WISE MEN

Augusta, Georgia, 1950

Richard drove his black Buick around the side of the perimeter guard station. The bar tipped slowly downward. The man behind the window grinned into his sleeve. A red flash flooded the car, then faded. Richard leaned forward over the wheel. He wiped his hand across the smeary windshield, gaped out into the night.

The signal flashed again. Richard focused on the glow, the hatched grooves across the bulb.

The gate lifted. Richard stepped hard on the gas.

Then he found himself alone, sizzling over blacktop through a canyon of shadowed pines. His headlights flickered on, spilling pale beams onto the road. His tires thumped like steady kettle drums. With one hand planted firm against each side of the steering wheel, he pressed his body deeper into the ruptured seat.

He saw himself reflected in the bubble curve of the windshield glass. The sky burned red and ventricose behind him. In a level line across the roof of trees divided by his passing, a fleet of blackbirds soared, then dove and vanished.

Richard dipped his fingers beneath the flap of his left breast pocket, fished out a wrinkled foil pouch. One cigarette pointed upward through the folds. He closed his meaty lips around the yellow paper end, dropped his fist, then raised his eyes and stared. He scraped a match across his thumbnail, cupped one palm against his cheek. Tobacco crackled as he sucked the glowing fire.

Just ahead on the horizon, where the highway met the sky, a floating woman rose into the air. Her right hand bore a torch outstretched. White sparks spiraled backward. In her hair a silver comb flashed beams of light.

“Richard!” the woman cried.

“Claire?”

Cold air blasted sideways through the trees.

Claire drew a sunburst pendant up from a pouch inside her gown, swung it to and fro on a gossamer chain. Red jewels flashed with incandescent light. “Now you’ll recall the church we found standing in Bear Shadow Valley. We emerged from the forest at noon on that day. A hot wind blew through the gorge, and the branches of dogwoods, crooked and black, raked the white walls and square windows. As we neared the stone steps leading up to the doors, the sun seemed to roar with new fire.

“Then the doors opened and a blast of gray dust burst through from inside. In the air around us a ghostly music shuffled and swirled—banjo, accordion, bones, and tambourine. Shafts of spinning light, evenly spaced, threw yellow pools across the empty floor. We entered. The doors slammed shut, an owl screeched in the rafters, and a deep rumble rattled the frail windows. At the back of the room, a stooped man gestured from the shadows. He wore a frayed black coat, and his filthy hair sprang from his head in spikes. His eyes flared with eerie green light.”

Richard nodded. “He told us a story: Once there was a man who lived on a farm with his wife and dear beloved daughter. The three shared a house overlooking the fields. This man’s name was Hezekiah Drake, though everybody called him Hash, his wife’s name was Nora, and his daughter’s was Sadie Angeline.

“When she was only just a baby, lying wide-eyed in her crib, Hash brought in a sprig of trumpet vine and brushed it gently under Sadie’s nose. When she grew old enough to walk, Hash marched her to the top of the highest hill and stood her upright on his shoulders. When she proved that she could listen, he read her chapters from the Bible. And when she came home from the school house with stacks of books and charts and papers, Hash sat with her at the kitchen table and stared into the oil lamp and answered a question when she had one. Everyone could see that Sadie had brains. Hash’s satisfaction was knowing just exactly where they came from.

“Time passed and Sadie grew and soon Hash and Nora had a young woman on their hands. Though she still worked hard at school and helped her mother with the chores, she also took to roaming over the lonely hills and hollers. Many a night her parents sat up late, watching the wind throw shadows across the moon. Sometimes morning broke before the girl came stumbling home. And by the look in her eyes and the knots in her curly brown hair, they understood she was in serious trouble.

“One night she arrived with a dead hornets’ nest under her arm. On another occasion, two men left her passed out and barefoot on the porch. Soon she began singing to herself, then shouting curious words—logjam, altitude, carousel, avalanche. Then one morning Sadie stood up from her breakfast, tears streaking down her cheeks, and tore open her checkered blouse with both hands. Her bare breasts trembled in the yellow sunlight.

“After that, Hash and Nora found little peace. While Sadie was away at night, Nora sat silent in her rocker and Hash paced the parlor floor. He said he had a mind to go after those two boys. If they turned up around here again, he said, he wouldn’t be ashamed of what he’d do to them, given the chance.

“Nora said nothing and soon Hash fell silent. The ticking of the mantel clock echoed in their ears. Then, with a wounded wail, Hash fell to his knees. As Nora looked on from her chair, he sobbed into his hands.

