What Mr. Johnson Knew

by Ronald Polizzi

conclusion

Once there, he found a battery-powered spotlight that was perfect for the job and purchased two of them. They were not cheap and the total maxed out his credit card but it is worth the cost, he told himself. This extra effort would provide the final bit of thrust that would launch him into the big league, first with the Memphis crowd and then with the Chicago and New York art patrons. Why there might even be a book deal in all of this, he thought. And why not, he was certainly accumulating the material needed. With the interest in Delta Blues resurfacing again after that genre’s long hiatus, the timing was perfect.

Berry played back the last of the old man’s instructions in his mind as he drove north along U.S. 51, watching for where it intersected with state highway 29. The place was supposedly the legendary crossroads the old fellow had claimed, where Johnson made his pact with the Devil. Now you take that chicken leg with the foot to the place where you meet the devil and you lay it there where you can watch it. When you put it on the ground it gonna turn over cause that what it does. When you see that you take a new fork one that never been used to eat with and you stab it in the ground by that chicken leg and then the devil will meet you and teach you what you want to know.

The formula was a strange one. What chicken legs and silver forks had to do with the devil was beyond him, but he took it on faith intending to follow it to the letter to the end, recording it all on his digital.

The place where the two highways crossed was only a few miles outside of town. He was surprised he’d not noticed the spot when he drove down. The light had faded substantially. The first of the evening stars twinkled brightly in the few patches of clear sky not obscured by clouds. Maybe I should make a wish, he laughed remembering the game he’d played as a child.

He parked on the opposite side of the road and looked across the highway where the Mulberry tree stood, its twisted form surrounded by vast empty fields lying fallow until the next year’s crops were planted. There is a spookiness about this place, he thought snapping a couple of shots of the lone tree. If ever there was a spot to meet the devil, that old tree looks like it.

Dutifully he popped the trunk and lifted out the spotlights and the plastic baggie that held the chicken leg and silver fork. After a quick check of the sky, he grabbed the windbreaker he kept in the front seat as well. It was waterproof and the night might prove to be chilly or even wet. With his box of equipment under his arm he crossed the highway to where the twisted old tree beckoned like some dark specter.

The Mulberry Tree was little more than a skeleton. Only a few limbs remained and most of those were broken either from age or weather. In a few more years there will be no tree at all to mark this spot. The trunk formed some interesting patterns with its rough bark and he spent a little time with the camera capturing some close-ups of the textures it created.

By the time he was finished and ready to set up his equipment it had grown fully dark and he was glad he had the foresight to purchase lights. He switched one on as a test. The area immediately flooded with a bright yellowish beam pushing the dark back, providing a welcomed bit of comfort through its illumination. It would provide plenty enough light for the camera. Moving it to one side he placed the other on the opposite side the tree in the middle.

The light’s strong glare made it impossible to see beyond the span they covered into the darkness. Anyone out there can see me but I won’t see him or her. Of course I wouldn’t see them anyway, he realized. Rural areas like this with no streetlights and the moon hidden behind the clouds like tonight were inky black, making it impossible to see at all. I’d forgotten just how dark it can get in the country.

Berry opened the bag and took out the chicken leg and fork. He placed the leg on the ground a little distance from the tree, just inside the area of light. A few shots of the sickly yellow appendage looking nicely grotesque in the dark would be prefect for shock value, giving his lecture punch.

He turned to get his camera and when he turned back the leg had moved. It’s facing the other way! The foot is pointing the opposite way I placed it. The warning the old man gave echoed in his head Now when you place that chicken foot on the ground it gonna turn over. But this was impossible? A severed limb couldn’t move. He must have kicked it with his foot getting the camera.

He reached down to turn the thing back then hesitated. Am I afraid if I turn it back to its original position it will move again? He realized he was getting jumpy, letting his imagination run wild. Still he was reluctant to touch it.

Finally reaching out gingerly, he flipped the cursed thing back to its original position. If that damn thing moves I’m going to flip out, he warned himself. The Foot lay there unmoving. I had to have bumped it somehow, dead chicken parts don’t move.

Walking around the object until he found a satisfactory angle he snapped off several shots. That should do it perfectly, he thought. Wait till those stuffed shirts see this.

The air was developing a bit of a bite. Putting his camera aside for a moment he grabbed his parka and slipped it on. Looks like it’s going to be a cold night.

There was only one step left in the formula: You take a new fork one that never been used to eat with and you stab it in the ground by that chicken leg and then the devil will meet you and teach you what you want to know. Reaching down he picked up the silver fork. As he moved to stick it into the ground next to the foot he froze. The damn chicken foot was pointing at him again the opposite way he’d replaced it.

There’s no way I kicked it. Reaching for the cursed thing he spotted a movement just outside the area lit by the floodlights. Flicking them off, one then the other, something brushed his hand causing him to jump.

“What was that?”

There just beyond the little area he’d staked out was a dark animal the size of a small dog. It had a rat like shape. He watched as it scurried back and forth.

“Well I’ll be,” he whispered, “that’s a damn Nutria.”

