Christopher Buehlman - Those Across the River

With that, Lester Gordeau approached one side of the steps, leading a massive, hairy-eared hog on a rope. Another young man led a slightly smaller sow to the other side of the pastor. I had to wonder if they were going to slaughter and burn the animals right there on the lawn of the church. Then of course husbands could bed their wives’ handmaidens while widows lay with their brothers-in-law.

“Hold Sadie. I have to go do my part now,” Ursie said, passing the toddler’s small hand into mine. I felt a very unchristian distaste noticing how cool and wet it was. Eudora noticed this and laughed at me. Ursie trotted around to one side of the church to join other young girls who were readying something.

Pastor Lyndon went on.

“Let us remember this Sunday of the waxing moon that our food does not come to us of our own hand. No one of us can make the corn to stand high, nor the grain for our bread to flourish, nor can any man here call the chick forth from the egg until the good Lord shall say Let it be so . If any man before me can do these things, then let him take these pigs for his own and carve them shoulder and leg for his own plate. But if he cannot, then let him bow his head before the power of our Lord; let him take up flowers to throw before these blessed swine; and let him give thanks as a child gives thanks, humbly, and in the sure knowledge that, but for the kindness of his Father, he should have neither meat for his belly, nor door to bar against the beasts of the night.”

Ursie came back into view with the other girls, and they tied wreaths of wildflowers, mostly daisies and black-eyed Susans, around the necks of the pigs.

“Now we know where she got the wildflowers,” Dora whispered.

Pastor Lyndon spoke.

“Before we take these fine animals, let us remember that they have come from the pens of Miles Falmouth and his family, as is scheduled in the registry; and let us remember that Miles suffers a weakness of the back and hips that makes his work on the land very hard for him. And that his son is not yet at the fullness of his strength. Where we might lay down one coin to relieve a whole man’s sacrifice in giving of his herd, let us lay down two for our brother Miles Falmouth. If you cannot give today, we will be passing the plate at regular service on Miles’ behalf all month.”

With this said, Lester and the other swineherd took up an earthenware dish and a heavy silver collection plate and passed them among those in the crowd, who began, with some reluctance, to search their pockets for coins. I put in a silver dollar for both of us. Dora gave me a look balking at the amount.

“It’s worth it,” I said. “You don’t get a show like this every day. Pigs and flowers? Oh they’re Jesus Christing it up, all right, but this looks more like some pagan-rooted festival from the south of France. And like the man said, this might be the end of it.”

Pastor Lyndon spoke.

“Now let us send these beasts into the wilderness and give no more thought to their flesh, which belongeth now to the Lord, and which, though it might nourish the body of whichsoever of us should eat it, would surely damn his soul.”

The swineherds took the ropes from the necks of the pigs and took up long branches twined in green ribbon, using these branches now as crooks or goads. They herded the pigs across the square, taking care to keep them away from the tea roses, and then turned them left onto the small road that went past several dozen houses and then dwindled to become the path Lester and I had followed, the path the Federals took on their way to fight Savoyard, the path that led to the river.

The townsfolk followed them, singing hymns that neither Dora nor I had ever heard, stopping at the last house as the two pigs and two men headed into the woods. Only when they were out of view did the gathering begin to disband.

Ursie Noble, shining with sweat, discreetly fanned the top of her dress and then took her sister up in her arms, heading for home.

“See you tonight! At the Social!”

Sadie looked back over her shoulder at us for a long while.

IN THE LAST minutes of daylight, Dora and I drove the Model A into town and parked it not far from where the main road had been closed off by tables. We kicked up a little dust as we went by, and people stared at us, but more because cars were such a rare species out here than because we put grit in the lemonade. Tables had also been set up on the patchy lawn in front of the courthouse, and, as the last of the sunlight bled away, I noticed an eclectic mix of lanterns hung from lines strung between trees. As soon as it was fully dark, musicians started in with fiddle, guitar and triangle. Teenagers and younger marrieds took to a wooden dancing platform I hadn’t even noticed on the lawn and danced, but soon couples of all ages crowded on.

I watched the dancing long enough to see that they favored a sort of two-step, then I pulled Eudora up and we danced until we were soaked. We made a good impression, and soon we were off the floor and talking with groups of our new neighbors, who were mostly interested in telling us about our other new neighbors.

I excused myself from one such group, wiping my brow with a handkerchief and dabbing ineffectually at my shirtfront. I walked past empty plates that had briefly held sandwiches and fried tomatoes, past a plate of grey-looking sausages with a quartet of flies buzzing around them, and then I wandered near a plate of salted fish. I inspected them to see if any one of them looked better than its fellows. None did. A small boy walked over, looking first at the fish and then up at me.

“No, you go ahead,” I said. The boy took them all. A woman marched into view and glared at the boy until he replaced all but one.

“That one, too,” she said. He put it back. Then she grabbed a hank of his hair and led him off into the darkness from which they had both emerged, saying “Ain’t no Jesus here to make more of em. You better learn that sometimes people’s jest bein polite. Don’t you think that man was about to get him a fish afore he saw you lookin at em like a underfed dog?”

“No, Mama, he was makin a face.”

“I don’t care. You take more’n one a anything off a plate again an I’ll…”

I turned away so my worst ear was towards them, cutting off the rest. When I turned, I found that a man had come up quite close to me.

“Looks like one little brave’s getting summoned off to powwow,” the man said, adding, “Have a drink, Mr. Nichols.”

I recognized him; someone had pointed him out to me as the town’s taxidermist.

He held out a glass of what looked like watered-down lemonade, and I took it. When it got near my face, however, the smell of grain alcohol rushed at me like something that had been too long in a cage. I drank gratefully, taking a good look now at the short, tough-looking man in front of me.

“My name’s Cranmer, Martin Cranmer, taxidermist, but you already know that. I saw some of the old chickens pointing and whispering. Doubtless you’ve also learned about my cannibalism and ties to the communist party.”

Young John Brown, I thought suddenly, struck less by the man’s hooked nose than by the drilling grey eyes that hinted at some denomination of madness. A lush but forbidding dark beard mostly hid Cranmer’s mouth and stood out in contrast to his suit, which was cream-colored, short at the wrists and crotch, and so ill-fitting generally that it might have been sent mail-order two sizes small and not returned out of indifference. It also looked innocent of professional attempts to clean it; stains on the sleeves were subtle but numerous, some of them likely dating back to Hoover.

“Thanks for the drink,” I said, wiping my mouth with the heel of my hand. “Brother, you don’t know how long it’s been. Alright, only about ten days, but it feels like ten months.”