Short Story

I was born the year a scourge of giant green caterpillars ate ever last tomato plant in Smoky Ridge and the birds got so fat eating big green grubs they could hardly fly. It wasn't a promising time to arrive, but Grandpap once said that I must have been in a hurry because I made my entrance in the back of a wagon on its way to the midwife's house in Muddy Junction. He also mentioned that I was only minutes into this world when a mockingbird, with a belly full of caterpillars, flew over and unloaded on my head. So I started out in life with a wad of bird crap between my eyes. It was a sign.

My full name is Matthew Benjamin Tyler, the eighth and youngest son fathered by Caleb Tyler of the Smoky Ridge Tyler clan. Being number eight wasn't really all that bad, except it meant I wasn't the seventh son. Don't take me wrong, my brother John, who was number seven, wasn't a mean fellow, not at all. He was a gentle, charming boy, but a trial to my soul. You only had to look at John to see the difference. His hair wasn't the towhead blond of the other Tylers; it hung to his shoulders, fine and dark brown, like the fur of a river otter. Not a single freckle marked his pale, slender nose, whereas my own looked as if it had been spattered with brown mud. But it was John's eyes that set him apart. My six elder brothers and I shared the Tyler's singular eyes, blue as deep water, but John's eyes were misty, faded gray and when he looked at you it seemed he could see your most privy thoughts.

People came from miles around to see the seventh son, and sometimes they'd bring small wild animals that had been injured. With hardly a glance, John would pass them over to me and I'd clean their wounds and splint their bones. Then, if the animal lived, it would hang around and worship John. Our place was usually crawling with gimpy squirrels, birds that couldn't fly, and rabbits that couldn't run.

From the day John learned to walk he could play any musical instrument he picked up. Fiddle, dulcimer, mouth organ, made no difference. His voice sounded sweet as an angel and even when he got words wrong, he'd bring tears to your eyes. A real marvel, my brother John, except he didn't have a lick of common sense. That's where I came in. Pap and Grandpap both agreed, that I had common sense enough for the whole damned family. By the time Mam had raised six boys, she was plumb worn out. Then along came John and not long after, me. My common sense showed itself early and right from the start; even though I was the youngest, I took care of John. I made sure his buttons was all straight and proper and that his galluses were snapped tight. Left to himself, he'd forget those things and sometimes his overalls would fall down clear to his ankles.

But there were more dangerous things to watch for. I once had to stop him from trying to pet a big old timber rattler, sunning itself in the middle of a cow pasture. When John slipped and fell in the river, it was me that pulled him out. Grandpap says that if it wasn't for me, John would never have lived to see his first birthday. Now none of this would make a mole-hill of difference if it was just that John was a little weird. But, course it was a lot more than that. My Pappy was the seventh son of Mortici Tyler, my Grandpap, and that made John the seventh son of a seventh son. Anyone who knew a hill-a-beans about enchantments and wizardry and such, knew that the seventh son of a seventh son had what Grandpap called potential. Now I didn't put much stock in this seventh son hoopla, but John was different.

Even the old Gypsy that lived up on Cherokee Hogback agreed. When John was ten, Pap took him to see her, thinking maybe she'd make a prophecy. The whole family went along and we crowded ourselves into her little shack. The old woman sat for awhile ignoring us, staring into the flames of her fireplace. When she spoke she didn't even turn around to look at us. "There's a seventh son in this house." Her words crackled and snapped like embers on the hearth. "He's goin to be a fire-eatin, hell-raisin son of man and the Devil ain't goin to consider him a friend." She spat into the fire. "You all get on home. I got me some thinkin to do."

When we left, she still hadn't looked up from that fire. But from then on we knew John was going to be some kind of wonderment. It was almost five years before we found out what kind.

Summer came early that year; by mid-April the spring mud was dry. It seemed like the start of a good year, but the truth made itself known soon enough. Not that is was a bad year, mind you, just different.

