The Ringing of Hawthorne

Two weeks after Ned Blackhorse had left his parents’ home in Florida, taking nothing with him but sertraline in slow-release capsules, an engraved tomahawk that belonged to his great-grandfather, ten packs of cigarettes, and two packs of spearmint chewing gum, Martha Flint, then aged seventeen, found his decomposing body floating in the river that ran through the south side of her property.

It was a bright day in early October and Martha, urged by some strange inner voice to begin walking along the river, crept slowly along a grassy path, looking down into the shallow water below. The current was soft. The day was soft. A velvet wind blew across the bean field to her left and carried with it the chalky scent of dry stalks and soy. Around her neck dangled an old pair of black binoculars. She peered through them occasionally when she spotted a bird in the thicket, wishing she was able to identify what she saw. Eight hundred meters past the bridge she crossed that joined her property to the land of the village, she stopped, suddenly, and stood very still for almost ten minutes. Another fifty feet downriver, driven down a steep wall of rocks, exposed tree roots, thorn bushes, and dirt, parked lifelessly over top a grassy island in the river, was a white pickup truck. Through her binoculars, Martha saw muddy splotches and smears along the back of the truck. The windows were tinted black, and she stared hard into her binoculars trying to make out any shape that might be a person sitting inside. Two small oranges decorated the middle of the license plate, and below them the words Sunshine State with a thin strip of mud smeared over the last three letters. This truck had traveled almost fifteen hours and over eight-hundred miles to reach Martha’s small Ohio village.

The sound of the wind had changed. The birds had stopped singing. There was only the rapid sputtering sound of tiny wings as the birds went from one tree to the next. She looked again, stopped to consider what her next move should be. Retreat slowly? Come back tomorrow to check on it again? Then again the day after? And on and on until the white truck became her rusty little secret? She dug her heel into a thin patch of grass, stooped herself slightly, and moved closer to the truck. She crouched in the tire tracks that sloped down into the river and wondered how it hadn’t flipped over. The angle was too extreme, a near vertical drop.

She suddenly found herself calling out to anybody who might have been inside. She covered her mouth and looked around her. More sputtering wings, a rustling to her left, a creaking branch above her. Eyes were upon her. She felt it. Whether or not the eyes belonged to the birds that darted invisibly above her through a dense green canopy, or the owner of the truck, she knew not. Grotesque faces flashed into her mind; a greasy skinned murderer with rotten teeth and blood-stained hands, grinning at her violently from across the river, concealed in foliage. Her heartbeat rose, pins and needles danced in her feet. She found herself calling out again, then rising suddenly, looking all around her.

The binoculars dangled from her neck as she lowered herself down into the riverbed, clinging onto a large vine like a rock climber repelling from a cliff. Sand and gravel crunched underneath her feet as she planted down, some water soaking into her tennis shoes. The truck was a like a monument in front of her, gigantic, strange, out of place. The driver’s side head rest was silhouetted in the dark cab of the truck and frightened her immensely, looking like a blockish human head. She stared at it through her binoculars for five straight minutes, waiting for it to move, afraid to get closer.

A sudden gust of wind cascaded into the river valley in one soft rolling blast, carrying with it a very pungent odor. Living in the country, Martha had known the scents of the dead. Animals frequently turned up dead and rotting on forest paths, raccoon carcasses piled up in the attic of the woodshed and had to be spiked out with a hayfork and burned alongside the kitchen trash. The smell of rotten animal flesh was as common as the manure spread onto the fields every year, but what the wind carried then alarmed her. It dizzied her, throwing her off balance. She dropped her binoculars and clenched her teeth hard, scrunched her face tightly. Her throat and tongue swelled up signaling approaching vomit. It was then no mystery to Martha why the truck was driven into the riverbank. The stench thinned and the air around her became again clean. Leaves, earth, water. Martha had seen one dead body so far in her life, the father of her classmate who died when they were both eight graders. Her only memory of his living was the sandwiched ride home he gave her after a softball game where he shouted at the radio, whooping and spiking his fist into the air when the Cincinnati Reds made a hit. He was a die-hard Reds fan. At the viewing, he was tucked into his casket wearing a Reds baseball jersey, his face stretched and pasty, the folds of skin around his neck flayed out and wrinkled so that they looked like fish gills. She passed by the casket, sliding her hand softly along its smooth polished wood and only glanced at the body, taking in all the details of the outfit, the squashed and uncomfortable expression of the face.

When she opened the driver’s side door of the truck, she jumped backwards, expecting a lifeless corpse to dangle out, caught around the chest by a seatbelt. The only thing that came was the dry, dirty scent of stale air. It smelled of old books, old clothes, and tobacco. Martha looked inside the truck. She found an old pair of glasses laying crookedly on the center console, one of its wings opened, mud smeared on the lenses. The steering wheel was coated in dried mud in just two places where a pair of hands might have rested. An unopened pack of gum and a box of matches was left in one of the cupholders and many empty packs and wrappers were mounded in the passenger seat along with empty coca cola cans, empty cigarette cases, and a few candy bar wrappers. In the back seat was a red toolbox and an oil-stained blanket, its colorful designs faded, the fabric worn out in places.

