Alex of Bendelow
By Allan James Grund
Smashwords Edition
Alex of Bendelow
Copyright © February 2007 by Allan James Grund
All Rights Reserved.
Endorsements:
“You write for the eye, the mind, the heart and the soul and a fortunate reader realizes that you are saying so much more than the written word on a page. In your prose and poetry, words are where one begins a journey with the Would Man.”
“Alex of Bendelow is an exceptional story; engrossing, entertaining, and enlightening while presenting authentic and unforgettable characters, a convincing setting, persistent action, and a compelling plot. The righteous moral of respect for all of God's creatures while honoring individual viewpoints and differing perspectives is clear without being pedantic. The lesson is expressed with much humor, good-nature and understanding. The story is an undeniable page-turner, fascinating to read; fascinating to reflect upon.”
Pat Johnson—B.S. Sociology, MS Library Science.
Other Books by Allan James Grund:
The Song of the Wood Man—A Poetic Journey
Along the 45th Parallel—Poetry and Prose
The Portal
Upacqua—The Bearer of Logs
Two Soldiers—Companion Book to the Sesquicentennial Edition Audio Book
Confessions of a Lousy Grouse Hunter
Paradise Mountain
Poems of the North
CD’s by Allan James Grund:
The Would Man
Archives
Two Soldiers—Reflections on the War Between the States
Two Soldiers—Part II
Two Soldiers—Sesquicentennial Edition Audio Book
Two Soldiers—Part III
Dedication:
Dedicated to my brother—Sir Thomas of Bendelow
Synopsis:
The end of a decade is rapidly approaching. It’s Christmas Week 1959. Winter in the open farm country of the north can be harsh and brutal. Weather patterns can change overnight. Snowflakes can turn into bullets of sleet in a matter of minutes. Increasing winds can whip sleet into blizzard conditions within seconds. Suddenly, animals struggle to survive. Eleven year old Alex doesn’t pay much attention to any of this. All he cares about is that his brother—Tom—is taking him out on the trap lines for the very first time. Alex has been dreaming about this adventure for what seems like his whole life. He is about to discover that sometimes a dream can turn into a nightmare. He is about to discover that things are rarely what they seem…
Chapter One: Hair Triggers
SsssssNAP!
“Now THAT’S what I call a HAIR TRIGGER, Alex! Wow! I just barely touched it. WHAM! You gotta’ be careful with hair triggers. RrrrrEAL careful!”
SsssssssssNAP!!!
Tom and Alex poked broken sticks into the centers of two traps. The sound reminded Alex of his father breaking dry pieces of kindling over his knees before building a campfire.
“I wish dad was here making a fire right now, ‘cause it’s startin’ to get cold out here.”
“Whassat, Alex? Did you hear what I said about hair triggers?”
“Oh, you BETCHUM’, Tom! Mine worked GREAT! Wow! Talk about HAIR TRIGGERS! Do you think they pass the test?”
“Definitely!” cracked Tom’s husky voice. “They DEFINITELY pass the test. I’ll re-set this one.You go ahead and TRY to set that one. I dunno’ if you can do it or not but…”
“Of COURSE I can do it!” he shouted, and then picked up the trap.
“You can’t be too careful with hair triggers, Alex. I mean it! You get one o’ your fingers caught in there you’ll know it. Cut one off…they don’t grow back like the leaves on a tree. Know what I mean?”
His words trailed off with the gusting wind into the world of farm country. Prospect Sherman’s great white farmhouse stood firm against the wind a hundred yards away. His tall red barns and weathered gray silo, and long low, narrow hen house loomed just ahead.
“I mean it, Alex. Be CAREFUL!”
Alex proceeded to kneel down in the snow and set the trap. Right off the bat, his hand-me-down winter coat was a problem. Threads were beginning to come loose and dangle from the ends of the sleeves. Alex tried to bite off pieces of the dangling threads. This only served to give him a mouthful of dirt and grit.
“Be CAREFUL…” he mocked his older brother. “I’ll show him. Cripes, I can do this one-handed.”
He was wrong. “Ding dang thing!” he mumbled, “Open UP!”
The air was frigid. Steam poured out of his mouth when he spoke.
“Just a little…bit…more. Ummmph! THERE! Now if I can just…”
He was distracted by the sight of the broken twig lying in the snow.
“If a trap can do that to a stick…what can it do to a muskrat?”
He had not really considered this before. Like someone hypnotized, he reached out to touch the broken stick. His boot slipped off the half-opened trap.
SssssssNAP!
The trap exploded into action like a Mexican jumping bean. It flew into the air and landed at his feet.
