All Green, Part 2

A serialized short story.

Continued from Part 1:

Didn’t need a school certificate to know about supply and demand. If we couldn’t get our hands on those mushrooms, that meant nobody else could either. And the demand was there. Nearest place to get decent liquor was in the next county over, and mobbed up to boot, so you had to know the right people. There was plenty of moonshine and homebrew in town. Plenty of weed too: every toddler with a cupful of dirt was growing the stuff. Except folks were bored with all that.

If we could show people what we’d seen in the woods that first night, we could sell as many mushrooms as we could get our hands on. Solve all our money problems. Maybe even make enough to get Tucker off to college.

“We could grow them ourselves,” Tucker said one day.

“Come on. We don’t know shit about growing mushrooms,” I said, forgetting who I was talking to.

“Like hell we don’t,” said Tucker. “I looked up how to do it at the library. Have to get fresh mushrooms for a spore print, but it just takes some patience after that.”

“So we just go out there and ask Bone Man for some seeds?”

“Spores,” said Tucker. “I doubt he’d just give them to us. If he’s selling what he’s growing, he probably doesn’t want any competition, even all the way over here.”

“So how do we get the seeds?”

Tucker sighed. “Dunno.”

Then again, we had nothing but time.

---

By August, after a few months working and saving up goods for barter, we were ready to go looking for Bone Man.

Most folks were already outside the credit system: even if you could find a job that paid credits, it was always hell finding a way to turn those little numbers on your screen into food and drink. Rich people could hassle with carrying a tablet around and dealing with the exchanges. The rest of us just said fuck it and went back to swapping and trading like folks always used to, unless we needed something big. Nobody missed the banks.

A guy called Bone Man living out on the edge of a ghost town wouldn’t have much use for credits anyway.

We worked on planting and building all over town to set up our stockpile. Tucker did some tutoring, helping folks’ kids with their figuring and spelling in trade for whatever little stuff he could get: cooking lard, hunting knife, berry jam, pemmican, snare wire, that sort of thing. Nobody wanted tutoring from me, of course. So I watered crops and dug ditches and mended fences, split firewood, that kind of thing. I mostly got paid in booze I couldn’t drink, although I did sneak a couple sips here and there, just to make sure I wasn’t getting cheated.

I just kept thinking about what I could do with that big pile of money we’d make when all was said and done. We’d be the kings of the county, showing up to parties with our mushrooms and some good whiskey from up Syracuse way. Maybe I could buy myself a truck, find somebody to rig me up a charger for it. Get some bribe money for the deputies and a gun for the highways. I could start running liquor. Turn that mushroom money into even more money. Share some with my mom so she didn’t have to work so much. Finally get the roof fixed for her.

And I kept thinking about how miserable Tucker would be if he never got to college, spending his whole life stuck in Madison.

So we scraped and saved. We started out with our little boodle and then kept trading it up, swapping supplies and favors all over town for something that was just a little better than what we’d started with, a little more useful for somebody living out on their own in the wilderness. We had our own general store of barter goods by the time word got around and people started wondering what we were up to. Only we still weren’t sure it was enough for all the mushrooms we’d need to get ourselves in business.

So we went to barter with Old Ray.

Old Ray was legendary. The best hunter in Madison at the time, if not the whole county. He was probably only in his sixties then, but you know how it is when you’re young: to us, he was ancient. He’d show up in town on a Saturday night to drink some, and went to church most Sundays. Otherwise he kept to himself. Mostly he hunted and trapped all around, on his own, sometimes for weeks at a time, and always came back with something. It would be a grim day for us all when Old Ray couldn’t find something to catch. Made his own bows and arrows too, which is why we first went to him.

Tucker and I finally worked up the courage to go talk to him on a Sunday afternoon. We figured he’d be home and in a neighborly mood after church, so we gathered up our barter goods and headed out to his place off of Solsville Road.

