David Sutton - The Satyr's Head - Tales of Terror

‘Praise the Lord,’ cried Kez ‘The dawg sure appreciates them bones.’

The afternoon was still again. No breeze rustled the dried grass around the porch. An acute ear might have caught the sound of a dog scratching himself, or of the spring bubbling behind the shack. A sharp eye might have spied movement on the road a couple of miles below. But Adam sank his fifteen stone into his chair and plied the rockers.

Kez whistled soundlessly. He was still thinking. ‘Hope the Lord ain’t gettin’ absent-minded,’ he said at last. ‘Near a month since we had fresh meat.’

‘There’s always the good spring o’ cool, clear water. Cool clear spring water makes good drinkin.’

‘But kinda thin eatin’,’ mumbled Kez.

‘Don’t you go questioning the ways of the Lord.’ Adam was unusually sharp. ‘You don’t want Him withdrawin’ his appreciation now. The Lord provides. Remember the time when we was near starvin’ with nothin’ but a cup o’ berries between us. What did the Lord do? The Lord sent a Boy Scout aknockin’ at the door.’

‘Tender young shoat,’ murmured Kez.

‘And with a whole stock of canned beans in his pack.’

‘Mighty tasty beans,’ reminisced Kez.

‘And didn’t the lord send the whole campin’ o’ scouts around afterwards, askin’ after him?’

‘One by one,’ agreed Kez. ‘Kep’ us eatin’ the whole winter. Lucky we kep’ that barrel o’salt in the back.’

Adam suddenly raised his hand, commanding silence. On the road below the sun glinted on the windscreen of a car. The sound of its engine could just be beard labouring up the hill.

‘The lord sure is quick to answer,’ grinned Kez.

‘Fresh meat,’ said Adam. His eyes were suddenly sharp and alert. All traces of his recent sleepiness vanished.

‘Wonder if he’ll have any beans with him?’ mused Kez,

‘Don’t you go aquestioning the Lord’s provisioning arrangements,’ snapped Adam.

‘I ain’t aquestioning nothin’,’ protested Kez, ‘I was just athinkin’ how beans can be tasty.’

‘The Lord provides,’ intoned Adam.

‘The Lord provides,’ responded Kez.

The car could be heard rasping and choking along the dusty road. In it the driver cursed the map that had rated this second-class mule trail as a usable road. For over two thousand miles he had run over mountain and through desert, avowedly trying to forget, but in fact damning divorce, damning alimony, damning community property laws, damning over-eager juniors anxious to edge a man from his hard-won place atop the ladder, damning doctors who could not reverse time at fifty, damning anything and everything in his path; hoping that the minor irritations of thirst, mosquitoes, and rough living might distract from the greater pain at the back of his mind; but having even that last hope dashed.

However he still had enough breath to swear at the white dust that stung his eyes, caked on his lips, and clogged his nose. His rich and varied oaths stirred a faint ghost of the sergeant (decorated in Korea) buried under the layers of fat accumulated while sitting around in executive suites. That sergeant would not be floored forever by the double defeat in bed and board-room. That sergeant would come back swinging. Even as he swore, he noticed the shack.

It was a crazily derelict heap of boards, held together more by habit than joinery. It could hardly have been a human habitation. Yet a solitary man stood hoeing a patch in front of the porch.

The car stopped. The man was intent on his work, and presumably had not heard. At any rate he paid no heed, but continued leisurely to ply his hoe. The shack was set back over a hundred yards from the road, and little more could be made of the worker except that he wore ragged denims, and his carroty hair glowed in the sunlight.

The driver rubbed the excess dust from his spectacles, and looked again. Still the man with the hoe disregarded him.

‘Hi, there! Hi!’

The movement of the hoe slowed to a stop. There was a pause for a count of about forty, as though the red-head were deciding whether he had really heard anything: then he turned. Shading his eyes against the sun, he peered at the car. At last he ambled towards it. The driver waved as the ragged denims approached.

‘Howdy, Tindy,’ shouted the red-head.

‘Tindy?’ Something besides the greeting puzzled the driver. In spite of the heat there was no sweat on the red-head’s face; in spite of his work no dust on the stubble. Perhaps out here they were so used to discomfort that it had no effect on them. The ex-sergeant was again reminded of what years of soft living had done to him.

‘Glad t’see y’again, Tindy,’ grinned the red-head.

‘I’m not Tindy,’ said the driver.

‘Not Tindy?’

‘My name isn’t Tindy,’ rasped the driver; then regretting his irritation, ‘it’s — er — it’s Driver.’

‘Driver, huh?’

‘Driver.’

‘I’m Keziah. Call me Kez.’

‘Can I get to Stotetown this way?’

‘I coulda took an oath as you was Herby Tindy.’

‘I’m trying to…’

‘O’ course, now I come to look at you, I can see you’re not.’

‘Tell me…’

‘You’re younger than Tindy. Better kept. Herb Tindy was kinda scrawny.’

Driver closed his eyes and grasped the steering wheel, clicking back the rising anger, not listening to the musing drawl.

‘You’re nicer rounded. Like to see a rounded man. A man oughta have plenty of flesh on his bones. Weren’t moren’ a mouthful on old Tindy.’

Even when Driver heard the words they seemed to have no meaning. The sound added up to no more than the buzzing of a lazy fly. ‘Flesh,’ the hayseed had seemed to say. ‘Mouthful.’

Driver turned to Kez, and was faced with a gleaming smileful of white teeth. The fool was friendly, and was entitled at least to a civil answer.

‘What did you say?’ asked Driver.

‘You aiming to sell sumpn’?’ said Kez. ‘We ain’t got much to offer in return ’cept a few old roots.’

‘I’m not selling anything,’ replied Driver.

‘Beans, now,’ went on Kez. ‘I guess you ain’t got no canned beans in back there:’

‘No beans,’ confirmed Driver.

‘Beans make mighty tasty eatin’,’ said Kez. ‘But if you ain’t sellin’ anything, I guess you’ll be wanting sumpn’.’

‘I want…’

‘Aw!’ A bellow of laughter interrupted Driver, and Kez clapped his hands with sudden understanding. ‘Now I know what you want. You’ll be wantin’ a drink o’ cool, clear, water.’

‘No.’

‘Our cool, clear, spring water makes mighty good drinkin’.’

‘All I want is direction. Does this godawful apology for a road take me to Stotetown?’

‘Sure. Sure. The only place it will take you to. Thought youda known that, drivin’ this way.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Ten miles or more on, and it’s a mighty dusty track. Sure you wouldn’t care for that drink o’ water. Comes bubblin’ up freshn’ cold. O’course I ain’t pushin’ it on you, neighbour; but I guess it’s kinda neighbourly to offer— specially to a body as parched-up as you look. It’s free to us — it’s free to you, neighbour. The Lord provides.’

The thought of water sparked Driver’s imagination. Cold water frosting a glass. Water trickling down a parched throat. Water that might even sluice away regrets, bad dreams, and soured ambitions even as it washed away the sweat and dust. For a second he thought he glimpsed something for which he had been searching. It couldn’t really be as simple as a drink on a scorching day, and yet…

‘Thanks,’ he said, and slid from the car.

Kez jerked his head. ‘Back o’ the shack. Foller me,’