One Hot Late Afternoon in a Jungle

“You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” – Ernest Hemingway

1

As I peered through the scope, one rounded shoulder of a broad leaf in the sight picure fluttered a little. But in the next instant it didn’t look like anything important—the rounded corner of an elbow or shoulder or cap or knee—and that fluttering brought back a memory.

It made me smile.

That was the year the dam broke and the river switched course and carried old man Patterson’s house away. I remember watching it float past.

Leaning forward in his white linen pajamas and gripping the two-by-four railing like he was steering the thing, his white hair flapping behind him in the wind, Mr. Patterson looked forever more like the head and beak of a swan, albeit one with a short neck.

The great white patchwork-siding on the walls looked a little like feathers layered over each other, and that slanted lean-to porch stuck on the back looked like where a swan’s back slopes down a little to its butt. Some of those green asphalt roof tiles along the near edge were flapping like wings too. So the whole thing looked like a big white bird with a white neck and head and a beak that resembled a human face trying to take off.

And who could blame it? When the river’s up and roaring like that, I wouldn’t want to be out there in it either.

The house was turning a little right and then a little left, and it was rocking on the current a little, I remember wondering why the walls weren’t wet.

I remember I looked to my right to gauge Billy Griswold’s response.

Billy was grinning and speechless and pointing like a two-year old at a brand new discovery.

I didn’t want to interrupt that—especially that speechless part since Billy usually talks more than any human should—so I followed the direction of Billy’s pointer and looked out over the river again just in time to take a mental snapshot.

2

Downstream, that big old grey rock, maybe thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long, was smack in the middle of the river. On the upstream end its knob top looked like a big grey marble maybe ten feet across, and for a second I flashed into a usually-versus-now comparison.

That rock had been there forever, but the knob top of it was usually a good ten or twelve feet above the surface of the water.

Below the knob, the river usually split calmly on the more-or-less pointed upstream end of the rock and flowed gently around it.

So usually the river made only a lapping whitecap or two on each side coming off that point. And it did all that with hardly a sound.

That pointed edge below the knob also usually split the stronger current of the river into two currents, and alongside that hundred-foot rock the inner edge of each new stronger current started about ten feet to either side of the rock.

In fact, if you were in a canoe or another boat or even on a raft and even if did your best to aim straight at the pointed upstream middle of that rock, the river would decide for you and send you around the rock into one stronger current or the other.

‘Course, closer to the rock and closer to the bank the current was calmer. You could even float on your back without moving downstream much. Billy Griswold and I had done that many times. So if you were on a canoe or boat or raft and if you wanted to climb up that rock, you pretty much had to dig hard with your paddle or else just go man-overboard, grab your canoe or what have you and drag it to the rock with you in that calmer current. Which is why we always kept a rope tied to one end of the canoe or boat or nailed into one corner of any raft we put together.

That’s how it all was usually.

But this wasn’t usual.

3

In my mental snapshot only the knob—the top four feet or so of it—was showing, and: the pointed upstream end of the rock was under water quite a ways, and: the river was splitting violently, throwing up a huge spray on both sides and in the middle, and: the spray was coating that rock and turning it an ominious, darker grey.

Oh-oh.

*

At the other end of my mental snapshot, a little upstream from the rock but almost in a blur, the big bird-house came on, Mr. Patterson still gripping that front porch railing for all he was worth, leaning forward against the wind and doing his best to take flight, and the green asphalt-shingle wings on the near-side flapping even more frantically than before.

For a second, I flashed on wide-webbed swan feet under the surface, paddling hard as the bird closed the distance like it was trying to set the record for a quantum leap, and—

The bird’s neck and beak let go of the front porch railing and curled back around itself and ran in through the front door of the bird-turned-house again.

And the house hit that big old dark-grey rock head on.

4

The whole green top of the house—stovepipes and all—launched over the top of the knob of the rock and landed clean on the other side, making it look for all the world like there was a house submerged on the middle of the rock.

The front porch disappeared in a shattering of splintered wood and white river foam and went who-knows-where to coat the rock and the repositioned roof with white bits, some of which flowed off because they were water and some of which stuck to that rough asphalt tile.

Mr. Patterson launched too, finally taking flight but by himself, a disembodied swan neck and beak. He landed face-down on top of that knob, foam and spray washing over him, and him clutching that knob with all four feet like maybe he had talons instead of webbed swan feet.

