Where Is Paul Calamy?

It can get powerful warm out here in the summer. It's the sorta heat that'll send a Yankee carpetbagger scurryin back to New York for his Momma. The sorta heat that'll melt yer eyes out and boil yer blood 'fore you can so much as set foot on the porch.

This was three years after Lee surrendered, in my dear hometown of Bruce Bluff, South Carolina. See, we was the first state to secede from the Union, so we didn't take too kindly to blue-belly cavalry ridin into town from the west. "Reconstruction," they was callin it. The boys and me, we called it bullshit.

The sun was high in the July sky when I heard the jangle and rumble of war hosses, and them uppity old Yankees rode up the street. Parked as I was, restin my eyes on that rickety old bench John Matthieson plopped in front of his livery, I saw the whole company pass by. Their polished swords a-flashin, their gear clankin 'gainst the side of the hosses' flanks, sweat drippin down from their brows and beards onto those dusty blue sack coats – they came in the hundreds, so they did.

Some cavalry fella with chicken guts on his shoulders and a pointy hat that'd put Napoleon to shame glanced down straight at me. I reckon he saw my ripped up old Johnny Reb britches, for he scowled most high-and-mightily.

I'm older than dirt nowadays, but I weren't quite forty then, so I still had the brass to shoot Old Chicken Guts my best Think the war's over? Think again, boy look. He scrunched up his nose like he caught a whiff of somethin rank and trotted along on his big white hoss.

'Twas then that I saw Donny Stoops, the nigger general store keeper, step out from the Islay Theater (which ain't a theater iff'n yer bein particular, just a saloon with a couple'a whores in residence) across the street. I raised my hand and waved, attemptin to get Donny's attention through the blur of Yankee hosses and clouds of dust.

I reckoned Donny must've been dippin his wick in one of them fiercely fat whores, but had decided against askin by the time the Yankees finally cleared away and Donny started traversin the dusty thoroughfare toward me.

"Helluva sight," said Donny in his deep black twang, squattin on the bench next to me. I liked old Donny, but he had a bad habit of sittin where white folks was supposed to sit.

"I reckon so," said I. "What they come here fer?"

Donny's big brown eyes lit up like candles, and he started jabberin: "I heard they been combin this whole area. Two days ago, I pass this Yankee outfit on the road to Seven Oaks. This bug-eyed major wheels his hoss ovah to me and, cordial-like, asks me to repay the great debt my peoples owed to the Federal Army by givin him a swig of water from my canteen. I say, 'Surely,' he say, 'Thankya,' I say, 'What y'all doin, ridin so furious all ovah creation?' He say, 'Orders are to find two men, by the names of Paul Calamy n' Francis Cotter.' Didn't say no more."

The damn instant he said those names, I knew they was familiar. Said I to Donny: "Must be a pair a'curly wolves, those two, iff'n a whole outfit's gone after 'em."

"Yessuh," Donny spews on, "ain't been nothin like it since John Wilkes Booth. And ya know what? Yesterday, jest outside of town, I run into this sorry-lookin feller. Sick as a bedbug, pale as the moon. He has little pinpricky marks on his neck, like a 'squiter bite. He's goin off crazy, talkin to hisself. This'n says shit like 'Mr. Calamy, take me,' and 'Massa, make me yers,' and all sortsa madness!"

I glanced at him sideways-like. "Helluva thing!"

I took the opportunity to buy some grain at Donny's store, which in those days was up the road a piece from the Islay Theater. Nowadays, if I recollect, there's an apartment complex over the whole goddamn spread.

We walked in quiet, me mostly thinkin about where in hell I'd heard the names Paul Calamy and Francis Cotter before. I racked my brain, pickin out all sorts of details and memories, but couldn't place 'em for the life of me. Whoever they was, they sure gave Billy Yank a royally shitty treatment, and therefore stood tall in my book.

Tied up at the hitchin post in front'a Donny's store was a familiar big white hoss. Branded on her hindquarters was US ARMY. Lookin up and down the street, hosses with the same burn were tied up all over town. The Yankees were takin leave in Bruce Bluff, so it appeared.