“ALEX!!!” Tom was just a few feet away. “Are you okay?”
Alex waved Tom away.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry ‘bout me, Tom. I’m fine. It’s jus’ my hand slipped and these dang threads got in my way and…”
“You can’t afford to let your hand slip! YOU WANNA’ LOSE A FINGER???”
Tom seemed to cock his head slightly to one side when he was angry, as if his eyes were unable to
focus properly through his glasses.
“I ain’t gonna’ lose a finger! Don’t worry…”
For a moment, he was thinking of a muskrat losing a leg.
“For cryin’ out loud…you think I’m gonna’ stick my finger in a trap and set it off or somethin’?”
“I wouldn’t put ANYthing past you, Alex. Now, just get movin’. If you can’t set the thing, leave it and I’ll be there in a minute.”
Alex was determined to set that trap.
“What-the-heck…” he shrugged, “…it’s only a twig.”
“What d’ya say?” hollered Tom over his shoulder.
“NOTHING! Nothing at all. I was just talking to myself.”
“Well quit talking to yourself and get going. I’m done here. How’re you doing?”
Tom was losing patience.
“Ahhhh….almost done, Tom. I alllllmost got it….”
Alex removed his hand-me-down gloves and tried once more to pry open the trap. A loose piece of thread dangling from his coat sleeve got caught between his fingers—the aging thread ripped in half. Others followed. Soon, a wad of dangling threads hung like octopus tentacles.
“Don’t touch ‘em!” he warned himself, “Leave ‘em alone!”
His bare fingers recoiled from the ice cold metal of the trap as he grabbed it and opened it up. He quickly extended one leg and inserted his boot-covered foot over the trap’s jaws to hold them open. That done, he poked at the trigger plate with his pink forefinger and slipped the tiny lever into the trigger plate notch.
Click!
The lever held. The trap stayed open.
“I DID it!” he half-shouted, half-whispered. “I did it.”
It was late in the afternoon. The work was almost done.
“I jus’ need some bait, Tom!”
Tom came over and handed Alex a bag with a few apple peels left in it. Alex reached into the bag and grabbed a handful and sprinkled them around the trap.
“Let’s see how ya’ did.” crowed Tom, “Where’s your gloves?”
“Right here. I couldn’t quite…”
“Put your gloves on. Don’t forget to put the ring on the end of the chain over that stake there and then mess up the area so it looks natural.”
Alex went about doing what he was told.
“Good. Now let’s get the heck outta’ here. I still gotta’ go up and see Prospect Sherman about pelt prices. C’mon!”
Alex scrambled up the slight embankment along the creek and caught up with Tom. Cold air froze an expression of delight upon Alex’s rose-colored cheeks. He thrust a fist into the air in celebration.
“I DID it! I DID it! I set the trap, Tom! I DID it!”
“I hate to tell you this, Alex…” Tom spoke up with a smirk on his face, “…but you aren’t gonna’ catch anything in that trap you just set.”
Alex shot back. “Why not? I did jus’ as good as you did! Why shouldn’t I catch somethin’?”
“Well, you DID do a good job of setting the trap. I HAVE to give you credit for that. I didn’t think you could do it.”
Alex smiled and heaved his small chest outward like a proud peacock.
“Unfortunately…” continued Tom, smugly, “…when you took your gloves off and set the trap and
tossed the bait around with your bare hands, you left your human scent on it. No self-respecting, intelligent muskrat is going to go near that trap as long as there’s human scent on it. ANY trapper knows THAT!”
It never occurred to Alex that there was no such thing as a self-respecting, intelligent muskrat.
“But hey…” Tom piped up, “It’s only one trap, right?”
“I…I guess so.”
“I meannnnnnn…there’s plenty of other traps. Right?”
“Yeah but…”
“So, you got a lot of other chances!”
“Yeah but, I didn’t set THOSE traps. I set THAT one.” He pointed his finger over his shoulder for
emphasis. They were in front of one of Sherman’s barns. The large, sliding doors were open.
“Look, Alex…” began Tom, with a stern voice, “Don’t take it so hard. Maybe you’ll get lucky. Anyways, I’ve got to go up to the house for a few minutes and talk to Sherman. I want you to go right over there.” He motioned toward the barn where the doors were open. “I won’t be long. Just stay right there, near the opening. Don’t move and DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”
“Awwww c’mon, Tom.” Alex whined, “Why can’t I come with you?”
“Are you kiddin’? Prospect doesn’t need you. Just stay there and STAY OUTTA’ TROUBLE!”
