The Saints of Swallow Hill(9)

Within a month Warren’s words would come back on him, ringing with truth.





Chapter 3


Del


Del didn’t know Moe climbed the ladder and stared into the grain bin where nothing but corn could be seen. He couldn’t have seen him if he wanted. The kernels covered him completely, pressing his flesh from all directions like he’d been locked down by some strange force. He tried to gulp air, but the rise and fall of his chest was shallow. He choked, strained futilely, exhaled, and finally was unable to draw in any air. His mind sent his body warnings, and his heart shuddered, in shock. He was vertically entrapped four feet below fifteen feet of grain.

Moe yelled to the other men. “Can’t see nothing. He’s gone under. Probly dead.”



Del heard those words, and then he could see what was happening too. How Moe descended the ladder. How Hicky and Woot dug furiously, tossing corn by the shovelful over their shoulders. He no longer felt crushing pain in his chest. He watched a third man run across the field next to the bin and open a door on the other side. He grabbed a shovel and began stabbing at the wall of corn. Del didn’t know how this was happening, how he was able to see all of this. He must be dreaming. Moe stood off a ways and lit a cigar. The compacted corn began to flow out of both doors freely, while the men worked furiously to keep the openings clear. Unexpectedly he watched himself tumble out on the side where Hicky and Woot worked, his body limp, inert, a crumbled form of humanity, coated in dust.

Hicky flipped him over and swiped out his mouth. He beat on his chest, yelling at him, “Hey! Hey!”

Moe said, “He’s dead, ain’t he.”

The man sounded like he wanted it so. But wait. Dead? He wasn’t dead, was he? He could see everything, yet he felt nothing. He heard the distant call of Pap’s voice, years gone now, saying his name. How was this possible? Without warning, he was filled with a strong urge to separate himself from this experience, refusing to accept this outcome, his will so compelling it swept over him like the grain, and then it was corn all around him again. He felt himself moving, sliding, the sensation like falling backward. Crushing pain came, blossomed, and something akin to a lightning strike blinded his view of what he’d seen.



Del gagged, choked, and flopped onto his belly. He threw up. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw brilliant green stripes. He shut them, opened them again, and blades of grass came into focus. He rolled over and stared into the troubled faces of Woot and Hicky, gaping at him in openmouthed surprise. He felt like he’d been beaten, his body aching all over.

Hicky said, “Hey. Kin you hear me?”

Moe still puffing his cigar, said, “Thought sure you was a goner.”

Del felt certain he was disappointed. He coughed some more, trying to rid himself of what he’d breathed in. He sat up, noticed his arms covered with the shapes of kernels dimpling the skin. He lifted his shirt, and his chest was worse, with bruising along his ribs. His legs felt numb, so he flexed them and rotated his feet on his ankles. They felt swollen, and looked it. He was wrung out, like he’d been working all day.

Woot said, “I ain’t ever known nobody who come out of one a them after being buried and live to tell it.”

Hicky said, “I ain’t either. This here’s one lucky son of a gun. God done laid His very hand on him.”

Del hacked up phlegm, spit it out, and whispered, “Water.”

Woot got a canvas bag from the truck and gave it to Del, who tipped it up, gulped it down.

Del wiped his mouth and said, “Where’s the other guy?”

Woot and Hicky gave each other a look and said, “Who? Tyndall?”

Del said, “Don’t know his name. There was a man shoveling. On the other side.”

Moe said, “How you know that?”

“I seen him.”

The three men digested this, then Hicky said, “When you come out a the bin, he went on back to work. But hell, that was ten minutes ago. You was still out.”

Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Del was remembering what he’d seen. It was etched in his mind the way the grain pitted his skin. Those marks would fade, but he couldn’t forget what happened. It was too bizarre. The other men watched him, their expressions wary.

Del stared at Moe and said, “You had’em open the door.”

Moe said, “Hell, what do you know about any of it?”

“Hicky here, he was banging on my chest.”

Woot said, “He’s talking crazy now. How’s he know that?”

Hicky said, “Hell if I know.”

Even Moe got to acting a touch nervous. The other two men backed away, retrieved their shovels, appeared ready to get back to work again, or maybe they only wanted to get away from him. Del continued to sit on the ground, thinking about what had transpired. Moe finished his cigar and dropped it in the dirt.

He apparently had recovered from his initial surprise, and said, “Well? You gonna sit there all day or what? I ain’t paying you for that.”

Del stood, wobbly kneed, but he was upright, and he was alive.

He said, “Well. Reckon I’ll get back to it. Grain’s loose now.”

He slapped his hat against his thighs to knock off the dust and plopped it on his head. He winked at Woot and Hicky, who were still spooked, their wide-eyed expressions following him as he limped over to the pile of corn, his feet still feeling half numb and swollen. He went in search of the shovel he’d had. He found it buried in the middle, close to where the bin spit him out. He began to shovel corn again, and when Moe lumbered off, he stopped long enough to watch him go. He’d bet a dollar the man would come up with something else. Woot started asking him questions again.