Bestiary! Page 12

  Then I looked at Rafe Enoch. He stood over me like a sycamore tree over a wood shed. He was the almightiest big thing I'd ever seen on two legs.

  Eight foot high, Oakman Dillon had said truly, and he was thick-made in keeping. Shoulders wide enough to fill a barn door, and legs like tree trunks with fringe-sided buckskin pants on them, and his big feet wore moccasin shoes of bear's hide with the fur still on. His shirt, sewed together of pelts—fox, coon, the like of that—hadn't any sleeves, and hung open from that big chest of his that was like a cotton bale. Topping all, his face put you in mind of the full moon with a yellow beard, but healthy-looking brown, not pale like the moon. Big and dark eyes, and through the yellow beard his teeth grinned like big white sugar lumps.

  "Maybe I ought to charge you to look at me," he said.

  I remembered how he'd struck a man dead for wanting him in a show, and I looked elsewhere. First, naturally, at Page Jarrett on the rock spur. The wind from the clouds waved her brown hair like a flag, and fluttered her blue skirt around her drawn-up feet. Then I turned and looked at the broad space above the falls.

  From there I could see there was a right much of higher country, and just where I stood with Rafe Enoch was a big shelf, like a lap, with slopes behind it. In the middle of the flat space showed a pond of water, running out past us to make the falls. On its edge stood Rafe Enoch's house, built wigwam-style of big old logs leaned together and chinked between with clay over twigs. No trees to amount to anything on the shelf—just one behind the wigwam-house, and to its branches hung joints that looked like smoke meat.

  "You hadn't played that guitar so clever, maybe I mightn't have saved you," said Rafe Enoch's thunder voice.

  "Saved?" I repeated him.

  "Look." His big club of a finger pointed to the falls, then to those down-hugged clouds. "When they get together, what happens?"

  Just at the ledge lip, where the falls went over, stones looked halfway washed out. A big shove of water would take them out the other half, and the whole thing pour down on the Notch.

  "Why you doing this to the folks?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "John, this is one rain I never called for." He put one big pumpkin-sized fist into the palm of his other hand. "I can call for rain, sure, but some of it comes without me. I can't start it or either stop it, I just know it's coming. I've known about this for days. It'll drown out Sky Notch like a rat nest."

  "Why didn't you try to tell them?"

  "I tried to tell her." His eyes cut around to where Page Jarrett hung to the pointy rock, and his stool-leg fingers raked his yellow beard. "She was walking off by herself, alone. I know how it feels to be alone. But when I told her, she called me a liar. I brought her up here to save her, and she cried and fought me." A grin. "She fought me better than any living human I know. But she can't fight me hard enough."

  "Can't you do anything about the storm?" I asked him to tell.

  "Can do this." He snapped his big fingers, and lightning crawled through the clouds over us. It made me turtle my neck inside my shirt collar. Rafe Enoch never twitched his eyebrow.

  "Rafe," I said, "you might could persuade the folks. They're not your size, but they're human like you."

  "Them?" He roared his laugh. "They're not like me, nor you aren't like me, either, though you're longer-made than common. Page yonder, she looks to have some of the old Genesis giant blood in her. That's why I saved her alive."

  "Genesis giant blood," I repeated him, remembering the Book, sixth chapter of Genesis. " 'There were giants in the earth in those days.' "

  "That's the Whole truth," said Rafe. "When the sons of God took wives of the daughters of men—their children were the mighty men of old, the men of renown. That's not exact quote, but it's near enough."

  He sat down on a rock, near about as tall sitting as I was standing. "Ary giant knows he was born from the sons of the gods," he said. "My name tells it, John."

  I nodded, figuring it. "Rafe—Raphah, the giant whose son was Goliath, Enoch—"

  "Or Anak," he put in. "Remember the sons of Anak, and them scared-out spies sent into Canaan? They was grasshoppers in the sight of the sons of Anak, in more ways than just size, John." He sniffed. "They got scared back into the wilderness for forty years. And Goliath!"

  "David killed him," I dared remind Rafe.

  "By a trick. A slingshot stone. Else he'd not lasted any longer than that."

  A finger-snap, and lightning winged over us like a hawk over a chicken run. I tried not to scrouch down.

