Scary Creek (6 page)

“The wall is where the property line begins.”

It was, to say the very least, without equal. The
stones were composed of round interlocking blocks of gneiss mortised tightly
into place by some adept of a distant culture. The fruit of man’s labor was
finite, unequal to the test of time and bound to crumble. This wall
however was destined to endure
. It also looked vaguely familiar.

 Virgil resumed his drive down the narrow gravel road.
Inside and beyond the wall was a tangled mosaic of vines, brush and trees.
Rabbits would have had trouble negotiating that throttle of jungle green
vegetation.

“That wall is impressive,” I said. “Not a stone out of
place. If the house is built like the wall, I’m sold.”

“The front yard is not as wildly overgrown,” Virgil
said. “It once consisted of a few acres of well-groomed grass and flowers. Even
though her eyes were failing, Elinore liked to get out and smell the roses.
Statues and markers helped her get around the yard.

“Samuel Ryder built the wall to keep her from
wandering off the grounds and into Scary Creek, or so I’ve been told.”

Through the trees, the house came partially into view.
It was a magnificent old structure, more like a temple than a house. Crumbling
statuary and trees with a hundred years growth also surrounded it. Several
small ponds were choked with water lilies and decaying cattails, while old
flowerbeds were overgrown with weeds and bracken. In the middle of the cobbled drive,
new growth had taken root and concealed the house from view. It was there that
a black subtle hole sucked the surrounding light and energy into its dark
vortex.

“This place is not slightly overgrown, it’s a jungle,”
I said, and the voices of tribal people living in Asian jungles echoed in my
mind.

“
There are
ghosts of kings and queens and elephants back there, where the tigers howl and
gibbons swing from bough to bough.”

Outside the gate, there was nothing too terribly
formidable about the place. In fact, there was something fragrant and
stimulating in the air, something that made me keenly aware of the place. My
spirit soared toward the house like an errant child responding to the call of a
parent, eager and anxious to explore the property further.

“It’s an intriguing piece of property!” I said. “I
wonder how many different kinds of hymenoptera live there.”

“Kinds of what?” Virgil replied.

“Hymenoptera, I’m an amateur myrmecologist.”

“What is that … some kind of religious belief?”

“No, it has to do with watching ants at work and
play.”

“Ants?”

“Wood ants in particular: rufa and fusca.”

“A happily wedded couple?” Virgil inquired.

“Two different types closely related.”

“I imagine there are enough here to keep you
occupied.”

“The trees are green and healthy,” I said. “That’s a
good sign.”

“What’s that got to do with ants?” Virgil asked.

“Everything is related,” I said. “Not just Earth, wind,
water and rain, but everything from the birds in the top branches of the trees
to the grubs in the ground. The trees look healthy because the ants are taking
proper care of the aphids on the leaves.”

“I don’t understand,” Virgil said.

“Aphids produce a secretion called ‘honeydew.’ It
makes up about 50 percent of the ants’ diet. If ants do not harvest the
honeydew, it collects on leaves. A sooty mold forms and turns the leaves black,
lowering the photosynthetic power and the general health of the tree.”

“I see you’ve spent some time with the little
buggers.”

“They are not buggers,” I said. “They’re hymenoptera.”

Chapter Four

  We parked beside the wall, climbed out of the car
and stood outside the wrought iron gate gazing in. The paint had scaled on the
lance-like pickets and covered them with rusty cankers. The thick carpet of
dead leaves and the proximity of the creek kept everything damp. In this moist climate,
everything made of wood was destined to die an early death of moldy
disintegration.

Two elaborately detailed birdhouses, scale models of
the mansion, crowned the stone pillars that anchored the gate. Stone, brick,
and a slate roof peered through the trees. From what I could make of the house,
it had successfully weathered the inclement elements and encroaching
wilderness.

“Houses were built like temples in those days,” Virgil
said.

All that was lacking was the raucous chatter of
Capuchin monkeys, birds with bright plumage…and snakes.

“They’re in there,” Virgil said, and when I turned to
meet his eyes, he added, “Snakes, lots of ‘em; watch where you put your feet.”

I wanted to see the house, inside and out. As if he
had read my thoughts, Virgil shook his head; he was like a buffalo standing at
a watering hole driving away annoying flies.

“I can’t let you go in there alone,” he said. A faint
trace of sulfur seared my nostrils. I saw a change occur in Virgil’s face; it darkened
as if with dust and his eyes widened.

“Then go with me,” I replied, focusing and re-focusing
my eyes. The illusive odor and the sudden changes vanished.

Conviction drained from his eyes. He fished the key
from his pocket and pitched it wordlessly. I snatched it out of the air.

“I can’t stop you from going in,” he said, “but I wish
you would reconsider.”

I had stood at the edge of jungle haunts in the past
and considered my reasons for going in; they were always preferable to staying
out and living with regret.

“I own the place,” I said. “What choice do I have?  Maybe
second thoughts are for those who give a damn, or never wanted something bad
enough.”

He shoved both hands into his pockets and stared at
the ground. In his camouflage fatigues, he looked like a well-rooted plant

“I feel bound to tell you, I think it’s a mistake.”

Mistakes were so elementary to my way of life they
hardly seemed worth thinking about. I examined the key and the padlocked gate,
waiting for one to invite the other.

“You’ll have to climb the wall,” he said. “I don’t
have a gate key. It hasn’t been opened in a dozen years.”

 The wall was only four feet high. I boosted myself
up, legs dangling, and sat on the ledge.

