Pynter Bender by Jacob Ross Page B

broke their chains and routed San Andrews with their rage. When that happened, they sent for Marlo.
    And if, from time to time, someone decided to leave one of those animals too loosely tethered, or deliberately forgot to draw the bolts of the steel pen, it was so that they could watch the towntake to the top of walls and barricade itself behind the closed glass doors of stores while Marlo placed his back against some building on the Esplanade, or planted his legs like tree trunks in the middle of the market square, his head lowered like the animal’s, his shoulders twitching, his right elbow bent so that his finger barely grazed the leather at his side as the animal charged. And at the very last moment, with a movement that the men would recall over dinner in words that would disgust their women and thrill their children, Marlo would call the length of sharpened steel to his palm. He never missed an animal’s heart whenever he reached for it with that knife.
    â€˜Men like blood,’ his father told him quietly. ‘Some o’ them jus’ don’ know it.’
    â€˜I don’ like blood,’ Pynter answered earnestly, staring at the milkiness in the old man’s eye.
    â€˜That’s becuz you not a man yet,’ his father muttered softly.
    Â Â Â   
    â€˜Rain fall last night too. Dry-season rain. Mean a lot more heat to come. It still wet outside?’ His father’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. Through the window he could see that it was drizzling, but he said he was going outside to check.
    Â Â  There were people gathered by the roadside when Pynter got down there. Harris’s house looked tired and rain-sogged against the giant bois-canot tree that supported it. The door was partly open and the window facing the road hung on a single hinge. He stood on the wet grass, listening to the lowered voices, the grunts of disbelief, the quiet shock, subdued like the drone of bees. He didn’t think they had seen him. They were lost in talking their thoughts out to each other
    â€˜ … such a nice fella.’
    â€˜ … in hi own house.’
    â€˜ … never do nobody no harm.’
    â€˜An’ Marlo gone an’ done dat to him.’
    â€˜ … a piece o’ bread … ’
    â€˜ … murder … ’
    â€˜ … worse than murder.’
    A rough wind shook the trees above them. The water that had settled on the leaves came down in a cold shower on their heads. He shuddered, began wondering what his father was doing now. Soon he would have to collect his breakfast from the steps before the chickens got to it.
    No one knew who called the ambulance. Although it was still very early, it had come and gone long before most of them were there. More people were arriving, some from as far up as the foothills of Mont Airy. A tall, slim-faced woman with a white headwrap kept repeating the story to them of what had happened – Marlo had disappeared, and the police were somewhere up there in the bushes at the foot of the Mardi Gras with their dogs; they were sure to find him before the day was over, she said.
    Pynter wiped his eyes and looked up at the Mardi Gras, its head buried in the greyness of the flat, soggy morning. He could hear the dogs barking. He didn’t like dogs. Dogs didn’t like him either. He could have told the police or the dogs that they were not going to find him up there in the forest. Marlo could hardly walk, far less climb a hill or run.
    He left them by the side of the road, scratching, shifting and murmuring among themselves, their hands moving aimlessly about them, as if they were rummaging the air for something they’d forgotten or misplaced. He criss-crossed his way back up the hill.
    Miss Maddie was on her porch, craning her neck towards the road while still managing to keep her eyes on him.
    â€˜Boy!’
    He lifted his face at her.
    â€˜What happenin down there?’ It was the first