Free Manly Wade Wellman - John the Balladeer 05 by The Voice of the Mountain (v1.1) Page A

rain," he said, a-leading me along. “I can bring it if we need
it, stop it if we don’t. I can do many things."
                 “Indians
can bring rain, off in the Southwest," I said.
                 “Many
people can do it. A man named McDonald, people called him Colonel Stingo, could
bring rain if the crops needed it, keep rain away if
racetracks had to be dry. He’s in a book by A. J. Liebling."
                 “I
know a Tombs McDonald."
                 “This
was a different McDonald."
                 Ahead
of us showed yellow light. Side by side we came into a big cave with smooth
rock walls and ceiling, the size of a pretty fair sitting room. At the center
of the ceiling the yellow light came from a sort of creamy globe. There was a
heavy dark blue carpet on the floor, and on the walls were fixed shelves,
stacked with all sorts of stuff, including a row of books. I made out two
doorways at the back, one shut with a green curtain the color of weeds in a
pond, the other curtained with blood-red cloth. In another wall was what looked
like a window, dull and gray. There were stout-made
armchairs of shiny dark wood, with cushions the blue color of the carpet. From
the ceiling in a back comer hung down a rope, braided of brown leather. Right
at the middle of all this was a table made of red-stained wooden planks across
trestles, and on it stood shiny clay cups and a shiny clay jug.
                 “Comfortable,
I promised you,” came Harpe’s deep voice. “Simple
comfort is enough for me, I don't demand the sybaritic. Know what ‘sybaritic'
means, John?”
                 “Yes,”
I said. “I know what that means.”
                 He chuckled his chuckle. “You’re well informed, John,
articulate. I’m glad to find that in you. Now then, drop all that gear you
carry and draw up a chair to the table, and let’s have a drink and some talk.”
                 I
put my things against a wall and drew up a chair, and so did he, and we sat down. He crossed a leg over his other knee. I saw that his trousers
were of creamy fringed buckskin, too. He shoved the jug and cups at me.
                 “Pour
for us, John,” he invited me, “and give me whichever cup you choose. I wouldn’t
want you to think I’d trick you with some clumsy thing to hurt you. The more so
because I let you come here for our mutual benefit.”
                 He
seemed to insist on that thing, mutual benefit. I wondered why, and wanted to
know. Instead I asked something else:
                 “Nobody
knows you’re here? Don’t planes fly over?”
                 “No
plane can see anything of interest through our trees. And no plane could land,
not even a helicopter—no open space.” He lifted his clay cup. “Here’s to our
better acquaintance. This happens to be an excellent article of what you call
blockade, it’s from a skillful distiller not too many miles from here. Sip it
and tell me what you think.”
                 I
sipped it. It was as good as the blockade I’d drunk with Tombs McDonald. “Where
did you get it?” I asked Harpe.
                 “I
put in a call for it, you might say.” He drank too, he drank fairly deep. “Now,
John, I’ve shown my interest in you. Why not tell me about yourself?”
                 I
had another sup myself. “All right,” I said, “I’ve nair yet been ashamed to do
that.”
                 So
I told him.
                 About
a-being born in the Drowning Creek country, of a good father and mother, and
how they'd died when I was only a boy. About how an old lady teacher took me in
and raised me up, taught me to read and write and tell the truth and be honest.
About how I'd learned to pick guitar and shoot with a gun, had got to be no
slouch at either of those things. How I’d been in the army, had been sent to