“You will wait?” I asked. My concern was not for
safety, but for the convenience of riding back to town.

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. “If you’re not back by
then, I’ll call the sheriff.”

Responsibility is so easy to delegate. If we feel
powerless, we ignore or give the problem to others, a universal response. I
swung both legs over the wall and dropped onto the ground. Stunned by my haste,
Virgil tottered backwards.

“My God, you’re going in!”

Nothing so far had been as frightening as the sound of
his voice at that moment. I made a snickering sound intended to be a
contemptuous laugh, but it caught in my throat and I gagged.

 I could feel my toes eager to take root in the soft
earth. Virgil ran to the wall, removed the machete from its sheath and tossed
it flat in the air to me.

“You might need this,” he said. “That brush and cane
in there looks thick.”

Within the confines of the wall, I could see that
animals frequently traveled across the land. Footprints and pathways bisected
the yard. I concluded that if some degree of primitive innocence was required
to survive in such an environment, I stood as good a chance as any creature of
the wild.

It was an intensely beautiful day. The air felt warm
and gentle, while the setting sun tried to angle its way through the branches
of the trees. An eye-slaking blueness in the sky thrilled my senses to look at
it.

 I felt confident as I crept slowly and carefully up
the overgrown drive to the house. I followed a clearly marked path through
weeds neatly cut by the hoofs of deer and other small animals. For hundreds of
years, the dark earth had been recording the prints of everything that had passed
this way. As I penetrated deeper into the estate, into the cool shade of
overhanging trees, the air filled with curiously sweet odors emanating from local
trees and plants.

 Ruined remnants of marble statues, stone benches,
ponds, trellises and a crumbling gazebo peeked discretely through the thick and
tangled growth. They were all that remained of a lost way of life. The statues
may have survived the ravages of weather, but not the mischief of man.

The deer path left the drive not far from the front of
the house and cut a wide circle toward the back. It appeared as if even the
animals were trying to avoid passing too close to the house.  Little dead birds
and tiny fragmented skeletons of other small creatures were lying on the ground.
The entire area, I realized, was deathly silent. Such an area should have been
bustling with bird and insect chatter.

I stepped out of the narrow rut and picked my way
through the trees, vines and greenbrier to the front of the house. Its size was
not its most impressive feature. It had a steep roof, pointed arches and a
porch with fancy wooden balustrades. The paint on the banisters and trim had
weathered away, but the wood was still intact with no signs of mildew or decay.
The stone foundation was solid and unbroken. Ensuing rows of bricks, one atop
the other, were positioned with a master craftsman’s touch.

Generations of clinging vines had worked their way
into and through the mortar and died. Birds, which had once nested among the
vines, had abandoned them and left it looking like a vacant slum.

It was an incredible house, a monument to its builder,
but it would take money to restore the outside to the splendor it had known. The
disreputable hovels however surrounding the land on both sides of the road
would continue to diminish its value. It was a bargain and it would be foolish
to ignore.

I heard a door slam, which I thought was peculiar
under the circumstances. The sound sent a chill rattling up the back of my
neck. It was as if whoever occupied the house were announcing my arrival. A
foolish notion, but the house did seem to awaken. Myra believed I had a rare
gift for waking sleeping houses that were better off if they were not disturbed.

The trees began to stir anxiously and the air became cool
with a blend of unpleasant odors, especially those emanating from houses that
stood empty too long. The sun vanished behind a cloud passing above that
primeval wilderness. My purpose, I decided would be better served if I returned
tomorrow. The sun’s rays would more easily penetrate the shadows and
overhanging leaves around the house.

As I prepared to leave, I saw something from the
corner of my eye. I turned and faced a serpent dangling from a limb. For a
moment, I thought I was once again in Cambodia. We gazed at each other, its
forked tongue savoring currents in the air. My fear, I knew, was filling its
olfactories with a tantalizing fragrance. Sweat had begun to seep from my pores
and my fingers tightened around the machete.

The serpent’s head swayed to the left. I swung the
knife quickly with one
smooth
stroke. The head separated from the body and fell to
the ground. Blood was glistening on the knife, but the decapitated head
vanished in the tall grass. Its scaly patchwork body still dangled from the
tree, but turned quickly into a fungus-laden branch.

My adrenals continued to infuse my body with alacrity.
I bolted abruptly from the house. I felt a sting on the lobe of my ear. I ran
through the tall weeds and brush waving the machete over my head, segmenting
leafy limbs and vines. I hit the narrow deer path in a smooth stride and
exploded through the brush.

It felt good to run and leave doubt and anxiety behind.
I had
l
ot
s
of practice running from things: angry women, jobs I detested,
responsibilities of all kinds. I could on occasion sense the presence of things
with a desire to restrain or change
me
.

I signaled Virgil with a whistle. He made several
inept movements,
as
if he were looking for some place to hide
.
He pulled the
.45 clumsily from his
jacket pocket and pointed it in the air. After a moment of indecision, he
climbed back into the car and fired up the engine. I vaulted, with the help of
one arm, and swung both legs over the wall.

“What’s wrong? Why are you running?”

His heart, I knew, was beating faster than mine was. There
was a note of panic in his voice and his eyes were wild. I breathed deeply and
laughed outrageously; the kind of laughter that comes when one is too confused
to do anything else.

“It’s a fantastic house!” I cried out, feeling inside
the distinct pleasure of cheating fate.

“Did you go inside?” He asked.

“No, but I killed a snake.” I showed him the blade of
the knife, but the blood was gone, wiped clean by the limbs and vines I had
hacked to pieces while making my escape.