Tom disappeared through the front door. Alex wandered over to the gaping hole in the front of the barn. He peered through the opening into the semi-darkness within and saw Sherman’s old red tractor. Without hesitation, he moved toward the machine.
“There could be critters back in there.” he whispered, “Or worse, there could be CREATURES back in there.”
The musty odor of oil-stained rags and dust-covered walls filled the air. Alex scuffled along the slanted, dirt floor of the barn until he was close enough to touch the red, metal engine cover.
“Whewwwwww…” he let out a low, admiring whistle. His bright blue eyes opened wide and stared at the machine, then he slowly turned his head and gazed at everything else in the barn. Tools hung from the walls like dungeon prisoners. Old wheelbarrows and rototillers leaned against each other like old friends. Lawn mowers and saws, dozens of different kinds of saws of all shapes and sizes, lined up in rows like tin soldiers on parade. Paint cans, hammers and axes had been piled on top of each other on shelves, all gathering dust from lack of use.
“Whasssat?” he swung around.
Farther back in the semi-darkness a very large trap hung from a heavy, metal chain. Alex felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up. He drew a quick breath of air. It seemed like he could HEAR his heart beat as well as FEEL it. His brother’s warning came to mind.
“STAY OUTTA’ TROUBLE!”
Alex kept his eyes fastened on the dangling mass of steel and chain as he inched his way along the tractor.
“What kind of trap is THAT?”
“STAY OUTTA’ TROUBLE!”
The words echoed in the chambers of his ears. He diverted his eyes from the trap, leaned against the tractor and hugged it like someone hugs a long lost friend. Then he reached up and grabbed the steering wheel.
“I better not.” he whispered, “Tom would REALLY get mad if something happened…”
His grip tightened on the wheel.
“Don’t move.” he told himself, “Just stay right where you are…don’t touch anything.”
Above him, the rafters were crammed full of objects resting on large sheets of plywood; things like old tent canvas, fishing rods, nets, cushions, air mattresses, snow sleds, a toboggan, dusty old golf clubs and many other odds and ends.
“What does a chicken farmer need golf clubs for?”
He raised one leg up onto the tractor platform.
“Aaaaaa-CHEW!”
Alex pulled at the scarf that was around his neck. Maybe if he put it over his nose he wouldn’t sneeze, but it was too late. There was dust all over the place and stacks of hay bales off in the corner.
“Aaaaa-CHEW! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-CHEW!!!”
Alex wiped the moisture from under his nose with the sleeve of his coat.
“Peeee-yew!” he exclaimed, as he caught a whiff of air blowing in from the hen house outside.
“STAY OUTTA’ TROUBLE!”
It was just too tempting. In the blink of an eye he was up on the seat with the holes in it, and his gloved hands were firmly in place around the steering wheel.
“Vrrrrroooooom! Vvvvvrrrrrroooooom!” he barked, as he tried to turn the wheel. There were keys hanging from the ignition, above the pedals on the floor. He reached over and turned the key “ON.” Nothing happened. He jabbed his foot at the brake pedal, the clutch and the accelerator and pretended he was driving through the fields. His feet could touch the pedals but his legs were too short to push them down, so he played with the stiff wheel and made funny sounds. The clutch pedal and the brake pedal were now more tempting than ever. As he slid his rump forward and off of the seat to get down closer to the pedals, the dangling threads from his coat sleeve caught on the keys. He twisted his wrist to untangle the threads but twisted the wrong way. They tightened around the keys. Turning to face upward, he shoved his knee onto the clutch pedal and pushed it to the floor. There was just enough slant to the floor that the great, hulking machine began to roll downhill and out of the barn.
“Yyyyyyipes!” cried Alex, “What’s HAPPENING???”
Chapter 2: Jump Start
Prospect Sherman’s tractor had eight gears and a standard transmission. Like most engines, it could be started by depressing the clutch and turning on the key, but there was another way to start the engine – commonly referred to as “Jump Start”.
“I’M TRAPPED!” hollered Alex, “I’m TRAPPED! TOM! TOM! HELP MEEEEE!”
The slanting floor of the barn was very slight, but it was enough to cause the tractor to roll. By depressing the clutch, Alex unwittingly put all the gears into a “Neutral” position. In a “Neutral” position, the tractor was free to roll. As it began to roll, it gathered speed. Alex could only think about one thing: he HAD to undo those dangling threads wrapped around the clutch pedal!
“Ding dangit…UMMMMPH!”