The apples bloomed early and so plenteous the orchards looked like clouds. The smell of apple blossoms turned the air sweet and thick as honey. Then a late frost came and most of the blooms fell off, an omen of strange times.

That same spring, old Bill Tankerbaum got drunk, drowned in his whisky mash and turned it all sour. After his wife fished out Bill's remains, she destilled the mash, but all she got was a vile black elixir that smelled like an unwashed foot. Cousin Madge drank a big jug of it and claimed it cured her nervous condition. Me--I think Madge was just little crazy and, for that matter, still is.

Later on that same summer, Lucas Johnson's nanny goat dropped a kid with only one horn, set right between his eyes. Lucas was known to mistreat his animals and beat his wife and when that kid jammed his single horn in Lucas's butt, most everyone agreed he had it coming. He cussed and limped for a week, but his neighbors say he never mistreated his animals again.

There was other strange things, but the oddest didn't come till near the end of summer. It was hot on Smoky Ridge. The grass was brown and crackly and every step raised a little cloud of dust.

I lay under the shade of an old chestnut staring up at blue sky showing through the leaves. John sat beside me, tootlin a willow flute I had whittled for him. Off to the east, a crow flew from the pine tops, cawing mightily.

I sat up. The crow had been flushed from over Sang Holler where the footpath from Muddy Junction crossed Whitewater Crick. I calculated we were about to have callers. I got up and, as he always did, John followed suit without question. We trotted down the hill to where our cabin nestled among the oaks.

"Mam, Pap," I yelled. "We got company coming."

Pap come out on the porch stringing a gallus across his shoulder. He looked frizzled and sleepy like he'd been taking a nap. Mam joined him, wiping her hands on her flour sack apron. "How is it you know someone's coming, Matt?" she asked.

"Don't make no nevermind," said Pap. "He's always right about such things."

Mam took John's arm and tried to straighten his shirt. "Matt, take your brother to the well and wet down his hair. He looks a fright." She turned back into the house. "I got to put on a clean dress."

Now John didn't look no different than ever, but Mam always fussed over him anyway. I did as she wanted and when I had John spruced up a little, we walked back to the house.

Pap stood alone on the porch staring down the path toward Sang Holler. A figure had just coming into sight, a tall lanky man walking with the determination of a feeding stork. "It's preacher Lathem," I said.

"Don't see how you can make him out," said Pap. He squinted and peered and finally nodded. "It's The Preacher alright. Looks like he's all fussed up about somethin."

To my way of thinking, preacher Lathem had spent most of his life fussed up over one thing or another, but I didn't say so. John began to hum Amazing Grace.

Pap leaned in the door and hollered. "Edna, you whip up a batch of that mint tea of yours and put a big dollop of sugar in it. The Preacher's comin."

I could hear Mam scurrying around inside. Company always caused her to run in circles, but a visit from The Preacher turned her into a regular whirlwind.

As The Preacher came closer, I could see dark spots of sweat had soaked through his black suit. Dust squirted up from under his heavy clodhoppers like it was bent on escaping. His face looked pink and shiny, like a boiled ham and his thick eyebrows were squinched down over his pale gray eyes.

He stomped across our yard of packed clay and tripped over an old maple root Pap had never got around to digging out. Swearing under his breath, Preacher picked himself up. Pap and me pretended not to hear.

Sweeping off his black, flat-crowned hat, The Preacher stepped into the shade of the porch. "Caleb Tyler, we got trouble and your boy may be our last hope."

That was a mite too fast for Pap to take in. He dusted the rocking chair and motioned for The Preacher to sit. "Would you like some mint tea, Preacher."

The Preacher's face went from shiny pink to red. "Confound it, man! Didn't you hear? I just said we got trouble. Real trouble."

Pap was beginning to catch up now. He hooked his thumbs under his galluses and looked thoughtful. "What kind of trouble?"