I followed Donny into his store, takin in the sweet smell of country livin: fresh-picked carrots, corn husks, cotton warmin in the summer sun, and bales of hay stacked high in the corner. Makes me miss them old days like nothin else.

Disruptin my olfactories was the hoss-dung and shavin-cream stench of Old Chicken Guts and a short, nasty lookin sergeant with a crazy, hatin look in his eye – Satan woulda been proud of it.

Chicken Guts and Satan-Sarge was at the counter pickin out clean shirts. They turned when we moseyed in. Seein Donny, Chicken Guts proclaimed in a boomin voice, "Praise God! A Negro owning and operating his own establishment! I tell you, Sergeant Aaron, I never thought I would have seen the day. Truly a testament to the success of our occupation, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yeah," Satan-Sarge (or Sergeant Aaron) replied, not quite matchin his commandin officer's enthusiasm. "It certainly is, Colonel."

Aaron directed his cool gaze toward poor yours truly. I tried my best to act – what's that French word? – nonchalant.

Chicken Guts thrust his hand out to Donny. "Colonel Peter Bejamin Killmore," said he, "At your service."

Helluva name, I remember thinkin. I wondered what his mother's people musta been called. Maybe they was the De Aths.

Bumfuzzled, Donny shook the Colonel's hand. He stuttered, "I... I ain't never met a feller in such... fancy clothes..."

At this Colonel Killmore threw back his head and laughed, pointy hat and all. The sound reminded me distinctly of a yelpin coyote.

Said the Colonel, "Now, my good Negro sir, as a friend to the glorious Union, you must aid Sergeant Aaron and myself in catching two notorious criminals, last seen in this county. One is called Francis Cotter. We believe he is of British origin. The second... and the far more dangerous... is named Paul Calamy. He should be easy to spot around here, for he's a Northerner same as us."

Donny looked 'cross the room at me with spooked eyes. He knew as well as me (maybe better) that iff'n he helped them Yankees in any way, the fools in white hoods would be after him by nightfall. Lockin our wide eyes, I shook my head no – just the slightest bit. Donny got the message.

Unfortunately fer me, I didn't see that Sergeant Aaron character, watchin me close.

Said Donny to Killmore, "No, Colonel suh. I ain't seen nothin, nor heard nothin."

Killmore's eyes dropped t'the scuffy floor. "Damn shame," said he. "Those men are truly dangerous, and the sooner they are caught and hanged the better. They have been found in connection with the disappearances of several prominent officers of the United States Army."

He shook with Donny again and started fer the door, Aaron followin.

When they was out, Donny and me breathed a long sigh of relief.

It wadn't 'til late afternoon that I figgered out where I'd heard the names Paul Calamy and Francis Cotter, and the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I was in the Islay Theater, 'bout to swaller my first shot'a whiskey, and I started shakin so bad the glass fell outta my hand and banged 'gainst the bar.

"The hell's the matter?" cried a startled Tom Islay, owner and 'tender of the joint.

"Nuthin," said I. "Pour me another."

He poured me 'bout thirteen anothers 'fore I had enough fer the evenin. By the time the sun dropped low in the west, I was drunk as a skunk. Tom carried me upstairs to one'a the whore's beds, and I had just 'nough time to drift off to sleep before Yankee cavalry boots kicked down the door and that nasty Sergeant Aaron had me by the scruff of the neck.

"What in God's name is this about?" I hollered in protest, but in my state I reckon "Waahhis gaaanaam baaugh?" rang truer.

Aaron pressed his sweaty nose 'gainst mine and said horsely, "Don't take me for a fool, you fucking greyback."

A horsekick of a headache blew up like a keg a'powder in the back of my head, and the next thang I remember, I was gettin dragged behind a hoss-cart. When I first opened my eyes, everythin was a blur. I tasted hot blood on my tongue. The rocks on the dirt path b'low me dug into my side.

As the blur evened out into shapes and images, I realized Aaron was standin over me, a Springfield rifle primed and loaded in his hands. 'Bout a dozen mounted Yankees was ridin amongst us.

"You're awake?" Said Aaron. "Good."

I coughed, spittin up blood and a tooth from the back of my mouth that's missin to this day.

