Valknut: The Binding Read online

  Junkyard whistled. “Long time. How do you know he’s still out there?”

  “I don’t. But I...”

  Lennie hesitated, uncomfortable discussing her life with anyone, especially strangers. Junkyard didn’t push. He seemed content to wait, unlike that school counselor she had been forced to see when her anger got away from her in middle school. She had despised the counselor’s by-the-clock sincerity and never told him anything. But somehow she found herself wanting to talk to Junkyard.

  “For all I know, he died under a piece of cardboard ten years ago. But there’s a chance he’s alive, so I have to try to find him. It sounds corny, but we were so happy together. I know he loved me. At least, I thought he did. And it seemed like he loved Mom. But then he left and everything fell apart. Why would he do that? How could he leave us like that? My mother...”

  The words still came with difficulty. She pressed her lips together, fighting the tightness building in her chest. Junkyard looked away until she began to speak again. Her voice sounded bitter in her ears. “My mother died a few weeks ago. She’s been dying by degrees for years. I think she started to die the day he left, like...like he took some piece of her with him. Pulled the plug and all the life started draining away. How could he do that to her?”

  How could he do that to me? But she couldn’t say that out loud.

  She turned on Junkyard. “And you! Do you ever consider what you’re doing to the people you left behind? How much they worry? All the pain and loneliness? How can you live with yourself?”

  He jerked as if struck and his face went blank. Lennie sucked in her breath. Good going, big mouth—tear into the guy you’ll be trapped with for hours. Tensing, she waited to see what he would do.

  He answered in a low voice. “There is no one else.”

  “Oh.” She stared at him stupidly. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have assumed—”

  Anything else she might have said was lost when the boxcar lurched, throwing her against the roll of packing paper. The floor shook wildly. Bits of grain and gravel bounced and skittered across the floor. She clung to the paper roll, which didn’t feel like a paper roll, but she was too jounced to worry about it. She closed her eyes tight, certain the train was about to derail. Junkyard shook her arm and she cracked an eye open, reading his lips to understand him over the din. Rough track, he said. It felt more like a major earthquake.

  She tried to relax, but her bones bounced in her skin, awakening every strain and bruise. Junkyard swayed easily, like a sailor rolling with the waves. She envied him. The Twinkie was starting to rest uneasy in her stomach.

  When the track eventually smoothed enough so she could raise her voice above the noise, she shouted, “Does that happen often?”

  “Yes,” he said, “only sometimes worse.”

  Lennie looked for—hoped for—a grin, but his expression didn’t change.

  “Oh, man,” she groaned, still clinging to the packing paper. “I’ve gotta get off this train. Are you sure it doesn’t stop before Minneapolis?”

  Now Junkyard did grin, but in sympathy. “Afraid not. It’s a hotshot with right-of-way clear through. Unfortunately, this old boxcar’s a rattler, but it was the only one that wasn’t locked.”

  Lennie swallowed hard. “If I get my hands on that one-eyed hobo, I’ll...”

  She wasn’t sure what she’d do. Kick him in the shins, maybe. She sure wouldn’t be taking his advice.

  “Funny about that,” Junkyard said. “I’ve been traveling the rails for nearly a year now, and I know a lot of the full-time ’bos that ride this Midwest route. Don’t remember any with pink hair. Did you catch his name?”

  “It’s strange. He told me, but somehow I can’t remember it. I think it was something like Rattlin’ Red, or—”

  The roll of paper bucked underneath her, nearly knocking her on her face. She thought they’d hit another patch of bad track until she heard a muffled shout. “Hot dog! I knew it! I knew it was him!”

  She scrambled back from the roll as it came to life. It inched and flopped and began to unroll in place. Yards of paper bunched up against her until a hobo finally appeared. Unlike the one-eyed man with his road-wise manner, or Junkyard, who seemed like a regular working guy, this hobo looked the romanticized stereotype. He wore a shapeless felt hat and an old, dark suit patched with squares cut from brightly colored bandanas. With two-day’s growth on his chin, dirt smudges on his face, and overlarge shoes, he only needed a red ball on his nose to pass as a circus clown.

  As soon as he was free of the paper, he began jumping and jigging around the boxcar, yodeling like a bad cowboy singer. Suddenly the car swayed and he stumbled, teetering in the doorway. Lennie lunged to pull him in, but he swung around and staggered back into the car before she could touch him.