Gathering his wits about him, he finally realized that pushing down on the clutch was the reason the tractor was rolling. All he had to do was let off the clutch pedal…
“Oh NOOOOOOO!” he screamed, as he popped the clutch.
“BUMBUMBUBMBUBMBUBBUBUBUBUBUBUBRRRROOOOOOOOM”
Alex had set the “Jump Start” process in motion when he left the key in the “ON” position. Sherman had left it in first gear the last time he used it. The tractor was rolling out of the barn and picking up speed. When Alex popped the clutch, the tractor lurched forward, like a bucking bronco, and the engine fired up automatically. The “Jump Start” was complete. Alex was no longer pretending.
“I’m TRAPPED!” he hollered, “I’m TRAPPED, TOM! HELLLLLLPPPPP!”
Alex yanked and pulled at the threads, stretching them more and more, but it was no use. The tractor was now bouncing along in the cornfield and the vibration made it difficult to untie the threads.
Tom was on his way out of the house, talking with Prospect Sherman, when the tractor came rolling out of the barn. He heard the engine fire up and couldn’t believe his eyes. It seemed to be driving itself, as there was no one sitting on the driver’s seat.
“Al – EXXXX!” shouted Tom, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Stuck in first gear, the tractor was barely moving. Tom began running after it. He had a sinking feeling that Alex was somehow behind all this.
“TOM! TOM! HELP ME, TOM! Hellllllp!”
Tom caught up with the tractor and leaped up onto it into the driver’s seat. Then he saw Alex down on the floor, fooling with his coat sleeve.
“AW FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD, Alex…GET OUTTA’ THE WAY!”
“I…I CAN’T, TOM! MY SLEEVE’S STUCK ON THE KEYS!”
“DANGIT, ALEX. GIMME THAT!”
Tom leaned over and grabbed the dangling threads and ripped them off the keys. Alex was free at last. Tom pushed down on the clutch pedal with his left foot and turned the key off. The engine stopped. The wild ride was over.
“Gawwd, you’re an idiot.” Tom hissed.
‘Y’alright boy?” It was the deep, slow, resonant drawl of Prospect Sherman, who was now standing beside the machine, patting it like it was his pet.
“Is he talking to me…or the tractor?” thought Alex. There were rumors about Prospect Sherman: that he was just a little bit on the crazy side of things; that he had a twin brother somewhere; that he’d been in the war and had a stack of medals to show for it. Alex wanted to know if any of the rumors were true.
“He’s okay, boss!” blurted Tom, “Don’t worry about him. I know he’s okay.” Tom was embarrassed.
“I…I dunno’ what happened.” moaned Alex, as he began to up-right himself and get down from the tractor, “One minute I was…”
“SHUTTUP ALEX! Just SHUT UP!”
There was a bit of a chuckle in Sherman’s voice.
“I’ss awright, Tom. No harm done. Heck, I seen a man fly off a tractor once down t’ the state fairgrounds. Hee hee! Man…thet fellar nearly run ov’uh two prized bulls ‘fore I gut t’him. It wuz’ a same kin’ a thing as heeyuh.”
“Least your tractor’s okay!” muttered Tom.
“Yip! Don’ worry ‘bout nothin’, Tom. I’ll teke ceer o’ things heeyuh. G’won home ‘fore it gits too dark.”
Alex was standing beside Sherman, looking up into the old man’s soft, brown eyes. Alex had never seen anyone with such large eyebrows. They were long and gray and seemed to be pasted onto his forehead. Alex noticed too that his hair was shaggy and wild with dark flecks of gray here and there but flowing and beautiful. For the first time, Alex was aware of just how tall this man really was.
“Sorry Mr. Sherman.” he whimpered, “I’m real sorry.”
Sherman winked at Alex, as Tom hopped off the tractor.
“Tha’ss awright, young’un. Y’all give me a perty good laugh. C’mon back in the summertime an’ I’ll teche ya’ how t’drive this heeyuh baby.”
“You MEAN it, sir? You REALLY mean it?”
Sherman was nodding his head in a friendly manner. It didn’t seem like he was all that upset. Alex thought about the rumors. “Is it true, Mr. Sherman…”
Tom cut him off and grabbed him by the arm. “Let’s go, Alex. We don’t have time to waste. Sun’s goin’ down.” Then he waved his free hand at Sherman. “So long, boss. See you around.”
They took off, heading for the drain—Tom in the lead and Alex trailing behind. Sherman fired up the tractor and Alex turned to watch him drive it away. It seemed odd that he was heading down his driveway instead of back toward the barn.
“You could’ve killed yourself, Alex. Honest to Pete…don’t you get it? When I tell you to stay out of trouble, I mean it.”