She found herself reaching for the glasses, aware that she was the first person to come across a potential crime scene, and when she reported the truck to the police, investigators would swab for the entire truck for fingerprints, collect the abandoned items for evidence. Should they find her fingerprints smudged on the door handle, then the glasses, would she be made a suspect? She unfolded the other wing of the glasses and brought them slowly to her face, pushed them up against her eyes. Some stale mud flecked on the wings scraped her ears and crumbled onto her neck. She peered out through the hazy lenses with the same helpless satisfaction as a dieter munching on a cookie.

She felt a sudden surge of energy pass through her body. The light of day became shadow. She saw a twilight image of the river, its water silver and black, glossy like oil. She glanced up at the patchwork of leaves in the canopy, the trees swaying in a warm calm wind. She began to hear music. The blowing wind became a flute. The stream gurgled loudly and rose higher underneath feet that were not her own. The water was cold as it reached her thighs, her stomach, her chest. She was sinking. The flute music made by the wind grew very distant as she sank into the river. Only her eyes and the top of her head stuck out from the water. Now drums, deep and hollow, began to beat. The water covered her ears and the drumming continued from within the water. She floated beneath the surface, the crown of her head rising and falling like the slick shell of a turtle. The drumbeat surged throughout her body, causing ripples to spread in the water, and make continuous waves that crashed along the sides of the black riverbank. All was happening under the light of a cold pale moon. The beat of the drum quickened, becoming louder. The flute’s cry penetrated the water and became so high-pitched Martha felt as though a sharp piece of metal had been slid through her ears, passing through her brain. Then came the howling. Wolves it seemed at first, then it grew more human so that it sounded like a woman’s agonizing screams. Martha, anchored in the water, could feel the wind passing over the top of her head, and she tried to push up from the riverbed, but her feet touched nothing. She kicked and stomped against the weak resistance of deep water, moving neither up nor down. There, suspended in the water, she stared into darkness, impaled by screams and howls, sharp lightning like jolts of energy piercing her body. A flash of white light rushed from around a bend in the river before her and flew forward in one swift movement, like a sheet ripped from a washing line by a violent burst of wind, and passed through her, chilling her bones, numbing her skin.

The drums stopped. The trees above were green in a late afternoon sunlight and the wind was again sweet and calm. Martha took in large amounts of air, hyperventilating on the grassy island where she now stood, until she was lightheaded from sucking in too much air. She swiped the glasses from her face and fell to her knees. She felt her hair, her chest, her legs, suddenly aware that she was not wet. Her body was ice cold, her hands numb as if she had been submerged in an ice bath. Shaking, she went to the truck to grab the blanket she had seen in the back seat. She wrapped it around her shoulders and shivered, sitting cross-legged on a dry spot of grass on the island, the truck behind her.

Home was a short walk away, and there Martha knew she could take a hot bath, get warm, let her father and mother know what she had found. She would tell them about the truck, the smell, the glasses. But she could not move. Her body was a solid meditating lump sat there on the grassy island. She watched the sunlight flicker through the canopy, making everchanging shapes and shadows in the reflection of the water. She shivered and took long steady breaths. She sat in this way for several more hours, the thick blanket warming her. A pair of ducks floated past her and she followed them with her eyes. Birds flew low, skimming the water with their feet, some landing to splash around in shallow eddies protected by the island. The light became less and less, and the birds frenzied, squawked madly, rushed every which way overhead making last minute adjustments to nests, gossiping, diving for insects.

Martha stood up and pulled the blanket tightly around her shoulders. She knelt by the water and made a cup with her hands to drink. The water was cold and had a strange bitter taste, but she drank many more handfuls as she listened to the evening doves cooing. She found herself wading into the water, barefoot, her shoes and socks hidden under the front tire of the pickup truck. She collected smooth stones that were rounded like large indented grapefruits and carried them back to the island. On her hands and knees she ripped up long grass and reeds, spinning around, making the area of her clearing big enough to fit herself. Inside the clearing she set the stones together in a small circle. Inside the stone circle she dug with a hard stick, making a shallow crater in the earth.

The sun fell behind the trees, and the river valley was the darkest spot to be. The birds quieted. The water grew louder. Martha collected dried leaves and small branches to build a fire. She used the matches from the truck to ignite her leaves. At first the leaves smoked and sizzled. Another match was lit, more leaves added and the teepee of twigs above them readjusted. Soon Martha sat in front of a crackling fire that put out a warm orange glow through her part of the river. The shadows of flames danced on the muddy walls of the ravine and gave Martha light enough to collect more dead wood from the dry land above the water.

Martha sat listening to the fire, the wind, the raccoons climbing in the trees all around her. The sandy earth was cold on her bare feet, but the fire’s warmth soaked into her bones and made her tired. The white truck glowed in the firelight like a dirty mammoth carcass, the mud and dust on the paint giving it the look of smooth bone.

