollow tree, next to a ridge where a trail
went up and over and down. Three, four times a year, bearded men in homemade
clothes and shoes fetched out their makings— clay dishes and pots, mostly, for
dealers to sell to tourists. They carried back coffee, salt, gunpowder, a few
nails. Things like that.

 
          
It
was a day's scramble on that ridge trail, I vow, even with my long legs and no
load but my silver-strung guitar. No lumberman had ever cut the thick, big old
trees. I quenched my thirst at a stream and followed it down. Near sunset, I
heard music jangling.

 
          
Fire
shone out through an open cabin door, to where folks sat on a stoop log and
frontyard rocks. One had a guitar, another fiddled, and hands slapped so a boy
about ten or twelve could jig. Then they all spied me and fell quiet. They
looked, and didn't know me.

 
          
"That
was pretty, ladies and gentlemen," I said, but nobody remarked.

 
          
A
long-bearded old man with one suspender and no shoes held the fiddle on his
knee. I reckoned he was the grandsire. A younger, shorter-bearded man with the
guitar might be his son. There was a dry old mother, there was the son's plump
wife, there was a younger yellow-haired girl, and there was that dancing little
grandboy.

 
          
"What
can we do for you, young sir?" asked the old man. Not that he sounded like
doing anything—mountain folks say that even to the government man who's come
hunting a still on their place.

 
          
"Why,"
I said, "I sort of want a place to sleep."

           
"Right much land to stretch out
on yonder," said the guitar man.

 
          
I
tried again. "I heard you all playing first part of
Fire in the Mountains."

 
          
"Is
they two parts?" That was the boy, before anyone could silence him.

 
          
"Sure
enough, son," I said. "Let me show you the second part."

 
          
The
old man opened his beard, likely to say wait till I was asked, but I strummed
my own guitar into second part, best I knew how. Then I played first part
through, and, "You sure God can pick that," said the short-bearded
one. "Do it again."

 
          
I
did it again. When I reached second part, the old man sawed fiddle along with
me. We went around
Fire in the Mountains
once
more, and the ladyfolks clapped hands and the boy jigged. Still nobody smiled,
but when we stopped the old man made me a nod.

 
          
"Sit
on that rock," he said. "What might we call you?"

 
          
"My
name's John," I told him.

 
          
"I'm
Tewk Millen. Mother, I reckon John's a-tired, coming from outside. He might
relish a gourd of cold water."

 
          
"We're
just before having a bite," the old lady said to me. "Ain't but just
smoke meat and beans, but you're welcome."

 
          
"I'm
sure honored, Mrs. Millen," I said. "But it's a trouble."

 
          
"No
trouble," said Mr. Tewk Millen. "Let me make you known to my son
Heber and his wife Jill, and this here is boy Calder."

 
          
"Proud
to know you," they all said.

 
          
"And
my girl Vandy," Mr. Tewk finished.

 
          
I
looked at her hair like yellow corn silk and her eyes like purple violets.
"Vandy?" I said after her father.

 
          
Shy,
she dimpled at me. "I know it's a scarce name, Mr. John, I never heard it
anywhere but among my kinfolks."

 
          
"I
have," I said, "and it's what brought me here."

 
          
Mr.
Tewk Millen looked funny above his whiskers. "Thought you said you was a
young stranger man."

 
          
"I
heard the name outside in a song, sir. Somebody allowed the song's known here.
I'm a singer. I go far after a good song." I looked around. "Do you
all know that Vandy song, folks?"

 
          
"Yes,
sir," said little Calder, but the others studied a minute. Mr. Tewk rubbed
up a leaf of tobacco into his pipe.

 
          
"Calder,"
he said, "go in and fetch me a chunk of fire to light up with. John, you
certain you never met my daughter Vandy?"

           
"Certain sure," I made
reply. "Only I can figure how ary young fellow might come a far piece to
meet her."

 
          
She
stared down at her hands where she sat. "We learnt the song from
papa," she half-whispered, "and he learnt it from his papa—"

 
          
"And
my papa learnt it from his," Mr. Tewk finished for her. "It goes a
way back, that song, I figure."

 
          
"I'd
sure enough relish hearing it," I said.

 
          
"After
you heard it," said Mr. Tewk. "After you learnt it, what would you
do?"

 
          
"Why,"
I said, "I reckon I'd go back outside and sing it some."

 
          
I
could see that's what he wanted to hear.

 
          
"Heber,"
he told his son, "you pick it out and I'D scrape this fiddle, and Calder
and Vandy can sing it for John."

 
          
They
played the tune once without words. The notes were put together strangely, in
what schooled folks call minors. But other folks, better schooled yet, say such
tunes sound strange and lonesome because in old times folks had another note
scale from our do-re-mi-fa today. And little Calder piped up, high and young
but strong:

 
          
Vandy, Vandy, I've come to court you,

 
          
Be you rich or be you poor, And if you'll
kindly entertain me,

 
          
I will love you forever more.

