The Sound of the Trees (14 page)

The old man picked at his teeth with a gnarled finger and looked at it. One of them crossed me up here once, he said. One of them magnates with his slick suit and stupid little hat. Was last fall I recollect. He picked at his teeth again and resumed scratching his arms. I scared em off good with my rifle. But I imagine someday they'll be back. Try and claim my land away or some such nonsense they like to compose down there.

Well, the boy said. You might look into getting yourself a new rifle. Or at least a trigger.

The old man's eyes were silver. I ain't shot it in forty years, he said. Long as I can keep em at a distance they won't know. You just seen it cause I got too close, ain't that right?

Yes sir. That's right.

The old man leaned back. Why you come up here boy? Tell it to me true.

The boy shrugged. Looked pretty enough from town, he said. Warm and somewhat covered. That's about all for my reasoning.

You ain't much of a reasoner are you.

No sir. I don't guess I am.

Where's your mama and daddy at?

Not here, the boy said into his bowl.

You runnin from them?

The boy looked up, his eyes set hard. I ain't runnin from nothin, he said. I just come up and aim to stay out here for a spell.

Out where? This time the old man's voice was even.

In the hills.

You talkin bout my hills?

Any of these hills. I can't say which ones.

Why don't you go on and live in town?

Cause I ain't got the money is why. And I reckon I don't want to. I'm no good at it anyway. It's better for me out here.

Oh, the old man said, grinning again to reveal the dark teeth, is it? He straightened up in his chair and leaned into the table. You know what it's like to live out here, do ya? Out of town?

Yes sir I do.

And how's that?

I done it. I done it a long time.

The old man watched the boy's eyes travel to the window, then he collapsed back in his chair. He resumed scratching his forearms, looking at them as if to summon forth some explanation. You know about Melampus? he said suddenly.

About what?

Not what. Who.

No.

The old man struggled to his feet and walked to the glassless window frame. He turned his head back to the boy after a long moment of peering out.

Well, he said. If you're wantin to stay out here, you ought to know about him. One day this Melampus found out his servants had killed two snakes in the forest. This was long ago now. Well, Melampus. For whatever reason, he got fixed on them snakes. Ended up goin out into the forest and savin the snakes' little ones. Reared em up himself, he did. After the snakes done growed up they wanted to repay Melampus, for he'd come to them in the forest and he wasn't afraid.

The old man crossed back to the sink basin. He took out a tin cup with a warped finger loop and dipped it into the tub at the back of the room. He came forward sipping from it carefully.

He was sleepin one day. Melampus, I'm talkin about now. He was sleepin and the snakes he saved come up on him and licked his ears. Just licked em right up.

He made an obscene lapping motion with his mouth, his shriveled tongue writhing beneath the shoddy teeth.

Now when Melampus rose up from his slumber he all of a sudden could understand what two birds sittin on his window ledge was sayin to each other. You see it? The snakes had taken him to be like them.

The old man came back to the table and rapped his knuckles on the wood and leaned back down in his chair with the cup held loosely at his chest.

He walked into the forest and scooped up the snakes like they was his own babes. And so they made him to understand the language of all flyin and creepin animals. Some even said he knew the world better than anyone because he could hear all the words that passed on earth. He knew more than the gods, some say, and he lived his life alone by that forest and no harm to him ever did come because he could talk to all the world.

The old man held out his hands then lowered them, slapping the table to signal the close of the story. The boy pushed back his chair and rose up.

Snakes, he said. He pushed the chair tight to the table edge. I got to get on.

So you don't believe it, huh?

Oh, the boy said. Now you're tryin to tell me that story's a truth.

The old man shook his head scornfully. No, he said. That's the myth. From the floor he picked up a ribbed undershirt stained with an indiscernible filth and wiped its sleeve along his flaccid neck. But that's how life is to be lived out here, he said.

Well I don't care to hear anything they're sayin.

You can hear anythin you want, the old man said, his eyes skittish beneath the gauzy lids, what's matterin is how you listen.

