Free The Glacier by Jeff Wood Page B

old clunky piano slide and pick away at the end-of-days Appalachian melody. The furious devil’s music fills the living room, melding with the extensive folk art collection hanging from the walls.
    Ezekiel Crawfish is a vintage picker with a dirt-farmer’s lean and handsome countenance. He sees Sam, sets his guitar aside, and rises to greet his friend. They shake hands warmly, shouting at each other over the loud music.
    ZEKE
    Howdy, Sam.
    SAMSON
    Zeke!
    ZEKE
    How are ya?
    SAMSON
    Just fine. Just fine. You?
    ZEKE
    Oh, hanging in here. Smoke?
    SAMSON
    Nah. Thanks. Don’t use ’em. When the wrecking balls coming in?
    Zeke lights a cigarette.
    ZEKE
    Anytime now.
    SAMSON
    How long you all gonna play?
    ZEKE
    â€™Til the fat lady sings!
    SAMSON
    Well. This should keep you going.
    Samson pulls the brown paper bag out of his pocket and hands it to him.
    ZEKE
    Oh, we thank you kindly, Sam. Sure does take the edge off.
    SAMSON
    Whatever I can do.
    ZEKE
    Appreciate it.
    There’s an awkward pause. The music carries on around them.
    SAMSON
    Where’s Charlie, Zeke?
    ZEKE
    Ah hell, Sam.
    SAMSON
    I know. I know how hard this is. But I believe he’s ready.
    ZEKE
    Oh he’s ready. It’s the rest of us.
    SAMSON
    Let’s round it up. He’ll have my hide if I keep him waiting.
    The boys are playing hard and fast on that living room jamboree.
    Out behind the house sits an old barn, big and white like a snowy owl in the night.
    The barn doors are slid open and golden straw-colored light spills over Sam, Zeke, the crowd of musicians, and the large family household as they enter the barn and gather with their instruments.
    At the center of the barn, a white-haired old man sits in a wheelchair in a pool of light. Charlie’s eyes are wide and wet. His face is open, gentle, and afraid.
    Sam approaches him and speaks to him privately in a low voice. Charlie nods several times, and Sam backs away.
    Charlie pulls a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolds the paper and raises an artificial larynx device to his throat. He reads his poem in a robotic, electronic voice.
    CHARLIE
    (robotic voice)
    Men. The land is gone. The land that you dreamed on. The land that was dreaming you. And presently I will take leave too. But my love will not perish. Dear family, sweet music. I love you. Oh how I love you.
    CROWD
    We love you too, Charlie.
    CHARLIE
    (robotic voice)
    All right, you can bring her out now.
    From the back of the barn, a white horse is led out and brought to stand in the light behind old Charlie. The horse is stunning, a smooth pearl, a real beauty. She nods and shivers her coat.
    Charlie looks to Sam.
    CHARLIE
    (robotic voice)
    Sam.
    Sam steps forward again. He leans over Charlie and rolls up his shirtsleeve. He wraps his arm with rubber tubing. He produces a syringe of Quicksilver. He leans over Charlie again for a moment and then he backs away.
    Charlie waits with his head down. He jerks a little. And then he looks up quickly, gazing out, above and beyond the men, his eyes filled with light. He raises the speaking device to his throat again.
    CHARLIE
    (robotic voice)
    It’s beautiful.
    He nods his head in short quivers as if to say, “Okay, okay, okay.” Samson and three other men move to his side and whisper a count. They pick him up and move him to the horse. As gently as they can, they lift Charlie onto the mare while another man holds her by the harness and keeps her calm. They lay Charlie onto her back.
    The mare shifts nervously and Charlie strokes her with his hand, his head lying over her shoulder, whispering.
    CHARLIE
    (to the horse, a whisper)
    It’s okay.
    He cries a little. Then stops suddenly—
    Blood pours from Charlie’s nose, running profusely down the horse’s shoulder, bright red across her ivory coat.
    A tone cuts through the barn: The strings of a guitar begin humming and droning, drawn by some current in the air, a fingerless raga