 
          
Vandy, Vandy, I've gold and silver, Vandy,
Vandy, I've a house and land,

 
          
Vandy, Vandy, I've a world of pleasure, I
would make you a handsome man.

 
          
He
got that far, singing for the fellow come courting, and Vandy sang back the
reply, sweet as a bird:

 
          
/
love a man who's in the army, He's been
there for seven long year,

 
          
And if he's therefor seven year longer, I
won't court no other dear.

           
What
care I for your gold and silver, What care I for
—

 
          
She
stopped, and the guitar and fiddle stopped, and it was like the death of sound.
The leaves didn't rustle in the trees, nor the fire didn't stir on the hearth
inside. They all looked with their mouths half open, where somebody stood with
his hands crossed on the gold knob of a black cane and grinned all on one side
of his toothy mouth.

 
          
Maybe
he came up the down-valley trail, maybe he'd dropped from a tree like a possum.
He was built spry and slim, with a long coat buttoned to his pointed chin, and
brown pants tucked into elastic-sided boots, like what your grandsire had. His
hands on the cane looked slim and strong. His face, bar its crooked smile,
might be handsome. His dark brown hair curled like buffalo wool, and his eyes
were the shiny pale gray of a new knife. Their gaze crawled all over the
Millens and he laughed a slow, soft laugh.

 
          
"I
thought I'd stop by," he crooned, "if I haven't worn out my
welcome."

 
          
"Oh,
no
sir!"
said Mr. Tewk, standing
up on his two bare feet, fiddle in hand. "No sir, Mr. Loden, we're proud
to have you, mighty proud," he jabber-squawked, like a rooster caught by
the leg. "You sit down, sir, make yourself easy."

 
          
Mr.
Loden sat down on the seat-rock Mr. Tewk had left, and Mr. Tewk found a place
on the stoop log by his wife, nervous as a boy stealing apples.

 
          
"Your
servant, Mrs. Millen," said Mr. Loden. "Heber, you look well, and
your good wife. Calder, I brought you candy."

 
          
His
slim hand offered a bright striped stick, red and yellow. You'd think a country
child would snatch it. But Calder took it slow and scared, as he'd take a
poison-snake. You'd think he'd decline if he dared.

 
          
"For
you, Mr. Tewk," went on Mr. Loden, "I've fetched some of my tobacco.
An excellent weed." He handed Mr. Tewk a pouch of soft brown leather.
"Empty your pipe. Enjoy it, sir."

 
          
"Thank
you kindly," said Mr. Tewk, and sighed and began to do what he'd been
ordered.

 
          
"And
Miss Vandy." Mr. Loden's croon petted her name. "I wouldn't venture
here without hoping you'd receive a trifle at my hands."

 
          
He
dangled it from a chain, a gold thing the size of his pink thumbnail. In it
shone a white jewel, that grabbed the firelight and twinkled red.

 
          
"Do
me the honor, Miss Vandy, to let it rest on your heart, that I may envy
it."

 
          
She
took the jewel and sat with it between her soft little hands. Mr. Loden turned
his eye-knives on me. "Now," he said, "we come around to the
stranger within your gates."

 
          
"Yes,
we come around to me," I agreed, hugging my guitar on my knee. "My
name's John, Mr. Loden."

 
          
"Where
are you from, John?" It was sudden, almost fierce, like a lawyer in a
courtroom.

 
          
"From
nowhere," I said.

 
          
"Meaning,
from everywhere," he supplied me. "What do you do?"

 
          
"I
wander," I said. "I sing songs. I mind my own business and watch my
manners."

 
          
"Touche!"
he cried in a
foreign tongue, and smiled on that same side of his mouth. "You oblige me
to remember how sometimes I err in my speech. My duties and apologies, John.
I'm afraid my country ways seem rude at times, to world travellers. No
offense."

 
          
"None
taken," I said, and kept from adding on that real country ways were polite
ways.

 
          
"Mr.
Loden," put in Mr. Tewk again, "I make bold to offer you what poor
rations my old woman's made—"

 
          
"Sir,"
Mr. Loden broke him off, "they're good enough for the best man living.
I'll help Mrs. Millen prepare them. After you, ma'am."

 
          
She
walked in, and he followed. What he said there was what happened.

 
          
"Miss
Vandy," he said next, "you might help us."

 
          
She
went in, too. Dishes clattered. Through the open door I saw Mr. Loden put a
tweak of powder in the skillet on the fire. The menfolks sat outside and said
nothing. They might have been nailed down, with stones in their mouths. I
studied about what could make a proud, honorable mountain family so scared of a
guest and I knew there was only the one thing. And that one thing wouldn't be
just a natural thing. It would be a thing beyond nature or the world.