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Authors: Jack Ketchum
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seriously. Willie got Woofer in a headlock and ground his knuckles into his crewcut, a wrestling move we’d picked up from three hundred-pound Haystacks Calhoun, famous for the Big Splash. Donny and I marched side by side behind them, pumping our torches like a couple of drum majors with batons, giggling like fools. Ruth didn’t seem to mind.
When we got to the birch tree Ruth dug into her pocket and pulled out a book of safety matches.
The nest on the birch tree was a big one.
“I’ll do this one,” said Ruth. “You watch.”
She lit the torch and held it a moment until the fire burned down and it was safe to use. It was still a pretty good blaze, though. “Be careful,” she said. “You don’t want to burn the tree.”
She held it six inches or so below the sack.
The sack began to melt.
It didn’t burn. It melted the way Styrofoam melts, fading, receding back. It was thick and maultilayered but it went fast.
And suddenly all these writhing, wriggling bodies were tumbling out, fat black furry worms—smoking, crackling.
You could almost hear them scream.
There must have been hundreds in just that one nest. A layer of the sack would burn through to expose another layer and there were more in there. They just kept coming, falling to our feet like a black rain.
Then Ruth hit the mother lode.
It was as though a clot of living tar the size of a softball spilled out directly onto the torch, splitting apart as it fell.
The torch sputtered, there were so many of them, and almost seemed to go out for a moment. Then it flared again and those that had clung to it burned and fell.
“Jesus shit!” said Woofer.
Ruth looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said. But his eyes were wide.
You had to admit it was incredible. I’d never seen such slaughter. The ants on the porch were nothing to this. Ants were tiny, insignificant. When you tossed the boiling water on them they just curled and died. Whereas some of these were an inch long. They twisted and writhed—they seemed to want to live. I looked at the ground. There were worms all over the place. Most of them were dead, but a lot of them weren’t, and those that weren’t were trying to crawl away.
“What about these guys?” I asked her.
“Forget them,” she said. “They’ll just die. Or the birds will get them.” She laughed. “We opened the oven before they were ready. Not quite baked yet.”
“They’re sure baked now,” said Willie.
“We could get a rock,” said Woofer. “Crush ’em!”
“Listen to me when I talk. Forget them,” said Ruth. She reached into her pocket again. “Here.” She started handing us each books of matches.
“Remember. I want a yard left when you’re through. And no going back into the woods. The woods can take care of itself.”
We took them from her. All but Meg.
“I don’t want them,” she said.
“What?”
She held out the matches.
“I ... I don’t want them. I’ll just go finish the laundry okay? This is ... kind of ...”
She looked down at the ground, at the black worms curled there, at the live ones crawling. Her face was pale.
“What?” said Ruth. “Disgusting? You offended, honey?”
“No. I just don’t want ...”
Ruth laughed. “I’ll be damned. Look here boys,” she said. “I’ll be damned.”
She was still smiling, but her face had gone really hard all of a sudden. It startled me and made me think of the other day with Susan. It was as though she’d been on some sort of hair trigger all morning with Meg and we simply hadn’t noticed it. We’d been too busy, too excited.
“Look here,” she said. “What we’ve got here is a lesson in femininity.” She stepped up close. “Meg’s squeamish. You understand how girls get squeamish, don’t you boys? Ladies do. And Meg here is a lady. Why sure she is!”
She dropped the heavy sarcasm then and you could see the naked anger there.
“So what in the name of Jesus Christ do you suppose that makes me, Meggy? You suppose I’m
When we got to the birch tree Ruth dug into her pocket and pulled out a book of safety matches.
The nest on the birch tree was a big one.
“I’ll do this one,” said Ruth. “You watch.”
She lit the torch and held it a moment until the fire burned down and it was safe to use. It was still a pretty good blaze, though. “Be careful,” she said. “You don’t want to burn the tree.”
She held it six inches or so below the sack.
The sack began to melt.
It didn’t burn. It melted the way Styrofoam melts, fading, receding back. It was thick and maultilayered but it went fast.
And suddenly all these writhing, wriggling bodies were tumbling out, fat black furry worms—smoking, crackling.
You could almost hear them scream.
There must have been hundreds in just that one nest. A layer of the sack would burn through to expose another layer and there were more in there. They just kept coming, falling to our feet like a black rain.
Then Ruth hit the mother lode.
It was as though a clot of living tar the size of a softball spilled out directly onto the torch, splitting apart as it fell.
The torch sputtered, there were so many of them, and almost seemed to go out for a moment. Then it flared again and those that had clung to it burned and fell.
“Jesus shit!” said Woofer.
Ruth looked at him.
“Sorry,” he said. But his eyes were wide.
You had to admit it was incredible. I’d never seen such slaughter. The ants on the porch were nothing to this. Ants were tiny, insignificant. When you tossed the boiling water on them they just curled and died. Whereas some of these were an inch long. They twisted and writhed—they seemed to want to live. I looked at the ground. There were worms all over the place. Most of them were dead, but a lot of them weren’t, and those that weren’t were trying to crawl away.
“What about these guys?” I asked her.
“Forget them,” she said. “They’ll just die. Or the birds will get them.” She laughed. “We opened the oven before they were ready. Not quite baked yet.”
“They’re sure baked now,” said Willie.
“We could get a rock,” said Woofer. “Crush ’em!”
“Listen to me when I talk. Forget them,” said Ruth. She reached into her pocket again. “Here.” She started handing us each books of matches.
“Remember. I want a yard left when you’re through. And no going back into the woods. The woods can take care of itself.”
We took them from her. All but Meg.
“I don’t want them,” she said.
“What?”
She held out the matches.
“I ... I don’t want them. I’ll just go finish the laundry okay? This is ... kind of ...”
She looked down at the ground, at the black worms curled there, at the live ones crawling. Her face was pale.
“What?” said Ruth. “Disgusting? You offended, honey?”
“No. I just don’t want ...”
Ruth laughed. “I’ll be damned. Look here boys,” she said. “I’ll be damned.”
She was still smiling, but her face had gone really hard all of a sudden. It startled me and made me think of the other day with Susan. It was as though she’d been on some sort of hair trigger all morning with Meg and we simply hadn’t noticed it. We’d been too busy, too excited.
“Look here,” she said. “What we’ve got here is a lesson in femininity.” She stepped up close. “Meg’s squeamish. You understand how girls get squeamish, don’t you boys? Ladies do. And Meg here is a lady. Why sure she is!”
She dropped the heavy sarcasm then and you could see the naked anger there.
“So what in the name of Jesus Christ do you suppose that makes me, Meggy? You suppose I’m
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