Blackberry Bramble

“Did you get them chores done? I don’t wanna have to go down there and check after you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you didn’t leave any eggs this time? I’m bringin’ three dozen to church with us tomorrow mornin’.”

“No, ma’am. I got every one of ‘em. Checked all the way in the back of the coop.”

“Alright. You put down fresh straw for that damned goat?”

She had called it “that damned goat” ever since it ate up a row and a half of her garden zinnias two summers ago.

“Yes, ma’am. Across the whole pen, edge to edge. Promise.”

“Alright. Go on then. And you’ll stay where you can hear that bell if you’ll be wanting any lunch,” she shouted after him but he was already halfway down the lane, gravel dust flying up from muck boots two and a half sizes too big. He had not missed a meal since he was nine and a half and, bell or not, he would be back in time for lunch.

The boy leaned against the Dyer County sign post to catch his breath. He had again beaten them to the meeting point and wondered how they managed to be late every week despite not having any chores. He paced across the road and threw pebbles at the “O” and each bullseye counted for fifty points. He was up to three-hundred-fifty before he heard hooting and singing around the last curve coming from town. The younger was standing on the back pegs and the bike carved wide, lazy s-turns across the blacktop, inflecting each time at the twin yellow lines that stitched the road together in the middle. The winding road cut through the middle of the holler and trees leaned over from both sides to join again in a single canopy high above. As they approached, he saw the younger lean down to whisper something into the ear of his brother. They both grinned and their lazy course righted itself to a direct approach. The pair hunched over, picking up speed and the tongue of the pilot darted out the side of his mouth as he cranked faster and faster. The boy saw this was a kamikaze mission only when they had drawn within twenty or thirty feet but before he could plan evasive action the enemy craft veered and the passenger jumped off the pegs, hitting the ground running: a strafing maneuver. The boy only had a moment to admire the coordinated tactical feat before the craft raced past with a gust of air and a buzz of the engine. The approaching missile screamed and froze him in his tracks and at impact he was launched from his feet. The two crashed into the ditch beside the road, grunting and laughing as they tumbled.

“Jesus Christ, Teddy, you about killed me!” the boy shouted. He punched Teddy on the arm and assessed the damage.

“Well you’re lucky we didn’t, you sittin’ duck,” Teddy laughed and the boy’s mask of insult and injury crumbled into a matching grin. The older brother had circled around and was ditching the bike in the tall grass across the road when he called over.

“We didn’t have much choice after seeing you standin’ there like a deer in headlights,” and he joined them down in the ditch, offering a hand to each.

“Well it’s about time ya’ll got down here anyway. Been waitin’ since half past seven,” the boy said while he brushed dirt from his pants and tousled his hair to dislodge the grass and grit he had picked up in the crash. Both of the tumblers were damp from the morning dew which still clung to the tall grass. The day had not heated up yet.

“What, did you miiiiss us or somethin’? Anyway, we got here just as soon as we could so quit your naggin’,” and the boy forgot he had spit on the ground and cursed them just minutes before. Grant, as the eldest and biggest of the trio, often sent down decrees and mandates which the smaller boys were inclined to heed. Of course, they would needle and push but they always fell in line when reminded of his superior strength and speed. He was quick to anger when badgered but was otherwise kind and inclusive.

“Well, since ya’ll are here now I figured we could follow the crick down to the old mill pond behind our back field and try to catch some crawdads,” the boy offered. He liked to show the kids from town that he knew his way around the woods and liked how they sometimes needed his help baiting the crawdads on the hooks when they fished for smallmouth where the crick emptied into the river.

“Aw, we always fish. And I’m sick of not catchin’ anything,” Teddy whined. “When are we gonna build a tree house? You said we could build one this summer.”

“First, quit fussin’ at me or I’m liable to smack you,” Grant said. “Second, we are gonna build a treehouse but we have to find the right tree; you know that. Let’s head down to the mill pond and you keep your eyes peeled for a good tree on the way. If we don’t find one, we can still get some crawdads and head to the river.”

At the command of their general, the trio set off through a small opening in the brush at the edge of the forest that only an animal or a small boy who knew of such things would find. They followed the game trail down and down until they started to hear the rushing sound of the crick far below in a ravine cut into the clay and rock. Another, more obvious trail continued along the edge of the ravine and Grant assumed the lead. The leader was responsible for carrying the spider stick, clearing the webs that had formed across the trail in the night. A very serious duty indeed. Soon, the roaring of the creek had calmed to a gentle rushing. As it widened and deepened they were beside it and could peer in at moss covered rocks and schooling minnows that shimmered in the light that danced on the turbulent surface.

“The pond is around the next bend but we ought to cross now,” the boy said. “There’s big stones to step on here but it gets deep up ahead.”

“I remember. We crossed here and Teddy fell in and flooded his muck boots,” Grant teased. Teddy had done this two months prior but the ribbing still poked a nerve.

“Well at least I didn’t get a leech on my pecker!” Teddy fired, which deepened the hue of the boy’s face three shades of crimson. He still double-checked underneath every time he peed for fear of that the writhing, black little slime would reappear spontaneously. Before he could stutter a retort, Grant restored stasis.

“Your pecker is a leech you parasite. Use the spider stick for balance this time so we don’t have to haul you out by your britches again.” All three crossed without incident and soon the low hanging branches and leafy weeds at the edge of the crick opened up to a small pond about fifty feet across. Rocky walls and sloping banks rose again on all sides and the pond sat at the bottom. The crick cascaded over a series of shallow rock ledges and past a ruined stone mill tower that had once housed a water wheel. Small saplings grew from the crumbling stone and the years had rendered it nearly invisible against the rock face on which it was built. The crick spilled over the last ledge and churned the front of the pond but it seemed to go still while it traversed the circular pond before exiting at the other side and resuming its rushing journey to the river.