“When at last he looked back up and turned his trembling face to Nora, he saw his daughter standing tall behind the rocker. She held a sprig of trumpet vine in her fingers. ‘Father,’ she said. ‘Father. I’ve found something.’ ”

Claire floated gently above the hood. Her bright torch flickered in the roaring darkness.

* * *

Richard hurtled forward. His car vibrated on its frame. The shoulders of the highway trembled ahead of him like the twin prongs of a tuning fork.

He dragged one wrist across his forehead, the dead end of his cigarette pinched between soot-smeared knuckles. He squinted to see through clouds of stale smoke.

He reached down with his left hand and jimmied the handle that lowered the window into the door. Cold air rushed in through the crack, sucked all the smoke out into the night. He tossed the cigarette over the glass and quickly rolled the window up again. The sulfurous stink of the paper mill, some miles distant, wafted into his nostrils.

He sensed without looking that, sitting beside him on the front seat, a second visitor had arrived.

“You look terrible,” the man said.

Richard glanced over at his father.

“Look here, Richard. There was a young man I used to know—we’ll call him Paul—who lived on a ranch in Texas with his parents, Henry and Bess.

“Paul was an ornery cuss. Never cared for anything much except making noise and raising Cain. Used anything he could get his hands on. Bottle rocket, baseball bat, monkey wrench—you name it. If he took a notion to tie a cactus to the railroad tracks or paint a mustache on the church steeple, he did just as he pleased and didn’t care a whit who knew it.

“So it was inevitable that one day he’d step over the line. And, sure enough, on his eighteenth birthday, while his classmates were busy celebrating their recent graduation, Paul snuck over to the meeting house, where a group of serious-minded women folk had assembled to discuss politics, and turned a gila monster loose in the center aisle. When those ladies saw that ugly lizard go creeping toward the podium, tea cups and bobby pins flew. The stampede of heels on that rickety old floor popped the nails clean out of their holes.

“The lecturer, only halfway through her speech, saw no humor in being interrupted by a hoodlum with a reptile. She marched right up to the animal, raised her ample leg, and—with a bloodthirsty screech—brought her boot crashing down onto the beady black tail. The creature flew straight up her skirt and bit her on the ass.

“Now a gila monster generally won’t poison a human. But you’d have thought this woman had swallowed strychnine. Her eyes bugged out, her face turned green—then she shrieked, grimaced, and toppled over.

“The next thing he knew, young Paul was in prison. Sitting on the cot in his dingy little cell, he stared at the wall and muttered. Sickly light streamed in through the single barred window, formed a puddle on the concrete floor. An occasional clang from a distant corridor sometimes broke the silence. But mostly it was deadly quiet.

“The following day, the woman recovered from the attack. Paul and Bess and Henry went back home to the ranch.

“Yet one thing remained to be done. On the night of the next new moon, Henry marched out into the desert with a telescope over his shoulder. Paul followed behind him with the tripod. When they reached the lip of a cliff, Henry mounted the telescope, swung it up toward the heavens, and, peering through the eyepiece, locked it into position. Then he stood back. ‘Now take a look for yourself,’ he said. ‘And tell me what you see. What do you think that is way out there in the middle of nowhere?’ ”

Richard whispered, “Supernova.”

A wooden arrow by the road side flickered in the distance. The carved yellow capitals on its face read: SAVANNAH RIVER.

“Pull over,” his father said. “Stop the car.”

Richard swerved and coasted to a stop with two wheels resting on the gravel. The wooden arrow shone in his headlights.

* * *

Richard had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, staring up into the sky, when a woman’s voice erupted from the back seat.

“What are you waiting on, honey? Let’s get this old hunk of junk moving!”

He craned his head around, saw his mother, then faced forward.

He pulled the car out onto the highway. When he reached the arrow that pointed toward the river, he turned and headed slowly down the muddy lane, deeper and deeper into the forest.

Richard heard his mother rustling about, turned, and saw her searching for something among the folds of her apron. At last she drew out a parchment scroll tied with a red ribbon. She unrolled the document, held it up in front of her, and began to read.

“Once upon a time, on a tiny speck of a planet in a remote, uncharted solar system, a prince named Gus, who was ten inches tall, lived in a gingerbread castle on the shore of a sparkling lake. One fine day, as he strolled the sugared corridors of his delectable, diminutive fortress, he spoke to himself, saying, ‘I am Gus, Prince of Syropia. I have at my disposal all the riches of this kingdom—yet I am not content. Last night a dream swirled in my royal head, disclosed such troubling secrets that now my crown and scepter seem but vain trifles. Therefore, I shall seek out counsel, and do require the services of a Wise Man.’

