Northern Borders (10 page)

Somebody ran to call the ambulance. Mrs. Twist hurried to the truck cab and came back with a blanket to put over Hermie. “It weren't Hannibal's fault, mister!” she shouted to my grandfather. “Han ain't to blame.”

By now Show had gotten Hannibal safely inside the back of the truck. He ran up and pointed an accusatory finger at Hermie, moaning on the ground. “I tol' him to stop it with that bean shooter,” he yelled. “He hit Han smack in the eye with it. I swear to God he did. Hit him right smack in the eye, and when the kid come near him, Han snatched him up and throwed him. Oh, Jesus!”

Siren wailing, the ambulance came tearing across the infield from the first aid station. Volunteer attendants in red jackets with gold lettering that said “Kingdom County Fire Department” leaped out and loaded Hermie's crumpled body onto a stretcher and into the back. The injured boy looked totally helpless. In my heart I
secretly rejoiced over the bully's fate, and was enormously proud of my grandfather's heroism.

“You saved the kid's life, mister,” Mrs. Twist said as the ambulance went racing out of the fairgrounds.

“It's barely worth saving,” my grandfather said. He rounded on Show. “You ought to control your animal.”

“He never done nothing like this before,” Show cried. “I swear it.”

By now Sheriff White had arrived with Mr. Preston T. Hill. Mr. Hill was already hollering about Hermie, the elephant, hospital and undertaking bills. He kept trying to get at Show. Sheriff White had to hold him back.

“What a circus,” my grandfather said. “Let's get out of here, Austen.”

On the way back to the cattle barn Gramp told me that he believed that one and possibly both of Hermie's legs had been broken. He didn't know what other injuries Hermie might have sustained but he didn't think the boy would die. He said if he knew Preston Hill, he was far more concerned about losing Hermie's free help around the farm than losing Hermie, anyway.

“Now, Austen,” my grandfather said to me in a tone indicating that the subject of Hermie Hill and the elephant was closed, “I intend to visit some people this afternoon. I want you to come with me.”

I was sharply disappointed. Although I was always happy to go anywhere with my grandfather, I had counted on spending the afternoon on the midway even though my money was gone. A few minutes later when my grandfather and I drove out of the grounds together in the blazing noon sun, it seemed to me that I had lost my day at the fair forever. As the midway music receded behind us, so did all my hopes.

 

My grandfather said nothing more to me that afternoon about the fair. We spent the next several hours driving the back roads of the county visiting people he knew, mostly in remote mountain hollows and far up country lanes. He did not stay long in
any one place. Some of the people he wanted to see were at the fair themselves. He said that was all right; he'd catch them there this evening. He did not invite me up into the barnyards and dooryards with him or tell me what he said to the men he spoke with. When I asked him who the people were, he said only, “Neighbors.”

The Farm seemed preternaturally quiet when we arrived around five o'clock. Just knowing that my grandmother wasn't there made me uneasy as I rounded up the remaining Ayrshires and drove them down through the pasture to the barn to be milked. We headed back to town as soon as chores were over, not bothering to fix supper; we'd snacked on crackers and cheese and soft drinks that afternoon during our long ride up and down the hollows.

By the time we reached the fairgrounds it was growing dusky. The sky above the grounds was a rich indigo. Beneath it the midway lights gave off an alluring glow in the early fall twilight. I wanted to ask my grandfather if we could go back to the midway, but Kingdom Fair seemed destined to be a place of turmoil for us that day. No sooner had we finished milking the four prize-winning Ayrshires at the cattle barn than my Uncle Rob Roy ran in with alarming news. “Dad, quick!” he shouted. “They're going to shoot Hannibal!”

“What are you talking about?” my grandfather said. “Who's going to shoot Hannibal?”

“Preston Hill, the old son of a bitch.”

“What, did Hermie die?”

