Interstellar Hallowed Eve
by Jonathan Worlde
All the TV and radio news had been warning for the past month about an extraterrestrial; an interstellar large oblong object that had intruded into the solar system from parts unknown. Width 40 meters, length 200 meters. Destined to pass within 40,000 miles of Earth during Halloween week. NASA signaled it could be a remnant of a disintegrated rogue comet. But other experts indicated it could be the product of an intelligent civilization. It did not appear to be tumbling through space but rather smoothly rotating. Given its projected speed and path, it was not expected to be captured into the Solar System. NASA warned the object could possess electromagnetic properties which would interfere with Earth’s electronic systems, satellites, radar, and possibly have other unpredictable ramifications for life on Earth.
A brisk October wind was rattling the cabin door an hour after sunset. Robbie had his fire burning brightly in the old wood stove, flooding the single room with the warm scent of cherry wood. A barred owl in a tree just behind the cabin called in that lonesome plaintiff voice, and seconds later another from over the hill responded. They continued to call back and forth, the prelude to night’s romance.
Robbie loved this time of year after the hot humid summer. Harvest is in. Last thing was the corn, it’s all in the silo and the grass bales are in the barn. Slaving away as a farm hand for the farmer whose guest cabin he occupied. There’d still be helping with the feed for the steers and occasional wood to cut and deliver, a part time endeavor. Nothing major to do these next few days but kick back, drink, and play the banjo. Sometimes go into town to get laid or bring a friend down here to enjoy a romp by fire and candle light.
A new eerie sound joins the wind’s cacophony. Startled, he knows her voice immediately, though he hasn’t heard her in a year, since he buried her last October. His German Short-haired Pointer, Charlie Bird, howling above the wind, serenading the nearly full moon. He’s surprised she’s come back to visit, but it’s not unheard of. His mother’s Cherokee ancestors down in the Smoky Mountains told of such apparitions. But he’s afraid to open the door to the dog. Who knows whose bidding she might be doing tonight, fresh from the grave? The howling chills him to the bone. He breaks out the Wild Turkey and tunes to reruns of Twilight Zone to ease his thoughts. Drinks past midnight and collapses into bed.
Middle of the night he’s awakened by the sounds of a fight to the death, two vicious varmints, loud as banshees right outside his door. Must be coming from the chicken coop. He reflexively grabs his gun, a Winchester .22, but then remembers he heard Charlie Bird earlier that night and prefers not to venture out. The dog used to protect the coop from predators.
Comes morning he opens the door, his gun ready. He explores the area around the fenced-in coop. Sure enough, there’s the dirty-grey stiff carcass of a raccoon just outside the coop’s door. Closer inspection reveals deep lacerations on its throat and backside, its mouth afoul with gelled saliva, eyes vacant like fisheyes. Charlie Bird’s teeth marks, no doubt about it. It’s as if the beloved dog wants to stand watch and protect the chickens one more time before permanently submitting to the cold ground on the slight rise behind the cabin. A year to the day he dug her grave, planted a wooden cross, shedding tears when it was done.
He hikes up the hill, through the underbrush to the little clearing where the wooden cross still stands. The ground is untouched, weeds collecting. He wonders now, how did Charlie Bird get loose to kill that varmint if the grave is undisturbed?
Robbie loved this time of year after the hot humid summer. Harvest is in. Last thing was the corn, it’s all in the silo and the grass bales are in the barn. Slaving away as a farm hand for the farmer whose guest cabin he occupied. There’d still be helping with the feed for the steers and occasional wood to cut and deliver, a part time endeavor. Nothing major to do these next few days but kick back, drink, and play the banjo. Sometimes go into town to get laid or bring a friend down here to enjoy a romp by fire and candle light.
A new eerie sound joins the wind’s cacophony. Startled, he knows her voice immediately, though he hasn’t heard her in a year, since he buried her last October. His German Short-haired Pointer, Charlie Bird, howling above the wind, serenading the nearly full moon. He’s surprised she’s come back to visit, but it’s not unheard of. His mother’s Cherokee ancestors down in the Smoky Mountains told of such apparitions. But he’s afraid to open the door to the dog. Who knows whose bidding she might be doing tonight, fresh from the grave? The howling chills him to the bone. He breaks out the Wild Turkey and tunes to reruns of Twilight Zone to ease his thoughts. Drinks past midnight and collapses into bed.
Middle of the night he’s awakened by the sounds of a fight to the death, two vicious varmints, loud as banshees right outside his door. Must be coming from the chicken coop. He reflexively grabs his gun, a Winchester .22, but then remembers he heard Charlie Bird earlier that night and prefers not to venture out. The dog used to protect the coop from predators.