  “He’s crazy!” she yelled. “We’ve got to stop him before he kills himself!”

  Junkyard watched the older hobo, a wide grin stretching his face. At first, Lennie thought he hadn’t heard her over the yodeling, which out-decibeled even the train noise, but he shook his head. “Naw, that’s just Jungle Jim.” He watched the comic figure rebound off the far wall and laughed. “Hey, Jim! Why don’t you sit before you throw yourself off the train.”

  Jungle Jim didn’t seem to hear. “I’s right!” he shouted, doing a touchdown dance. “I’s right, wasn’t I? It was Ramblin’ Red! Old One-Eye, himself. No doubt about it!!”

  Junkyard reached up and tugged on Jungle Jim’s arm. “Can’t say I know who you’re talking about, Jim,” he said, winking at Lennie. “But why don’t you grab a piece of floor and tell us about it.”

  Jungle Jim stopped dancing and stared at Junkyard as though he hadn’t noticed him until that moment. “Well, whaddaya know! Hi there, Dougie. Here we are, on the same train—imagine that! There I was, all rolled up in that paper, sweatin’ and about to suffercate, all for nothin’. It was no one but you and that girl.” He paused, panting a little, and nodded at Lennie. “Hello, Missy. It was just you two all along! I could of been airin’ out by the door, watching the scenery go by, doggone it!”

  He shook his head, his face drooping in exaggerated sadness. Then he brightened and plunked down on the floor next to Lennie. The odor of stale sweat wafted over her, making her wish Jungle Jim had kept dancing, preferably on the other side of the car. She edged closer to the door.

  “Don’t worry,” Junkyard said, misunderstanding her reaction, “Jungle Jim’s as safe as a puppy. A big, flea-bitten puppy with a bit of mange. Eh, Jim?”

  Jungle Jim took off his hat and ran fingers through a thinning patch of woolly, brown hair. “That’s right, Missy, don’t you worry about me. It’s ol’ One-Eye you should be worryin’ about.”

  “Ramblin’ Red didn’t seem dangerous to me,” Lennie said, though that wasn’t exactly true. More that he didn’t seem to have harmful intent. “Is he some kind of criminal?”

  Jungle Jim tipped back his head and laughed, kicking his legs like a little kid with the giggles. Lennie couldn’t help but smile.

  “No, no,” he gasped. “Not a criminal. Ramblin’ Red is outside the law. Some say he’s outside humankind, but I don’t know nothin’ about that.” He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his eyes.

  “But I do know one thing,” he added, suddenly serious, his eyes clear and locked on hers. “He wouldn’t of brought you to us for no reason. I’m not too sure I want that kind of attention from ol’ One-Eye.”

  The comic hobo looked ridiculous and was obviously a little simple, but something about the way he spoke those words sent a chill through Lennie. “Why? Who is he? What’s he done?”

  “Well, now, those are mighty big questions, Missy. Bigger’n you know. See, Ramblin’ Red’s been around for at least a hunnerd years. He always seems to show up when somethin’ big is goin’ on. They say he was there at the St. Francis Church Fire of ’42. They say he was there before that, at the Wellington Avalanche of 1910. Why,
they say he showed up as long ago as the Pullman Riots, an’ that was all the way back in 1894.”

  Jungle Jim stopped talking and grew still. He cocked his head and stared into the corner of the boxcar as though he heard something far away. Lennie couldn’t say how it happened or why, but he changed somehow, though he hadn’t shifted a muscle. His dopey smile became serene, almost beautiful. Lines of wisdom parted the middle-aged looseness of his face. His eyes closed and, in a sing-song voice, he began to recite.

  An’ the black bird o’ sorrow

  lay his blue eye upon you

  an’ you fall

  an’ you fall

  an’ no one catches you

  at all...

  He pulled his knees to his chin, hugged his legs, and began to rock forward and backward, humming to himself. Lennie didn’t know what to think. She looked at Junkyard, who shrugged.

  “He does that sometimes. You get used to it.”

  “Oh, sure I will.” She snorted. “Just like I’ll get used to this earthquake on wheels and having Twinkies for dinner. Not that I’m not grateful,” she added hastily when Junkyard raised an eyebrow. “It’s only that, well, I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be at home, getting ready for classes. And the guy that lured me here isn’t even on board. Almost makes me believe Jim’s story. I get tricked by some interfering ghost and he doesn’t even stick around to keep his promises.”

