Part 12 (1/2)

At first it's just a pencil.

The lead breaks again, and Wade jams it into the electric sharpener. Under the sound of the whirring motor, a scream, discordant, sharp. Wade jumps back; the pencil falls to the ground.

Where the lead used to be, a tail stretches out, coils, and straightens. The thing is twice as long as the pencil shaft now. It swells, and little legs sprout at the sides. Wade scrambles to his desktop, knocking notebooks to the floor.

The black serpentine thing works up the side of the desk. Wade pushes his fists against his eyes, rubbing hard until they water.

It's still there, writhing over his shoe. It tickles his ankle, brus.h.i.+ng the hairs of his calf as it winds around his leg. He slaps at his pants, dancing frantically on the desk top, but the black thing works into his skin, finds a vein, and takes over.

Chapter 55: Melons.

Troy Varnell and his buddy Arthur Bolin had stopped at a crossroads for a bite to eat. They sat on the tailgate of a '34 Ford, both gnawing on a slice of watermelon. Behind them, filling the bed of the dusty pickup, the Varnell watermelon harvest waited to be delivered to the green grocers of Calumet County.

Troy and Arthur took no notice of the hobo walking down the road because they were engaged in a contest, squirting watermelon seeds from their mouths as far from the tailgate as possible. The hobo's name was Pete Archer; he carried a leather bag on one shoulder and dragged a rolled-up bindle in the other hand. Just as Arthur puffed up his chubby red cheeks to launch another seed, Pete gave a little cough. Arthur almost choked.

”Excuse me, gentleman, but I was wondering if perhaps there might be a spare melon for a fellow down on his luck?”

Both young men studied the vagrant. Neither had done much in school past the sixth grade, but it wasn't hard to pick out a hobo. Pete wore a pair of dusty denim trousers-patched at both knees-a brown jacket, and a lopsided derby hat squashed so much that a couple of elephants must have made love on.

Troy glanced at Arthur, Arthur back at Troy.

”Whatcha got in the bag, mister?” Troy asked, ignoring the hobo's question.

Pete smiled, showing two rows of whiter teeth than a hobo ought to have. ”Books, gentleman. The finest examples of mankind's acc.u.mulated knowledge and wisdom.” He patted the side of his leather pouch. ”I ask again, do you suppose you have a watermelon in there for a fellow traveler on the dusty road of life?”

Troy tossed his rind in the ditch and hopped from the tailgate. He was a tall boy and lean as a split rail. ”Sorry mister, we've got to deliver these to a couple stores up county.”

”Looks like you just ate one; surely you can spare another.”

”Probably get in trouble if my old man found out we ate that one,” Troy said. He crossed his spindly arms. ”We ain't got no extras.”

”I see.” Pete smiled again, but this time it looked like the grin a fox might shoot off to a jackrabbit just before it tears open the rabbit's throat. He dropped his bindle at the side of the road, reached inside the leather pouch, rummaged around, and pulled out a small book. The book wasn't much: a reddish-brown cover with a t.i.tle embossed in black ink.

”Trade a book for a melon? This is an exquisite, old volume.”

Troy scoffed, ”I don't have need for your books, mister.”

”Last chance-best deal you'll have.” Pete waved the book.

Troy shook his head.

Pete opened the book, flipped a few pages, turned it over so the writing faced the ground, and started shaking. Little black seeds dropped out in a light rain, and Pete sprinkled them all over the side of the road.

The air was plenty hot as it was the height of summer-but something icy weaseled its way into both boys' bones, and they shuddered like when the bathwater turned cold. Neither had seen much magic before, especially hobo magic.

Arthur dropped to the ground-his belly shook a bit when he landed-and he took one step toward Pete. ”What're you doing?”

Pete glanced over his shoulder and winked. ”Planting some melons.” He turned a few more pages and poured water from the book.

After the water, Arthur didn't take another step toward Pete. His jaw dropped. So did Troy's-like it weighed a half-ton on an oily hinge. When the water hit the dirt, little green shoots popped out of the mud.

”Hey Troy, let's get. I'm spooked.” Arthur stumbled to the side of the truck, keeping his eyes on the sprouts that wound out of the earth. ”Something about that guy ain't right.”

A gust of wind swept some dust past the crossroads, snapping Troy's jaw back in place. ”Yeah.” He climbed behind the wheel and poked his head out of the window. ”Enjoy yourself, mister. We've got these melons to deliver.” He half-waved at Pete; he wanted to smile, too, but his lips wouldn't cooperate. Never in his nineteen years had he seen shoots come up that quickly. Not to mention water pouring out of a book.

The truck chugged to life, and Troy pushed it into gear. They started rattling down the road, but Troy couldn't help but look back in the side mirror one last time.

The crossroads swarmed with green vines by then, and Pete Archer stood in the middle of his field. He held a fat melon, green as a spring bud, over his head. Troy was sure Pete was smiling, and his foot dropped a little harder on the accelerator. Something about that smile wasn't right.

They didn't speak as they bounced down the road until they pulled into Emery's General Store in Grover's Mill. They exchanged a quick look and laughed, both of them.

”Crazy old man,” Troy said.

The road had been rather dry, and they couldn't see out of the rear window once the truck worked up a good dust cloud. They never saw the melons disappear, missing that bit of magic completely. All they witnessed was the empty bed-almost empty save for a good coat of dirt and a small, reddish-brown book.

Troy, his heart pumping like a steam engine, climbed up and lifted the book. On the cover, embossed in black, were two words: ”On Gardening.”

His jaw popped open again, but his mind was wrapped around Pete's vines back at the crossroads.