'Salem's Lot(155)

The village dropped behind them. Ben turned onto the Brooks Road and they drove past the Marsten House - its shutters still sagging, its lawn a complex maze of knee-high witch grass and goldenrod.

Mark pointed, and Ben looked. A path had been beaten across the grass, beaten white. It cut across the lawn from the road to the porch. Then it was behind them, and he felt a loosening in his chest. The worst had been faced and was behind them.

Far out on the Burns Road, not too far distant from the Harmony Hill graveyard, Ben stopped the car and they got out. They walked into the woods together. The undergrowth snapped harshly, dryly, under their feet. There was a gin-sharp smell of juniper berries and the sound of late locusts. They came out on a small, knoll-like prominence of land that looked down on a slash through the woods where the Central Maine Power lines twinkled in the day's cool windiness. Some of the trees were beginning to show color.

'The old-timers say this is where it started,' Ben said. 'Back in 1951. The wind was blowing from the west. They think maybe a guy got careless with a cigarette. One little cigarette. It took off across the Marshes and no one could stop it.'  

Malls from his pocket, looked at the emblem thoughtfully - in hoc signo vinces - and then tore the cellophane off. He lit one and shook out the match. The cigarette tasted surprisingly good, although he had not smoked in months.

'They have their places,' he said. 'But they could lose them. A lot of them could be killed . . . or destroyed. That's a better word. But not all of them. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' Mark said.

'They're not very bright. If they lose their hiding places, they'll hide badly the second time. A couple of people just looking in obvious places could do well. Maybe it could be finished in 'salem's Lot by the time the first snow flew. Maybe it would never be finished. No guarantee, one way or the other. But without . . . something . . . to drive them out, to upset them, there would be no chance at all.'

'Yes.'

'It would be ugly and dangerous.'

'I know that.'  

'But they say fire purifies,' Ben said reflectively. 'Purification should count for something, don't you think?'

'Yes,' Mark said again.

Ben stood up. 'We ought to go back.'

He flicked the smoldering cigarette into a pile of dead brush and old brittle leaves. The white ribbon of smoke rose thinly against the green background of junipers for two or three feet, and then was pulled apart by the wind. Twenty feet away, downwind, was a large, jumbled deadfall.

They watched the smoke, transfixed, fascinated.

It thickened. A tongue of flame appeared. A small popping noise issued from the pile of dead brush as twigs caught.

'Tonight they won't be running sheep or visiting farms.' Ben said softly. 'Tonight they'll be on the run. And tomorrow - '

'You and me,' Mark said, and closed his fist. His face was no longer pale; bright color glowed there. His eye flashed.

They went back to the road and drove away

In the small clearing overlooking the power lines, the fire in the brush began to burn more strongly, urged by the autumn wind that blew from the west.

October 1972

June 1975