  "What use to fight little old human men," he said, "when you got the sons of the gods in your blood?"

  I allowed he minded me of Strap Buckner with that talk. "Who's Strap Buckner? Why do I mind you of him?" I picked the guitar, I sang the song:

  Strap Buckner he was called, he was more than eight foot tall,

  And he walked like a mountain among men.

  He was good and he was great, and the glorious Lone Star State

  Will never look upon his like again.

  "Strap Buckner had the strength of ten lions," I said, "and he used it as ten lions. Scorned to fight ordinary folks, so he challenged old Satan himself, skin for skin, on the banks of the Brazos, and if Satan hadn't fought foul—"

  "Another dirty fighter!" Rafe got up from where he sat, quick as quick for all his size. "Foul or not, Satan couldn't whup me!"

  "'Might be he couldn't," I judged, looking at Rafe. "But anyway, the Notch folks never hurt you. Used to give you stuff to eat."

  "Don't need their stuff to eat," he said, the way you'd think that was the only argument. He waved his hand past his wigwam-house. "Down yonder is a bunch of hollows, where ain't no human man been, except maybe once the Indians. I hoe some corn there, some potatoes. I pick wild salad greens here and yonder. I kill me a deer, a bear, a wild hog—ain't no human man got nerve to face them big wild hogs, but I chunk them with a rock or I fling a sharp ash sapling, and what I fling at I bring down. In the pond here I spear me fish. Don't need their stuff to eat, I tell you."

  "Need it or not, why let them drown out?"

  His face turned dark, the way you'd think smoke drifted over it.

  "I can't abide little folks' little eyes looking at me, wondering themselves about me, thinking I'm not rightly natural."

  He waited for what I had to say, and it took nerve to say it.

  "But you're not a natural man, Rafe. You've allowed that yourself, you say you come from different blood. Paul Bunyan thought the same thing."

  He grinned his big sugar-lump teeth at me. Then: "Page Jarrett," he called, "better come off that rock before the rain makes it slippy and you fall off. I'll help you—"

  "You stay where you are," she called back. "Let John help."

  I went to the edge of that long drop down. The wind blew from some place—maybe below, maybe above or behind or before. I reached out my guitar, and Page Jarrett crawled to where she could lay hold, and that way I helped her to the solid standing. She stood beside me, inches taller, and she put a burning mean look on Rafe Enoch. He made out he didn't notice.

  "Paul Bunyan," he said, after what I'd been saying. "I've heard tell his name—champion logger in the northern states, wasn't he?"

  "Champion logger," I said. "Bigger than you, I reckon—"

  "Not bigger!" thundered Rafe Enoch.

  "Well, as big."

  "Know ary song about him?"

  "Can't say there's been one made. Rafe, you say you despise to be looked on by folks."

  "Just by little folks, John. Page Jarrett can look on me if she relishes to."

  Quick she looked off, and drew herself up proud. Right then she appeared to be taller than what Mr. Oakman Dillon had reckoned her, and a beauty-looking thing she was, you hear what I say, gentlemen. I cut my eyes up to the clouds; they hung down over us, loose and close, like the roof of a tent. I could feel the closeness around me, the way you feel water when you've waded up to the line of your mouth.

  "How soon
does the rain start falling?" I asked Rafe.

  "Can fall ary time now," said Rafe, pulling a grass-stalk to bite in his big teeth. "Page's safe off that rock point, it don't differ me a shuck when that rain falls."

  "But when?" I asked again. "You know."

  "Sure I know." He walked toward the pond, and me with him. I felt Page Jarrett's grape-green eyes digging our backs. The pond water was shiny tarry black from reflecting the clouds. "Sure," he said, "I know a right much. You natural human folks, you know so pitiful little I'm sorry for you."

  "Why not teach us?" I wondered him, and he snorted like a big mean horse.

  "Ain't the way it's reckoned to be, John. Giants are figured stupid. Remember the tales? Your name's John—do you call to mind a tale about a man named Jack, long back in time?"

  "Jack the Giant Killer," I nodded. "He trapped a giant in a hole—"

  "Cormoran," said Rafe. "Jack dug a pit in front of his door. And Blunderbore he tricked into stabbing himself open with a knife. But how did them things happen? He blew a trumpet to tole Cormoran out, and he sat and ate at Blunderbore's table like a friend before tricking him to death." A louder snort. "More foul fighting, John. Did you come up here to be Jack the Giant Killer? Got some dirty tricks? If that's how it is, you done drove your ducks to the wrong puddle."