“No, Hermie's got a fractured leg and arm, maybe a ruptured spleen, they aren't sure. He's going to be all right, more's the pity. But Old Man Hill bulled right ahead and hauled that little moron they call Show up in front of Kip Pierce, and Kip fined him a hundred dollars for not keeping Hannibal properly confined. Show doesn't have one hundred dollars. Now Kip's saying the elephant has to be destroyed according to some town ordinance . . . I don't know, just
hurry.
”

My grandfather swore savagely. But he headed fast for the infield. Already a good-sized crowd had gathered around the elephant, which was staked out behind the truck again. Sheriff White was there, looking very uneasy. With him were Justice of the Peace Kip Pierce, Mr. Preston T. Hill, and Show. Mr. Hill was toting his deer
rifle, and Show was pleading with Justice Pierce and Sheriff White, begging for just three days to raise the fine money from his elephant rides. Backlighted by the glowing midway, it was a nightmarish scene.

“What's the trouble here?” my grandfather said.

“Nothing at all to do with you, Austen,” Justice Pierce said.

“I'll tell you what the trouble is,” Mr. Hill shouted. “This beast broke one of my boy's legs and one of his arms and now he's laid up in the horsepittle. He won't be able to work for two months, never mind putting me in the poorhouse with doctor's bills.”

Mr. Hill was so mad that flecks of saliva were flying out of his mouth. “That animal's been declared a public menace, Austen Kittredge. I've got authorization to destroy it. Right, Kip?”

“That's true, Austen,” Justice Kip Pierce said, not happily. “We can't have an animal like that running loose on the rampage. The law on such matters plainly stipulates a fine not to exceed the value of the damages, which I estimate as no more than one hundred dollars medical bills, or forfeiture of the animal if it's dangerous to public safety or private property, or both. I told this fella here if he'd pay the fine and clear out of town we wouldn't destroy his elephant. I was as reasonable about it as I could be. But he says he rolled in flat broke. In view of that I've authorized Preston here, as poundkeeper, to shoot it.”

“You men would shoot an elephant?” my grandfather said in an incredulous voice. “You'd do that? In cold blood?”

“It's a what-you-call-it—a rogue,” Sheriff White said. “It's dangerous to the public safety, Austen.”

“Clear out of the way now,” Mr. Hill said to the growing crowd. He began putting shells in his rifle. I noticed that his hands were shaking.

“You fellas listen to me now,” my grandfather said. “Hermie asked for what he got. He provoked the animal, nearly put out its eye.”

“A fine not exceeding the damages incurred or forfeiture of the animal or both. That's the written law,” Mr. Pierce intoned.

“Give me three days,” Show implored. “I'll raise the money from elephant rides.”

“Who's going to ride your elephant after what he did to young
Hermie?” Sheriff White said. “You won't be any closer to raising that money three days from now than you are today. You didn't have a single customer this afternoon once word about Hermie got out.”

More fairgoers were pouring in from the midway. News of the elephant's impending execution had evidently spread to the entire grounds and everyone seemed eager to be present. Mr. Hill was still fumbling to get his shells into his gun. Sheriff White was directing the crowd away from the line of fire. I felt as though I was about to witness a murder I was helpless to prevent. Show was frantic, running here, there, everywhere.

“Simmer down,” my grandfather told Show. “Can't you get your carny cronies down on the lot to pony up that hundred dollars for you?”

“They ain't my cronies,” Show said. “They hate my guts. I'm circus, they're carnival.”

“That's the Jesus truth, mister,” Mrs. Twist said. “For once in his life the runt's told the truth. Carnies ain't like circus folks. With carnies, it's dog eat dog, except maybe they gang up on some rubes with their billies and such.”

“Preston,” my grandfather said, “you seem to be having some trouble loading that gun. You sure you want to go big-game hunting here tonight? You hit old Hannibal in the wrong place, he's going to trample you before you can shoot again.”

Mr. Hill hesitated. He looked warily at Hannibal. “Put him back in the truck,” he said to Show. “We'll shoot him through the slats.”

“God Almighty,” Sheriff White said. “I don't know about that. Shooting a helpless animal inside a truck?”

“Come on,” a man in the crowd said. “Shoot him. We footed it clear up here from the girlie shows to see an elephant shot. Now blast him, goddamn it.”

“Austen's right,” Kip Pierce said with all the magisterial deliberation of a Supreme Court justice. “Do you good folks have any idea what mayhem this animal is capable of wreaking if Preston here don't put the first bullet in its brain? Do you want a wounded rogue bull elephant loose on the midway? I don't believe so. We'll put him in the truck and drive it out to the town gravel pit on the river road and fill it full of holes.”