“Tom, don’t it seem odd that Sherman lives alone?”
“Only thing that seems odd t’ me is your stupidity. C’mon, let’s go.”
Alex ignored the comment.
“Hey Tom…” he shouted, as he struggled to catch up, “…when we get home, do ya’ wanna’ go up in the secret passage with me and hunt for Christmas presents?”
“Don’t talk to me right now, Alex. I’m so mad. For cryin’ out loud, five minutes ago ya’ just about killed yourself messin’ around with somethin’ you shouldn’t have been, and now your talkin’ about goin’ up in the secret passage. I think you need your head examined. I really do.”
Beyond the far, distant woods of Sherman’s back forty, the sun began its descent into the horizon. Scattered clouds looked like giant hands reaching for the orange fireball, attempting to drag it down to earth. The wind was picking up speed. It was December twenty-first, the winter solstice: the shortest day of the year.
“Wouldn’t be getting so dark right now …” thought Alex, “…if we could’ve skipped church today.”
Alex slid down the embankment and skipped along the icy edges of the drain, now and then stepping into the shallow water, though not enough to get water inside his boots.
“If I were you,” Tom’s rugged voice barked, as he turned and hollered over his shoulder. The wind was beginning to howl. He had to shout to be heard. “I’d stay outta’ that secret passage before Christmas. You know what Mom would say if she caught you up in there. Besides, it ain’t like it’s really a ‘secret’ now is it?”
Alex shouted back. “Yeah, I know but, c’mon Tom. It’d be worth the risk! YOU’VE been up there before! I KNOW you have. Heck, Mom wouldn’t even know. C’mon…”
“We ain’t even home yet.” snapped Tom, “An’ if we don’t get movin’, we ain’t gonna’ git home either.”
Across the wide open cornfields of Sherman’s Egg Farm, the wind whipped the snow into frenzied little tornadoes darting here, there and everywhere. About eight inches of snow covered the ground, making walking difficult. Sheets of the frosty, white pellets seemed to be lifted right up off the ground and tossed in all directions. Thin layers of ice completely covered the deeper, slower-moving sections of Sherman’s Drain. It was about twenty-two degrees and sunny when the brothers first started setting traps. Now the sun was going down and the temperature was dropping along with it.
“Alex, I’m warning you…” Tom’s voice sounded threatening, “…stay outta’ that secret passage! You go in there, you’re asking for trouble. And you better quit jumpin’ back and forth across that drain or one of these times that ice is gonna’ give and you’re gonna’ have yourself a hot foot.”
“Don’t you mean a ‘cold’ foot?”
“Ha ha ha. You’re SOOOO funny, Alex. Ha ha ha. So funny I forgot to laugh. No…I mean a ‘hot’ foot. It might be cold when you go in, but it’ll be hot when Mom gets a hold of you. Besides, I don’t need you walkin’ in the door with frozen feet. Mom’ll blame ME!”
The sky was dismal and gray and suddenly very full of dark clouds. The sun was no longer orange but rather pale, which made it look more like a rising moon than a sinking ball of fire. Alex was thinking about the Holy Ghost, which he was learning about in Sunday School.
“Tom? What do they mean by ‘HOLY GHOST’?”
There was no immediate answer—just Tom’s relentless plodding along through the snow.
“I mean…is it like when Ichabod Crane got chased by the Headless Horseman? I don’t get it. How can a ghost be ‘HOLY’? Do they mean like ‘full of holes’?”
Tom didn’t even turn around. He just kept on walking. “What d’you think, Alex?”
“I dunno’. All I know is…I don’t really want to see a ghost.”
The words trailed off with the cold wind. Alex paused, removed his gloves from his cold hands, then blew puffs of warm breath into the gloves to help keep his freezing fingers from getting worse. It would feel good to put his cold hands into warm gloves.
“Yyyyyuk! Phhhtttooooeee!” choked Alex. The tattered fringe around the gloves was moist from blowing warm air into them. Particles of dirt, dust and snow clung to his lips. He could smell the years of dirt and grime in the moisture. A moustache of dirt appeared above his upper lip. He spat to the ground and wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve, which was made of wool and sported thousands of tiny fuzz-balls of cloth that also stuck to his lips the moment he tried to wipe his mouth.
“Bleccck! Blaaaack! Yyyyyuk!”
Tom shouted down the embankment, “If you plan on bein’ a trapper, you better plan on having frozen fingers.” Then he thought to himself: “Jus’ give me a little time to get ‘im home.”
