Toll Road: A Short Story of Murka



  Toll Road

  By Christopher Keelty

  Copyright 2012 Christopher Keelty

  Learn more at ChristopherKeelty.com

  Please see the final page of this e-book for important copyright information.

  THE RAILROAD WAS THICK with briars and waist-high weeds. Bayle followed it through ruined towns to the fallow fields of an abandoned farm. Atop a hill were the skeletons of a house and barn, and a funerary gathering of farm machines dressed in vines. A small stream ran through the fields and into a stretch of forest. It led him away from the rails, but night was coming and Bayle needed shelter and a fire.

  He’d left Pittsburgh too late, and winter came too soon. The first days were easy and he covered thirty miles like they were nothing. Then the cold came and his body gave up. Bayle couldn’t turn back. There were too many memories. Too much Danny. He shifted his knapsack.

  His boots were going soft in the soles. He’d layered all his clothes, the leather jacket, hooded sweatshirt, thermal t-shirt. They kept him alive, but not warm. The cold slithered through the thin spots in his jeans where his thighs rubbed and clung to his eyeballs like a film.

  Near the edge of the woods was a hog house, squat and half-buried under a grassy hill. The roof was falling in on one side, but the masonry was thick and the single door faced the forest. A good shelter.

  Bayle circled, but saw no movement. A rotting door hung like a drunk from rusty hinges.

  He expected a barn, but instead found decaying furniture spread around. A mildewed mattress sagged against the far wall. Bayle searched a sagging bureau, hoping for extra clothing. Instead he found mouse droppings and a herd of sow bugs. From behind the mattress came a snuffle--at first maybe animal, then unmistakably human.

  Bayle tugged the mattress aside. A boy, dressed in rags, turned his head away. He curled up in a fetal position and shivered, hiding his face. Bayle saw no colors or insignia.

  “Mean no harm,” said Bayle. “Who are you?”

  The boy curled up tighter. Fear, at least, proved he wasn’t a crazy.

  “This your home?” Bayle said. “Mean to camp here tonight, if not. Need supplies and shelter. You know if the creek’s potable? Game safe to eat?”

  No response. He wasn’t a crazy, but he was a coward.

  “Fine,” said Bayle. “Then you don’t mind I camp here. Stay like that all night, you like.”

  Bayle moved to replace the mattress and saw a glimmer of silver. Beneath a pile of dirty cloth he found a wooden guitar, clean and well maintained. The boy threw himself onto the instrument.

  “Please, no! Take anything else. Not the guitar.”

  “Not interested,” said Bayle. “Can’t play. Won’t burn long.”

  The boy gagged.

  “Now that you’re talking, how about a name? Mine’s Bayle.”

  “Kish,” said the boy. By his face he was perhaps sixteen, though his clothes and hair made him look in his twenties.

  “No last name?”

  “Never had one.” Kish stopped crying, but his voice wavered. The dirt on his cheeks was streaked by tears.

  “Quaker?”

  Kish shook his head. “Boheme.”

  “Where from?”

  “Hell’s Kitchen. Manhattan. You’re not Quaker, either?”

  “Never heard of Man Hatten,” said Bayle. “How far?”

  “Across Jersey.”

  “Going to Philadelphia?”

  Kish nodded. “I was, but it got cold. I’ve been here three days.”

  Bayle chuckled. “Been on the Turnpike almost a month.”

  “Turnpike! Where from?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  “Heard about Pittsburgh, PA,” Kish sang. “Don’t know where it is, though. Whose territory?”

  “Disputed,” said Bayle. “Dawn, mostly. City’s a haven.”

  “You Dawn?”

  Bayle shook his head. Not any more.

  “Water potable?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Is it safe to drink?”

  “Yeah, and the game’s clean,” Kish said. “Seen a couple deer with weird antlers, and some eyefish, but that’s it.”

  “Good,” said Bayle. “Just water for now. Staying?”

  Kish gave a quick nod. He cast wide eyes toward the door. “Be careful. They come fast. Listen for hooves.”

  “Catholics,” Bayle said. “Thanks.”

  The creek had started to freeze in still spots, but clean water ran fast and shallow over the stony bed. Bayle filled his canteen and drank deeply, savoring the sting of cold water against his parched throat. Behind skeletal white branches, the sky was flat azure. It might snow soon. Probably not that night, but within a few days. Bayle filled the canteen again and climbed the bank.