  "More than a puddle here," I said, looking at the clouds and then across the pond. "See yonder, Rafe, where the water edge comes above that little slanty slope. If it was open, enough water could run off to keep the Notch from flooding."

  "Could be done," he nodded his big head, "if you had machinery to pull the rocks out. But they're bigger than them fall rocks, they ain't half washed away to begin with. And there ain't no machinery, so just forget it. The Notch washes out, with most of the folks living in it—all of them, if the devil bids high enough. Sing me a song."

  I swept the strings with my thumb. "Thinking about John Henry," I said, half to myself. "He wouldn't need a machine to open up a drain-off place yonder."

  "How'd he do it?" asked Rafe.

  "He had a hammer twice the size ary other man swung," I said. "He drove steel when they cut the Big Bend Tunnel through Cruze Mountain. Out-drove the steam drill they brought to compete him out of his job."

  "Steam drill," Rafe repeated me, the way you'd think he was faintly recollecting the tale. "They'd do that—ordinary size folks, trying to work against a giant. How big was John Henry?"

  "Heard tell he was the biggest man ever in Virginia." "Big as me?"

  "Maybe not quite. Maybe just stronger."

  "Stronger!"

  I had my work cut out not to run from the anger in Rafe

  Enoch's face.

  "Well," I said, "he beat the steam drill...."

  John Henry said to his captain,

  "A man ain't nothing but a man,

  But before I let that steam drill run me down, I'll die with this hammer in my hand.... "

  "He'd die trying," said Rafe, and his ears were sort of cocked forward, the way you hear elephants do to listen. "He'd die winning," I said, and sang the next verse:

  John Henry drove steel that long day through, The steam drill failed by his side.

  The mountain was high, the sun was low,

  John he laid down his hammer and he died... .

  "Killed himself beating the drill!" and Rafe's pumpkin fist banged into his other palm. "Reckon I could have beat it and lived!"

  I was looking at the place where the pond could have a drain-off.

  "No," said Rafe. "Even if I wanted to, I don't have no hammer twice the size of other folks' hammers."

  A drop of rain fell on me. I started around the pond.

  "Where you going?" Rafe called, but I didn't look back. Stopped beside the wigwam-house and put my guitar inside. It was gloomy in there, but I saw his home-made stool as high as a table, his table almost chin high to a natural man, a bed woven of hickory splits and spread with bear and deer skins to be the right bed for Og, King of Bashan, in the Book of Joshua. Next to the door I grabbed up a big pole of hickory, off some stacked firewood.

  "Where you going?" he called again.

  I went to where the slope started. I poked my hickory between two rocks and started to pry. He laughed, and rain sprinkled down.

  "Go on, John," he granted me. "Grub out a sluiceway there. I like to watch little scrabbly men work. Come in the house, Page, we'll watch him from in there."

  I couldn't budge the rocks from each other. They were big—like trunks or grain sacks, and must have weighed in the half-tons. They were set in there, one next to the other, four-five of them holding the water back from pouring down that slope. I heaved on my hickory till it bent like a bow.

  "Come on," said Rafe again, and I looked around in time to see him put out his shovel hand and take her by the wrist. Gentlemen, the way she slapped him with her other hand it made me jump with the crack.

  I watched, knee deep in water. He put his hand to his gold-bearded cheek and his eye-whites glittered in the rain.

  "If you was a man," he boomed down at Page, "I'd slap you dead."

  "Do it!" she blazed him back. "I'm a woman, and I don't fear you or ary overgrown, sorry-for-himself giant ever drew breath!"

  With me standing far enough off to forget how little I was by them, they didn't seem too far apart in size. Page was like a small-made woman facing up to a sizeable man, that was all.

  "If you was a man—" he began again.

  "I'm no man, nor neither ain't you a man!" she cut off. "Don't know if you're an ape or a bull-brute or what, but you're no man! John's the only man here, and I'm helping him! Stop me if you dare!"

  She ran to where I was. Rain battered her hair into a brown tumble and soaked her dress snug against her fine proud strong body. Into the water she splashed.

