Farewell Summer

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When Douglas walked, his mind ran, when he ran, his mind walked. The houses fell aside, the sky blazed.

At the rim of the ravine, he threw his cap–pistol far out over the gulf. An avalanche buried it. The echoes died.

Suddenly, he needed the gun again, to touch the shape of killing, like touching that wild old man.

Launching himself down the side of the ravine, Doug scrambled among the weeds, eyes wet, until he found the weapon. It smelled of gunpowder, fire, and darkness.

‘Bang,’ he whispered, and climbed up to find his bike abandoned across the street from where old Braling had been killed. He led the bike away like a blind beast and at last got on and wobbled around the block, back toward the scene of awful death.

Turning a corner, he heard ‘No!’ as his bike hit a nightmare scarecrow that was flung to the ground as he pumped off, wailing, staring back at one more murder strewn on the walk. Someone cried, ‘Is that old Quartermain?!’

‘Can’t be,’ Douglas moaned.

Braling fell, Quartermain fell. Up, down, up, down, two thin hatchets sunk in hard porch and sidewalk, frozen, never to rise.

Doug churned his bike through town. No mobs rushed after him.

It seemed the town did not even know that someone had been shot, another struck. The town poured tea and murmured, ‘Pass the sugar.’

Doug slam–braked at his front porch. Was his mother waiting in tears, his father wielding the razor strop …?

He opened the kitchen door.

‘Hey. Long time no see.’ Mother kissed his brow. ‘They always come home when they’re hungry.’

‘Funny,’ said Doug. ‘I’m not hungry at all.’