THE CAIRN

     "Goddamnit!" Dustin hissed in the darkness.

     "What is it this time?" Gerald asked, amused, from his own camp.

     "These goddamn vines are pissing me off!" Dustin exclaimed. "The damn path is still flooded, and in the dark, the bicycle keeps getting tangled up!"

     "So use a flashlight," Gerald suggested.

     "Don't need no damn flashlight!" Dustin rejoined. "Got eyes like a cat, and I can see in the dark."

     "Obviously," Gerald sighed. "Good-night, Dustin."

     "'Night," Dustin growled as he continued to struggle his way through the vines and palmettos to his own camp, still further down the water-logged trail.

     The next morning, Gerald was awakened by the sound of splashing water. Looking blearily from his tent, his curious gaze was met by the mystifying sight of Dustin rolling rocks of various sizes down a slope into the underwater path.

     "What the hell are you doing?!" Gerald exploded.

     "What the hell does it look like I'm doing? I'm filling in that goddamn trench once and for all! Are you going to help, or just gape at me like a fish?"

     "You got beer?"

     "Yep."

     "Then I'll help."

     Dustin had found a large pile of stones deep in a small grove of oak trees, and between the two of them, kicking and guiding the rocks through the trees and down the hill, were making pretty good headway as they filled in the path, arranging and leveling the stones like tile. Finally, the mound of rocks had been lowered to the level of the surface, but still needing more, they were gratified to discover that the quantity of stones continued deeper into the ground, seeming to be fill-in for some kind of rectangular-shaped pit.

     As the pit grew deeper, Dustin wordlessly volunteered to climb inside, where he found it necessary to pry the rocks free from each other with his bare hands, before he could lift each one out to push down the slope. Growing increasingly deeper, Dustin grimly realized that his project was now becoming a lot like work, and his fingers were becoming raw with the effort of freeing each compacted stone. One stone in particular, the last one, as it turned out, proved to be especially difficult, as, when he had worked it loose, a loud hissing noise erupted, and an unseen, noxious gas was instantly released into the air. 

     Reeling and nauseous from the sudden, intolerable stench, Dustin quickly clambered from the pit, to lay retching on the ground.

     "What's wrong? What happened?" Gerald asked, running up the incline.

     "Damned if I know," Dustin wheezed. "It was like I hit some kind of gas pocket, but I never smelled any gas like that . . . . And, damnit, I knocked over my beer!"

*                          *                                *

     Living in a huge, undeveloped tract of land in Northeast Florida, Dustin and Gerald had only a few neighbors, each of them dwelling in tents of various sizes, hidden in locations remote enough from each other to afford as much privacy as possible. Some were friends of the others, but all were at least allies, as they all had the same unspoken adversary: society.

They lived in quiet, harmonious solitude, most of them gratefully acknowledging nature as being their host, and so tried to reciprocate with courtesy and respect. The wooded area was close enough to St. Augustine to commute by bicycle, where they frequently were able to find work out of day labor agencies, but remote enough to avoid all but the most persistent attention. Automobile traffic down the nearby, rural roads was scarce, except for occasional funeral processions to a small, adjacent cemetery, and for the cemetery's infrequent visitors.

     Sitting around Gerald's camp one night, drinking beer, a couple of days after the rock rolling project, Gerald and Dustin were, as usual, extolling and prophesying about all the things that Destiny had yet in store for them, despite the fact that they were both in their mid-fifties, and Destiny had, as yet, not seen fit to call on either one of them, when a unheard and unseen person suddenly appeared from the darkness.

     "What in blazes, Sammy!" Gerald exclaimed. "What the devil are you doing, creeping around in the woods at night, like some kind of goldarn Indian?!"

     "I am an Indian," Samuel, one of their neighbors, chuckled as he sat on an overturned milk crate, "but we prefer the term 'Native American,' if you don't mind."

     "Oh, yeah . . . say, do you want a beer?"

     "Where is it?"

     Accepting the beer, Samuel swung off his backpack, and removed a newspaper.

     "Either of you guys read today's paper?" he asked.

     "No," Dustin replied, "and it's too dark to read now, anyway."

     "I thought you could see at night 'cause you have eyes like a cat," Gerald chided.

     "Everybody knows even cats can't read at night," Dustin snapped.

     "Hell, stupid, everybody knows cats can't read, period!"

