Read Online Those Across the River by Christopher Buehlman - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Buehlman
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soldier just to have someone to laugh with. Besides, café au lait would be shoveling dirt over our blanched faces soon enough. Café au lait. It occurred to me to shout that at the boy who was stalking me now, and I felt disgusted with myself. How easily the paint of civilization peels off with a little bad weather.
“What do you want?” I said, walking. It was getting late. My guilt at the thought of using a racial slur gave way again to exasperation.
“Just say something!”
I tried to fight back my anger. What if the young man was a deaf-mute, or retarded? No. He had heard every word I said, and there was nothing dull about that gaze.
I was never going to make it back if I didn’t turn around soon. I did not want to be out here in the dark, especially not with that boy. I didn’t want the boy near me anymore.
“Get out of here!” I shouted. “What the hell are you looking at, anyway?”
I stopped, and the other did, too. Yes, here it came. I was losing my temper.
“Say, you don’t mind if I take your picture for the wife? She won’t believe me when I tell her I saw a real, live deranged person in the woods today.”
I lifted the box of the camera to my face. Through the lens, I saw the boy stoop. I snapped the shutter just as the boy threw the stone.
“Jesus!” I said, and nearly dropped the Brownie. The stone had grazed my hand, not far from the knuckle of my ring finger. It would leave a welt.
“You son of a bitch!”
Another rock whizzed down, this one smaller, and I deflected it with the camera. Something cracked.
“I’m just about to slap you shitless!”
My free hand made a fist and I stepped towards the other, who backed up gracefully, not fleeing so much as keeping a precise distance between us. The boy put his arms out, hands open. His face, only too lucid, bore a hint of a smile, and the meaning was clear: Yes, by all means chase me off the path, and when night comes I will show you other games besides the following and the rock-throwing.
I stopped. The other took up a hurtful-looking flat stone. I backed up to the trail and the other kept distance with me. He threw. I sidestepped it, put the camera down and selected a rock of my own. I did not have the aim the boy had, however, and my missile whacked heavily into a tree that was closer to me than to him. The boy’s fresh throw tumbled, another flat stone, and mercifully smacked my thigh broadside rather than digging in edge-first. It stung, though, and I yelped.
When I looked up, I noticed that the boy had the beginnings of an erection. I stared. Just when I decided that the stone-thrower was a lunatic, the boy did something that disturbed me more than anything thus far.
Though he had no trousers, he mimicked the gesture of a man reaching for something in his pocket. A watch. He opened the pretend pocket watch, looked at it and then looked up at the sky.
It will be dark soon.
The boy smiled fully then.
His teeth had been filed sharp.
CHAPTER EIGHT
N O MORE STONES followed me out of the forest. I backed away from the stone-thrower, who did not pursue me. I did not have time to decide what I had seen; I could think about that later. I simply backed away from it and it stood there, and, when I had put some distance between us, I turned around and moved down the trail at something less than a run but more than a walk.
I calmed down when I got to the river, although the sun had westered so that it was nearly twilight. I would just make it home if I kept my pace up and did not wander.
But I did not go straight home.
The frogs and crickets were singing in the darkening woods when I got to Cranmer’s cabin. It was only ten minutes from the trail, past a series of little cairns he had left for moonshine buyers to follow. I wanted very badly to talk to someone about the stone-thrower. This was not a confidence I would share with Eudora, and I would never be able to close my eyes if I had to take this quietly to bed with me.
I
“What do you want?” I said, walking. It was getting late. My guilt at the thought of using a racial slur gave way again to exasperation.
“Just say something!”
I tried to fight back my anger. What if the young man was a deaf-mute, or retarded? No. He had heard every word I said, and there was nothing dull about that gaze.
I was never going to make it back if I didn’t turn around soon. I did not want to be out here in the dark, especially not with that boy. I didn’t want the boy near me anymore.
“Get out of here!” I shouted. “What the hell are you looking at, anyway?”
I stopped, and the other did, too. Yes, here it came. I was losing my temper.
“Say, you don’t mind if I take your picture for the wife? She won’t believe me when I tell her I saw a real, live deranged person in the woods today.”
I lifted the box of the camera to my face. Through the lens, I saw the boy stoop. I snapped the shutter just as the boy threw the stone.
“Jesus!” I said, and nearly dropped the Brownie. The stone had grazed my hand, not far from the knuckle of my ring finger. It would leave a welt.
“You son of a bitch!”
Another rock whizzed down, this one smaller, and I deflected it with the camera. Something cracked.
“I’m just about to slap you shitless!”
My free hand made a fist and I stepped towards the other, who backed up gracefully, not fleeing so much as keeping a precise distance between us. The boy put his arms out, hands open. His face, only too lucid, bore a hint of a smile, and the meaning was clear: Yes, by all means chase me off the path, and when night comes I will show you other games besides the following and the rock-throwing.
I stopped. The other took up a hurtful-looking flat stone. I backed up to the trail and the other kept distance with me. He threw. I sidestepped it, put the camera down and selected a rock of my own. I did not have the aim the boy had, however, and my missile whacked heavily into a tree that was closer to me than to him. The boy’s fresh throw tumbled, another flat stone, and mercifully smacked my thigh broadside rather than digging in edge-first. It stung, though, and I yelped.
When I looked up, I noticed that the boy had the beginnings of an erection. I stared. Just when I decided that the stone-thrower was a lunatic, the boy did something that disturbed me more than anything thus far.
Though he had no trousers, he mimicked the gesture of a man reaching for something in his pocket. A watch. He opened the pretend pocket watch, looked at it and then looked up at the sky.
It will be dark soon.
The boy smiled fully then.
His teeth had been filed sharp.
CHAPTER EIGHT
N O MORE STONES followed me out of the forest. I backed away from the stone-thrower, who did not pursue me. I did not have time to decide what I had seen; I could think about that later. I simply backed away from it and it stood there, and, when I had put some distance between us, I turned around and moved down the trail at something less than a run but more than a walk.
I calmed down when I got to the river, although the sun had westered so that it was nearly twilight. I would just make it home if I kept my pace up and did not wander.
But I did not go straight home.
The frogs and crickets were singing in the darkening woods when I got to Cranmer’s cabin. It was only ten minutes from the trail, past a series of little cairns he had left for moonshine buyers to follow. I wanted very badly to talk to someone about the stone-thrower. This was not a confidence I would share with Eudora, and I would never be able to close my eyes if I had to take this quietly to bed with me.
I
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