Christopher Buehlman - Those Across the River

One of the ways in which Dora hoped to keep the class together was by engaging them in conversation, reasoning that if they did enough talking to her and to one another they would develop a sense of belonging and they would fight harder to stay together.

So on the second day of school, Dora asked the class to talk about the pigs. She explained that since she was not from Whitbrow she needed to catch up on its stories. Did anyone know why people first started sending pigs out into the woods?

Sarah was the first to raise her hand.

“My daddy used to tell us scary stories about the woods east of town. Is that what you mean, Mrs. Nichols? Scary stories?”

“Yes, Sarah, any kind of story. Scary, nice. Anything you’ve heard.”

Then several of them had raised their hands, but she nodded at Sarah.

“My daddy used to tell us how once upon a time there was a plantation out there, like when they used to keep slaves. He said that since the man who owned the plantation was so bad, God let the Devil come and take the man’s soul away without waiting for Judgment Day. But now the Devil knows how to get out of Hell by a door he made back then, and when the moon gets full he comes up looking for a new soul to take away. And if you met up with him, it wouldn’t matter if you were good or bad, he would just eat up your body and take your soul away with him. The Devil likes pigs, though, because they have feet like him. So when he finds a pig he takes that instead.”

“Do you believe that?”

“It’s just a story. But I know I don’t like those woods and I’m not supposed to ever go out there.”

Eudora called on Saul next.

“Well, my brother likes to fish that river out where it gets deeper, and he’s took me with him before. But not across the river. He’s been, though. He says he ain’t never seen nothin bad out there but snakes and ground-wasps. But he don’t go much past the river, and he don’t go at night. I don’t neither. My daddy always held that sendin all them pigs was foolishness, but he did tell us some stories, too. To scare us, like, so we wouldn’t go off wanderin at night. I guess all daddies do that and I’m like to do it, too.”

“What did he tell you, Saul?”

“There’s this death-dog out there,” he said.

Other heads nodded.

“It’s called a Look-a-roo. And if you see this dog, you’s the next to die in town. They say it’s black, all black, and as big as two dogs, and if you see it, not all the prayin in the world’s gonna keep you from bein put in the ground real soon.”

Saul started to sing then.

One-two, one-two,

Don’t look at me, Look-a-roo.

Other voices joined in. They all knew this.

Three-four, three-four,

Who’sat scratchin at my door?

Five-six, five-six,

Getcha while you pickin sticks.

Seven-eight, seven-eight,

Getcha if you stay out late.

If I say nine-ten,

I’ ll-never-get-back-home-again.

“We used to sing that skippin rope,” Saul said.

“Yeah,” said another boy, “and whoever starts that last part ‘nine-ten’ gets a punch.”

“We just go awwww at em,” offered a girl.

The boy said, “Yeah, my daddy says Mr. Miller saw it on the way home from the store. Couple nights afore he died.”

Eudora told me she was fed up with daddies and their ghosts, and I knew what she meant. Another way to keep the house in awe. It’s good to hear the strong snore of a daddy in the next room when something might be lurking in the hedge, waiting to test your window.

The would-be army boy up front raised his hand.

“Way I heard it was a nigger gave hisself up to the Devil back in slave days so the Devil would come and eat up his master. Used a witch doctor and everything. But I guess that’s like the other story,” he said, and flashed a look behind him at Sarah.

But then Sarah raised her hand again, and what she said next was what made Dora fall sloppily in love with her.

“I think there are stray dogs out there. Or maybe there used to be. Sometimes when dogs go stray they make a pack like wolves and hunt and they’re very dangerous. Might be someone got killed. Might be that’s why they told stories about a death-dog or the Devil eating somebody. Might be they got scared and started sending pigs out across the river to keep what they thought was out there from coming to town.”

A boy in the back said, “Yeah, but ain’t nobody scared a no dogs. They’d a just laid poison or shot em. Don’t make sense to give no pigs up for dogs.”

“Alright, smarty-pants,” Sarah said, “maybe it is the Devil. Why don’t you go out and see?”

I MET DORA after school that day, the storytelling day, and walked her home. I pointed out the diurnal moon, which was more than half full, hiding like a shy spirit behind the branches of a maple tree. I got a kiss for this, a peck at first, but more after she checked to see that no kids were lingering nearby.

Then we walked on.

“Funny how they think the Devil would actually be interested in queer little Whitbrow,” she said. Her hand slid up to feel the muscle in my arm. “But I’m glad you’re here all the same. You won’t let the Devil get me, will you, Frankie?”

“I’ll spit in his eye and tie a knot in his tail.”

“That’s just capital. And when he wipes the spit out of his eye and shakes the knot out of his tail?”

“We run like hell, of course.”

“Quite sane,” she said, resting her head on my shoulder.

Our lovemaking was sweet and slow that night. It seemed she kissed my whole body as if it were a newly minted gift she could not keep long. And afterwards, when she thought I was sleeping, I caught her talking to the moon through the lace curtains. I couldn’t hear her words, as low as they were, but I wasn’t half bad at reading her lips.

“I don’t need rescuing,” she said. “I don’t.”

THE DAY MARTIN Cranmer got himself arrested, Dora and I were having a soda at Harvey’s. I told her that Saul’s story about the death-dog reminded me of Black Shuck.

“What’s a ‘Black Shuck’?” she asked.

I took another drink of soda. We had come to the drugstore to get out of the heat even though both of us knew the town was stunned and the mood was unpleasant in the wake of Paul Miller’s death, and in the absence of a Social, which would have taken place that Sunday if anyone had the good will and energy to organize it. The town seemed lost without its heathen ritual. And without its affable grocer.

“Black Shuck was a sort of big, black hound that lurked in the barrows and fens in England. When I was in London, not long before I came home, I met some fellows in a pub. They had been soldiers, too, like everybody, part of that ghastly tank business in Amiens. They were from the East. Norwich or Norfolk, I can’t recall. When the barman called ‘Time, gentlemen,’ one of them said, ‘Let’s go through Hyde Park and look for Black Shuck.’ ”

Dora smiled at my put-on accent.

“ ‘He’s a great fukkin black dog, big as a calf. Just watch out for his one red eye right in the middle of his forehead; if he looks at you, you’re shyte. You’re dead.’ ”

My profanity caused Harvey to look up from his barely audible radio and from his endless wiping of clean things, though his expression was so flat I wasn’t sure at first if it was interest or reproach.

Then he turned up his radio and went back to wiping. Huey Long was getting buried in Baton Rouge and some reverend was speaking, calling him an unfinished symphony. Harvey was rapt.