  She kicked at the pile of packing paper that was still bunched up against her. “It’s all a big waste of time.”

  The end of the paper slid into the open doorway, flapping noisily. Jungle Jim shrieked and fumbled after it, too late. Before anyone could catch it, the entire length was sucked out the door like yarn caught in a vacuum cleaner. Jungle Jim stuck his head out to watch it twist and tumble away in the fading sunlight. He clung to the doorframe and began to sob. Junkyard crawled over and pulled him a safer distance inside. “What’s the matter, Jim? It’s only a bit of packing paper.”

  “Yeah, but now how’m I gonna hide? I’m dead for certain, like Tin Can Petey. Dead, dead, dead.” He wrapped his arms around himself and moaned, then added wistfully, “I tell ya, ol’ Petey could cook better’n Julia Child, and him using nothin’ but an old tin can and a little bitty fire. I haven’t had nothin’ but pork ’n’ beans since he died.”

  To illustrate, he leaned to one side and passed a loud explosion of gas. Settling back, he started rocking again, chanting, “Pork ’n’ beans for breakfast, pork ’n’ beans for dinner, pork ’n’ beans, pork ’n’ beans—”

  Junkyard gripped his shoulder. “Hold on, Jim. You saying Petey’s dead? What happened?”

  Jungle Jim stopped rocking. He blinked vacantly, mouthing Junkyard’s last question. Then his eyes came alive and his face twisted in anguish. “Petey’s dead,” he wailed. “Someone killed him, that’s what happened, and him not ever hurting anything, not even the flies that landed in his stew. He’d just fish ’em out and set ’em on a branch so they could dry their wings.”

  He started bawling like a three-year-old, gulping air between words. “No, sir,” he snuffled, “Petey never deserved what happened to him, and neither do I.”

  He shrank down into his baggy suit coat and resumed rocking, moaning and sobbing in rhythm with the movement. Junkyard patted his back and made soothing noises.

  Lennie watched them anxiously. She knew there was violence on the rails, but she had never been this close to it before. She admired Junkyard’s patience. She wanted to grab Jungle Jim by the lapels and shake the story out of him, and she didn’t even know this Tin Can Petey. Perhaps, she thought wryly, it would be better to let Junkyard handle it.

  It wasn’t until Junkyard promised a package of Ho-Ho’s that Jungle Jim stopped his rocking and opened his eyes. He straightened up and blew his nose on a dirty handkerchief. His voice shook as he began to speak.

  “Me an’ Petey, we caught out of Topeka about three days ago. About halfway to Ames, our ride went into the hole for some repairs. We sat there on that side track for maybe five hours and still no sign of movin’ on. It was getting to be dark, so I chanced a little look-see. Petey stayed with our stuff. I couldn’t of been gone more than twenty minutes—honest! But when I got back, there he was...”

  He tried to go on, working his jaw up and down, but only strained whimpers came out. Junkyard waited silently until Jungle Jim continued. “It was terrible. He was all tied up with some kinda string. Yards and yards of the stuff, like a bug wrapped up by a spider or somethin’. And he was dead, a knife poked right up through the roof of his mouth, clean up to the handle, his eyes starin’ an’ starin’, like they were beggin’ me to take it out. Take the knife out, Jimmy, they said, so I tried. I really, really tried. But the knife was stuck in there good, an’ there was blood all around, an’ ol’ Petey—he just lay there, his pack sittin’ right next to him, and mine was still there, too.”

  Jungle Jim began to wail. “Oh, why’d they do it? They didn’t take nothin’! Not even the roll of money Petey taped to his ankle. An’ the train kept sittin’ there, with me in the dark and ol’ Petey starin’, an’ I couldn’t stand it no more. I jumped off and hitched my way to Ames. I had to leave him, you know. Aw, but I shouldn’t of left him. “

  As Junkyard listened, his face grew hard and his eyes darkened. He started to speak, then swore instead and slammed his fist on the floor.

  Jungle Jim cried out, covering his head. Lennie jumped, gasping, and remembered how little she knew about Junkyard. He shot to his feet and glared down at her as if she had done something wrong. Without speaking, he turned away and leaned, hunch-shouldered, against the doorframe, his back a solid wall.