Comes morning he opens the door, his gun ready. He explores the area around the fenced-in coop. Sure enough, there’s the dirty-grey stiff carcass of a raccoon just outside the coop’s door. Closer inspection reveals deep lacerations on its throat and backside, its mouth afoul with gelled saliva, eyes vacant like fisheyes. Charlie Bird’s teeth marks, no doubt about it. It’s as if the beloved dog wants to stand watch and protect the chickens one more time before permanently submitting to the cold ground on the slight rise behind the cabin. A year to the day he dug her grave, planted a wooden cross, shedding tears when it was done.
He hikes up the hill, through the underbrush to the little clearing where the wooden cross still stands. The ground is untouched, weeds collecting. He wonders now, how did Charlie Bird get loose to kill that varmint if the grave is undisturbed?
Halloween night. He’s cooked himself a nice meal of rabbit stew and collards with cornbread. He’s got a buzz on from Wild Turkey and reefer. Charlie Bird has visited every night for a week outside the cabin. Killed a possum and another raccoon, still protecting the chickens. The news is still rambling on about that interstellar piece of rock shaped like a missile flying by.
Time to go down the dirt road to the farmer’s field for the annual celebration. There’s always a nice bonfire with mountain music; there’ll be a few guitars, banjos, fiddle, washtub bass, harmonica. The farmer and his neighbors drinking peach brandy moonshine; teens in costumes cutting loose; everyone getting crazy till the early morning hours. He never misses the fun. He’ll end up playing drunk on his feet, keeping the tunes coming until dawn, the musicians grouped in a circle, leaning in, playing for themselves, for the night, for the stars.
Walking slowly, banjo slung across his back, his feet shuffling through the fallen oak and sycamore leaves, Robbie reflects on the past year and what’s ahead. What is there to look forward to? What’s he really accomplishing in this world? Will he ever stop being lonely? He had shared the cabin with Charlie Bird longer’n he ever lived with any woman. His mom’s no longer around to nag him about finding a wife, but some such arrangement wouldn’t be too bad at his age. Someone who can look past how he never graduated from high school, don’t have much money in the bank. Someone who can accept him for who he is, like what Charlie Bird always done.
Coming over the rise he sees the fire down the hill, just now lit, blazing high in its glory. The sound of instruments tuning up. Folk talking and laughing, happy to be alive, plunging into this brisk Hallow’s Eve. Up in the clear sky he can see a new object on the horizon, brighter than Venus or Jupiter, that wasn’t there a week ago.
He feels Charlie Bird walking beside him, hears the leaves rustling under her feet, feels her breath on his hand, her muzzle wetting his palm. Somehow, he suspects this will be her last night afoot.
Time to go down the dirt road to the farmer’s field for the annual celebration. There’s always a nice bonfire with mountain music; there’ll be a few guitars, banjos, fiddle, washtub bass, harmonica. The farmer and his neighbors drinking peach brandy moonshine; teens in costumes cutting loose; everyone getting crazy till the early morning hours. He never misses the fun. He’ll end up playing drunk on his feet, keeping the tunes coming until dawn, the musicians grouped in a circle, leaning in, playing for themselves, for the night, for the stars.
Walking slowly, banjo slung across his back, his feet shuffling through the fallen oak and sycamore leaves, Robbie reflects on the past year and what’s ahead. What is there to look forward to? What’s he really accomplishing in this world? Will he ever stop being lonely? He had shared the cabin with Charlie Bird longer’n he ever lived with any woman. His mom’s no longer around to nag him about finding a wife, but some such arrangement wouldn’t be too bad at his age. Someone who can look past how he never graduated from high school, don’t have much money in the bank. Someone who can accept him for who he is, like what Charlie Bird always done.
Coming over the rise he sees the fire down the hill, just now lit, blazing high in its glory. The sound of instruments tuning up. Folk talking and laughing, happy to be alive, plunging into this brisk Hallow’s Eve. Up in the clear sky he can see a new object on the horizon, brighter than Venus or Jupiter, that wasn’t there a week ago.
He feels Charlie Bird walking beside him, hears the leaves rustling under her feet, feels her breath on his hand, her muzzle wetting his palm. Somehow, he suspects this will be her last night afoot.
Jonathan Worlde is the nom de plume of Paul Grussendorf, an attorney representing refugees and asylum seekers. Paul Grussendorf’s legal memoir is My Trials: Inside America's Deportation Factories. Jonathan Worlde’s two latino-noir novels are Latex Monkey with Banana, which was winner of the Hollywood Discovery Award with a $1000 prize; and Deep in the Cut, both by Amazon. He is also a traditional blues performer, stage name of Paul the Resonator.