  "Let me pry," and she grabbed the hickory pole. "I'll pry up and you tug up, and maybe—"

  I bent to grab the rock with my hands. Together we tried. Seemed to me the rock stirred a little, like the drowsy sleeper in the old song. Dragging at it, I felt the muscles strain and crackle in my shoulders and arms.

  "Look out!" squealed Page. "Here he comes!"

  Up on the bank she jumped again, with the hickory ready to club at him. He paid her no mind, she stooped down toward where I was.

  "Get on out of there!" he bellowed, the way I've always reckoned a buffalo bull might do. "Get out!"

  "But—but—" I was wheezing. "Somebody's got to move this rock—"

  "You ain't budging it ary mite!" he almost deafened me in the ear. "Get out and let somebody there can do something!"

  He grabbed my arm and snatched me out of the water, so sudden I almost sprained my fingers letting go the rock. Next second he jumped in, with a splash like a jolt-wagon going off a bridge. His big shovelly hands clamped the sides of the rock, and through the falling rain I saw him heave.

  He swole up like a mad toad-frog. His patchy fur shirt split down the middle of his back while those muscles humped under his skin. His teeth flashed out in his beard, set hard together.

  Then, just when I thought he'd bust open, that rock came out of its bed, came up in the air, landing on the bank away from where it'd been.

  "I swear, Rafe—" I began to say.

  "Help him," Page put in. "Let's both help."

  We scrabbled for a hold on the rock, but Rafe hollered us away, so loud and sharp we jumped back like scared dogs. I saw that rock quiver, and cracks ran through the rain-soaked dirt around it. Then it came up on end, the way you'd think it had hinges, and Rafe got both arms around it and heaved it clear. He laughed, with the rain wet in his beard.

  Standing clear where he'd told her to stand, Page pointed to the falls' end.

  Looked as if the rain hadn't had to put down but just a little bit. Those loose rocks trembled and shifted in their places. They were ready to go. Then Rafe saw what we saw.

  "Run, you two!" he howled about that racketty storm. "Run, run—quick!"

&n
bsp; I didn't tarry to ask the reason. I grabbed Page's arm and we ran toward the falls. Running, I looked back past my elbow.

  Rafe had straightened up, straddling among the rocks by the slope. He looked into the clouds, that were almost

  resting on his shaggy head, and both his big arms lifted and his hands spread and then their fingers snapped. I could hear the snaps—Whop! Whop! like two pistol shots.

  He got what he called for, a forked stroke of lightning, straight and hard down on him like a fish-gig in the hands of the Lord's top angel. It slammed down on Rafe and over and around him, and it shook itself all the way from rock to clouds. Rafe Enoch in its grip lit up and glowed, the way you'd think he'd been forge-hammered out of iron and heated red in a furnace to temper him.

  I heard the almightiest tearing noise I ever could call for. I felt the rock shelf quiver all the way to where we'd stopped dead to watch. My thought was, the falls had torn open and the Notch was drowning.

  But the lightning yanked back to where it had come from. It had opened the sluiceway, and water flooded through and down slope, and Rafe had fallen down while it poured and puddled over him.

  "He's struck dead!" I heard Page say over the rain. "No," I said back.

  For Rafe Enoch was on his knees, on his feet, and out of that drain-off rush, somehow staggering up from the flat sprawl where the lightning had flung him. His knees wobbled and bucked, but he drew them up straight and mopped a big muddy hand across his big muddy face.

  He came walking toward us, slow and dreamy-moving, and by now the rain rushed down instead of fell down. It was like what my old folks used to call raining tomcats and hoe handles. I bowed my head to it, and made to pull Page toward Rafe's wigwam; but she wouldn't pull, she held where she was, till Rafe came up with us. Then, all three, we went together and got into the tight, dark shelter of the wigwam-house, with the rain and wind battering the outside of it.

  Rafe and I sat on the big bed, and Page on a stool, looking small there. She wrung the water out of her hair. "You all right?" she inquired Rafe.

  I looked at him. Between the drain-off and the wigwam, rain had washed off that mud that gaumed all over him. He was wet and clean, with his patch-pelt shirt hanging away from his big chest and shoulders in soggy rags.