Pages Torn From a Travel Journal (9 page)

“A right rat bastard this one is, Sir,” I heard the Irish accent through head-pounding fog. My face was in the dirt.

“There’s one in every crowd, my good Irish.”

“Aye, and did ya know that he was workin’ me for info about your wife?”

“Hmm. Knowing that, I’ll have to beat her all the harder.”

“The whole job for ‘im, Sir?”

“For scum like this, we should let the dogs have at his cock and balls, but, no, McMullen. This droog counts for naught–for less than what’s on the corncob after I wipe—and as easy as the police are to pay off, I’ve not the patience for the inconvenience. He’s a mere fly-speck, not worth a good man’s time or effort to set straight. Just throw him off the property.”

“With pleasure, Sir!”

“But first . . . ”

The collision of the Irish fists to my head had me seeing double. But the next collision was not from a fist at all, but O’Slaughnassey’s heavily booted foot.

Directly to my groin.

“Here’s a good one to remember me by . . . ” A wizened laugh. “I’ll say, McMullen, all this violence has my old dog up and barking. I think I’ll go to Bliss’s trailer now and knock her about some more, then put some vintage cream up her backside.” His foot roughly nudged my wobbling head. “You hear that, Yankee scum? For raising a hand to me, I’ll keep Bliss uglied up for a good long time. Think about that.”

I believe his words caused me actually to vomit. Pain cocooned my body, & amid a dark, accented chuckle, I was carried off much the same as a sack of refuse. My consciousness winked in & out, & the agony betwixt my legs existed as an entity of its own. I thought sure that my testes had been ruptured to slush.

I saw only in mazed blinks: inquisitive faces, staring eyes, agape mouths. I was hauled out of the carnival’s entrance & dropped to the ground, heart hammering. Senseless, I heard an abrasive sound—

Kuuuuur-HOCK

—as the surly thug spat copiously into my face.

“A fresh Irish oyster for ya, lad, with my compliments. And if you’re stupid enough to ever come back here? Ya won’t be leavin’ alive.”

The rogue tromped off, his laughter like the peals of a satanic bell.

Many minutes passed before I could reconstruct my wits. Bloody-faced & half-blind, I stumbled away from the staring crowd that waited for admission. Ahead of me: the vast field of scrub crammed with motor-cars & the smear of twilight-tinged sky. One hand to my head, the other to my groin, I staggered away; away from that screaming, hadean dervish-saturnalia; away from the leering, sin-faced throng; forever away from O’Slaughnassey’s Travelling Show . . .

I knew not what crested most precipitously in my spirit: my humiliation, my rage, or my horror for Bliss. Would that malefactor O’Slaughnassey really beat her further for sport? Would he anally rape her as he’d implied, & keep her “uglied up” because I’d assaulted him? The prospect made me moan in the most fathomless despair.

Relocating Nate & the unbecoming bus driver was akin to the needle in the haystack proverb; so, too, was the prospect of finding Nate’s claptrap vehicle. Instead–always one given to lengthy walks–I stumbled straight away from the carnival’s noise, crowds, & infernal lights, re-taking the unpaved road that had delivered me to this pit of lust, thievery, & con men. Soon the wicked din was far behind; & each of my strides away grew longer & more stable. I wiped my bloodied face with my handkerchief, regaining my breath, as reason soon returned to my mind. Ache as my testicles did, a painful but brief physical inspection assured me they’d not been ruptured.
The
police!
I resolved. What other course did I have? Once I returned to the garage, I could use the telephone to call. But then the prospect dwindled. In uncharted backwoods such as these? A domain of “rubes,” “red-necks,” & “crackers?” Local police were surely prone to corruption; O’Slaughnassey himself said that he had them in his pocket.
It’s
my
word
against
theirs,
and
I’m
the
outsider
here,
I knew. The police would likely arrest me on a trumped up charge, taking payment to do so. Now I felt hopeless.

Was there no other course I could take?