I felt like everybody in town was watching us as we trudged out past the end of the crumbling sidewalk. Everybody was wondering what was inside the burlap bags we had slung over our shoulders. The gossip was already starting, and this would only add to it.

Just doing some business, I kept telling myself. Grown men’s business, and nobody else’s.

Ray had built his cabin in the woods by the pond. It was just up from the swimming hole at the south end, and if you were down there, you could see his fishing dock jutting out from the shore. The cabin sat behind it, back in the shadows of the trees.

We all hung out at the swimming hole in the summertime when we were kids. We’d whisper about the crazy old man who lived in that cabin. Somebody had heard from somebody else that he ate people, crept around at night, tapped on windows with his long fingernails. Sometimes Ray strolled out onto his dock and waved to us. Everybody would shriek and splash out of the water to hide behind the trees.

Once, when I was about fourteen, we were at the swimming hole after sundown. Somebody dared me to go up onto the porch of the cabin. I was trying to impress one of the girls we were with, so I did it. Crept all the way down the dirt road in the dark, sure I was going to die. Ray must have been away on a hunting trip. The cabin was closed up and silent. I snuck onto the bottom step, then sprinted back down the dirt road as fast as I could run, back to the girl who was waiting for me, laughing and squealing. I was a king for the rest of that summer.

Anyway. This time, when Tucker and I walked down the dirt road with our bags on our shoulders, Old Ray was sitting on his front porch, twisting dried gut into bowstrings.

“Hey there, Ray,” I called out as we walked up the path to his cabin. “How’s it go?”

He glanced up from his work and raised his hand solemnly. “Hello, Mark. Tucker. I’m doing just fine, thanks. How’s your ma, Mark?”

“She’s doing alright. Busy as always.”

He nodded. “How about you, Tucker? Folks alright?”

“Fine,” Tucker said, quiet as a mouse.

“How’s that again?” said Ray.

“Fine,” Tucker repeated, a little louder.

Ray squinted at Tucker appraisingly before looking back to me, glancing at the bag I was carrying. “What can I do for you boys?”

“Hoping to barter with you,” I said.

He set aside his half-finished bowstring, unfolded himself from his chair, stretched his long legs, and took a sip from the metal camp mug that sat on the railing. “Let’s see what you got.”

I took what we’d brought and set it out on the porch while he watched: quart of moonshine; four jars of applesauce; snare wire; one jar of raspberry jam and one of peach preserves; two big battery packs; a hatchet with a new handle; coffee beans. It wasn’t all we’d collected, but it was all we could part with.

He sipped from his mug and pondered. “How old are those battery packs?”

“Dunno,” I said. “Tested them with a lightbulb and they seem alright.”

He grunted. “What you hoping to trade for?”

“Bow and some arrows. Maybe a couple extra strings.”

He took a sip. “A good bow? Or just a bow?”

“Whatever you think is fair. Reckon any bow you have will be good, as long as you’ve made it.”

He seemed half-tempted to smile. “Don’t try and flatter me, son. What draw weight? How much you pull?”

“Dunno. Ain’t for me.”

“Who’s it for?”

We were doing our damnedest to keep Bone Man a secret. I knew I’d rehearsed a good cover story on the walk over. But when the time came, I fumbled it. “Friend of ours,” I said.

“Big guy? Little guy?”

I shrugged. “You know. Average.”

“If I know who he is, I might be able to size him better.”

“You wouldn’t know him. Ain’t from here.”

Ray looked at me carefully. “I got an oak bow with a bit of a bend in it. Draws about forty pound. Bit light for me. Think that’ll work for your friend?”

I wished Tucker would say something to help me out, but he was a worse liar than I was. “Sure. Yep,” I said.

Ray leaned against the porch railing and sipped from his mug, studying me. “Heard you two have been mighty industrious of late.”

“Who said so?”

Ray shrugged. “You know. Just folks.”

“None of their business, is it. We’re just trying to get ourselves set up, now that Tucker’s out of school.”

“Set up doing what? Hunting?”