Aaron kept talkin, his eyes frontward, spyin whatever awaited us on the trail. "I want you to be conscious enough to feel the pain. You know, my big brother went missing in action not too far from here. Slaughtered by coward Rebs like you. He used to beat me up every day when we were boys. It taught me how to be a man."

"That's just fucked up, sarge," rasped out I.

Rage swept 'cross Aaron's face like the tide and he stuck the bidness end of his rifle right at my noodle.

"Say that again! I dare ya!" spat he.

He woulda blown me to kingdom come, too, if Colonel Killmore hadn't rid up behind him at that instant.

"Sergeant! That man must stay alive for questioning!" When Aaron gave no indication that he was gonna leave me be, Killmore growled, "Sergeant... that's an order..."

The cart stopped. Killmore hopped off his pearly white hoss. Strokin his monster moose-stash, he bent down to where I was tied up.

"Where is Paul Calamy?"

Said I, "I can take you right to 'em. But ya ain't gonna like what you see."

Killmore grinned ear-to-ear. "Where? Where are they? Tell me!"

I coughed again – more blood. My head throbbed like hell. "Just outside'a town. It ain't far. Did you boys bring shovels? 'Cause ya might have to do some diggin."

Now I was startin to laugh. Killmore's smile was startin to fade off his face like the sunset behind him. "What do you mean?"

I was cacklin now. Said I, "Paul Calamy and Francis Cotter is names on tombstones in the Bruce Bluff Town Cemetery."

Killmore's jaw dropped. Said he, "That's impossible, uh, it, uh, must be a coincidence, a –"

"They's right next to each other," I giggled. "That ain't no coincidence."

The Colonel stared at me from under his brow, crimson deepenin on his shaved clean cheeks.

He leapt to his hoss, Aaron and me was promoted to ridin in the cart 'stead of behind it, and we raced to the ol' gates of the buryin ground.

'Twas nearly full dark now. The faintest shred of sunlight was wispin away behind the western treeline. Creepin into the Bruce Bluff Cemetery, the Yankee hosses got skiddish. The tall gravestones were white and gray in the failin light – lookin like ghosts standin sentinel. The eyes of the Yankee boys was shimmerin with fear as they reined in their beasts, and if I wadn't bound with rope I believe I woulda fled myself.

I directed the Colonel to one of the oldest plots. There, carved on an ancient marker adorned with a skull:

HERE LIES
PAUL CALAMY
Memento mori

And next to that, a towerin obelisk that read:

HERE IS INTERRED THE MORTAL REMAINS OF
CAPTAIN FRANCIS J. COTTER
SERVED WITH PROUD DISTINCTION UNDER GENERAL CORNWALLIS
AGAINST THE COLONIAL REBELLION

Barked Colonel Killmore to his men, "It's a trick of some kind. Perhaps they buried gold or weapons here. Dismount and dig!"

He had lost his good humor. We all did. There was somethin dreadful about the cemetery that night. It coulda been the way the air stuck sickenin'ly in my throat... or maybe it was the unshakeable feelin that we was bein watched.

The Yankees ran to fetch their shovels and started stabbin away at the earth before those two tombstones. Sergeant Aaron still held his Springfield, standin vigilent guard over me.

"Dig, you worthless bastards! Dig!"

There was a thunk as metal hit wood. One of the Yankees cried out, "A coffin, Colonel, we found a coffin!"

Sang another bluebelly voice, "Another one, another coffin!"

Then the screamin started.

Low at first, then high as a banshee. The Yankee soldiers panicked and tried to scramble outta the graves, only to be dragged back down again by somethin in that pit. Somethin unspeakable.

I'll never forget seein the hope dashed outta those poor boys' faces as they was pulled to their deaths.

Colonel Killmore, the only Yankee still mounted, shrieked a four-letter word and whipped his steed on outta there, gallopin away as fast as the big white hoss would take him.

It all happened so fast, I hardly knew what I was seein. But soon knowin rolled up me, freezin my blood. The screams ceased as quickly as they had gotten goin, and two blood-soaked men crawled outta their graves.

It was a hot summer night, but Aaron was shiverin next to me. His bladder let go and his piss spread around the cart, soakin my trousers.