John began to hum She's Coming Round the Mountain and I nudged him to be quiet. The Preacher sat down on the rocking chair and fanned his long face with his hat. "The worst kind."

Mam joined us on the porch wearing her yellow dress, her second best she wore only to church and funerals. She carried a pitcher and some clean mason jars. "Some tea, Reverend?"

Mam tended to put on airs sometimes, especially with The Preacher.

He smiled up at her. "Why, thank you, sister Edna. I believe I will."

Pap had a puzzled look on his face. "What kind of trouble?" he repeated.

But The Preacher was already gulping down a jar full of tea and his Adams apple bounced so hard John began to giggle. Again, I nudged him to keep quiet.

Preacher Lathem drank the last drop and wiped his lips appreciatively. Mam refilled the jar. But The Preacher set it aside and looked directly at John. "We need to know whether this boy understands the difference between good and evil."

Pap had been left behind again, so he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and looked thoughtful. Mam looked horrified. "What do you mean. This lovely child's done nothing--"

Preacher held up his hand. "Nothin against the boy. In fact, just the opposite. He may be our salvation."

Pap was way behind now. He was lookin so thoughtful, he appeared to be hurting. Mam stood with the pitcher in her hand and her mouth hanging open. I decided it was time I stepped in.

"This got anything to do with John bein a seventh son?"

Preacher gave me an appraising look. "Smart boy, Matthew Tyler. It's got everything to do with it." He turned his gaze back to Pap and leaned forward. "You ever wonder why there's been such strange goings-on this year?"

Pap was too far gone now to look thoughtful, so he tried profound, although it didn't come off too well. "Thought about it some."

Preacher raised his bony forefinger and stabbed the heavens. "There has been a demon come to this land. A scout lookin for new territory to add to Hell."

"Who figured that one out?" I asked.

A surprised look crossed Preacher's face. "The old Gypsy woman. She says a demon's been living up on Thunder Mountain since early spring."

"What's John got to do with this?" I asked. "Ain't drivin off demons a preacher's job?"

The Preacher dropped his eyes before turning back to Pap. "This demon is too evil and too strong for me."

Pap stopped rocking. He wasn't caught up yet, but he could see truth in the distance. Mam just kind of whimpered.

"You think John can help?" I asked.

The Preacher's red face went pale. "If he cain't, this part of the country's goin to become part of Hell."

There was a long silence then. Preacher stayed for supper and nobody went to bed that night. It seemed all the neighbors had heard the bad news and by nightfall most a hundred people were gathered in and around our cabin. The talk was sometimes gloomy and sometimes full of hope.

About midnight Preacher, bible in hand, got up on a maple stump in our front yard. He thumped his bible and began to speak. "There has been a lot of sinnin goin on in these mountains and its been unforgiven for so long the Devil has decided to make this place his own." Tears fairly gushed down his skinny cheeks.

Most everybody looked worried and I noted that Mam was crying up a storm. Preacher thumped his bible again and sobbed. "Lord knows I'm one of the worst of sinners."

A lot of jaws dropped on that one. It was hard for these good people to imagine Preacher Lathem sinning. That revelation, however, didn't hit me as hard as it did some.

Preacher whipped out a dirty bandanna and wiped at his eyes. "I tried." He choked, and it took a few healthy amens from the crowd to get him restarted. "But this demon is too strong and my own sins too deep." He blew his nose so loud my ears rang. He stared at the crowd and a look of piety grew on his features. "This boy," his bony finger sought out my brother, "John Tyler, the seventh son of Caleb Tyler, the seventh son of Mortici, is now our only hope."

There was a considerable number of amens and hallelujahs, then everybody was trying to talk to John at once. He enjoyed the attention. "I'm John, the seventh son of a seventh son. I'm going to send a demon back to hell," he repeated over and over. He was good at repeating things, kinda like old lady Sherman's talking crow.

