well water, one of them old-time Algonquians, you know? Or maybe he
didn’t, who’s to know? But anyway the second verse says that we don’t drink
well water from around New Preston on account of it keeps our skin from shell.’
‘Do you know what that means? Can
you guess? Did anyone ever tell you?’
Greg drew hard at his cigarette, and
the tip of it glowed bright orange. When he’d
considered a while, and scratched the back of his leathery neck, criss-crossed
with wrinkles and deep red from years of farming, he shook his head in
resignation.
‘I think I asked my pa once,’ he
said. ‘And my pa said it was something to do with the knee people.’
‘The knee people. You mean, knee like in halfway down
your leg?’
‘I guess so. He didn’t know any
more. He just said the rhyme was to warn folks about the knee people, and that
was it. He didn’t know no more. Some of the older residents did, but not him,
and he wasn’t particularly minded to ask. He said it was one of those things it
was best not to know of anyway.’
Dan took out his sample of water and
held it up to the grey light of the rainy afternoon. Even from where I was
standing, I could see that it had the same yellowish tint as before, although
that might have been partly due to the dirt which the bubbling well water had
stirred up as it came gushing out of the ground. Only a full analysis would
tell us.
He said to Greg McAllister: ‘Did you
ever see the well water? Did you ever see it yellowy-green, like this?’ Greg
squinted at the sample, and then shook his head again. ‘I don’t remember the
well water ever being anything at all but clear. That’s full of mud, ain’t it,
that water?’
Dan said: ‘No. If it were, the lower
part of the water would be tinted more darkly by now, as the suspension
settled. But it’s still the same tint of yellow all the way up.’
‘Is that poison?’ asked Greg.
‘It’s possible,’ said Dan. ‘That’s
what I’m trying to rind out.’
I puffed at my cancerous cigarillo
and put in: ‘That’s why we wanted to know about the rhyme.
There might be some kind of clue in
one of the old stories.’
Greg looked from Dan to me, and then
back again. ‘You’re really interested in all them old
tales?
All them old rhymes?’
‘Sure. Do you know any more?’
‘Not myself. But my grandpa kept a
book in the house in which he said were old stories of New Milford and
Washington and all around. Legends oj Litchjield, that was the name of it.’
I checked my watch. It was still
raining, and it was already a few minutes after three. I began to think about
Jimmy and Alison Bodinc, hiding out in this downpour, waiting for dark, and the
thoughts that I had were less than reassuring. They were frightening, even.
Something was terribly wrong with Jimmy and Alison. The scales had overtaken
their skin, and for some reason they wanted me to help them. I guess I was the
only person they felt they could trust. I guess I was the only person who
wouldn’t shoot first and worry about what to do with lead-and-lobster Newburg
afterwards.
Dan asked Greg McAllister: ‘Do you
still have that old book? I’d really like to take a look at it.’
‘It’s in store now. Everything went
into store when pa died, and we rented the house out. It’s all down at the
Candlewood Furnishers. If you want to see it real bad, I could always give you
a letter for old man Martin. He’d let you lend a borrow of it for a while.’
‘That would be real neighbourly,’
said Dan. ‘Whatever happened to Jimmy and Alison, this water and all the old stories
about it could help us to get them out of a real fix.’
Greg tossed his cigarette butt out
into the rain. There was a bright wash of sunshine appearing from the west now,
and the rain began to glitter as it drifted across the grass. Greg said, in a
low voice: ‘I heard they killed young Oliver. Drowned him in
the bathtub, something like that. Is that the truth?’
I said: ‘No. We
didn’t, who’s to know? But anyway the second verse says that we don’t drink
well water from around New Preston on account of it keeps our skin from shell.’
‘Do you know what that means? Can
you guess? Did anyone ever tell you?’
Greg drew hard at his cigarette, and
the tip of it glowed bright orange. When he’d
considered a while, and scratched the back of his leathery neck, criss-crossed
with wrinkles and deep red from years of farming, he shook his head in
resignation.
‘I think I asked my pa once,’ he
said. ‘And my pa said it was something to do with the knee people.’
‘The knee people. You mean, knee like in halfway down
your leg?’
‘I guess so. He didn’t know any
more. He just said the rhyme was to warn folks about the knee people, and that
was it. He didn’t know no more. Some of the older residents did, but not him,
and he wasn’t particularly minded to ask. He said it was one of those things it
was best not to know of anyway.’
Dan took out his sample of water and
held it up to the grey light of the rainy afternoon. Even from where I was
standing, I could see that it had the same yellowish tint as before, although
that might have been partly due to the dirt which the bubbling well water had
stirred up as it came gushing out of the ground. Only a full analysis would
tell us.
He said to Greg McAllister: ‘Did you
ever see the well water? Did you ever see it yellowy-green, like this?’ Greg
squinted at the sample, and then shook his head again. ‘I don’t remember the
well water ever being anything at all but clear. That’s full of mud, ain’t it,
that water?’
Dan said: ‘No. If it were, the lower
part of the water would be tinted more darkly by now, as the suspension
settled. But it’s still the same tint of yellow all the way up.’
‘Is that poison?’ asked Greg.
‘It’s possible,’ said Dan. ‘That’s
what I’m trying to rind out.’
I puffed at my cancerous cigarillo
and put in: ‘That’s why we wanted to know about the rhyme.
There might be some kind of clue in
one of the old stories.’
Greg looked from Dan to me, and then
back again. ‘You’re really interested in all them old
tales?
All them old rhymes?’
‘Sure. Do you know any more?’
‘Not myself. But my grandpa kept a
book in the house in which he said were old stories of New Milford and
Washington and all around. Legends oj Litchjield, that was the name of it.’
I checked my watch. It was still
raining, and it was already a few minutes after three. I began to think about
Jimmy and Alison Bodinc, hiding out in this downpour, waiting for dark, and the
thoughts that I had were less than reassuring. They were frightening, even.
Something was terribly wrong with Jimmy and Alison. The scales had overtaken
their skin, and for some reason they wanted me to help them. I guess I was the
only person they felt they could trust. I guess I was the only person who
wouldn’t shoot first and worry about what to do with lead-and-lobster Newburg
afterwards.
Dan asked Greg McAllister: ‘Do you
still have that old book? I’d really like to take a look at it.’
‘It’s in store now. Everything went
into store when pa died, and we rented the house out. It’s all down at the
Candlewood Furnishers. If you want to see it real bad, I could always give you
a letter for old man Martin. He’d let you lend a borrow of it for a while.’
‘That would be real neighbourly,’
said Dan. ‘Whatever happened to Jimmy and Alison, this water and all the old stories
about it could help us to get them out of a real fix.’
Greg tossed his cigarette butt out
into the rain. There was a bright wash of sunshine appearing from the west now,
and the rain began to glitter as it drifted across the grass. Greg said, in a
low voice: ‘I heard they killed young Oliver. Drowned him in
the bathtub, something like that. Is that the truth?’
I said: ‘No. We
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