“The next morning Gus departed from his castle and traveled west on horseback. After four long days and nights, he arrived at a range of hills that marked the border between his kingdom and the Vast Mysterious Beyond. He wandered up and down, searching every slope and valley, until he spotted a small round opening. After tying his horse to a nearby tree, he climbed to the mouth of the cave and entered. There, cross-legged before a small fire, sat the Wise Man. His ancient face glowed orange with flickering flame, and a magnificent white beard flowed from his jaws. ‘Who’s there?’ said the Wise Man. The prince answered him, saying, ‘I am Gus, Prince of Syropia. Many miles have I journeyed in search of your fabled wisdom.’ The Wise Man nodded, grinned, and said, ‘I’ve been expecting you, young man. Sit down.’ Gus obeyed. With the fire between them now, and the smoke rising steadily through a hole in the rock, Gus gazed into the Wise Man’s eyes, milky with cataracts. ‘You’ve had a dream!’ the Wise Man cried. Gus marveled, but said nothing. ‘So have I, young man, so have I. A bare stage I saw, and a marionette, tangled in the strings which once gave him motion. I saw the puppet tremble with weeping and crawl, half strangled, into a pool of light. Then sinister laughter as a sword blade descended. A bird in a cage, a plume of white fire, then darkness and the trample of hooves.’ Gus nodded. ‘On the far side of this planet,’ the Wise Man continued, ‘at the center of a great stony plain, stands the Mountain of Salt. On top of this Mountain, you will find the Queen of the Spheres. If you please her, she will teach you the Word. But beware. A terrible dragon guards her gate, and precious gifts will be required to win her favor.’

“Before he knew what had happened, Gus found himself alone again on the hillside. The mouth of the cave had disappeared, leaving only a shaggy patch of grass. Soon he stood up and prepared for the quest ahead. Among his supplies he carried a perfect white lily potted in a thimble and a flute which played the most haunting melody in all Syropia. At dawn he crossed over the hills. Immediately he encountered the barren flats the Wise Man had described. A raw sun beat down on the prince and his horse. At last, when it seemed they could not endure another hour of torment, the Mountain came into view, rose up colossal into a blanket of thick cloud. When he reached the base, Gus again tied off his horse and began at once to climb. The rocks were sharp, coated with salt, and his flesh burned with sweat and fresh blood. Then, when he’d almost reached the clouds that shrouded the Mountain’s peak, a hideous dragon swung its head around from behind a cliff and regarded Gus with a contemptuous scowl. ‘Who dares disturb the slumber of the Fiend?’ bellowed the dragon. Gus cried out, saying, ‘I am Gus, Prince of Syropia. I come bearing gifts for the Queen of the Spheres.’ At this the dragon cackled, spat forth great jets of flame. ‘You will not pass so easily, Pilgrim. First you must bribe the guard. I see you carry a juicy flower potted in a thimble. Just the thing, methinks, to soothe my parched throat!’ Gus clutched the thimble to his chest. ‘Not so,’ he said. ‘This fair lily belongs to the Queen alone.’ ‘Well then,’ said the dragon. ‘Perhaps I’ll just have to eat you instead!’ Now Gus reached for his belt, brandished the flute that once charmed a thousand maids, and blew into the instrument with all his might. Such sweet, lilting music issued from his pipe that the dragon’s eyes filled up with tears. Then the creature collapsed into a heap and, shuddering, began to snore.

“Now all that remained was to attain the summit. Gus ascended through the clouds, emerged into a garden paradise, ran headlong into a gigantic fleshy toe, and bounced backward onto the grass. From this vantage point, he gained a magnificent view of the Queen, who towered above him. Gus shouted at the top of his lungs, saying, ‘I am Gus, Prince of Syropia! I come to beg your aid, for dark dreams trouble my humble sleep! A perfect lily have I brought you, potted in a thimble, and a melody so pleasing it felled your treacherous dragon with one stroke! A Wise Man sent me on my way, with a tale that you might utter a Word fit to tame my restless imaginings! Speak to me, Queen of the Spheres! Utter the one Word that makes all others void and null!’ The Queen bent down and studied the prince with quizzical wonder. A trace of a smile crossed her lips, and she rose once again to her full height. Then she stretched out her arms, lifted her noble face, and—with a voice so full of passion and power that the universe echoed with its thunder—she spoke. ‘SILENCE!’ she cried. The End.”