The wind had wasted the fire down to large glowing embers. The charcoaled bits of wood around the fire were cool to the touch. Martha rubbed the soft black charcoal between her palms and clenched her hands into fists. She added more wood to the fire and the flames returned, reaching upwards and giving the gully new life. She tilted her head up to the sky, letting the blanket slide gently off her shoulders. She unbuttoned her shirt and, slowly, as if as performing a gentle ceremony, slid her arms from out of it, folded it neatly, and placed it gently beside the fire. She exposed her breasts to the warmth of the fire, stretching her neck out, leaning her head far backwards, her eyes open wide. The stars were silver in the sky, a bursting collection of all sizes, some shimmering brightly. They seemed to lift Martha onto her feet like a puppet, and her head hung back, lifeless, her eyes fixed on the brightest star above her. For a moment both her feet left the ground and she hung in the air as if on strings. Her thick black hair hung down her back and a gentle wind moved through it. The fire warmed her toes and when she touched back down onto the cold sand of the island a chill spiked through her body. She slid her legs out of her jeans and placed them gently on top of her shirt. She was fully naked under the stars. She moved like an animal around the fire, bending and twisting to feel the heat on all parts of her body. Curling around flames on all fours, sometimes rising to become once again human and warm the bottoms of her feet, she swayed in the breeze, raising her arms into the air and letting them fall gently. She shuffled her feet around the circle of rocks she made, stooping low towards the flames when the wind wrapped around her, straightening her body when it passed. She collected more wood and built the fire up so that its flames stretched higher than she could reach her hands. She danced with the flames, rising and falling, shaking. Beads of sweat rolled from her chest. The flames flickered intensely, and Martha dug her heals deep into the sand, digging out a round track that she followed around and around as she bent and swayed, crouched and rose. Her heart beat like a drum and her skin was shining with sweat in the firelight.

The thin, lurking shadows of coyotes flashed through the tangle of scrub above her, and as they ran, they howled. Martha watched as the pack hurdled over logs and sprinted through bramble. She fell hard onto her hands and knees, red flames a barrier between her and a coyote perched on the ledge of earth in front of her. They stared at one another through the flames. Martha arched her spine and breathed quickly but steadily, her heart a powerful drumbeat. The coyote bent its neck and moved its head right and left trying to understand the creature behind the flames. Her hair was wet and dangled in thick matted strands in front of her face, now covered with fresh lines of black soot made from dragging both hands down her face with her fingers spread out.

The coyote tilted its head back, the saliva on its fangs shining in the moonlight, and howled towards the sky. Martha rose to her feet and bent her head backwards. She spread her palms outwards and exposed herself fully towards the coyote as if letting the energy of its howl enter her body. The sound passed through her like a cold wind. The beads of sweat on her body seemed to harden into little ice crystals and fall to the ground. She entered the river slowly. The water felt warmer than the air and thick and smooth as if she were bathing in an hourglass full of sand. The pack of coyotes vanished. Their howls and yips faded into the distant forest, echoing. Martha bathed in the water, washing the soot from her face, tilting her head back to wash the sweat from her hair. The gentle current pushed against her chest and lifted her off her feet. She glided in the water, floating like a raft, her black hair spread out around her like dark, sharp, wavy rays of a sun caricature. The current carried her downstream to the edge of her island and she pushed up against the smooth stones of the shore. Smoke from her fire drifted towards her in the wind, and all felt very clean and quiet.

She came to her fire again and sat with the blanket wrapped around her naked body. The wind had gone away completely, and a tiring warmth spread throughout her. The fire warmed the sand beneath her, and she buried her feet in it. The mound of embers gave off much heat and her hair dried quickly. She lay down wrapped in the blanket and soon fell asleep.

Raindrops fell onto her face and tickled her awake. It was early in the morning. She sat up slowly and stretched out her arms, letting the blanket slide off her. The rain felt very refreshing on her bare skin. Far in the distance Martha could hear the rumble of thunder. The sky overhead was golden with smears of grey raincloud but far off, through the trees, Martha could see the black bulging sky that carried the storm. She drank from the stream and dressed herself with a pureness of movement that seemed ritualistic. She folded the blanket and put it back into the truck how she how found it. After some searching, Martha found the muddy glasses in the long grass and placed them back in the center console of the truck with one wing tucked in like she had found them.

She looked through her binoculars at the grey clouds in the distance and watched them moving closer and closer. Dry sand between her toes made her feel uncomfortable in her shoes and socks, so she kept them off and waded through the water to the opposite bank, carrying her shoes in her back pockets. She climbed up, slipping on the crumbling rocks, using the same large vine to hoist herself upwards. From above the river she took one long look at the truck, the camp she had made. The warmth of the fire was still in her bones and the smell of smoke was a light perfume on her skin, her hair. Her parents, they would be angry with her. It was not uncommon for her to camp outside, but not without letting them know first. Martha hoped there had been no alarm, no search party sent out. She became tense as she walked homeward, dreading the dark eyes of her parents who had been up all night making phone calls to her friends, the confused screaming and punishment that would follow when the screen door screeched open and she found them sitting together at the kitchen table. Her eyes fluttered and she hung her head. A huge clap of thunder jolted her upright, and in the misty yellow light of that stormy morning, she saw him.