Old Manson River
by Scott T. Hutchinson
I appreciate my association with the Christian-Biblical hermits, though sainthood probably isn’t floating my way any time soon. Since I’ve lived in isolation—dense forest land along the river—people tell themselves that I’ve been in deep contemplation for my thirty years here and I understand the Country, the Water, and the Mysteries. A few have even sought my counsel over the years, asking for spiritual guidance. I humored them, offering uncontrived views on solitude and prayer. Looking back, I’m glad I did that—practicing remote toleration instead of setting camouflaged pit traps and running them off with my guns.
In the last year, I’ve become a widely known, sensational and sympathetic creature. Once the internet learned of an old dude named Manson Graves—henceforward known as Old Manson River—once it became broadcast that I existed and I’d fallen on hard times in my squatter’s rights hermitage, then I became a superstar.
I’d made myself a place in the sun and woodlands along the South Anna River for three decades, with only the occasional kayaker or hiker or penitent discovering me. Off the grid—that’s the way I always wanted things. The land belongs to Duke Canterbury, who inherited it from his father. I tell everybody: Deacon Canterbury, Duke’s daddy, gave me permission to live here in perpetuity. I’m eighty-years-old now, and the makeshift cabin that I cobbled together and reinforced over the years kept the snow and rain off my back. When I was younger, I even managed to haul a wood stove out here; I scrounged, found piping, installed a chimney all by myself. Fuel’s never been a problem, as long as you keep adding to the lean-to covered deadwood pile all year. With shelter basics in place, I proceeded: fry some fish, poach a rabbit, roast a quail, scramble robin’s eggs, plant a few taters, munch on dandelion greens. I tanned blankets from deer hides, went to Goodwill once a year for clothes. Recycled found bottles and cans for booze cash. My needs were met.
River land—even the flood plains—has become a precious commodity. Filthy-rich Duke Canterbury wants to develop condos with water views. Once the stories got out that I was alive and entrenched, and that I was considered a trespasser—then everything changed. My simple way of life would have to make way for greed and progress, because there’s no tangible evidence, no written agreement to attest to my arrangements with Deacon.
What began as a leaky roof rain-trickle became a hurricane bank-swell of people, all wanting to meet and greet Old Manson River, The Hermit of Canterbury Woods. News outlet pilgrimages hauled their cameras through the prickly forest, or dry-packed them in using canoes to navigate the waterway. They greeted me with fast food and canned goods. Me and my long grey beard, my rope belt, my patch-worked pants, and overcoat—I wore the trappings and grease of flavorful story. A couple of features asked the big questions: like, what would become of my cats and my chickens?
I was court-ordered to move. And that’s when Pity began pouring in. The pickets outside of Duke’s Canterbury Industries bore clever signage, like Canterbury Industries just keeps rollin’ over Old Manson River and You Make Us Sick and Weary and Ol’ Manson River He Jes’ Keeps Rollin’ Along. People I didn’t know stood behind me during interviews, holding signs over their heads that blared out Let the River-Man Run and Take Us All to the River. I appeared visibly shaken during all of that. Bloggers and Influencers noticed, clued in everybody else in the world and got some kind of online contribution thingy going for me, raising over $240,000.
As a result, I was offered compassion and primo transitional housing—which blew up in my favor when Duke’s boys came through with a bulldozer and a pack of matches. The Question: can you plow under what’s on your own property? The protesters loudly say no, while the law stands around with its hands in its pockets. I know the game.
Duke and me had us a long woodsy walk and talk a year before all this began. We had us an agreement. He wanted to be certain that I remembered each and every one of the disposals, got ‘em moved before construction. When the dozers came, he didn’t want the big blades turning up bones or rings or teeth any more than he wanted them to find signs of archeological-heritage sites. I’d done the wet operations for both him and Deacon, and I knew where all the leftover dry scraps were—but my old spine needed time, since twenty-three spread-out graves is a lot of back-bending. Ol’ Deacon would never have thought the future through the way his clever boy did—Deacon would have set me up in some dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere, and I’d have liked it. Easy. But Duke, he’s a modern tech-savvy kind of criminal, and he knew how, if he played the bad guy, then Bleeding Hearts would donate money by the pint into saving an innocent counter-culture hero from a corporate bully.
My apartment isn’t exactly rustic, but the TV and hot tub will do Old Manson fine until the time comes that Duke places me in a river condo. We have that in writing. The Bleeders are all happy. Hey, I’m eighty. The flesh and tissue ain’t what they used to be. I can finally be done with ashes and dust, eating squirrel, chopping up trees and kings and paupers, stealing from songbirds. I’ll rest the old bones in warm water and a big flowing bed and call it a damned fine day.