In my soul I was at war with myself. Where there was no justice, a real man could effect his own. The greater segment of my conscience wanted nothing more than to return to that dreadful, evil-imbued carnival—that cauldron of greed & indulgence & lechers—infiltrate its perimeter, & then . . .

Find
O’Slaughnassey
and
kill
him.

A real man, yes, but was I such a man? A soft-handed scribe lacking brawn & bravado? Could I really depart from my sheltered & sensitive ways & be the crusader who ended Bliss’s life-long terror?

I stared at the moon as if awaiting an answer, yet none was forthcoming.

Plodding steps took me back the way I’d come, along the dense woodline, while a strange dirge-like litany played in my head–a litany to failure. I knew I’d be back at the garage in little more than an hour’s time, but what then? To pass a sleepless night on the immobile bus, to fret over Bliss & what her perverse father/husband was doing to her? A dense, nearly deafening chorus of crickets & night-birds accompanied the dirge in my head, yet over time, these natural sounds of wildlife ceased. I stopped, taking notice of the silence that shouldn’t be. & then?

Commotion.

From the woods, frenzied shouts rose at a distance, but closer came a deliberate thrashing, as of madly running feet through brambles. It all transpired so fast I could scarcely react. & next:

“Good God!” I shouted.

From the woods a blocky frantic figure shot out: a man obviously being chased, for in the background those other voices increased in tenor; I heard rough accented exclamations, the likes of “Don’t let the varmint git away!” “Which way’d he go?” “Toward the fields, I reckon!” & “Pray the Lord on High we don’t lose him!” Yet the man to which these voices referred, the frantic figure, had just bolted from the woods & was heading right toward me. The moonlight revealed the terrified face of an unkempt, wild-haired man of about 40, his eyes inflamed by a wedding of madness & panic-fear. I don’t think he saw me on the road for he kept running straight, shooting glances behind. Then a voice boomed in the background, clearly addressing me: “You there on the road! In the name’a God stop that fella just run out the woods! He done raped’n murdered a
child!
” The words had not even consciously registered in my brain before my arms shot out & in what must have been complete surprise “clotheslined” the alleged murderer. It was the inside of my elbow that caught him directly across the throat. There was a gargled grunt, then the figure flew backward against the unseen obstruction, & landed hard on his back.

Half a dozen brawn-stocked men of the sort that are known as “hillfolk” surrounded the scene with guttering torches. The fallen man foundered at their feet, groaning.

A hand callused like sandpaper slapped my back to the extent that I nearly lost my breath, then a hardy voice in the local dialect boomed, “Sir, we are, I say, we are in some tall debt to ya for so bravely stoppin’ this white-trash killer in his tracks! The bastard almost got away!” & at once the entire rustic group chattered their thanks & shook my hand. It was the first hillman who shook my hand, though, with the vigour of a well-pump. “My name’s Eamon Martin, and these all’s my kin, other Martins, Tucktons, Bishops mostly. We live out yonder in the woods, preferrin’ not to mingle much with the outside world, seein’ how evil it’s a-gettin’.” The alleged fugitive was hoisted up by 2 well-muscled men in overalls, then shaken around. Perhaps the power of suggestion impelled me, but the face on that man in the torchlight was truly a face filled with malevolency. He wore heavy-fabric’d garb with a # stitched on the shirt; that along with the iron ring about his ankle left no doubt as to his status: an escaped convict. “This pile’a swamp-rat shit must’a been in a chain-gang’n managed ta bust his shackle. Then he come through where we all live and-and . . . ,” & then Eamon gulped in a choked sadness. “Ain’t no doubt’a his devilish crime ‘cos it was Constance Butler, the preacher’s wife, who done caught him in the act. Rapin’ the high heaven out’a li’l Sary May Boover, and when he done got his nut, he up’n raped Constance too. But poor Sary weren’t but thirteen, and he busted up her insides so bad, the poor girl bled to death.”

“That’s-that’s horrible,” I croaked. “And it seems that such eye-witness testimony verifies this man’s guilt beyond all doubt.”

