Free Boys Life by Robert R. McCammon Page B

whistle, was Ben’s and Davy Ray’s opinion. Johnny didn’t say what he thought. At home, my folks said it must’ve been the train passing through, but we didn’t find out until later that the rain had washed away a section of track more than twenty miles from Zephyr and the freight to Birmingham hadn’t even run that night.
    Such things make you wonder.
    A mangled cow washed up, once, under the gargoyle bridge. Missing its head and guts, Mr. Dollar told my father when he and I went to get scalped. Two men netting crayfish along the riverbank just beyond Zephyr spread the story that a human corpse had floated past on the current, the body’s chest peeled open like a sardine can and its arms and legs ripped off at the roots, but no corpse was ever found downriver. One October night, something hit a submerged piling of the gargoyle bridge and left cracks in the support columns that had to be filled with concrete. “A big tree trunk” was Mayor Swope’s official explanation in the Adams Valley Journal.
    The Lady rang the bell, her arm working like a metronome. She began to chant and sing, in a voice surprisingly clear and loud. The chant was all African words, which I understood about as much as I grasped nuclear physics. She would stop for a while, her head slightly cocked to one side as if watching or listening for something, and then she’d swing the bell again. She never once said the name “Old Moses.” She kept saying “Damballah, Damballah, Damballah,” and then her voice would sail upward in an African song again.
    At last she ceased ringing the bell, and she lowered it to her side. She nodded, and the Moon Man took it from her. She was staring fixedly at the river, but what she was seeing there I don’t know. Then she stepped back and the three men with the burlap bags stood at the edge of the gargoyle bridge. They opened the bags and brought out objects wrapped up in butcher’s paper and tape. Some of the paper was bloody, and you could smell the coppery odor of fresh meat. They began to unwrap the gory feast, and as they did they threw the steaks, briskets, and beef ribs down into the swirling brown water. A whole plucked chicken went into the river, too, along with chicken intestines poured from a plastic jar. Calf brains slid out of a green Tupperware bowl, and wet red beef kidneys and liver came out of one of the damp packages. A bottle of pickled pigs’ feet was opened, its contents splashing down into the water. A pig’s snout and ears followed the feet. The last thing in was a beef heart bigger than a wrestler’s fist. It splashed in like a red stone, and then the three men folded up their burlap bags and the Lady stepped forward again, watching her footing on the blood that had dripped onto the pavement.
    It occurred to me that an awful lot of Sunday dinners had just gone into the drink.
    “Damballah, Damballah, Damballah!” the Lady chanted once more. She stood there for maybe four or five minutes, motionless as she watched the river move beneath the bridge. Then she breathed a long sigh and I saw her face behind the veil as she turned toward her rhinestone Pontiac again. She was frowning; whatever she had seen or had not seen, she wasn’t too happy about it. She got into the car, the Moon Man climbed in after her, the driver closed the door and slid behind the wheel. The Pontiac backed up to a place where it could turn around and then started toward Bruton. The procession began to go back the route it had come. Usually by this time there was a lot of laughing and talking, and people would stop to speak to the white faces along the way. On this particular Good Friday, however, the Lady’s somber mood had carried and no one seemed to feel much like laughing.
    I knew exactly what the ritual was all about. Everybody in town did. The Lady was feeding Old Moses his annual banquet. When this had started, I didn’t know; it had been going on long before I was born. You might think, as Reverend