And what's bein said that could possibly matter.

With this the boy turned for the door but the old man suddenly reached out and took his shoulder and pulled him back with little strength.

That's right, he said. I don't believe it's all meant for you to hear neither.

The boy tipped his hat and the man withdrew his hand. Before he mounted his horse the old man called out to him.

So you want to try my way of livin? You're probably right to figure this way's the best. It'll be the only one left come earth's end, and I don't care what fanciness they got down in that town.

He stepped outside, following the boy into the daylight with his hand upraised to his eyes. Come on back tonight, he said. You can rest here. Summer ain't so sure of itself and it might still take to a cold wind yet. Hey. Go on and leave your mule up here. Let him feed out here. Might even take him for a nice walk down by the water.

The boy examined the shifting mule. The mule's legs were scored with lashes from the mountains and still thin to the bone. Well, he said. I might do that then. I thank you.

The boy patted the mule's head, then stepped up into the stirrups and quartered the horse to where the man stood leaning against the door frame.

You just remember it's my valley, boy.

The old man gave his arms a few furious scratches and looked away as if another thought were coming, but he only turned back to the cabin and raised his hand as the boy passed out of the high grass and into the cold coming sun.

*   *   *

Stepping down from the hills and onto the flatland, the boy watched the sky as the last of the clouds shivered away. He looked back once toward the valley of the old man and could see none of its bounty, but only the plateland of detritus upon which he now rode. He downstepped onto the dirt road that led into the town. He slowed the mare carefully at the pavement, trotting through the morning flurry of the plaza and around the steaming cars and up to the portales of the cantina.

He could see John Frank seated by the window with one leg folded over the other thigh. He was tapping a pencil on the table when the boy came in.

Late, he called across the room.

The boy crossed over to the booth where Frank sat.

What?

You're late.

John Frank kept on tapping the pencil.

No I ain't.

Yeah, you are.

The boy slid into the booth. Didn't sleep too fair last night, he said.

Nor did I. Worried that you'd show late or not at all.

I showed.

You showed late.

The boy looked around the cantina for the waitress. He looked at the pencil tapping on the table. Then he looked out the window. So what then? he said.

So you're fired.

The boy shook his head and felt in his chest pocket for his cigarettes and rose.

Alright, he said. But just don't say it was on account of bein late.

John Frank grinned up at him and held his hand out across the table. You ain't fired, he said. He smacked the pencil nub against the table and let out a spurt of laughter. You're on time. Two minutes to spare actually. I was cartin you for a ride. See if you'd try to shoot me or some shit like that. Don't you carry a watch?

The boy sat again and motioned behind the bar and held up his coffee mug. I ain't never found a need for it, he said. Sun comes up, it's day. Day ends when it darks.

You can't tell the hours, though. What if you come to be needin them?

I needed them today, didn't I? And I'm here.

John Frank looked at his pocket watch, shook his head and grinned. You are, he said. You are.

They crossed through the weave and smoke of the rattling cars. John Frank pointed out the gray-togged Chinese streaming out from Abner's inn.

Here they come, he said. Bringin that new West. Be lucky if they even live to see the other side of the wick.

They passed down one of the lanes off the plaza. The boy rode his horse at a walk with John Frank on foot struggling to stay abreast of him.

Why don't you get on up here?

I ain't ridin no danged horse.

It's just down here aways, right? Ain't goin to hurt you.

I don't ride no horse.

I'm ridin. You just set.

I ain't gettin on.

Why not?

John Frank looked up at the boy. You plannin to comb that hair down, or is it goin to fly loose like a crow? he said.

It's goin to fly loose. Why won't you get up here?

It's an animal.

It is at that.

I ain't its kind.

Nor am I.

Well, John Frank said. I wouldn't be too sure of that.

The town hall stood deep in a cluster of two-story buildings on the west end of the town. Across the door was bolted a polished rapier of some foreign metal. It shone sugar-colored in the sunlight and underneath were hung letters of the same metal tacked up by wood nails. It read Capital of the West. Below a smaller title was engraved in the clay wall and written in another language.

