gangrene in yer toe. Old Billy Todder died of gangrene in the toe. I’ve heard of people dying of cancer of the bowels and the stomach, but I don’t know about the toe. I don’t know about gangrene of the stomach either. Do you think a corn could turn to cancer, Lindon?”
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. Cancer, yeah,” said Lindon, reaching for the dial.
Lindon stopped turning the dial when he heard the rich and mellow voice of Doc Williams talking about a picture Bible. “Just write ‘Picture Bible,’ WWVA, Wheeling, West Virginia,” Doc was saying. “And now I’d like to do y’all a song I very much enjoy and I hope y’all at home will enjoy too.”
The guitar was strummed. It sounded deep and rich. Doc Williams was the best guitar player in the world –
Hannah! Hannah!
Hannah won’t you open the door.
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,
Won’t you change you manna’
This is old Doc Williams,
Don’t you love me no more?
– and Lindon thought that Doc Williams was the best singer in the world, too . . . with the exception of, maybe, Lee Moore.
When Doc Williams ended his show by picking “Wildwood Flower” and had gone the way of Brother Duffy and Oral Roberts, Lindon stood, yawned and headed for the door. He needed to have a leak before going to bed.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Clara.
“To see a man about a horse,” said Lindon.
The night was moonless, the deep blue sky spangled with a million stars, the Milky Way straight up. The air was warm and scented with lilacs and grass. The songs of a million night creatures (peepers, Lindon called them) betrayed the presence of a swamp. The air buzzed and hummed with midges, black-flies and mosquitoes. A bird sang . . . like a robin . . . but not a robin; a swamp robin, perhaps.
Off in the east, back on Todder Brook, came the now familiar screams of what Lindon figured was the devil.
Then suddenly a rifle shot sounded from the same direction and the devil fell silent.
“Hmm, a shot in the dark,” muttered Lindon.
Somebody standing behind him might have thought that Lindon was directing his comment at his penis.
four
Nutbeam lived in a tiny camp in the forest back on Todder Brook. He’d built the camp five years ago on somebody’s land – he didn’t know that it was the lumber section of the old abandoned Graig Allen farm – and none of the locals, as of yet, had located him. A couple of hunters came close a couple of times, but that was all.
Although Nutbeam could not read or write, he was not uneducated. He knew all there was to know about living in the woods. He was an expert trapper, hunter, fisherman and axeman. He knew every shrub, weed, wildflower, fern, berry, cherry, mushroom and nut; which ones were edible and which ones were not. He was an expert in a canoe and on a pair of snowshoes. He had gathered his knowledge from experience, mostly in the last five years.
Nutbeam was six feet six inches tall and had a thirty-two-inch waist. With a nose four inches long, big negroid lips and ears the size of dessert plates, Nutbeam was, indeed, homelier than Shirley Ramsey.
Although Nutbeam was independent, he was completely without confidence.
His appearance was the reason for it – his appearance and the fact that nobody normal could face him without laughing. His appearance was also the reason he had never gone to school, never liked people and had left his home in Smyrna Mills, Maine, to journey into Canada’s Dungarvon country.
Although Nutbeam didn’t like people, he wasn’t necessarily uninterested in them. He liked to look at people, but he didn’t want people to look at him. Nutbeam kept his distance from people, ran into the woods when he saw someone coming, hidbehind his hood, or collar, when it was absolutely necessary to pass near someone.
Nutbeam sat in front of his camp, eyeing the treetops adorned by the setting sun. He watched a mosquito feasting off the back of his hand.
“Gorge yourself and then you die,” said he to
“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah. Cancer, yeah,” said Lindon, reaching for the dial.
Lindon stopped turning the dial when he heard the rich and mellow voice of Doc Williams talking about a picture Bible. “Just write ‘Picture Bible,’ WWVA, Wheeling, West Virginia,” Doc was saying. “And now I’d like to do y’all a song I very much enjoy and I hope y’all at home will enjoy too.”
The guitar was strummed. It sounded deep and rich. Doc Williams was the best guitar player in the world –
Hannah! Hannah!
Hannah won’t you open the door.
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,
Won’t you change you manna’
This is old Doc Williams,
Don’t you love me no more?
– and Lindon thought that Doc Williams was the best singer in the world, too . . . with the exception of, maybe, Lee Moore.
When Doc Williams ended his show by picking “Wildwood Flower” and had gone the way of Brother Duffy and Oral Roberts, Lindon stood, yawned and headed for the door. He needed to have a leak before going to bed.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Clara.
“To see a man about a horse,” said Lindon.
The night was moonless, the deep blue sky spangled with a million stars, the Milky Way straight up. The air was warm and scented with lilacs and grass. The songs of a million night creatures (peepers, Lindon called them) betrayed the presence of a swamp. The air buzzed and hummed with midges, black-flies and mosquitoes. A bird sang . . . like a robin . . . but not a robin; a swamp robin, perhaps.
Off in the east, back on Todder Brook, came the now familiar screams of what Lindon figured was the devil.
Then suddenly a rifle shot sounded from the same direction and the devil fell silent.
“Hmm, a shot in the dark,” muttered Lindon.
Somebody standing behind him might have thought that Lindon was directing his comment at his penis.
four
Nutbeam lived in a tiny camp in the forest back on Todder Brook. He’d built the camp five years ago on somebody’s land – he didn’t know that it was the lumber section of the old abandoned Graig Allen farm – and none of the locals, as of yet, had located him. A couple of hunters came close a couple of times, but that was all.
Although Nutbeam could not read or write, he was not uneducated. He knew all there was to know about living in the woods. He was an expert trapper, hunter, fisherman and axeman. He knew every shrub, weed, wildflower, fern, berry, cherry, mushroom and nut; which ones were edible and which ones were not. He was an expert in a canoe and on a pair of snowshoes. He had gathered his knowledge from experience, mostly in the last five years.
Nutbeam was six feet six inches tall and had a thirty-two-inch waist. With a nose four inches long, big negroid lips and ears the size of dessert plates, Nutbeam was, indeed, homelier than Shirley Ramsey.
Although Nutbeam was independent, he was completely without confidence.
His appearance was the reason for it – his appearance and the fact that nobody normal could face him without laughing. His appearance was also the reason he had never gone to school, never liked people and had left his home in Smyrna Mills, Maine, to journey into Canada’s Dungarvon country.
Although Nutbeam didn’t like people, he wasn’t necessarily uninterested in them. He liked to look at people, but he didn’t want people to look at him. Nutbeam kept his distance from people, ran into the woods when he saw someone coming, hidbehind his hood, or collar, when it was absolutely necessary to pass near someone.
Nutbeam sat in front of his camp, eyeing the treetops adorned by the setting sun. He watched a mosquito feasting off the back of his hand.
“Gorge yourself and then you die,” said he to
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