Ritual

Was it really any wonder Alan Paulson ended up so darn woolfish? Of course not. Those Paulsons had been cooped up in I___ for too many seasons. Not to mention Ma Paulson and her rituals.

According to Ma Paulson, when a boy was old enough to walk, he was old enough to work. You didn't need no other fancy name for it. There were jobs that little fingers and little backs could do better. Jobs, where a boy in sheep's clothing could get into a neighbor's barn and, courtesy of opposable thumbs, get back out again with a lamb under each arm.

Alan Paulson was rustling sheep before he was counting them in his sleep. It wasn't long before he was skinning them too. I never met a Paulson boy who couldn't trap, skin, cook, sew and wear an animal before the age of five, but Alan was what you would call 'a natural'.

Me and Derek Hayes, from the Heyes' over at H_____? We seen those Paulson boys come into town one Monday. Now, most folks knew Monday afternoon was provision day for the extended families around I___ and H_____, so we handled our affairs on any number of other days in between, and left those kin-folk to their own devices. However, this one Monday, me and Derek Hayes had decided we were taking no prisoners with a growing family of 'gators out in our back yard. Well, we call it our back yard, but there's never been no fence where our yards end and the swamps began; not that a 'gator would pay his mind to lawyers property guides, anyhow. So, me and Derek Hayes have got out bait (some rotting pork belly), our guns (me with a side loading Beretta, and Derek with a Browning 12 bore), a couple of nets, and six packs for the wait, and we start tracking early.

Well, it gets to about noon and we find a good spot for waiting. Derek sets the bait and I set the nets. We ain't thinking of capturing them to keep them alive, but we know, from past experience, that where there's one 'gator, there's usually more. So, it pays to incapacitate them. I hear a commotion and stop laying the nets. Next thing I know, Derek Heyes is bounding over the swamp brush like Bambi over fallen logs. He's howlin' like a man made mad, but behind him is real howlin', like a full company of wolves are hot on his heels.

"What is it?" I says, thinking them 'gators are coming.

"Hell, if it isn't a Paulson kid!" he says back, shaking his finger at things I cannot see. "He gone and took my bait, John. Just clean bit it out of the air and took it off between his teeth."

"Well, get it back!" I cries. While I cannot stand a wasted journey, my wife can stand them less. I knew if I went back with no 'gator and no pork belly, I would be for the high-jump for sure. So, here's me expecting him to go back into those swamps yelling, "Gimme back my meat, kid!"

Now, I have to tell you the truth: I never seen this next part of the story. However, I trust Derek Heyes like he is a brother, and I know he is not a man to make fish bigger when they were caught than when they were eaten.

He rushes past me, I follow and we get caught up in those nets. Now, like I said, there's no-one quite as considered as Derek Heyes, but he's got a Bowie knife out now and is slicing though those nets like they were ten cents each. I remember thinking that my wife could scold me all she liked, but I would rather be scolded than given a wake, so I get out my knife and help slice our way out too. In the distance we can hear the howling on all sides of us and we don't say a word: we just keep cutting our way out of those nets, abandon them and the beer, grab our guns and run.

Heck, I ain't never seen a turn of speed like that since our days on the football field, so I did not stop to ask questions until we were back on Derek Heyes' porch with a bottle of medicinal brandy that May Hayes kept in the pantry. Finally, he tells me what he's seen.

Old Ma Paulson was stood fat, waxy and naked in the swamp. Derek Heyes swears she didn't have two titties, she had six sagging teats. Five Paulson boys were suckling on 'em, and he was so transfixed with their bizarre feeding ritual that he clean forgot the sixth . . . until he heard a growling behind him.

Derek turned around and saw little Alan Paulson; butt-naked and skinning a lamb, with blood and vittles dribbling from his chin. He swore the boys teeth looked worse than any dog he'd seen and that's what must have made him throw the pork belly like a stick to distract him. Next news? Alan's gone after the belly, allowing Derek to get away, but then all the Paulsons see him, set up a howl and that's where his and my story reconnect at the nets.

You can think what you like. Me? I know what Derek Heyes says that Alan Paulson is, and I know Derek Heyes is not a man to make a fish bigger when they were caught than when they were eaten. As for those 'gators? We figure they have enough of a hard time staying on top of that particular food chain, so we leave them to it.

(953 words)