  Jungle Jim settled back into his rhythm of rocking and sobbing. Lennie looked uncertainly between him and Junkyard. Someone should comfort Jungle Jim, but it didn’t look like Junkyard was going to move from the doorway. She sidled closer to Jungle Jim, hesitating to speak. For ten years, she never found words to comfort her despairing mother. What could she say to a total stranger?

  “It’s okay, Jim,” she tried.

  He didn’t respond, and why should he? It was a moronic thing to say. Frustrated, she touched his shoulder and tried again.

  “You had to leave him there, Jim. It wasn’t safe to stay. I’m sure your friend would understand that.”

  “I kn-know.” Jungle Jim hiccupped and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “It’s just that, where’m I g-gonna hide?”

  “Don’t worry, you don’t need to hide,” Lennie said. “There’s no one else here. We’ll be fine.” As long as the train keeps moving, anyway.

  Jungle Jim didn’t seem reassured. He curled on his side and began whimpering. Lennie could think of nothing else to say. More than anything, she wanted to go home. The house might be empty, and so was her life, but at least she would be safe.

  She left her hand on Jungle Jim’s shoulder and watched the setting sun flash between evergreens in a windbreak. Eventually the whimpering faded. His rocking slowed and finally stopped. Certain he was asleep, Lennie got up and joined Junkyard at the door.

  She didn’t say anything at first. She was still afraid of the change in him. Tension poured off him like sweat. It was clear he knew something about Tin Can Petey’s murder that wasn’t included in Jungle Jim’s story.

  The sun was a pink ball bleeding into the horizon. A cool wind whistled into the boxcar. It would get cooler. Rubbing her arms, she said, “I don’t suppose we can close this door.”

  Junkyard grunted. “Not unless you want to risk getting locked inside for a few days. Or weeks.” He pointed to a railroad spike jammed into the bottom runner of the door. “Whatever you do, don’t take that out.”

  Stuck in a smelly boxcar with two strange men and no food or water—not a pleasant prospect. “Uh, I guess I can stand a little wind.”

  She settled to the floor inside the door and watched the sun sink out of sight. Junkyard hadn’t moved or spoken by the time the first stars appeare
d. She wondered if he planned to stay there with a scowl cemented on his face all night.

  “Did you know Tin Can Petey well?” she finally asked. “Or is something else bugging you?”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. His gaze flicked along a grey-cloaked stretch of farmland, but, judging from his harsh expression, his thoughts were somewhere far less pleasant. When the response came, she barely heard his voice over the wheels and wind. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen...heard of this sort of murder.”

  Before she could say anything, Junkyard turned back into the train, leaving her at the door. He dragged a piece of cardboard next to Jim and sat down on it.

  ”First thing tomorrow,” he said, “I’m calling Jim’s sister. She’ll reserve a ticket, and I’ll put him on a bus and send him home.”

  Awake after all, Jungle Jim yelped and sat up. Tears had left muddy trails through the dirt on his face, but now his eyes were dry and wide with alarm. “Oh, don’t do that!” He crushed his felt hat to his chest. “Please don’t make me go back! I haven’t missed the Festival in twenty years, an’ I’m not about to start now. The kids’d be too disappointed.”

  Junkyard shook his head. “You shouldn’t be on the road after a thing like that happens, Jim.”

  “Aw, but them kids are all I got left! I can’t hold a job, an’ my buddy is gone—heck, there’s nothin’ else that matters.” Jungle Jim folded his arms over the hat, his face set in a stubborn sulk. “If you put me on that bus, I’ll just hop right off at the first stop and hitch back.” Junkyard held up his hands. “Okay, okay. We’ll wait until after the festival. And then I’ll put you on a bus. And you better plan to stay close to me at night.”

  Jungle Jim frowned and muttered to himself, but didn’t protest. Junkyard turned to Lennie. “As for you, as soon as Jim is on that bus, you and I are catchin’ out for Ames. You’re going home. This is no time for some cherry woman to be riding the rails.”

  Lennie stared at him, too astonished to be angry. It didn’t matter that she had already been thinking of going home. She wasn’t about to let him order her around. She left the doorway to stand over him. “Listen, guy, I’ve been taking care of myself since I was eleven years old. I don’t need you or anyone else to tell me what to do.”