“Maybe.”

“Except the bow’s not for you. Nor Tucker, I’d bet. You pull a forty-pound bow, Tucker?”

Tucker cleared his throat.

“Didn’t think so. Must be your friend who ain’t from around here gonna teach y’all to hunt, then.” He took his cap off and scratched the back of his head, looking at us awhile. Then he sighed. “Listen. I don’t normally get into other folks’ business. But I knew your dad pretty well when we were young, Mark, and I’d like to help if I can. So long as nobody’s gonna get hurt.” He looked down at the goods spread out on the porch. ”I'd take the coffee, the wire, the hatchet, the jams, and the batteries. Got no use for the rest. That'll get you just the bow. No arrows, no extra strings. Dunno if that’ll work for your friend."

I looked back at Tucker, who was watching a squirrel leap across the yard.

“Your friend coming into town to get his bow?” said Ray.

“No,” said Tucker, finally. “We’re bringing it to him.”

“Where at?” said Ray.

Tucker cleared his throat.

“Tucker,” I said.

“East,” said Tucker.

“Tucker,” I said.

Ray whistled in amazement, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his gaunt cheeks. “Y’all not planning to take the highway over there, are you? Ain’t no friend worth a trip on those roads. Least not for a social call.”

“We’ll just take the bow,” I said. “Won’t waste any more of your time. We got work to get back to. Don’t we, Tucker.”

“Maybe he could help us,” Tucker said quietly.

“Help you with what?” said Ray.

“Tucker for shit’s sake,” I said.

“Alright,” said Ray, clapping his hands. “Deal’s off. I don’t know what y’all are mixed up in, and I don’t need to know, but I ain’t helping you with one of my bows to run off and do lord knows what out there.”

The whole thing was falling apart.

“We need a guide,” I said, with more confidence than I felt.

Ray crossed his arms. “I ain’t a babysitter.”

I felt my face get hot. “We can pay you.”

He frowned. “Guide for what?”

“We’re doing this no matter what,” I said. “You come along, we’ll see that you get paid, and if you don’t want us getting into trouble, we need a guide.”

“Guide for what. If it’s cooking meth or moonshine—”

So I told him about the mushrooms. How we planned to hike over to Bridgewater with our packs full of bartering goods, taking the trails through the woods so we wouldn’t get robbed on the highway. Hike back with enough mushrooms to set ourselves up. I didn’t think Ray would double-cross us, but I left out Bone Man and Beaver Creek Road, just in case.

When I finished, Ray stood quiet for a moment, rubbing his jaw. “Y’all should be trying to find some honest work.”

I knew as soon as he said it that his heart wasn’t in it. But I was pissed about the babysitting thing, so I lit into him a little bit. “Ray, I’ll settle for any work right now, honest or not. We been busting our asses for weeks and what you see is what we have to show for it. You offering to teach us how to hunt? Take us out with you so we can go three ways on a deer and some squirrels, maybe have a little left to trade for some hootch? Might be honest work, but it ain’t much. Tucker and I got fifty more winters ahead of us. Things don’t look to be getting easier. Tucker’s trying to get to college. That’s why we’re doing this.”

Ray crossed his arms and faced me. “Aright, fair enough, Tucker’s trying to get to college. And you're just along for the ride?”

“I’m just trying to get paid any way I can. If this doesn’t pan out, maybe I’ll go up to Utica and find a job. Seems to work out well for my family.”

Ray turned away from us, back to his workbench. I thought maybe I’d gone too far. He reached down and picked up a corncob pipe and a doeskin pouch, then walked back to the stairs and lowered himself down to sit on the top step. Once he was comfortably settled, he pulled tobacco from the pouch with his long, bony fingers and carefully tucked it into the bowl.

“We could—” Tucker said, but Ray stopped him with a shush and a raised hand.

