RATTLESNAKE RODEO – PART 2

3.

Saturday Morning – Sunrise

July 17th, 1984

5:03 A.M.

Jubilee of Life Church

Just before dawn at Jubilee of Life, the boys gather in the blue twilight of the church yard along with a few dozen parishioners and curious town visitors. They are greeted by The Reverend as Jacob ushers them along to the starting line. A rugged wooden cross, nearly ten feet tall has been planted at the edge of the field, hauled up by Jacob himself, same as every year.

Reed lines up with the rest of the boys, looking back at his mother, who stands holding her family bible close to her chest. She smiles proudly as the boy prepares for the rising sun to signal the beginning of the hunt.

An ember glow forms at the top of the cross and the boys look side to side at each other in anticipation.

“Thank you all for joining us on this beautiful day that God has given us. We’re about to start the hunt so if there’s anybody out there who wishes to get up and help these fellas out, please stand up and get ready to go,” says The Reverend. “Anyone?”

A few men join the boys and the Reverend nods a thanks with a smile. Jacob has to turn away a four year old boy whose mother reddens with apologies as she carries him away, scolding him. Tired morning laughs and a few frustrated sighs from scowled faces drift from the crowd.

“Now remember, watch your time because you only have until noon to fill your bag with varmints. Bring them back here and we will count them and help get them in “casa de la serpent.” Jacob says, ending in a grin.

The crowd quiets as the Reverend raises his head, “Let us bow our heads in a moment of silent prayer to take in this glorious morning that God has given us.” After a long minute, he finishes with, “Amen.”

The crowd repeats in unison and many shake bundles of rattle snake rattles bound the the end of sticks. CH-CH-CH-CH-CHHCHHHCHHHHHHHHHH

“Now, get out there boys and make us proud!” says the Reverend with infectious exuberance.

The clapping and rattling of the crowd diminishes as the boys run out into the field. Some take off alone, while others race together in small groups.

Reed and a short, stout boy, known only as “Husky” by the campers, due to the kind of jeans his parents buy him, stick together.

You aren’t fat son, you’re just husky, his mother would tell him while patting his head, you know, like John Candy.

Walking through grass, nearly up to their chests and dodging stinging nettles, the two boys arrive at a tree row. Slowing their pace, they begin talking.

“You realize the snakes won’t be out for a while, don’t you?” asks Husky.

“Yeah, why’s that?” says Reed.

“They only like it in the hot sun, and its way too cold right now.” replies Husky.

“Didn’t you listen to Jacob? He said we should find their dens and wait for them to nose out and then BAM! Catch the bastards.” says Reed.

“I don’t know,” says Husky, “I think it’s going to be a while.”

3.5 – Interlude 2

The Old Orchard Tree

July 17, 1984

6:14 A.M.

After lingering in the field nearest the church, the boys walk through the tree row, chattering with some squirrels and chasing a few rabbits. A robin sings its morning song as they make their way through the mini forest and emerge into a clearing. A few yards off, they see the ruins of a brick and concrete foundation of a house. A massive and ancient apple tree, heavy with unripened, green apples towers above the foundations. Crows sit in its branches, cawing conversationally as they watch the approaching boys.

“Oh, uh, Reed, this is the abandoned orchard farmstead. I didn’t think it was real,” says an awed Husky, biting his bottom lip as he looks up at the tree and then down at the foundation. Husky continues, “It’s one of the stories they told us that first year we came to camp. I figured they made it up to keep us from coming out here when we were just kids.”

“This is where they will be,” says Husky, sliding down the side of the hill into the clearling and releasing a heavy sigh. “Right there, by those big rocks down the hill.”

“They’ll come right out of their hiding places, probably behind those rocks and lay up on top of them to sun themselves.”

“How long is that going to be?” asked Reed.

“Probably an hour or more,” replied Husky.

They walk back up the hill to the ruins of the farmyard, kicking fallen apples and chasing each other up and down the tops of the old foundations trying to avoid falling into cheatgrass and timmothy weed. They approach the gnarled old tree covered in green-gray lichens and moss and nearly fossilized shelf mushrooms like stair steps climb up one side of the trunk. Several crows flee into the blue sky as the boys arrive, their Tom Waits rusty voices following just behind them.

“So, Husky, what was that story about the apples, the uh, the apple orchard?” asked Reed, walking around the base of the gnarly tree.

Husky sits down on the foundation near Reed and looks up, shadows from the tree’s leaves dancing across his face. “It was called something like, The Spooky Old Tree or Rotten Apples, you know something like in the Scary Stories books, the ones with the creepy covers – The Toe, The Haunted House.” says Husky, beginning the story.

Something like 120 years ago, an old farmer died and his son took over this place. Well, he wanted to completely replant the orchard into something that grows faster, some kind of chilli peppers.