Alex bent down and grabbed a handful of snow to lick.
“Did you HEAR what I SAID, Alex?”
“Yeah, I hear ya’…” shouted Alex, “Who said anything about having frozen fingers?”
“Might’s well be talkin’ to the Headless Horseman himself...” Tom muttered under his breath. He shrugged his shoulders and continued marching onward.
The wind continued to roar and the temperature continued to fall. The biting cold air was making its way into his bones.
“Aren’t YOUR fingers cold, Tom?”
A gust of wind carried his words across the hill.
“Nope!” Tom boasted, “But then, I’ve got these fur-lined gloves that I bought last year with my trappin’ money.”
“Well, I hope to get a new pair of gloves for Christmas, just like yours. Then I won’t have any problems when I’m out here on the trap lines with you.”
“Good!” shouted Tom, “Then I won’t have to listen to your whinin’ and cryin’. Now let’s keep movin’. We’ve got a long way to go yet.”
The boys continued marching down the hollow trench of Sherman’s Drain. Alex ignored his cold hands and concentrated on other things.
“That works sometimes…” thought Alex, “…sometimes if you ignore a problem, it goes away by itself.”
“How we doin’ down there?” hollered Tom.
Alex took his eyes off the drain long enough to reply.
“Okay, I guess…oops!”
Not a real soaker, but Alex’s boot splashed into the shallow water as he looked up to answer Tom. Minnows scurried about in the open water of the drain, which had a hypnotic effect on Alex as he watched them. He was thinking of one time his father took him ice fishing. The best way to catch fish was to pretend not to be fishing. “I’m not fishing! I’m just out here looking at the sky, sitting on a bucket watching the clouds roll by. You probably think I’m trying to catch you little fishies, but I’m not. I’m not interested in you at all. In fact, I’m not trying to CATCH you…I’m trying to GIVE you something! That’s all. See… these little wigglers are just somethin’ I’m sendin’ down there for you guys to eat. That’s all.”
Trying to ignore his cold fingers just made Alex more aware of the problem.
“I’m not cold. My fingers aren’t freezing. My toes aren’t numb. I’m not cold at all. As a matter of fact, I’m not even the least bit chilly. I didn’t even know it was cold outside. Heck, if I knew…”
“You talkin’ to me, Alex?”
The sound of Tom’s voice woke Alex from his semi-hypnotic state of mind.
“Oh, ahmmmm…no, Tom.” he shouted. “I mean…yeah!” Maybe changing the subject would make a difference… “Tom, does dad have to go to a meeting at church tonight?” Alex was thinking about that secret passage again.
“I think so,” he shouted over his shoulder, “It’s that time of year.”
“Seems like he’s got a meeting EVERY night. Seems like he’s never home. Always up at church. What the heck does he DO up there all the time?”
“Maybe he’s talkin’ to the holy ghost…”
“Oh har-dee har har…”
Watching the minnows again, Alex was thinking about summertime and catching frogs in Sherman’s Drain. And then he remembered seeing frogs in a glass jar at a Science Fair.
“Hey, Tom…did you have to de-sex frogs in science class?”
Tom had a good laugh before answering.
“Ahhhh…I beLIEVE the word you’re looking for is di-SECT, Alex. Not SEX…SECT. DI-
SSECT. Anyway, yeah I had to take a few apart. It was pretty cool. Why?”
“I HATE that, Tom. I wish they wouldn’t do that to those frogs…it’s downright CRUEL!”
“Some people say it’s downright CRUEL to trap muskrats, Alex. What do you think about THAT?”
“Awww…that’s DIFFERENT, Tom, when you’re trappin’ somethin’ for its fur and to make money or…or t’ put food on the table or…or…well YOUKNOWWHATIMEAN! I mean…you don’t go trap a muskrat and stick ‘im in a glass jar so you can de-sex ‘im later!” He paused for a breath. “I mean…di-SECT ‘im later.”
“Well, you better think about it, Alex. Catchin’ a muskrat in a trap ain’t the easiest thing you’re ever gonna’ do. You might be surprised. You might be sorry. YOU might think it’s cruel. It might not turn out to be what you think it is. By the time y’er done, you might even think stickin’ a frog in a glass jar is NOTHIN’ compared to shovin’ a muskrat underwater so’s you can drown ‘im.”
Alex didn’t want to think about that part of trappin’.
“Hey TOM!” he shouted from the stream bed, “LOOKIT THE DOG TRACKS DOWN HERE!”
Tom kept right on walking, turned his head slightly and hollered over his shoulder.