I may be a country boy, but I ain't stupid. The first time I laid eyes on Paul Calamy and Francis Cotter, I knew at once they was vampires.

Calamy licked the blood off his long fangs, relishin it as it seeped down his throat, shakin the dust off his long black frock coat. He ran his fingers through the dark hair that swept to his collar. He had a hard, stubbly face untouched by age yet still somehow ravaged by time.

Cotter was wearin a red vest – the color suited him. He had a Yankee's severed head (face still wearin shock and unimaginable terror) in his hand and was drinkin straight out of the mess of torn meat and spurtin veins.

He shouted in triumph, Cockney to the last syllable. "Bloody hell! I 'aven't 'ad this much fun since New Orleans back in 1814!"

Calamy was just starin at me with eerie, shinin eyes. "Frank," said he, in a polished, educated Yankee accent. "Two of our guests are unaccounted for."

Cotter threw the head aside and smiled, revealin his pointed cannibal teeth. He was twitchin, full of murderous energy. "Well... what's all this then?"

He ran forward at an amazin speed. Sergeant Aaron didn't even have time to scream 'fore Cotter picked him up and swung him round by the legs. Calamy watched, calm as a pond on a windless day.

A crazy thought popped into my mind: It's like they're dancin!

Then Cotter impaled him on the obelisk. The stone cut through Aaron's torso, shootin blood in a torrent, splatterin me with it, and grindin his ribcage and all the organs therein to juice. Aaron's tongue flopped outta his mouth, his limbs twitched once, twice – and then he was still forever.

The blood started runnin down Cotter's monument like tiny rivers.

"Tisk, tisk," chided Calamy when Cotter took to lickin to blood off the stone. "Don't be barbaric, Frank."

Cotter stepped away from Aaron's cadaver with true regret on his deathly pale face. "Sorry, sir. I'll do the next one right, I swear!"

"No," said Calamy. He looked at me again with those glowin eyes of his. "I have other plans for this one."

Paul Calamy pulled his cravat down from his neck. He approached me with slow, deliberate steps of his heavy ridin boots. "Don't be afraid," he said in the most calmin voice I have ever heard.

No, I tried to say, and nothin but a croak came out. My muscles loosened up. My mind slipped away, 'til the only thing left in my world was his incredible eyes.

Don't do this... My thoughts of resistance, of revulsion, were fadin, 'til they was just a voice callin from the end of a long tunnel.

I forgot all about Donny, and Bruce Bluff, and the bench outside the livery, and the war, and seein my friends die oozin blood on the battlefield. I even forgot my first memory, of my Momma cradlin me to sleep and singin sweetly, "Because I believe and have found salvation, when I die I'll live again... That I may take part in the jubilation, hallelujah, I'll live again..."

Calamy's throat was an inch from my face. He raised a fingernail and cut straight across his jugular – blood frothed out of him and poured straight down my gullet.

He pressed my lips hard against his cold, cold flesh. I drank.

The crimson flow was sweeter than homemade honey and smoother than the finest wine. 'Twas the most delicious thing that ever slipped over my tongue. All of a sudden I could taste his memories, Calamy's whole life flashin by me like a dream...

I saw the stone walls of some magnificent desert castle burnin, blood soakin the sand beneath, armored men dismembered and stacked in piles, white shields bearin red crosses lyin useless in their dead hands, some voice callin through the night in a Turkish tongue...

I saw a fleet of ships landin on a cold and unknown shore, soft rain tappin at the water, stern people draped in black coats and buckled hats steppin onto the beach, a skinny feller holdin up a Bible and shoutin, "Thanks be to God, the New World at last..."

I saw every side of every war, I saw centuries of darkness and murder and pain. I was claimed that night, indentured to a creature with eyes like lightnin who was once a Moravian farm boy named Vratislaus, a young'un without prospects who left home to fight the Saracens defilin the Holy Land and never came back.

I drank. And when I died, I lived again.

This year, I'm celebratin my 180th birthday. Goddamn, but that is old. I ain't got arthritis, nor a face full of ruts and grooves, but I feel my age. It weighs on me like shame.

I do miss the good ol' days.