Richard’s car rolled into a clearing and stopped. A wide grassy bank sloped down toward the river. Richard could see the dark water sliding past in the distance.

* * *

Alone again, Richard sat listening to the Buick’s engine rattle softly under the hood. Before him lay the river, broad and cold and ancient. To his left, frosted by moonlight, the iron beams of the highway bridge hung suspended in air. To his right, the paper mill’s slender smokestacks spewed endless putrid fumes.

Richard gazed across toward the South Carolina shore—a wide flat horizon of sawtooth pines. A single egg-shaped water tower stood perched on spindly legs. Gradually, as he watched, a tiny glowing figure appeared beneath the tower and moved out over the river. She wore a pink nightgown and carried a painted porcelain doll in one arm. Midway between the river’s banks, she stopped.

“Hello, Daddy.”

Though she stood at least a hundred yards away, her voice chimed high and clear between his ears. Startled, he cut the engine, but left his headlights on. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said.

“Tell me a story, Daddy.”

“All right.” Richard pondered. “One wind-whipped night in the Land of Kloo, a wicked zombie in a blood-stained shroud climbed out of his stone sarcophagus, uttered a shivery moan, then set off to prowl the moonlit forest in search of a tasty meal. As everyone knows, zombies eat children—especially those who disobey their parents—and like nothing better than to pounce on them in the dark and tickle them mercilessly to death. So this zombie had ambitious plans. While lying in his sarcophagus, he’d had a dream about a naughty little girl who lived in a nearby cottage, a girl who gave her mother fits because she did nothing all day long but cook up mischief and make sarcastic, wise-ass remarks.

“It so happened that the girl had snuck out of the cottage not an hour before by climbing out her bedroom window and was just then creeping through the woods with a candle in one hand and a bouquet of daisies in the other. She soon reached the edge of a broad field of clover—and the zombie leapt out from behind a tree and, flailing his arms, cried, ‘Argh! Grrr! I’ll chomp your bones!’ To which the girl, after she’d looked the zombie up and down with her candle, replied, ‘Oh, shoo. I’m not afraid of an old pile of rags. Please!’ So the zombie said, ‘Look here, little girl. I’m a large and fearsome creature who just crawled out of a nasty tomb. You better think about that. I could carry you away and seal your fate forever.’ And the girl stuck her nose up high in the air and said, ‘You just try it, mister!’

“At that the zombie reached down his big hairy paws, seized the girl by the hips, lifted her screeching into the air, and flung her over his shoulder. Then he spun himself around and marched once again into the forest. ‘Where are you taking me?’ cried the girl as she bounced helplessly against his back. ‘To my sarcophagus,’ puffed the zombie. ‘Oh, please, sir,’ the girl pleaded. ‘I’d rather not. I’ve just remembered that I have so many important things to do. If you take me away now, I’ll never even get started. Besides, my parents will be heartbroken!’ But the zombie cackled and sneered, ‘You should have thought of that before you ran off by yourself. Now it’s too late.’ And he stumbled on as the girl kicked and twisted, until at last he arrived at the tomb. His stone sarcophagus lay open in the ground, its heavy lid resting diagonally across the top. The zombie flipped the girl down onto her feet and pointed into the deep grave. ‘Now get in!’ he bellowed.

“The girl stood silent, gazing up into the zombie’s crusty eyes. The girl’s mouth began to twitch. Her hands trembled. The light from her candle threw unsteady shadows over the cold ground. Then a single tear formed in each of her big blue eyes and fell with a splash into the dust. ‘But I don’t want to,’ she cried. ‘I’m too young to die.’ The zombie crouched down, ran a clawlike finger across her cheek, and whispered, ‘Tough break, kid.’ And so the girl tilted her candle forward, smiled sweetly, and thrust the burning end deep into the zombie’s heart. He leapt back with a howl—and his filthy shroud burst into flames! As the girl watched, the zombie stumbled around in circles, shrieking curses, his body a tower of fire. Then he fell to his knees, whimpered, and collapsed into a pile of smoldering scraps. When she was sure that he was dead, the girl knelt down and planted a daisy on the spot where the zombie had fallen. Then she ran away.”

Richard fell silent. Evelyn blinked at him from the river. The full moon hung directly above, bathing them in brilliant white light.