“Those aren’t DOG tracks, Alex. Those are fox tracks!” He stopped walking and turned to see if Alex was still coming along or just standing there looking at the tracks.
“REALLY?” cried Alex, excitedly, “You mean there’s…there’s FOXES out here?”
Tom strutted back down the drain to where Alex was standing and peered over the rims of his eyeglasses. His dark brown eyebrows pinched towards each other. His tongue licked the edges of his dry lips. He studied the tracks, momentarily, then turned his head sideways and stared at Alex.
“I wouldn’t get too excited, Alex. They’re a couple ‘a days old.”
“Yea but how do you know they’re FOX tracks?”
“Dog tracks look like this.” Tom bent down and made several impressions in the snow with his gloved hands. “Fox tracks look like THAT! See the difference?”
“Yeah!” shouted Alex, “THAT looks like the ones I spotted here. WOW! LOOKIT…they go off towards the swamp! Tracks are like road maps, aren’t they? Some are dead-ends, some are narrow and not used very much and some are like…like Main Street – lots of traffic going both ways.”
“We better make tracks ourselves,” hollered Tom, “We’re runnin’ outta’ daylight.”
Chapter Three: Old Baldy
The east end of Prospect Sherman’s farm butted up against Cloud Creek. The golf course spread itself out on the other side. Adjacent to both was a small swamp. Alex had heard some tales about the swamp.
“Joswick says there’s quicksand in there.” he mumbled, as he gazed at the narrow strip of land that was coming closer.
“Tom…is there quicksand in that swamp? I heard Joswick say there’s quicksand in there.”
Tom wiped the moisture from under his nose. “I don’t know,” he shouted, “I just know Prospect told me it wasn’t safe to go in there. He said to always stay out of there no matter what. I tend to do what he says.”
“I wish I could get in there just once…” Alex hollered, “Man, I bet there’s a zillion golf balls in there.”
In the summertime, Alex sold a lot of used golf balls over the fence in front of his house.
“Forget about it, Alex.” shouted Tom, “Just keep movin’.”
“I didn’t mean I was GOIN’ to go in there, Tom. I jus’ meant it would be great if we COULD go in there…and come out alive. You never have enough golf balls, right?”
From where they were, Tom could just make out the top of the High Banks through the heavily falling snow. They were about half way home. They had to jump the creek at the High Banks. It was a lot trickier to make that jump in the winter than in the summer.
Tom brushed the snow off his shoulders and mumbled something under his breath. Alex just caught the tail end of it.
“…jus’ hope we don’t run into Ol’ Baldy.”
A giant of a man, Old Baldy wore a patch over one eye. Joswick called him the One-Eyed Cyclops. Said you couldn’t look at him directly. If he thought you were staring at his one eye, he’d cold-cock you upside the head. Joswick worked as a busboy at the Clubhouse. “The man is an animal! I swear! I saw him stick his bald head into a bucket of ice cubes one time and keep it there for about twenty minutes just to win a bet with the bartender. Did you ever see that great big scar on his cheek? Or that patch over his eye, eh? Bartender says he got the patch in a bar-room brawl. He’s not ‘fraid of NOTHIN’!”
Joswick had a way of exaggerating, for which he was locally famous.
“I tell ya’ he’s an animal. Did ya’ ever hear him talk, eh? Geeeeeeze! His voice RUMBLES like a truck goin’ down the road. He doesn’t just talk. He ROARS! Y’know what else? When he steps outside after dinner, he burps so loud you can hear it all the way down at the maintenance shack four hundred yards away. If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’…”
If one ounce of it was true, Alex didn’t want any part of Old Baldy.
“Almost to the High Banks!” shouted Tom. “Keep MOVIN’!”
The wind seemed to be squeezing tiny tear drops onto Alex’s cheek. “My head feels like when you try to eat too much ice cream too fast.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.” shouted Tom, as he turned his back to the wind once more. “Turn around and walk backwards! It’s a lot easier on your face. And stop TALKING. Save your energy. You’re gonna’ need it.”
Tom could barely see anything through his steamed up glasses. When he faced the wind, the glasses were clear. When he turned around and tried to walk backwards, the little pocket of warmth he created by hunching his back and shielding his face caused the spectacles to fog up.
“Dang things…” he muttered under his breath, “Can’t see with ‘em. Can’t see without ‘em.”
“Hey, Tom!” shouted Alex, “Do you think we’ll catch anything tomorrow, now that we’ve got
all the traps set?”
Tom peaked over the rims of his foggy glasses.
