Preacher's Boy

"No. You see, they got me hypnotized."

"Hippo—?"

"Hypnotized. It means they got control of my mind. It ... well, it just ain't safe for me to go home right now."

"It ain'?" He gave another look around the icehouse. "R

obbie," he whispered, "I scare'."

"Don't worry, Elliot. They don't have any hold over you. You just run along home and act like you don't know where I am or anything. Then they won't do nothing to you. But if you were to tell—well, I can't say what might happen if you tell."

"Not even Pa or Ma?"

"Nobody," I said. "Especially not Pa or Ma."

"Oh," he said. "I don' want da bad men to hur' you, Robbie."

"You needn't worry about me, Elliot. I'm a smart boy. I'll figure something out. You go along, now. And don't tell anyone you saw me, hear?"

"I won' tell, Robbie." He hesitated a few more seconds, then bolted out the door, leaving it wide open behind him.

9. Willerton's Digestive Remedy

AFTER ELLIOT LEFT, I CLOSED THE DOOR. ONCE AGAIN the darkness nearly suffocated me. I felt my way around the wall to the stool. With britches on, I dared to sit down. What was I to do? I couldn't stay in the icehouse, even if I'd had a wish to. Elliot could hardly be trusted to keep my hiding place a secret for very long.

The cabin. Only Willie and I ever went there. Zeb and Vile were tramps. They'd probably swallowed their filthy stew and gone on their way by now. Jeezums crow, I hoped they had.

I made for the eastern hills. I felt safer running through the woods, at least until I was well on the other side of town. I came down from the woods a mile or so north of the town limits, still on the run.

Mostly, I was just running to keep from facing the music. If Mr. Weston had already "come calling," as Elliot said, then it wasn't a social visit. Pa, poor Pa. He tried so hard to help me get hold of my temper. It wasn't his fault I was such a hothead. But Mr. Weston would blame him, I felt sure. A preacher is supposed to keep his own children in line, clean and good, an example to other men's children. I was sure Willie had fled to keep from having to tell what he knew. Oh, drat it all.

Well, it wouldn't be any mystery to Pa why I hadn't come home for dinner or supper even, maybe. He'd reckon I was lying low for a spell. I figured it would be true dark before he started to worry. And as soon as he began to fret, Elliot would tell him I was in the icehouse, which he would believe, and that I'd been kidnapped, which he wouldn't (would he?). Anyhow, he wouldn't know to look for me at the cabin. That was Willie's and my secret, and Willie was no snitch.

If I stayed away long enough, everyone would forget how mad they were at me and take to fretting over my welfare. All I had to do was stay gone overnight, or at the most a couple of nights, and the whole town would organize a search. Even the Westons would forget how awful I had been and wonder if I was dead or lying out in the woods, calling faintly for help which never came.

Maybe, if I could stay out of sight long enough, they'd have a funeral for me, like they did for Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. I'd like that. I'd like it even better if I could peek in on the proceedings and hear people say what a good fellow I was—just a little mischievous, as befitting a red-blooded American boy, but in reality a prince of a fellow, a credit, all things considered, to his grieving parents.

But what if they were still mad at Pa? For not believing enough in Hell and believing too much in monkeys? Well, if I was dead, they'd have to forgive him, a man who'd lost his only real son. Had he lost Elliot, they'd have said it was all for the best, like they do when any maimed or suffering creature dies. If he lost me, though, they'd talk about "lost promise" and "untimely demise" and "cut off before his prime"—that sort of pitiful phrase. Yes. It would truly elevate Pa's standing both in the community and the church if folks was to see him suffering a bit.

Would he cry for me? Would he? I mustn't think about that.

There's a wild raspberry patch growing alongside the tracks north of town. With all the sun we'd had that summer, the berries were already ripe. I stopped and stuffed my mouth with the sweet red fruit. I didn't even bother to pick off the little green bugs that like raspberries as much as I do. Now and then I got a bitter taste of one in a mouthful, but I didn't care. The berries took the warmth of the sun right to my cold belly. Or was it my cold heart?

If I'd had anything to carry berries in, I would have taken some with me to the cabin for later, but I didn't, so I just ate until my belly gave a warning pang that I had overdone it. Then, bellyache or no, I left the tracks, crossed the Tyler road, and forded the North Branch. I climbed the west hill a lot more cheerfully than I had come down the east.

There was no smoke curling up from the cabin's crumbling chimney, which I took to be a good sign—until I went inside. The iron kettle, complete with chicken bones, head, and feet, was still on the cold hearth, as was Zeb's ragged quilt. From the smell, I guessed it was the same old chicken I'd met the week before. There was no sign of either Zeb or Vile.

At least I'd have a chance to setde in. I went into the woods and broke off some pine boughs, stripped the branches off the tough limbs, and made myself a bed, as far away from Zeb's as I could get without moving under the broken part of the roof. I lay down to try it out. A pine-bough bed is not nearly as soft as it sounds in books. The needles poked my body and tickled and pricked my cheek. I rolled over on my back and pulled my shirt collar up to protect my neck. After a while, lying there listening to the birds and squirrels and the rustling of the breeze in the leaves, I fell asleep.

"What're you doing here?" Vile was leaning over me, a couple of small black-nosed dace dangling in front of my nose.

"You been using my pole," I said, secretly glad she'd caught nothing but dace with it.

She snorted. "Everything's yourn, ain't it?"

I sat up, pushing the fish out of my face. "Where's Zeb?"

"Mr. Finch to you."