     "Never mind, guys," Samuel interceded, "but has either, or both of you, taken up a side line of grave robbing?"

     "Hell, no!" they both retorted, but each one eyed the other suspiciously.

     "At least, not me," Dustin added.

     "Me, neither," Gerald bristled. "Why do you ask?"

     "Hey, settle down, I was just joking," Samuel laughed. "I know you haven't, but my dear, saintly grandmother pointed out an article to me. . . . A freshly buried corpse was dug up yesterday from that cemetery down the road from here. The whole body was removed, and dragged off into the woods. What's even stranger, whoever did it, didn't even use tools to dig, or to smash the coffin open."

     Both Gerald and Dustin shuddered.

     "Why?" asked one.

     "How?" asked the other.

     "Who can say?" Samuel shrugged. "Actually, I'm not sure that I even want to know."

     The heavy silence was becoming stifling, each one of the three men following his own, morbid thoughts.

     "Say," Gerald asked, "does that mean the police are going to come beating the woods back here?"

     "I doubt it. The corpse was dragged to the west, but you can bet there are people looking for it."

     After another lengthy pause, Samuel resumed speaking: "Actually, there's a kind of 'word-of-mouth' legend around these parts, that this kind of thing has happened before . . . according to my saintly grandmother, that is."

     "What is it?" Dustin asked, his throat strangely dry, despite the beer.

     "Well, way back when the Spanish were colonizing this area, about four or five hundred years ago, one of the first children born in St. Augustine was a male, named Julio, let's say, and for some reason, he was never 'quite right.' Even at a young age he was prone to fits of rage, and aggressive to all forms of authority, particularly the Catholic Church.

     "As Julio grew older, and more unmanageable, he was a constant embarrassment to his parents, and a threat to everyone. Finally, when Julio was a teenager, his parents, in desperation, sent for the priests to help, and just as they were going to sprinkle him with Holy water, Julio burst up, bolted out of the house, and ran from the colony.

     "No one saw him again, except the colonists noticed that, within a few days of Julio's disappearance, chickens and other small livestock were beginning to vanish. Not knowing whether the thefts were caused by predatory animals or the missing youth, the colonists, not to cause the parents additional grief, quietly began taking extra precautions to protect their animals.

     "The disappearances stopped. Everyone, except the agonizing parents, began to breathe easier, thinking, hoping, that Julio--the 'demon-boy'--had starved to death in the forest, or, himself, fallen victim to a predatory animal.

     "No one thought much about Julio anymore, until just after the colony suffered its first death, a young girl child. It was the mother who first discovered that, soon after the burial, the grave had been dug up under the cover of night, the small, frail coffin broken open, and the little girl's body was gone.

     "There was a panic among the colonists. The surrounding woods were searched, to no avail, and it was generally surmised that the dreaded demon-boy was still at large.

     "The next unfortunate death and burial, sometime later, was attended to that night by a secret, hidden guard of a half dozen soldiers and colonists, posted at various positions around the second grave, the soldiers armed with muskets.

     "Nothing happened.

     "The second night, however, their vigil was not in vain, because sometime in the early morning, a large silhouette was seen stealthily approaching the newest grave. Upon observing that it was, indeed, human, the soldiers declined to open fire on the skulking figure, but, instead, determined to try to capture the person unharmed.

     "Sure enough, the dark figure proved to be Julio. Rushing him from six directions, the teenager was too strong and too fast to be overpowered, and fled into the night. More than one of the soldiers was able to open fire, and the figure was hit at least once, as Julio instantly fell, motionless, to the ground.

     "Approaching him warily, carrying hastily lit lanterns, the boy was found to be dressed in rags and covered in filth, and, to the men's horror, it was immediately apparent that he was not dead, but, somehow, only stunned. It was obvious that at least one musket shot should have been fatal, but the demon-boy was clearly returning to consciousness, almost as if he were regaining strength.

     "Fearing that their muskets were ineffectual against Julio's, seemingly, diabolical power, they discarded their weapons, and four men seized the still weakened figure and lifted him, as he slowly began to writhe, from the ground. The other two men were dispatched back to their homes to retrieve shovels.

     "The original six men, now joined by many of their fellow colonists who had been awakened by the musket fire, reunited far from the colony, on a small hill. The men with shovels began digging furiously as they saw, to their growing fear and disbelief, that the boy was becoming increasingly stronger and more violent. Finally, climbing from the pit, which was as deep as they dared make it, Julio, now thrashing and screaming, was hurled into the hole. Oil from one of the lanterns was poured over him, and, pinned down by the shovels, he was set on fire.