What in the hell does that say?

Says Trude likes to fuck horses.

Shit, the boy said.

They climbed the stone steps to the oak door.

Where's that little cigar girl of yours? She the peach you thought she was?

John Frank nudged him with an elbow as they went in. Behind a desk set square in the middle of the rotunda a hulking woman sat with her arms folded across a yellow flower-printed dress. The boy leaned into John Frank's shoulder and whispered against his arm.

She sure has changed, bud.

Frank grinned and pushed him away. Morning Molly, he said. This here's the one goin to run the papers across town for me.

That right?

She looked up with disinterest while her hands fumbled along the neck of her dress.

Yes ma'am. I can't keep up with all this and that the mayor's got constantly goin.

The secretary shifted her heavy bottom in the thick-wooded chair she sat upon and lifted the blouse on and off her breasts with her chubby fingertips. Nor can I, she said.

Me and you, John Frank said grimly. He grinned at the boy again. Havin to run this town, he said. Make things right.

Down a long hall scripted by alabaster and shunted with doors closed and immaculate John Frank led the boy to the office of the mayor. Daylight flooded the hall from the slant-paned windows above.

You sure this ain't the church?

Hell. That's about the one thing I am sure of.

The lacquered mahogany door flowed upward like a forest gate. The two of them looked up, standing puppetlike beneath the door.

Good goddamn, the boy said.

John Frank motioned toward two clap handles of silver which were crafted into spindles of rosebush. At the bottommost thorn joint of each were knobs of ivory. Knock back one of them, he said. The boy gripped one of the knobs and took the silver loop back and dropped it twice. They waited. John Frank looked down at the creak of leather from the boy's boots.

Maybe he skipped town, the boy said. Maybe found an easier way to get his cigars.

Maybe you better.

John Frank fell silent with the sound of movement on the floorboards. They heard two distinct voices but could not make out the words. No one came to the door.

To hell with it, Frank said. Always locked up in there. Come on, I'll tell him later.

They went down the hall and through another door. John Frank walked behind a desk in the corner of the room by a window that opened onto a lane with the plaza in the distance.

This yours?

Yeah. And don't say nothin about it. I come to deserve it. Finally got moved up around here.

This is up?

John Frank grinned at him. Take this, he said.

He handed the boy a docket with a leather binder and leather straps that lay tied across it to where the straps were threaded through a gold hasplock.

That's what you got to carry every day. You can meet the mayor later on. Follow this little map I made. We still ain't got a printed one. He handed the boy a piece of torn yellow paper. The road you want to find the house on is Old 17, he said.

The boy studied the map. He pointed at the paper, then out the window. Is this that little thing down yonder?

Yeah.

He folded the map and put it in his trouser pocket. Alright.

Well. Good luck, cowboy.

The boy walked to the door then stopped and turned and looked at John Frank again. Shit, he said. I'm sure I'll need it.

*   *   *

THE PATH HE
rode curved gently toward the north, bringing the boy back under the shadows of the mountains. He rode through darkened woodland. From time to time he looked out at the peaks, their shadows bearing down on him as if they held a weight as great as the mountains themselves. His mouth so dry, the air so quiet.

When he reached the fenced yard of the lawyer's house he bent from the horse and swung loose a sickle-shaped iron draw bar. The wooden gate flushed open onto a flagstone path. He hobbled the horse at the gatepost and twisted the docket loose from his saddlebag and walked up to the house.

It was a simple adobe structure. Two windows flanked a low door. The boy stood on the porch and looked around. He listened to the wind and the wind chimes that hung on the rear drain head. He could see nothing that would lead him to believe this place was at all occupied. There were no chickens or cattle and no shirts hung out to dry and there was no automobile or horse. No sound came from within, and though it was still day, the inside was dark. No dirt lined the porch. No tarnish upon the window or smoke staining the chimney. He wondered if John Frank had meant to fool him.