Valknut: The Binding (14 page)

Electric fire surged from the tattoo. Her
fingers convulsed on the watch. The small bones in her hand
vibrated as though they caged a thousand wasps. The vibrations
swarmed up her arm.

The pressure in her head vanished.

Light-headed, she swayed with the sudden
release. Her vision cleared. Everything looked so ordinary. Not
yellow at all. The Ferris wheel clattered and groaned, slowly
rolling nowhere. The sweet, greasy smell of funnel cakes wafted on
the light breeze. Her stomach rumbled, but that was all she felt.
The anger had faded and the tension of restrained violence was
gone.

The tattoo had returned to normal, as well.
Just a thing of skin and ink. With wonder, she traced a trembling
finger around its three interlocking triangles. What the hell just
happened?

A hand closed on her shoulder. She jumped and
twisted away. It took her a moment to realize it was just
Junkyard.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. You all
right? “ He looked into her face more closely and frowned. “Jeez,
you’re sweating. You’d better sit down.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m just, uh…” Her stomach
rumbled again. “I’m—I’m just hungry. I guess that snack cake didn’t
quite do it for me.”

“Easy enough. We’ll get you a bowl of Bones’s
stew. Then you can show your dad’s picture around.”

Lennie nodded and let him lead her toward the
jumble of boxes that made up the jungle exhibit. Her legs felt
shaky. Sitting seemed like a fine idea. So did the stew. Good thing
it wasn’t a long walk.

Deep inside the carnival, the giant snake
came to life and chased its tail around its track.

***

At first glance, the festival’s jungle
exactly matched Lennie’s image of a real hobo jungle: a warren of
makeshift cardboard hovels, reinforced with plastic.

A huge maple tree growing in the nearby
landscaping provided shelter from the sun. A blue plastic tarp hung
over a branch, anchored by cement blocks. A cook fire burned
underneath. A log had been dragged next to the fire to act as a
bench.

The jungle seemed believable, but something
was off. It took Lennie a moment to realize what. Everything was
clean. The cardboard boxes and the wooden crates had never been
touched by rain. The fire burned in a rust-free rod-iron fire ring,
and the ends of the log bench were freshly and evenly cut. Even the
asphalt looked recently swept.

Still, the expected smells were there. Faint
whiffs of stale alcohol, old sweat, and wood smoke mingled with the
usual parking lot odors of motor oil and tar. Someone had left a
battered guitar leaning against the log bench. Its face was scarred
and dull. A dirty, red wool blanket draped over the log beside it.
Otherwise, the jungle seemed deserted.

“Where is everyone?” Lennie said.

Junkyard shrugged. He seemed more interested
in the pot hanging over the fire. “They’re around somewhere.” He
leaned over the pot, rubbed his hands together, and picked up the
ladle. “Want some stew?”

A steamy, onion smell drifted above the less
pleasant odors. Her mouth began to water. Before she could answer,
a husky voice roared at them. “Hey, git your grubby mitts outta
that stew. Payin’ customers only!”

A woman unfolded from an ancient pick-up
truck parked on the other side of the boxes. She fixed Junkyard
with a hard gaze and stretched upright, so skeletally thin that
Lennie thought she might rattle when she walked. She was several
inches taller than Junkyard and her maroon down vest didn’t reach
the top of her jeans. A purple t-shirt pooched out between the vest
and a tightly cinched macramé belt. A fedora sat on her
bleached-blond hair like a turtle on a hay-mound.

Junkyard ignored her. He gave the pot a stir
and lifted the ladle toward his mouth. The truck door slammed,
releasing a shower of rust and dirt.

“Tetch any o’ that stew and die, Junkyard,”
the woman said, except “die” came out as “dah.” Wherever she came
from was way south of Iowa.

Junkyard stiffened and dropped the ladle,
which missed the pot and hit the pavement with a bounce. He raised
his hands high and turned with exaggerated slowness. “Easy, now.
You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

The woman frowned. “Oh, hush-up and give me a
hug, scoundrel.” She crossed the jungle in three long strides and
wrapped vine-like arms around him.

“Hello, Soo,” Junkyard said, his voice
muffled by her shoulder. “I swear, woman, you could take a nap on a
rail and have room to roll over. Why don’t you eat something for a
change?”

“Just killed me a possum this mornin’.”
Stepping back, she slapped her concave belly and smiled in
satisfaction. “Ate the whole thang m’self.”

Junkyard looked her over. “You should have
eaten two. And what the heck did you do to your hair?”

