thrilling flash, he hauled off like he was going to give it a pitch up on my branch. But instead, he let it slide down off the stick. It just lay there in a big S on the patch of pale grass where the rowboat had been.
He watched it for a minute, then threw the stick down and picked up a rock—about twice the size of a softball—and dropped it on the snake’s head. Its body lashed once, looping off the ground. After that, it was still. And the rock, which was smooth, rolled down into the water. “It’s not dead,” I heard Flip say, low. There was a dent in the snake’s head, and its neck was puffed about halfway out. Flip sidestepped it and retrieved the rock from the water. He dropped it on the snake’s head again.
There was a lot of blood that time. It looked black from where I was. I said, “Don’t. Let it go.” But only to myself. Anyway, it was too late. The rock stayed on the snake’s head. Its big body was rippling again, but, of course, that could mean it was dead for sure. They jump around a lot after death. Till sundown, some people say. I felt kind of dizzy and got a good hold on the trunk of my tree. It was okay to come down, but I hung on up there.
Later, when we were farther downstream, hacking our way through the vegetation, Flip said, “He might not have been dead.” Dead or alive, it didn’t make much difference to me. Snakes scare the devil out of me either way. I was ready to change the subject since I was so busy watching out for what might be coiled on the ground or draped over a low branch that the day was about shot for me anyway. But it was on Flip’s mind. He really hated unfinished business.
Finally, I said to him, “Look, we’ll go back later and see. If it’s dead, it’ll still be there. If it isn’t, it’ll be gone.” But I was privately hoping Flip would forget the whole thing.
We were right under the railroad bridge then, which is like being in kind of a big, natural cathedral. Only it’s higher than any church I’ve ever been in. It has three tall stone arches, and Warnicke’s Creek runs through the center one. The bridge looks like one of those ancient Roman aqueducts. Even more so because now it’s abandoned, and the railroad doesn’t run trains over it any more. It’s like a big ruin that’s being reclaimed by nature.
We were probably the last generation to hear about the boy who fell off it. It was way back in the days of fast passenger service. This kid accepted adare to walk across the bridge, which is strictly forbidden by the railroad. Anyway, he was right over the center arch when the train came—full steam ahead, so he couldn’t outrun it. And since it’s a single track bridge, this kid only had one chance. And that was to hang over the side till the train passed. He couldn’t drop into the creek because it’s too shallow—and a long drop. So he heaved himself down and swung over the side as the St. Louis train came whooshing by.
He nearly made it. But the vibrations must have got to him because he lost his grip, and fell into the creek, and split his skull. They fished his body out way downstream where it was snagged on a willow hanging down in the water. It’s one of the local tales.
So we took a breather and looked straight up at the underside of the bridge and wondered about what that kid must have been thinking on the way down, if he had time to have any last thoughts. And this took our minds off the puff adder.
The reason we were out there was that we were in the last gasp of our local history study. It was the middle of the summer, and we were pretty bored. Nothing that used to be fun seemed like fun anymore. And it was kind of a strain trying not to think about Elvan Helligrew. And things were pretty quiet generally. The dead man business was ancient history by then.
So Flip took one last look through Estella Winkler Bates, which he’d illegally kept out of the library over the vacation. In an early chapter we’d overlooked
He watched it for a minute, then threw the stick down and picked up a rock—about twice the size of a softball—and dropped it on the snake’s head. Its body lashed once, looping off the ground. After that, it was still. And the rock, which was smooth, rolled down into the water. “It’s not dead,” I heard Flip say, low. There was a dent in the snake’s head, and its neck was puffed about halfway out. Flip sidestepped it and retrieved the rock from the water. He dropped it on the snake’s head again.
There was a lot of blood that time. It looked black from where I was. I said, “Don’t. Let it go.” But only to myself. Anyway, it was too late. The rock stayed on the snake’s head. Its big body was rippling again, but, of course, that could mean it was dead for sure. They jump around a lot after death. Till sundown, some people say. I felt kind of dizzy and got a good hold on the trunk of my tree. It was okay to come down, but I hung on up there.
Later, when we were farther downstream, hacking our way through the vegetation, Flip said, “He might not have been dead.” Dead or alive, it didn’t make much difference to me. Snakes scare the devil out of me either way. I was ready to change the subject since I was so busy watching out for what might be coiled on the ground or draped over a low branch that the day was about shot for me anyway. But it was on Flip’s mind. He really hated unfinished business.
Finally, I said to him, “Look, we’ll go back later and see. If it’s dead, it’ll still be there. If it isn’t, it’ll be gone.” But I was privately hoping Flip would forget the whole thing.
We were right under the railroad bridge then, which is like being in kind of a big, natural cathedral. Only it’s higher than any church I’ve ever been in. It has three tall stone arches, and Warnicke’s Creek runs through the center one. The bridge looks like one of those ancient Roman aqueducts. Even more so because now it’s abandoned, and the railroad doesn’t run trains over it any more. It’s like a big ruin that’s being reclaimed by nature.
We were probably the last generation to hear about the boy who fell off it. It was way back in the days of fast passenger service. This kid accepted adare to walk across the bridge, which is strictly forbidden by the railroad. Anyway, he was right over the center arch when the train came—full steam ahead, so he couldn’t outrun it. And since it’s a single track bridge, this kid only had one chance. And that was to hang over the side till the train passed. He couldn’t drop into the creek because it’s too shallow—and a long drop. So he heaved himself down and swung over the side as the St. Louis train came whooshing by.
He nearly made it. But the vibrations must have got to him because he lost his grip, and fell into the creek, and split his skull. They fished his body out way downstream where it was snagged on a willow hanging down in the water. It’s one of the local tales.
So we took a breather and looked straight up at the underside of the bridge and wondered about what that kid must have been thinking on the way down, if he had time to have any last thoughts. And this took our minds off the puff adder.
The reason we were out there was that we were in the last gasp of our local history study. It was the middle of the summer, and we were pretty bored. Nothing that used to be fun seemed like fun anymore. And it was kind of a strain trying not to think about Elvan Helligrew. And things were pretty quiet generally. The dead man business was ancient history by then.
So Flip took one last look through Estella Winkler Bates, which he’d illegally kept out of the library over the vacation. In an early chapter we’d overlooked
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