Finally it was decided that John would go to Thunder Mountain and run the demon off, but that I would go with him. I had no part in that decision, but everybody seemed to think it was a good idea--except Grandpap. He stroked his thick iron gray beard. "I ain't goin to lose two grandsons in one fell swoop."

"But, Mortici," cried one. "John cain't go alone. He'd get lost."

Everybody, including Grandpap, knew John couldn't find his way to the outhouse alone. After a while Grandpap gave in. Nobody asked me for my opinion, but I'd a never let John go alone anyway. Everyone clustered around John, patting his back and telling him he was their savior. He gave them all his angelic smile and began to sing Rock of Ages. The crowd hoisted John up on their shoulders and carried him around the meadow, singing at the top of their lungs.

I watched and wondered what it would be like to have all them people making a fuss over me. I would be so discomposed I'd probably sink into the ground. As the crowed moved down the path toward the well, singing and carrying on, I noticed a strange lump of darkness under the old elm that leaned over the side of our cabin. The shadow detached itself and stepped into the moonlight. It was the old gypsy woman and she was staring at me with eyes that shimmered like stars. For a while she just stood there studying me, then stepped back. Shadows gathered around her like old friends and she disappeared. My skin tingled something fearful, but I wasn't afraid, just kind of excited. The crowd returned, still carrying John and singing, and I forgot about the old woman.

At dawn I fetched my hickory walking stick and we set off toward Thunder Mountain. A few of the most hardy followed, including Grandpap. At the foot of the mountain we paused. Tears wetted Mortici's cheeks as he embraced John. "You were born for times like this Jonathan Tyler. You show that old demon what it's like to mess with a man from Smoky Ridge." The old man turned to me. "Take the short way up boy. It's the most difficult, but there's more cover."

"Yes sir. That was my plan."

He ruffled my hair. "You're a smart boy. You get John up there and he'll take care of that old demon."

Nobody had ever really said how John was going to get this job done, but I was surely hoping he had an idea. If he did, it would be his first.

We watched our escort disappear into a stand of dogwood. Finally, it was just me and John. He didn't seem frightened, but I was scared spitless. I'd never met a demon before, and I had no great desire to acquaint myself with this one.

I took the short way which is a steep, windbreaker of a path and the walking stick came in handy. We made the peak about noon.

The entire top of Thunder Mountain was burned clear; not a tree, or bush, or even a blade of grass had survived. In the center of the blackened clearing, a pretty little flame burned, giving off blue flashes like a Fourth-of-July sparkler. Laughing delightedly, John walked right up to it. I followed with less enthusiasm.

We stared at it awhile but nothing came of it. All of a sudden, I felt a hot breeze on the back of my neck. I turned and there stood a man in a black suit. At least he looked somewhat like a man. His face was bright carmine and shiny hard like candle wax. His eyes flickered with fire.

"Where the hell did you come from?" My voice quivered.

"Exactly," he said. A gout of smoke came out with the word and he grinned, showing long curved teeth, yellow as an old badger's.

"You are evil," said John. It was the first words he'd spoken since dawn. I began to have a little hope about this seventh son thing.

The demon turned his attention to John. "And who are you?"

"I am John, the seventh son of a seventh son."

The demon laughed, a sound like the cross between the cry of a wolf and the bray of a donkey. He struck his chest. "I am Zaztac, a son of a bitch." He laughed again.

His breath was so hot, sweat broke out on my brow. My knees shook, and I suddenly needed to pee so bad, I thought I'd wet myself.

John smiled and gave the demon his deepest look. "I'm here to send you back to hell."

The demon laughed. "I will go back to hell." Yellow smoke poured from his mouth and the smell of sulfur fouled the air. "And I will take your soul with me." He reached out his hand and a bolt of blue lightening struck John.

My brother dropped to his knees, moaning. "Now see here," I said. But that was far as I got. The bolt that hit me, knocked me flat.