Anyway, the old apple trees were all around the same size except for an ancient one that had been there since maybe even before most people settled here. His neighbor across the creek (pronounced crick), who was almost as old as the tree, told him he ought not cut down that old one. It was a relic tree, some kind of thing brought along from ye old country. So people had respect for it, brought it things each fall, like pies and cider they made with its apples. But the new farmer didn’t care about old timers and cut down all the apple trees, including the relic tree. Several neighbors and others watched and some even cried and screamed as his hired men sawed down the relic tree and burn its tree corpse in a pile. That night he’s awakened by some noisenhe thinks its like a freak hail storm or something but when he looks out, it’s apples, bouncing all over the place, like a bunch of baseballs! This is like November, and there are no apples. The next morning, where the relic tree stood are some small pies, a jug of apple cider, and some dried apple rings, a gift from some neighbors to the old tree. The rest of the stumps have each grown a pale root that points toward his house. He pours gasoline on the roots and stumps and burns them to ash. I guess he ate the apple stuff. A great wind comes up and blows the ash over his snow covered fields, turning them all murky gray. By July, he has crazy amounts of peppers and he is glad he chopped down the old trees. The thing is, each red pepper has this weird knot on it, like a single closed eye. Luckily, it’s not a deal breaker for the people at market, and he sells out of his wink eye peppers. Then things get weird. Anybody who ate even a tiny bite of the pepper dreamed about a voice calling from underneath that old tree. People begin visiting the place where the relic tree had been. They leave things for it and listen to the ground, trying to hear the voice from their dreams. Some attempt sleep there but he chases them off. One night, he finally eats a pepper and dreams of the voice beneath the tree. He gets up at like 3 AM and digs around where the tree was. He thinks he might find some bones or treasure like it’s a ghost telling him a secret, but instead, he finds a perfect square of soil with a tiny tree shoot growing in it. He chops it out with his shovel and stomps on it with his old man boot.

The next night, he tries to stay awake, but he can’t do it. He dreams of a voice calling for him beneath the relic tree. In his dream, he’s digging with bleeding hands in the dirt. He wakes up with the sun in his eyes and is actually digging with his bare and bleeding hands beneath the relic apple tree, which has regrown completely overnight.

Years later, some people are driving like a horse cart or something past this place and all that’s here is the big tree and nothing else, well, I guess these bricks. Of course there’s some new old timer neighbor guy that pops up and tells them to never eat the apples from the tree and that after midnight, the apples from the ground fall upward and vanish into the leaves above and that each apple makes the sound of a person knocking from underground.

“Wait, so this is that tree? Did it like eat the farmer?” asked Reed, backing away a few feet from the massive tree.

“Yeah, I think so…I figured he died of fright and the tree just kinda took his body under the ground.” replied Husky.

“Jesus Sunshine Christ, Husk? what the hell kinda story is that?” a pompous young voice calls out.

From behind the apple tree appears a head of dirty blonde hair blowing in the morning breeze. Below the too handsome face, his clothes are better suited to go to the mall than for a snake hunt. Sporting brand new Pepe jeans (a bright red Pepe keychain hooked on a front belt loop) and a crisp navy polo with a tiny alligator, the collar popped just so, is Mick McAllister. Behind him are a tall, skinny boy and another one, a brick of boy, as wide as he is tall, as his mother would say. They were also dressed for yachting and looked ridiculous out here in the country.

Mick hops up on the foundation, a green apple in hand, balancing on one foot but never losing eye contact. He smiles a wolfish grin, takes a bite of the apple and spits the chunk out on the ground in front of Reed.

“You really think this is the same tree?” Mick squints at Husky.

“I don’t know, Mick,” continues Husky, “Kinda spooky, but cool.”

“It’s just a tree!” says Mick, kicking an pile of leaves, branches, and half rotten apples at the tree trunk. “You don’t mind if I stay here with you and help you catch some snakes, do you, Husk?” says Mick, his bright large teeth nearly glowing.

Husky furrows his brow, then softens as Reed says, “Find your own spot, MacAllister!”

Beams of sunlight filter through cottonwood trees behind Reed, he becomes a silhouette for a moment, a shadow of himself.

“It’s ok,” says Husky, “Let him stay. We might as well have all the eyes and ears we can.”

“And let him be the one that gets bitten,” he adds beneath his breath to Reed.

The boys sit, talking and throwing apples as the morning warms up.

“Look down there,” says Husky. “The sun is hitting those big rocks. Let’s go there and see if we can find some snakes.”

The five boys run together, sticks in one hand and bags in the other. They slow as they approach the rocks and spread out.

“What about this way? Let’s head through those trees and see what’s on the other side,” says Reed.

“I don’t think we should,” says Husky, his head turned toward the trees, “that’s the edge of the sandpits.”

“I bet there’s plenty of snakes down there,” says Mick.

“I don’t think so.” says Husky.

“Yeah, let’s go! We haven’t seen anything in those rocks” says Mick, running ahead toward the trees.

4.

Saturday Morning

7:14 A.M.

The Sandpit

Mick stomps his way through the grass, still wet with dew, and disappears into the tree row.

The others hesitate, their eyes searching and meeting with uncertain frowns, and then slowly follow the blonde boy.

Alternating stripes of light and shadow pass across the boys as they make their way through the woods.

Mick moves fast and the other boys follow closely behind. The trees begin to thin and they see Mick stop abruptly.

Before them, nearly a hundred feet deep and a quarter of a mile wide, is a craggy valley with several small ponds breaking up the boulders and piles of gravel.

“What is this place?” asks Reed.

“Old sand pits, they used to mine rock here to use for roads,” says Husky.

“Holy shit, you know just about everything, don’t you, Husk,” says Mick,

Reed stretches out over a rock the size of a refrigerator and looks over the steep edge of the cliff.

“Do you think its safe to be here?” asks Reed.

“Probably not, but that never stopped Mick before,” replies Husky.

Already decending, jumping down from rock to rock, Mick yells, “Don’t be such pansies, this place is awesome. Last one to the bottom’s a rotten eeehhhh…”

Mick never finishes his sentence as the ground collapses beneath his feet. Too late, he jumps back but the rocks keep falling and he slides, somersaulting down the craggy incline.

The other boys run to the edge of the cliff and look down, calling his name.

Below, Mick hears the boys shouting as he grabs at the tall grass and rocks, tumbling down the slope. One sharp green ribbon of a plant slices like a razor along his palms. Hands bleeding, he clutches onto a handful of long grass but can’t hold on. He falls fast. A thunder crack of pain fills his entire body as his knee bends the wrong direction over a rock. He blacks out staring at the bright blue emptiness above him.