And the rest of the house hit that knob and disintegrated, part of it flying over and around Mr. Patterson and most of it flowing in the spray to the left or right and dipping into the river on both sides to be rushed downstream like it no longer had any idea where it wanted to go.

Billy said, “Geez! Did you see that? Harmon, did you see that?”

I only nodded and didn’t say anything because I was looking up and down the bank, trying to pick up with my eyes as well as my ears the sudden flood of voices from both sides.

Up and down the bank the few children who’d been allowed to come to the bank were gaping, their mothers clutching their hands like they were gold itself, and the men were just starting to turn to each other and talk excitedly about practical things like

“Poor Mr. Patterson!” and

“Y’think there any way he’s still alive?” and

“Somebody’s gotta get him off that rock!” and

“Not me, boy!” and

“Anybody got a boat that’ll cross that river?” and

“Anybody call the sheriff?”

“Anybody call the fire department?”

“Anybody call the cops?” and that ain’t scratching the surface.

A ton of other questions all overlapped each other, and up and down the bank some of the men kept talking and some had already removed their hats and were pressing them against their chest and were shaking their heads.

And right next to me Billy Griswold yelled, “Look!” and I looked and Mr. Patterson was pushing up a little on his hands and he’d turned his head and he was looking at the bank we were all standing on and: Billy waved and yelled, “Hey Mr. Patter—” and: I waved an instand later and yelled, “Hey, Mr. Patterson, over he—” and: my jaw dropped open and my eyes grew wide as a big chunk of a washed-out sweetgum tree still in full leaf brushed up over that knob and flipped. It landed on top of the green asphalt-tile roof trunk-first and: Mr. Patterson just wasn’t there anymore.

*

And back here now where I’m lying behind this dark-grey rotting log in this hot, damp jungle full of skinny-trunked trees and brush and vines and broad leaves with the smell of earth all around me, the smile dropped off my face.

*

But back there in the memory, again I looked left and right, up and down the bank and wondered at the wonderfully naïve age of 17, but silently because I don’t talk much and never did, “What the hell is wrong with these people?”

*

Up and down the bank the women with the few children who’d been allowed to come to the bank were slapping one hand over the child’s eyes and turning themselves and the child away, and: some of the men were gaping, their hands on their hips and their chests expanded like when Superman steps out of the phone booth in his red and blue outfit, and: those few men with their hats already on their chests were turning away and putting on their hats and nodding to each other, probably a little smugly about the outcome they’d correctly predicted.

5

And back here now where Billy Griswold with his spotting scope and I with my scoped rifle are lying behind this dark-grey rotting log in this hot, damp jungle full of skinny-trunked trees and brush and vines and broad leaves with the smell of earth all around us, I made a stupid mistake.

As the owner of the memory and a participant in it, when Mr. Patterson pushed up a little on that knob and craned his neck around to look at the bank, I forgot all of that happened years ago and wasn’t happening right now and that it was only a memory.

For an instant, I forgot where I was and what I was doing, and I took my eye away from the scope and pushed my head up a little like Mr. Patterson did.

And just as Billy Griswold lightly touched my right shoulder with one fingertip to silently pull me back from wherever I’d gone, something snapped out in front of me.

And for an instant that snap became the sound of that big chunk of washed-out sweetgum tree hitting that rock, but fortunately it also wasn’t.

Thanks to that snap and Billy Griswold’s touch I realized where I was and what I was doing and I slapped my face back down to my scope and peered through it.

And just to the left of that shoulder of a broad leaf, the seamed three-quarter edge of a pocket rose and appeared and thinned to a side-on view and that wasn’t perfect by a long shot but it was enough and I squeezed the trigger like we’d been taught in Scout-Sniper School.

And there was a movement of brush and leaves in the scope and a rusting of crushing brush in my ears and I laid absolutely still and moved my body an inch this way and an inch that way because each inch on this end swept several yards on the other and as I was doing that I said without moving hardly any air, “See anything?”

And in my right periphery Billy Griswold, who always talks more than any human should when we’re back in the hooch, only shook his head.

And we both watched for another half-hour.

And nothing else moved.

*******

Author Note

I was never a Marine Corps sniper as far as I can remember.

About the Author

Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.

Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly. He has written and published over 110 novels, 10 novellas, and over 280 short stories. He has also written 19 nonfiction books on writing, 9 of which are free to other writers. And he’s compiled and published 5 omnibus novel collections, 29 collections of short fiction, and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.

These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key “StoneThread Publishing” or “Harvey Stanbrough” into your favorite search engine.

Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for “The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack.”