Free Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) by A.P. Matlock Page A

know.”
    “Well, he
did.” Clay shuddered. “Seen him freeze a deer once, before he shot
it. Big buck. Uncle Jim just caught his eye and froze him stiff the
way a snake does a bird.”
    “Must have
been a sight,” Bass said.
    “Yeah.” Clay
fell quiet. Then, “You really do that hoodoo?”
    “I know some
things.” Bass offered the bag of seeds to Clay, who shook his head.
“I ain’t no witchity-man, if that’s what you’re thinking, but I
know some things.” Bass looked at the other man, his eyes narrowed.
His lips folded into a thin smile. “Otherwise, why drive all the
way down to Jackapo County and come fetch me up to Oconee?”
    “That’s the
truth and no lie, I suppose.” Clay turned, looking back at the
house. His daddy had built that house. People in dark clothes
milled around outside, dressed in their Sunday best, but with faces
that were white and strained. “He was supposed to be in the ground
last week.”
    “You must have
known there was bound to be trouble,” Bass said. Clay nodded.
    “I figured.
Momma said there wouldn’t be, but I knew Uncle Jim.” He shook his
head. “Momma liked to see the best in her brother.”
    “Wasn’t no
best to him, then?” Bass said, sliding off the Ford and dropping to
the ground. He stuffed the bag of seeds into the back pocket of his
Levis and dusted his hands clean.
    “Only where
Momma was concerned. The rest of us could go hang.”
    “Hnh.” Bass
looked around. “How many times you tried this, then?”
    “Three.” Clay
said it with finality. “Week before last. Then last week. Then
yesterday…” Clay trailed off. “Every time.” He’d gone to fetch Bass
after the second funeral, and by the time they’d arrived, the third
was in full swing. Until, suddenly, it wasn’t.
    “Tell me,”
Bass said.
    Clay
swallowed, feeling ill. He looked at the house where he’d grown up
and found it unfamiliar. It reeked of something that he couldn’t
put a name to, even at this distance. There was a hum, way far in
the distance, like an active hornet’s nest. And that snake sound,
omnipresent like the dull rush of water from the Whitewater River.
If Bass noticed any of it, it didn’t show.
    “He-ah-and-and-the doctor said it happened sometimes. A body gets
stiff. Bends in awkward ways. So we broke it. Broke his back.”
    “And still?”
Bass said, knowing the answer.
    “Like a damn
jack in the box.” The humor fell flat. “And his eyes...I told her
not to do it until I got back,” he said. Then, more softly, “I told
her.”
    Bass didn’t
reply. Instead, he eyed the house as if sizing it up. “I’ll need
some salt. Some loose iron if you’ve got it. Nails, for preference.
A hammer. A mirror?”
    “I don’t know
as if we’ve got one,” Clay said hesitantly. Bass grunted.
    “Need
something reflective.”
    “Got water.”
Clay looked around and pointed at one of the men in the yard.
“Harold! Go get a bucket of water! Frank! Eugene! Go get some salt
and such!”
    “Water might
work,” Bass said, starting towards the plank steps. He stepped up
onto the porch. It creaked under his weight and the birds stopped
singing. Bass glanced over his shoulder. The gathered Clays were
watching him with wide, shocked eyes. Waiting to see what would
happen.
    At the
windows, the curtains twitched and Bass was reminded of the
undulation of a rattlesnake as it shook its tail-tip.
    He hadn’t
known Jim Clay, but the stories spread far. He had been an old
fashioned sumbitch, hog-mean and quick on the fly. He’d worked for
the Baldwin-Felts for a bit and some change, and some folks said
his momma had seen the Eden serpent in a dream the day he was
born.
    Bass turned as
Harold dropped the bucket of water on the steps and backed away
quickly. Iron, in the form of a bag of nails, and a sack of salt,
were next. Their deliverers backed off just as quickly as Harold
had. Clay watched from the yard.
    “God bless,
John Bass,” he said.
    Bass didn’t
reply.