“Nothin’. Ah heard y’all were comin’ and it
turned this color all on its own.”

They grinned at each other like cats eyeing a
favorite toy. Watching them play, Lennie felt some of her tension
and fear ease. That horrible spell in the parking lot began to fade
like a hazy, yellow nightmare.

“Glad y’all could make it, Junkyard,” Soo
said. “Ah git tired of the usual crowd. All spit an’ no
polish.”

Lennie couldn’t resist. “If he’s the polish,
I’d hate to see the spit.”

Bad impulse. Both heads swiveled in her
direction. Junkyard’s eyes widened and he gave a little whistle
that made her wish she could turn invisible. Grinning too wide for
her comfort, he said, “Lennie, I’d like you to meet Too Long Soo,
the best guitar player and biggest mouth on the FRC Railroad.
Careful you don’t cut yourself on her wit.”

Soo ignored Junkyard and eyed Lennie
critically, taking in her dirt-streaked shirt, staring especially
hard at her thin canvas shoes. Lennie felt like a frog in the
shadow of a blue heron.

“Interestin’ choice of friends, y’got there,
Junkyard. You didn’t take ’er on the road dressed like that,
didja?”

“Nah, she caught onto a moving train all by
herself, wearing those. I’m just trying to get her home in one
piece.”

Now Lennie was irritated. He had made that
point one time too many. “Quit talking about me like I’m lost
luggage. I keep telling you, it was an accident!”

Soo raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips,
taking her time to respond.
“You 
accident’ly
 caught onto a movin’ train? What,
y’all were just standin’ by the tracks, mindin’ yer own business,
and next thing you knew…”

“That’s not what I…” Lennie began, but there
was too much to tell, too many reasons, and none of them made
sense, even to her.

Junkyard took pity on her. “Hey, don’t mind
Soo. She treats everyone like dirt.” He reached up and bumped the
back of Soo’s hat, knocking it over her eyes. “I’d be more worried
if she were nice to you.”

“It’s not that. It’s just all…”

Words wouldn’t come. Suddenly she felt tired.
Ten years worth of tired, and the last day had nearly put her over
the edge. She just wanted to do nothing, think nothing, for at
least a week. She looked at the ground, letting loose curls hide
her face.

Frowning, Soo shoved her hat back on her
head. “Never you mind, sweetie. My mouth runs like a monkey after a
banana wagon.”

She took Lennie by the arm and led her to the
makeshift bench by the fire. “Are y’all hungry?” She rolled her
eyes toward Junkyard. “Ah bet y’ain’t had nothin’ but Ho-Hos an’
Twinkies since you got on that train.”

Junkyard looked offended. “Hey, they’ve got
nutritional content—”

“Fat, sugar, and preservatives cain’t keep
the blood flowin’ smooth. Now sit down, girl, and Ah’ll dish y’up
some of Bones O’Riley’s finest mulligan stew. We’ll hear your story
all in good time.”

Lennie sat gratefully and leaned closer to
the flames, finding their warmth comforting. Soo retrieved the
ladle from the ground. Grit caked its bowl. She shot a dirty look
at Junkyard, but he was studiously examining the company logo on
the side of a refrigerator box.

“Lucky fer you, I got another,” she
grumbled.

A moment later, Lennie held a steaming
Styrofoam bowl in her hands. The beef-broth aroma of French onion
soup filled her nose. The stew was loaded with meat cooked down to
strings. She stirred it. Chunks of carrot and potato surfaced like
sluggish fish. She burnt her mouth on the first spoonful.

Junkyard and Soo set up a folding table as
she ate. She watched Junkyard move around the jungle, working
efficiently, confidently, and with an easy, athletic grace. Nothing
like the man she had followed through the University campus. Which
one was the real Junkyard?

A spark popped in the fire, startling her,
and she realized she had been staring. She looked away and found
Soo’s intense gaze centered on her. Embarrassed, Lennie’s face grew
warm. She pointed at her bowl.

“Stew sure is hot.”

Soo’s expressive eyebrows gave a visual
snicker. “Fire does have a way of warmin’ things up.”

“It tastes really good, though,” Lennie said,
trying to distract her. “Bones O’Riley must be some kind of gourmet
chef.”

“Bones? A chef?” Some of the toughness left
Soo’s face and she chuckled. Unlike her speaking voice, which was
hoarse and dry, her laugh sang out in a rich, musical alto. “Oh,
that’s a hoot. Ah think it’s time y’all met the boys.”