Once the pipe was full, stem between his teeth, Ray struck a match over the tobacco and puffed thoughtfully while we stood waiting. “Tell me if I’ve got this right,” he said at length. “You two—the two of you—are going out into a godforsaken wasteland that’s known to be full of thieves and murderers and wild animals.” Smoke spilled from his mouth as he spoke. “With bags full of valuables.” Another puff. “To find a man you don’t know in a place you’ve never been to, hoping that he’ll give you a fair deal on some drugs and send you on your way with a smile.” He took the pipe from his mouth and looked at us. “Rather than slitting your throats, stealing your goods, and burying you out in the pines.”

I studied my bootlaces. “Listen, Ray—”

“Hold on now,” he said. “I’m interested. Could be worth doing if it’s done right. How much you expecting to make on this?”

Tucker and I glanced at each other. We hadn’t exactly done the figuring yet.

“Hoping to get as much as we can to start with and then grow our own from there,” said Tucker.

“Uh huh,” said Ray. “And I expect you’ll be charging wholesale prices, right? None of this penny ante jam-jar nonsense. Only selling for credits, and nothing less than an ounce at a time… how much of this stuff people take in one go? An eighth?”

"Eight of what?" I said.

Ray pressed on, looking past us at the numbers in his head, talking absently around the stem of his pipe. “Let's say it's an eighth. Figure it’s worth fifty creds to get high for an evening. Most folks’ll want to barter for a dose, but that ain’t your problem if you’re only moving ounces for cash on the barrel. That gives you four hundred for an ounce, at least… yeah, you get at least a pound from your friend, you’re in business.”

When he finally noticed us staring at him, he turned his attention to re-lighting his pipe with a shrug. “Reckon there wasn’t much honest work when I was young either,” he muttered.

A crow called somewhere off in the trees.

Ray smoked, thinking, while Tucker and I waited. “All right,” he said at last. “I’m in. For an equal share of the credits. We split the take three ways once you sell the stuff. If the deal doesn’t work out, I get my pick of the barter you’ve got. Sound fair?”

“Fifteen percent stake,” said Tucker.

I looked hard at him. “Tucker, what the hell.”

Ray narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you needed a guide.”

“Ain’t nothing to sell without us,” said Tucker.

“Ain’t nothing to sell if you go out on your own and end up dead, either.”

“Fifteen percent cut of the first batch, plus twenty percent of whatever we grow and sell after that,” said Tucker. “You’ll make a lot more than thirty percent if we keep this going.”

Ray whistled. “You got a lot of backbone hiding in there, boy.”

Tucker shrugged. “We need this,” he said quietly.

Ray looked from Tucker to me. “Mark? You good with this?”

I nodded.

Ray stood up. “Deal,” he said, and stepped down to shake, first with Tucker and then with me. I could smell coffee and tobacco and wet wool as he reached out to me. His grip was friendly, but after decades of bending a bow, it felt as if he could crush all the bones in my hand if he’d wanted to.

“Now listen,” he said as he stepped back. “You keep all this”—he pointed with his thumb at the spread of goods on the porch behind him—”and put it toward the bartering. I’ll throw in the bow and some strings, but no arrows. I’m not fixing to get shot with one of my own if this goes bad. Who else you bringing for this?”

Tucker and I looked at each other. “Just you,” I said.

Old Ray gave a short laugh. “Either one of you got a gun?”

I looked out toward the pond.

“Didn’t think so,” said Ray. “Your friend by himself out there?”

Tucker and I said nothing.

Ray crossed his arms. “Any chance your friend who’s selling drugs out in No Man’s Land might have a gun and some friends of his own? And maybe they’ve got some guns too?”

A robin began singing somewhere nearby: cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.

Ray sighed. “Y’all are some terrible criminals. Listen. I’ll be your guide, but not your muscle. Ain’t bringing a bow to a gunfight. If you can’t get ahold of some extra firepower, I’m out, and I think you should be too.”

“I might know somebody,” said Tucker.

And that’s how we ended up with Henry.

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Continued in Part 3.