“I guess we’ll know tomorrow…”
“I can’t wait!” hollered Alex, “I’ve never really caught anything before, ‘ceptin’ frogs and crayfish and minnows. It’s gonna’ be great, eh Tom?”
Tom remembered the first muskrat he ever caught. He was the same age as Alex. He remembered the words of warning that Sherman gave him the first time they ever went out together.
“Beware the trap that does not spring…”
He remembered how clumsy he was compared to Sherman.
“First, d’cide wheere’s a gud’ place to put a trap…” Sherman’s voice echoed in his head. “Nex’, put the steke in the graound for the chain. Poun’ it in gud’. Aftuh’ th’ at, git down there ‘n set the trap. Sit it reeel ceereful. Sit it down reeel gent’l and then move the brush and sticks and whoo-what not t’ make it look natcherel’. Don’ f’git t’ put th’ chain ring ovuh’ the steke.”
He remembered how bad he felt the first time. He whispered to the wind:
“It’s not as great as you think it is, Alex. It’s one thing to talk about it like it’s some great adventure. It’s a whole different ball game when you actually see a muskrat caught in a trap – and he’s still alive! And YOU have to put him away. And you have to do it del-i-cately…so as not to ruin the pelt.”
And then Tom’s voice grew stronger until he was shouting at Alex.
“I wouldn’t get too excited, Alex! We haven’t caught anything yet. Sometimes it takes a few days to catch one. You don’t always catch somethin’ the first time out. Y’know what I mean?”
Alex was undeterred. He whispered in his best King Arthur voice:
“Alex of Bendelowwwww. No! No…wait a minute! That’s not quite right. SIR Alex of Bendelow. Yes! That’s it! That’s it! SIR Alex of Bendelow and…and his brother Tom!”
For Alex, the act of saying what he was thinking always seemed to bring it to life.
“No. No! That’s not right either. He’s not JUST my brother Tom. He’s…he’s…he’s SIR Tom. Yes! That’s it! That’s it! SIR Tom. NO. NO. Not quite. SIR THOMAS! That’s it! YES! PERFECT!” Then he had a disturbing afterthought: “Could Sir Thomas possibly be disqualified—because he has to wear GLASSES???”
The increasing force of the wind showered the boys’ bodies with snow, as if ten thousand BB guns full of snowflakes had all gone off at once in their direction. Weather conditions were deteriorating rapidly.
“Alex of Bendelow…” he whispered under his scarf, “I dub thee SIR ALEX OF BENDELOW…KNIGHT OF THE ROUND TABLE!”
‘ALEX!” shouted Tom, as the make-believe ceremony was interrupted and disappeared with the snowflakes, “Watch out for that…”
“YEEEEEOOOOWWWW! OWWWWWWWWWUUUUUCHH!” cried Alex. He tripped over a mound of drifted, hard-packed snow that he could not see because he was walking backwards. He pulled his hands out of the snow and winced. Once again, he removed the gloves from his hands and blew warm air into them. The frayed and dangling elastic that hung loosely around his wrists was all icy and hard from first getting wet and then freezing. Icicles hung all around his wrists like crystal bracelets.
“Are you okay, Alex?” Are you okay? Do you want to trade gloves with me?”
Alex was too stubborn to admit his fingers were absolutely freezing.
“No. That’s alright, Sir Thomas. I’m alright. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can, Alex. I just thought if your hands were cold we could switch gloves…just for a while, of course.” He paused. “What’d you call me?”
“Oh, ahhhhmmm…nothing Tom. I called you Tom, just like always.”
“Funny, I thought I heard something else.”
“If we switched gloves, what would you use? Your hands don’t fit in MY gloves. That’s for sure.”
“Well, I’d just put my hands in my pockets for a while, I guess. C’mon. Let’s keep movin’.”
The boys continued walking backwards down Sherman’s Drain, while Old Baldy walked out the back door of the Clubhouse, shotgun in hand, humming a tune as he walked over to his mechanical sled.
“A hunting we will go…a hunting we will go…”
Chapter Four: The Swamp
Alex was having a hard time keeping up with his older brother. The sky was almost dark and snowflakes pelted them with increasing intensity. He turned around and faced Tom, who was still walking backwards.
“Can you slow down, Tom?” he hollered. “I can’t hardly keep up with you.”
As they were approaching the High Banks, Tom had second thoughts about what they were doing.
“I should have had Mom come back to Sherman’s and pick us up,” he mumbled, “I don’t know if he can make it. Guess I don’t have much choice now. Probably too late to turn around and go back…”
Tom sifted through his thoughts, turned his back to Alex and began walking forwards again, all the while mumbling to himself.