“Yes!” Preston said. “Now you're talking.”

“Let's get to it, then,” a drunk yelled, and some other men growled in assent. In the dusky glare from the midway the faces of the nighttime fairgoers were hard and unyielding. Mrs. Twist sobbed and ran to Hannibal and put her arms around his trunk.

In that moment a sense of collective hesitation seemed to fall over the entire fairgrounds, broken only by the faraway noise of the midway and the creaking of the truck springs as Hannibal, oblivious to his fate, once again began to rock to the distant music.

Then my grandfather spoke, breaking the spell. “Kip, I'll pay your one-hundred-dollar fine and take personal responsibility for the elephant. I'll guarantee the public safety if that's what you're worried about.”

“How can you do that, Austen?”

“I'll take him up on my farm. I've got plenty of work he can do up there. We can keep each other company when the boy's off at school. An elephant's the best company there is for a fella who understands them and doesn't abuse them.”

“No one can prove I ever abused that animal,” Show said. “It cannot be proved.”

My grandfather made a harsh sound in his throat, a sardonic approximation of a laugh. But I was thunderstruck by his announcement that he would take Hannibal home with us. I wanted to shout out loud. An elephant! An elephant on the Farm in Lost Nation. Through my mind flashed a wildly improbable montage of Hannibal plowing our cornfields, Hannibal hauling logs out of the woods to my grandfather's sawmill, Hannibal pulling our hay wagon and myself high on the load of hay, driving him. Then almost as quickly I was overcome by a great wave of despair. Surely such a marvel as this could never come to pass, except maybe in one of my storybooks.

“I'll pay the fine and take the elephant,” my grandfather repeated.

“Like hell you will!” Mr. Hill said. “I intend to haul that animal out to the gravel pit and shoot it, Austen Kittredge. He half-killed my boy.”

“You've nearly killed him yourself a dozen times over,” my grandfather said. “But you aren't going to harm that elephant. No
one is. I said I'll pay the hundred dollars. I'll pay it by ten o'clock tonight. In the meantime, Kip, you better stand guard over Hannibal so nobody gets an itchy trigger finger. Mason, you might want to escort these people”—nodding at Show and Mrs. Twist—“to the county line. The quicker they get out of here the better. Is that fair?”

“I guess it is,” Justice Pierce said after a pause. “But where are you going to get a hundred dollars between now and ten o'clock, Austen?”

“Yes, how do I know I'll get my money?” Mr. Hill said.

My grandfather looked at him. “Did I say you'd get it, Preston?”

“Well,” Preston T. Hill said.

“You wouldn't be questioning my word?” my grandfather said softly.

“The written law says forfeit the animal or pay the fine or both,” Justice Pierce said. “If Austen can pay the fine and guarantee the public safety, as he says . . .”

“Can you keep the last of the great ivory hunters here off Hannibal until ten o'clock?” my grandfather said. He jerked his head at Mr. Hill.

“Nobody,” Kip said, “but nobody, will touch one hair on this elephant's hide until ten tonight.”

“If you ain't here at ten sharp with the money, I intend to shoot him,” Mr. Hill said.

“Well,” my grandfather said, “I intend to be here, Preston. With the money. If only to deprive you of the great satisfaction of slaughtering an elephant shut up in a truck.”

“Are you folks all set to skedaddle on out of here?” Sheriff White said to Show.

“I don't know,” Show said slowly. “One hundred dollars is a mighty cheap price to pay for the third largest land animal in captivity. Especially when I'm not getting nothing out of it.”

“You're getting out of having the elephant shot, damn it,” Kip said. “I thought you didn't want the elephant shot.”

“He's old anyway,” Show said. “I don't know as I want this fella to have the benefit of him.”

“Mister,” Kip said, “I am giving you one last chance to get out of this mess and this county scot-free, with a safe-conduct escort from
Sheriff White. Or would you rather go to jail for a hundred days? Because you are one half step away from there this minute.”

“Get in the truck,” Show said to Mrs. Twist. “We'll go back down to Albany and hire a lawyer.”

“Good luck,” Kip said. “To you and your Albany lawyer.”