“I gotta pee,” Teddy announced and scrambled up the slope behind them.

“Don’t forget to check for leeches!” the boy called after him. Grant laughed and the boy turned away to smile into his shoulder.

“Help me flip this rock,” Grant said. “I think I just saw the grand daddy of all crawdads go under here. I swear, his claws were the size of a lobster!” And the boy hurried over. Grant instructed, “Alright, you get your hands ready, I’ll flip it, and you catch ‘em when he shoots out. Ready?” The boy nodded seriously. “One. . . Two. . . Three!” And Grant lifted the edge of the rock as high as he could without letting it crash down which would muddy the water. As the sunlight pierced the water where the rock had been, the biggest crawdad either of them had ever seen did not dart out but stood perfectly still. Its carapace was a muddy brown with a blue hue spreading from the center of its back. The claws, held aloft in warning, were laughably mismatched in size but equally intimidating. The serrated tips of each were capped with an unnatural orange that held them both captivated, not daring to breathe or disturb the water where small clouds of silt slowly washed past where the rock had disturbed the bottom. “Grab him!” Grant urged in a strained whisper. He was struggling to hold up the rock that was slippery with mud and moss and started to tremble under its weight. The boy slowly reached his hand behind the monster and eased it into the water. He moved closer and closer and when he glanced up, Grants face was contorted and he gritted his teeth and bugged his eyes as if to say “now or never you bastard!” Poised for the strike, the boy tensed in sequence from the tips of his fingers, through his hand, up his arm and into the explosive fibers in his shoulder and back, readying the Cobra Strike SystemTM for attack. One last breath to steady the nerves and——

“Hey! Ya’ll gotta come check this out! Get up here!” Teddy yelled. In their hair trigger state, both of their heads snapped toward the source of the alarm and, now looking back to the target, the behemoth was gone, disappeared in a plume of silt. They had lost the grand-daddy monster of all crawdads.

“Shit,” the boy hissed and Grant groaned as he pulled his hands back and the rock crashed down. Teddy disappeared over the crest of the slope. They cursed and bickered as they climbed the slope after Teddy and continued as they followed his apparent trail through the underbrush but were silenced when they emerged into a clearing and saw Teddy unable to stand still with a mile-wide grin stretched between his ears.

Two old oaks, clearly fallen many years before, formed a clearing centered on a massive mounded structure with splintered limbs still jutting up at odd angles, reaching skyward. The scattered remains of the fallen giants were slowly rotting into the forest floor but the large structures that remained were covered in a continuous matting of thorned vines that sagged with clusters of dark berries. They were in the middle of a sprawling blackberry bramble. The fierce vines twisted and tangled over the angled boughs of the fallen oaks and formed a dense thatch of berries and thorns. What Teddy was eager to show them was a sort of cave or burrow through the upturned roots of the nearest oak.

He jumped down on all fours and scurried through the roots, his dirty face still visible in the dim interior mostly by the whites of his teeth and eyes. “Come in! I think it’s the fort we’ve been lookin’ for! Come in through here!” They quickly followed though Grant struggled to squeeze through the small opening in the roots. Teddy had proceeded further inward and the trunk of the first oak sloped gradually upward above them. Light pierced the tangled ceiling in beams that caught floating pollen and dust motes drifting in slow motion. The low passage they had entered from opened up into a great hall, a lofted theater where kings and generals would plot great battles against ogres and foreign soldiers with silly accents. Long vines draped from the open skylight at the top and they were surrounded on all sides by a maze of tunnels and burrows. Grant again took command and they quickly set to work exploring and readying their fortress.

Grant delegated like a master: “You run and grab as many straight branches as you can carry. Block up that backdoor so we don’t get ambushed. You grab some sittin’ rocks from the crick and smaller ones for a fire ring. After, gather up a shirt full of berries for a feast.”

“What are you gonna do?” said the boy.

“I’m gonna beat back these brambles at the front so we have a real entrance to the fort,” Grant replied. The boy didn’t envy him as he knew how the bramble thorns stung when they stuck and grabbed at you. Right away they were all busy with their duties and, as they gradually made the fortress their own, they added small touches of comfort and taste. Pruning specific branches to hang their shirts from, blocking up gopher holes, even tossing out the scattered piles of raccoon shit, purple with blackberry seeds. Teddy had somehow got up on the roof at some point and was walking across the bigger supporting boughs when he suddenly stumbled and crashed through the vines above them. Just before he met the ground face first, he jerked to a stop and swung like a piñata. Grant and the boy rolled on the floor laughing and laughing because the same muck boots that had sunk him before, had saved him now in a tangle of sharp vines and Teddy dangled there helpless until their laughter calmed and they could cut him down.

When they had completed their duties and settled in for a berry feast, the boy noticed a row of rosy droplets on the back of Grant’s right hand. “Grant, you’re bleedin’, he gestured.”

“Aw, that ain’t nothin’,” Grant replied and, putting his hand to his lips, he sucked away the blood. A drip of deep purple blackberry juice dripped down the boy’s arm and, while he licked it clean, he imagined his own glorious battle wounds. The blackberry feast didn’t satiate his hunger for long and soon, a rumbling thunder shook his belly and he thought he heard a faint and distant bell on the breeze. Hungry, tired, sore, itchy, but content, the happiness of that day poked its head above the rest that summer and the summers before and after. The boy would remember it even many years later, when he was an old, old man and would think back on the pecker leech getting a laugh, the escape of the grandaddy of all crawdads, the muck boot piñata. All were the day of the fortress beneath the blackberry bramble.