“That it does, Sir. And now’s time for us ta right as much as we can, while’s all we can do is pray for young Sary’s immortal soul. Foller me, it’d be our pleasure to at least offer ya some refreshment.”

Amid my own calamities, I was about to decline the rustic’s offer of hospitality, but suddenly I was aware of a mighty thirst, and I think I could trust in my judgment of men that these hillfolk were sincere. So I accepted, and followed.

Eamon & the entire group then wended their way back into the over-nourished forest, torches bobbing. “Mind yer fire men, and take care,” Eamon ordered, then to me, “Ain’t but a short walk, Sir. Now I can tell by lookin’ at ya that you’re a man of some soffister-kay-shun, likely a
city
man, am I right?”

“I’m from Providence, Rhode Island, yes, and I appreciate the compliment.”

“No, Sir, ‘tis
us
who ‘preciates
you
takin’ down this akker-lite’a the devil. He’d shorely be gone now weren’t it fer yer bravery.”

“Really, it was mostly luck, I must admit; I did little more than throw my arms out to catch him in the throat.”

“Aw, yer too humble, Sir! Ya stopped a godless monster in his tracks! But bein’ a city fella, there’s things ya need ta understant. Down here, see, the way the world is leaves us no choice but to take care’a our own. The police? Shee-it, they ain’t no better’n common criminals theirselfs. And what I’m a-gettin’ at is city ways don’t work out here, only backwoods ways is what works. What’s right is right–it’s that simple. You follerin’ me, Sir?”

“I believe you’re referring to the tenets of what’s colloquially known as ‘Jungle Justice,’ or the proper engagement of the law where there
are
no formal laws,” I said.

“Only laws anyone needs is these laws here,” & from a pocket the big man produced a weathered Bible. “‘A eye for a eye,’ it says. Don’t need no fancified big-city lawyer ta tell what
that
 means.”

In spite of the situation’s gravity, I smiled at the man’s simple yet unblemished morality. “No, one most assuredly does not.”

A big finger accentuated his words. “All’s I’se tellin’ ya this fer is so ya know, in case what’cher ‘bout ta see comes ta be too much fer ya.”

I followed, thinking deeply. Did he mean I was about to witness an execution? Part of my upbringing’s urbanity told me how wrong this was, but who was I to judge? Who was I to condemn? This was another world, far apart from me, & possibly more genuine than mine. I had no right to interfere or to post objection. & besides . . .

I
wanted
to see this creature die. In all honesty? I would
thrill
to watch a child-killer swing at the end of a rope.

Deeper & deeper we wended into the dim, tunnel-like forest. How Eamon could remember each twist & turn amazed me; it was a nighted maze with no visual points of reference, yet in a short while our steps disgorged us into a spacious clearing of pin-drop silence lit by torches mounted on sticks, & amid all this congregated at least a dozen more hillfolk, men & women, all dowdily dressed, still, & blank-faced. When they saw that the culprit had been captured, a collective sigh seemed to issue like a gust of timid breeze.

“We got him!” Eamon announced, then turned to me. “And it was this fella here who done it.”

All eyes homed on my face.

Were these the “creekers” that Nate had spoken so lewdly off? Many of the bumpkinly women were quite comely & robust-bosomed, & appareled in scant sewings of cloth that revealed much of their shapely physiques. Did some of them eye me with wantonness after Eamon, clearly the clan’s foreman, had announced my participation in the scoundrel’s capture? No, the notion was absurd. What
must
have I been thinking?

A canteen derived from an animal duodenum was thrust before me–crude but effective. I upended it & poured cool spring water into my mouth. There was no gainly way to do this but the drink was much needed & heartened me at once.

“Step on over, boys,” Eamon cracked again, & as if from thin air 2 smudge-cheeked boys appeared, sheepishly looking down. “This here is . . . Why, I didn’t catch’yer name, Sir.”

“Howard,” I said.

“This here’s
Howard,
” he addressed the boys, “and a very brave man he is.”