Zaztac turned his attention back to John. My entire body ached and my vision was dim, but I could see bolt after bolt strike John. He just sat there on his knees, moaning softly.

"Better do some of that seventh son stuff now, John," I managed to squeak out. "Cause I think we're in a heap of trouble."

Another bolt hit John and he slumped slowly forward, falling face first into the blackened earth. He turned his head toward me and in those gray eyes, I saw shock and pain and confusion and, worst of all, hopelessness. The demon raised his hand for the final bolt.

Suddenly, hot rage flared in my heart. Grandpap always said anger that's slow to light is hard to put out. I grabbed my hickory walking stick and hauled myself up. Zaztac was intent on John and didn't see me raise my cane over my head.I brought that stick down with all my might and whomped the demon across his back, raising a little cloud of dust. He grunted and straightened up, a surprised look on his horrible face. Before he could even blink, I whanged him again. His surprise turned to fury and it was a wonder to behold. His face glowed like a firecoal and his eyes sparkled like ball lightening. He raised his hand, spraying blue, shivering bolts. They hurt like tarnation, but this time I kept my feet under me and fetched him a good lick across his big backside.

This trading lightning bolts and hickory whacks went on for some time. After a while the demon's bolts began to lose their sizzle and I just felt loose and warmed up. I stepped up the pace, laying into him both left and right. My hickory staff was smoking and raising dust with every blow. The demon's face didn't look red anymore, but had shaded down to a sickly hue of ochre. My arms and shoulders grew a smidgen tired, but I didn't let up a bit.

Suddenly, Zaztac backed up fast until he was out of reach of my whistling hickory. He raised his arm, but nothing came except a few fizzling sparks. His face turned gray and sticky, like a night slug. "You win for now, Human." He turned and ran, shouting over his shoulder. "I'll deal with you another time."

Just then John stumbled to his feet and saw the running demon. He pointed his finger and yelled. "Run demon, run back to Hell." As luck would have it, the hill folks, led by The Preacher, chose that moment to arrive. The first thing they saw was John pointing at the demon and yelling. I guess you couldn't fault them for what they surmised. They gathered around John and hoisted him on their shoulders, crying and laughing and calling my brother a hero. I sat down on a rock and rested.

When they let John down, Preacher grabbed him and hugged him tight. "I'm so proud of you, my son."

Now Preacher referred to most young men as my son, but this time the words sounded different. It hit me then, how much John and The Preacher looked alike. I'd seen brothers that appeared more different. Some hard thoughts came to me then and I had to do some hard swallowing to get them down. But I knew I'd never say nothing about my conclusions, or the fact it was really me who'd whipped the demon's butt. Take away this seventh son business and John would just be a strange little boy with the voice of an angel. I couldn't do that. After all, he was my--half brother.

Grandpap noticed me sitting alone. He walked over with a grin clear across his beard. Picking me up in a great bear-hug, he squeezed until I saw black spots. He smelled of moonshine and chewing tobacco. When my feet was back on the ground, he tousled my hair. "You did just fine, Matt, standing behind John while he fought that demon." He stepped back and regarded me. "You look a little peaked, boy. You alright?"

"I'm fine, Grandpap. I'd just like to sit a spell."

He slapped me on the back. "You do that."

Grandpap rejoined the celebration. Later, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. When I looked up, the old gypsy woman was standing next to me, her eyes gleaming. "That was a powerful good thing you just did, boy."

I wasn't sure which thing she referred to, so I said nothing.

She squeezed my shoulder. "You come up to my cabin someday. Maybe I teach you a thing or two." She winked and moved away. But softly, over her shoulder she spoke again. "You did well--seventh son."

She knows, I thought. Maybe she always has. I could hear John giving a little speech. Just as well it weren't me. I'd be all red faced and stuttery and maybe make a fool of myself. So this way was most likely best and maybe being the seventh son of a seventh son, wouldn't be so bad once a fellow got the hang of it.