I know my Bible: hermits don’t please the Lord—isolation fails to produce moral fruit or social contract. But I’ve made my peace, God and God bless—I love this country.
In the last year, I’ve become a widely known, sensational and sympathetic creature. Once the internet learned of an old dude named Manson Graves—henceforward known as Old Manson River—once it became broadcast that I existed and I’d fallen on hard times in my squatter’s rights hermitage, then I became a superstar.
I’d made myself a place in the sun and woodlands along the South Anna River for three decades, with only the occasional kayaker or hiker or penitent discovering me. Off the grid—that’s the way I always wanted things. The land belongs to Duke Canterbury, who inherited it from his father. I tell everybody: Deacon Canterbury, Duke’s daddy, gave me permission to live here in perpetuity. I’m eighty-years-old now, and the makeshift cabin that I cobbled together and reinforced over the years kept the snow and rain off my back. When I was younger, I even managed to haul a wood stove out here; I scrounged, found piping, installed a chimney all by myself. Fuel’s never been a problem, as long as you keep adding to the lean-to covered deadwood pile all year. With shelter basics in place, I proceeded: fry some fish, poach a rabbit, roast a quail, scramble robin’s eggs, plant a few taters, munch on dandelion greens. I tanned blankets from deer hides, went to Goodwill once a year for clothes. Recycled found bottles and cans for booze cash. My needs were met.
River land—even the flood plains—has become a precious commodity. Filthy-rich Duke Canterbury wants to develop condos with water views. Once the stories got out that I was alive and entrenched, and that I was considered a trespasser—then everything changed. My simple way of life would have to make way for greed and progress, because there’s no tangible evidence, no written agreement to attest to my arrangements with Deacon.
What began as a leaky roof rain-trickle became a hurricane bank-swell of people, all wanting to meet and greet Old Manson River, The Hermit of Canterbury Woods. News outlet pilgrimages hauled their cameras through the prickly forest, or dry-packed them in using canoes to navigate the waterway. They greeted me with fast food and canned goods. Me and my long grey beard, my rope belt, my patch-worked pants, and overcoat—I wore the trappings and grease of flavorful story. A couple of features asked the big questions: like, what would become of my cats and my chickens?
I was court-ordered to move. And that’s when Pity began pouring in. The pickets outside of Duke’s Canterbury Industries bore clever signage, like Canterbury Industries just keeps rollin’ over Old Manson River and You Make Us Sick and Weary and Ol’ Manson River He Jes’ Keeps Rollin’ Along. People I didn’t know stood behind me during interviews, holding signs over their heads that blared out Let the River-Man Run and Take Us All to the River. I appeared visibly shaken during all of that. Bloggers and Influencers noticed, clued in everybody else in the world and got some kind of online contribution thingy going for me, raising over $240,000.
As a result, I was offered compassion and primo transitional housing—which blew up in my favor when Duke’s boys came through with a bulldozer and a pack of matches. The Question: can you plow under what’s on your own property? The protesters loudly say no, while the law stands around with its hands in its pockets. I know the game.
Duke and me had us a long woodsy walk and talk a year before all this began. We had us an agreement. He wanted to be certain that I remembered each and every one of the disposals, got ‘em moved before construction. When the dozers came, he didn’t want the big blades turning up bones or rings or teeth any more than he wanted them to find signs of archeological-heritage sites. I’d done the wet operations for both him and Deacon, and I knew where all the leftover dry scraps were—but my old spine needed time, since twenty-three spread-out graves is a lot of back-bending. Ol’ Deacon would never have thought the future through the way his clever boy did—Deacon would have set me up in some dilapidated house in the middle of nowhere, and I’d have liked it. Easy. But Duke, he’s a modern tech-savvy kind of criminal, and he knew how, if he played the bad guy, then Bleeding Hearts would donate money by the pint into saving an innocent counter-culture hero from a corporate bully.
My apartment isn’t exactly rustic, but the TV and hot tub will do Old Manson fine until the time comes that Duke places me in a river condo. We have that in writing. The Bleeders are all happy. Hey, I’m eighty. The flesh and tissue ain’t what they used to be. I can finally be done with ashes and dust, eating squirrel, chopping up trees and kings and paupers, stealing from songbirds. I’ll rest the old bones in warm water and a big flowing bed and call it a damned fine day.
I know my Bible: hermits don’t please the Lord—isolation fails to produce moral fruit or social contract. But I’ve made my peace, God and God bless—I love this country.
Scott T. Hutchinson's work has appeared in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly and Massacre. New work is forthcoming in Reckoning, Evening Street Review, and Appalachian Heritage.