She rang the ladle against the pot like a
dinner bell. “Hey, Bones! Hotshot! Git out here!”

A hollow thump shook a dryer box lying on its
side nearby. A muffled voice grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, whaddaya want,
already?”

“Come on out, boys, Junkyard’s here.”

There was no further movement. Soo winked at
Lennie. “He brought a girl with him, ’n’ she’s got a story to tell
us.” She paused, listening to the silence, then added, “She’s
purty.”

Junkyard stopped working and watched the box
with a grin. It shook and swayed with a lot of thumping and
scraping sounds. Finally, a bald head popped out of the open end.
Frowning, the man blinked blearily at Lennie and wormed out on his
hands and knees. Still frowning, he brushed himself off and headed
for the fire. Lennie made room for him on her log, but he chose to
stand with his eyes down, flicking furtive glances that didn’t
quite reach her face.

“This here cue ball is Hotshot Bob,” Soo
said. “He comes all the way from Oregon.”

He glanced up, like he expected Lennie to say
something.

“Hello, Bob,” she tried. “Or, um, Hotshot.
Hotshot Bob.”

He gave a brief, weak smile, then his face
fell back into a frown. That must be his natural expression, Lennie
decided. His cheeks just sag that way. He scooped the red blanket
from the log and headed for the stew pot. As he passed by, his foot
caught the guitar. It toppled with a jangle.

“Woody!” Soo flung the ladle at the pot and
dove for the guitar as if Hotshot Bob had dropped a baby. The ladle
hit the lip of the pot and rattled on the pavement behind her,
forgotten.

“Shee-it!” She examined the guitar with her
long nose so close she might have been sniffing for blood. Her
pencil-like fingers stroked the battered wood as if to comfort it.
Finding no new dings, she sat back on her haunches and looked
Hotshot Bob up and down.

“Yer one lucky sonuvabitch, ye didn’t hurt
’im. This ol’ guitar—” she pronounced it GEE tar, “—has been played
by the hand that wrote some of the greatest road songs ever. Mr.
Woody Guthrie, himself. His signature’s right there, near the end
of the fingerboard.”

Behind her, Junkyard lip-synced her words as
if she had said the exact same thing a hundred times before. Soo
turned on him sharply. “As fer you…”

He was saved when the side of the wooden
crate nearest the fire fell open with a loud smack. A heavily
bearded man with dark, matted hair crawled out.

“Woody, my ass,” he growled. “More like wood
scrap. You ask me, that piece of junk looks like it’s been beaten
more than played.”

“Nobody asked you, ya big galoot.” Soo gave
the guitar a final pat and set it down. “Lennie, this here’s Bones
O’Riley, the Happy Chef. No one goes hungry when he’s around.”

“Especially himself,” Junkyard added. He
looked pointedly at Bones’s midsection, which spilled out the sides
of his grimy overalls.

Bones labored to his feet and stumped over to
the stew pot. Lennie thought he might help himself to a bowl.
Instead, he leaned close, waved the steam toward his nose, and
sniffed. Apparently, he didn’t like the smell. He gagged, letting
his tongue hang out. “Who threw their stinking socks into my
stew?”

“Stew’s fine, Bones.” Junkyard assumed an
innocent expression that Lennie didn’t trust at all. “In fact,
Lennie thinks you must be a gourmet chef. What do you say to
that?”

The little bit of skin showing between
Bones’s beard and eyes turned red. He glared at Junkyard and then
at Lennie.

“Ignorant bitch.”

Lennie flinched. She began a sharp response,
but Junkyard’s wink stopped her. Bones paced between them and the
pot, grumbling and throwing his hands up.

“Damn meat’s too tough. Not enough onions,
either. And I’ll crap up a tree if there’s any fresh sage to be
found in this butt-hole of a town. Potatoes as wrinkled as my
grandma’s ass. Carrots as flaccid as a castrate’s dick…you call
that stew good, and you deserve to have your taste buds
peeled.”

The more Bones talked the more agitated he
became, and the more colorful his word choice. Lennie stared at him
in amazement. He was literally frothing at the mouth, yet somebody
actually considered him presentable enough to include in the
festival’s hobo exhibit.

Soo and Hotshot seemed unaffected, but when
he drew a breath for another round, Junkyard stepped in and took
him by the shoulder. “I know it’s not your best effort, my friend,
but those citizens—” Junkyard swung an arm toward the potential
customers wandering among the exhibits and rides, “—they won’t know
the difference.”