     "The men continued holding him down in the grave until, as a charred and smoking husk, the demon-boy lay still and quiet.

     "The sun was now beginning to rise over the nearby Atlantic Ocean, reminding the repulsed and incredulous spectators that there was still some normalcy in the world. Then, as if suddenly shaken from individual trances, they all, about two dozen soldiers and colonists, began silently collecting stones to cover the smoldering thing in the pit. They picked up as many stones as they could carry, from as far as they could walk, until not only was the grave filled, but there was even a mound of rocks over it.

     "No one said a word . . . and no one erected any kind of sign or marker. Except for the pile of stones, there was never any indication of where the monster was laid to rest."

     Samuel ceased speaking, and once again there was a icy silence, Gerald and Dustin each seeming lost in a trance of his own.

     "Say," Dustin murmured at last, as if still in a daze, "did your grandmother happen to say where the demon-boy was supposed to have been buried?"

     "Yeah, as a matter of fact, she did. Around here someplace, if her memory serves."

     "Oh, my God," Gerald groaned. "I've known you to screw up before, Dustin, but--"

     "What are you talking about?" Samuel asked, sharply.

     "Yeah, Dustin," Gerald sneered. "Show Sammy your nice, new stone path!"

     "Hey," Dustin whined, "you helped!"

     "Stone path? Where did the stones come from?"

     "From inside that clump of trees, on the hill over there," Dustin whimpered.

     Samuel extricated a flashlight from his backpack. "Show me!" he barked.

     Dustin and Gerald led the way up the slope of the hill, Samuel's flashlight beam playing over the ground at their feet. They were soon in the small grove of oak trees, the long, moss-laden branches swaying slowly in the dark air above the three men's heads.

     At their feet was the rectangular pit from which Dustin had been prying up the rocks. It was now, obviously and unmistakably, meant to be a grave.
     "So, this is it, huh?" Samuel asked, tonelessly.

     "Yeah," Dustin conceded, "except something's different . . . something's not right--"

     "There's been nothing 'right' about this whole, stupid idea, ever since you got it!" Gerald burst.

     "What do you mean, Dustin?" Samuel prodded.

     "Let me hold your flashlight. . . ."

     Dustin shined the light at the sides and bottom of the pit.

     "The stones are lower now than they were before, and they're all loose now."

     "What?"

     "When I was in here the other day, I had to pry the rocks out with my fingers . . . they were all jammed and packed together. Look, now the rocks are all loose and jumbled up.

     "And another thing," Dustin added slowly, returning the flashlight to Samuel, "I'm not getting back in there to prove it, but when I quit digging and climbed out, the hole was only waist deep. It's at least as deep as my chest now."

     "Meaning what?" Gerald asked.

     "Meaning one of two things," Samuel replied, "or, maybe, both. . . . Either someone or something pulled more rocks out of there, or someone or something was underneath the rocks, and climbed out."

     Samuel darted the bright, white cone of light rapidly across the surrounding area.

     "I don't see any stones lying around," Samuel observed.

     "Okay," Dustin croaked, and the three men returned quickly, but wordlessly, to Gerald's camp.

     "Well, you guys," Samuel said, picking up his backpack, "maybe I'll see you around."

     "Why? Where are you going?" Gerald asked, opening another beer.

     "Somewhere to sleep on the inside, maybe at my saintly grandmother's house. I'm sure she'd get a kick out of this, but I'm afraid it would upset her too much if I told her."

     "Do you think it's that bad?" Gerald asked.

     "What I think is: Who would believe us, and what could anyone do if they did?

     "More importantly, to me, is if this Julio-thing has tried to return to his previous diet of dead, human flesh after five hundred years, he's going to be very disappointed in the current fare, namely dead, human flesh pumped full of embalming fluid. He may not like it. In fact, I'm thinking he might want to 'up-grade' his culinary tastes, if you know what I mean."

              Samuel began walking purposefully in the direction of the darkness from whence he had first arrived, but stopped abruptly.

     "By the way," he said over his shoulder, "the next time you two geniuses think of another way to enhance your quality of life, please wait until after I come back to get my tent, which, I can assure you, will be as soon as tomorrow . . . and during the daylight."

THE END