Though he had lived in the South for most of his life he had never seen a live one, only photos in the newspapers. They were a farmer’s nightmare. Sometimes big as dogs, rat-shaped but with longer hair, they had been imported from South America decades ago as a cheap source of fur but had never caught on. Now they lived wild and preyed on crops, costing farmers millions of dollars in losses every year. Some areas had initiated Nutria Rodeos where they were rounded up and killed in an attempt to decrease their numbers.

So that’s how the chicken leg moved! He smiled relieved, nothing magical there, just a big rat. The moon had broken through the cloud cover just enough to allow him a good look at the animal. The creature seemed confused. It shuffled one way then another like a worried man might pace the floor. Keeping its head down, sniffing the ground it turned, tracking toward the chicken leg.

“No you don’t, you son of a bitch.”

Jabbing the fork into the ground so he could free his hands he picked up a broken limb lying nearby. Wielding his makeshift weapon he charged the Nutria just as it was about to snatch the bit of meat.

“Get the hell away from there,” he yelled, swatting at the animal. The creature rose up on its hind legs and hissed. Berry took a step back. The creature’s eyes glowed an unearthly red. Then it turned and ran.

That damn thing had red eyes. They glowed! He struggled to understand what he had just witnessed.

The wind began to rise, rattling the brittle limbs of the old mulberry tree with a skeletal clacking. Berry had had enough. As he gathered up his gear, strong gusts tore at his clothes, threatening to rip his equipment from his hands. He quickly began packing his camera and lights, intending to flee the place.

At that moment the moon broke free of the clouds, lighting the area with an amazing clarity and revealing a dark rider. It sat on a black stallion poised just before where the highways crossed. With a click of its heels the figure set the horse in motion.

Berry stood frozen in place. The rider and steed seemed to defy the laws of time and space, spanning the distance between the intersection and where he stood with amazing speed. In seconds they were rushing upon him.

Berry fully expected to be trampled by the fierce pair. Instead the steed pulled up just short of running him over, its hot breath vaporizing into steam as it mixed with the cold air, dancing in anticipation wanting to finish its run.

The rider looked down on Berry, its face hidden behind a high collar and wide hat so only its red eyes showed, glowing like the Nutria’s. With a gloved hand it opened the collar revealing more of a skull than a face. Its lipless smile leered wickedly at its captive.

“Why have you summoned me?” it rasped, leaning down so its stark features were only inches from Berry’s.

Berry stood paralyzed; fear constricted his ability to speak. His legs trembling so violently he could hardly stand.

The creature took on an almost confused look. Its head tilted, it seemed unsure of what it should do.

“What do you seek?” it questioned. The words hissed like air through a faulty valve.

“Please, “Berry begged, “Let me go. I didn’t know...”

He fell on his knees, his fingers clasped together as in prayer. “Ah... you wish freedom,” said the thing in that whispery voice.

“Very well, but first my fee,” it hissed, pointing a long finger where Berry cringed.

Then it was gone and there was only the empty road.

Berry looked around amazed he was alive. Everything was exactly as it had been. The Moon was shining brightly, the wind calm, his equipment undisturbed. He grabbed his gear and made his way to the car.

Driving back into town he saw the Juke Joint was still open, the band cranking out a fast rhythm and blues number. I need a drink and a place to think. Swinging the car around, he pulled into an empty space in the now crowded lot. As he entered, he noticed people seemed to be staring at him. What? Why the stares?

Feeling sick and confused he staggered to the rest room, bareley making the toilet when all the contents of his stomach came up at once. He stayed bent over retching violently, his body convulsing with dry heaves for several minutes before he was able to control the spasms.

Finally they weakened and he was able to stand. Staggering to the sink he wiped his mouth and face with a wet paper towel when he caught his reflection in the mirror. The man that stared back at him was a stranger. The hair was snow white, the mouth thin, almost lipless, the face creased with deep grooves of pale wrinkled skin. He looked at his hands. They were dotted with the splotchy freckles that mark the aged, the fingers gnarled and twisted.

In the club, conversations at the tables stopped, cut short by an otherworldly scream. The rest room door flew open as the hideously old white man came rushing out and into the night.

* * *

It was another Friday night. This week featured the Mississippi Mud Dogs, a local band that was beginning to gain national attention. The old black man joined a few friends at a table near the front of the bandstand. He pulled out his Bull Durum and rolled a smoke.

“What ever happened to that white fellow, the writer?” one of his companions asked.

“It wasn’t no writer, he was a artist.”

“An artist then. What ever happen to him?”

“Don’t know, his girlfriend was down here and got his car. Said he never came home.”

“Well them artists is like that,” the other man said with a shake of his head. “Not dependable at all. You can’t count on ‘em for nothing.”

A moment passed, then the man leaned forward toward his friend.

“Did you hear? There’s talk some crazy white guy is hanging out where 51 and 29 come together. They say the guy looks like death itself. Said he’s been scaring the folks. The sheriff and his deputy went out there but he ran into the woods ’fore they could catch him... Kept calling for the devil.”

The old black man took a pull on his cigarette then blew out a long plume of smoke. He watched as it rose toward the bare rafters of the ceiling.

“Well, I wouldn’t put much stock in rumors,” he said finally, then turned his attention to the bandstand; the Mud Dogs were starting their second set.