  A stone path led back to the hog house, lined with tufts of blonde ragweed and tangled brown vines. There were buildings on the horizon, and an old highway. In between was barren field. From the edge of the forest, a cluster of deer emerged into the failing light. They moved cautiously, like healthy deer were supposed to. Bayle’s stomach gurgled. Perhaps tomorrow, he thought.

  Kish had cleared a space on the floor and laid down the mattress. He sat in the middle with the guitar, legs crossed, silently fingering chords.

  “Any good with that?”

  Kish didn’t respond, but Bayle saw the answer was yes. The boy’s hand danced on the strings like a spider on its web.

  Bayle chewed his last strip of jerky, thinking about the deer. Should really take one tonight, he thought. Takes time to clean and dress. Maybe even stretch the hide. It would mean staying put a few days, but that wasn’t such a terrible plan. Not with a fire and some company.

  Kish heard the hooves first. Bayle knew because the boy’s face went wild. He dove into his corner, stashing the guitar and drawing up the mattress like a trap door. Bayle sunk behind the bureau and drew his knees tight to his chest, keeping a line of sight to the door.

  The bare space remained where Kish had laid the mattress. If they noticed it, they’d check behind the mattress. That’d be Kish’s bad luck. Bayle hoped the boy had honor to accept his fate alone, but he had doubts.

  His heart pounded, but he kept his breath deep and calm as the sound grew louder. Thirty horses, at least. With luck they wouldn’t stop, Bayle thought. Night was falling fast.

  The room shook as the first horse kicked up clumps of frozen dirt outside. Bayle watched the mattress, sure it would topple and Kish would run. It was still. A coward, Bayle thought, but smart at least.

  From the forest, black horses bore riders in cloaks and armor, their faces hidden beneath helms of darkest steel. Catholic knights. The horses blew clouds of breath and strands of sticky spit. Bayle had no experience with Catholics, but he knew the stories. They were paladins, granted strange magics by their God, and they gave no quarter to the faithless.

  Three drew reins outside, backs to the door. Bayle could not hear their conversation. Had they spotted tracks?

  One turned toward the hog house. In the shadow beneath his helmet there was no face, only two pinpricks of light. Bayle stifled a gasp.

  The knight turned away and spurred his horse. The others followed, leaving only chewed earth. The pounding of their hooves faded up the hill.

  Bayle pushed the bureau away.

  “Safe to come out. Kish! They’re gone!”

  Kish peeked from behind the mattress. He was shivering again.

  “Cold’s not what keeps you here,” Bayle said.

  “They come around all the time,” Kish said. “You can’t predict i
t. They watch the roads.”

  There was no way Bayle could clean and hang a deer here. It was a wonder Kish hadn’t already been found.

  “We need a fire,” Bayle said.

  Kish went pale. “Are you crazy? They’ll see it!”

  “Smoke won’t show in the dark, and they won’t take the horses out. Cold like this, we’ll die without fire. Why not play that guitar? Safe here until dawn.”

  Kish gave a shudder, but the suggestion seemed to settle him. He lay down the mattress again, arranged himself, and strummed gently. Tentative at first, soon he was picking and strumming unabashed. Talented, Bayle thought. His fingers were quick and clean, even in the cold. The song was fast. Bayle thought he recognized it. With a voice that seemed to belong to someone else, Kish added lyrics.

  “Some bright morning when this life is over,

  I’ll fly away.

  To the land on God’s celestial shore,

  I’ll fly away.”

  Bayle frowned at the words, but the song was pretty. He hummed while breaking furniture into firewood. The sunken roof would permit smoke to pass, and the walls would hold the heat. By the song’s end, a small blaze was taking hold. Bayle watched the flicker on the guitar’s glossy black pick guard.

  “Pretty,” Bayle said. “You’re good.”

  Kish extended his palms toward the fire, then rubbed them briskly. He smiled.

  “Want to hear something else?”

  “Don’t really have a request,” Bayle said. “Just something without God.”

  Kish beamed. “Got just the thing. His slapped a rhythm on the guitar body, and his feet tapped along. After a four-count, he started picking a faster melody. When Bayle recognized it he chuckled, then sang along