Roundhouse Stories:Roundhouse Stories:
Along the river, through the woods--you follow the dirt road through a sodden countryside. The rain has stopped. The storm is over, but the evidence of its passing is everywhere. Gingerly, you pick a path, choosing at each step between the wet brown of muddy ruts and the glistening green of the grassy crown. Runoff overfills the ditches on either side, laughing and coaxing in its bubbling voice. "Why so slow? Why so serious? Play with me! Play with me! Catch me if you can!" Then, off and down and away, caught by canyon or culvert, it tumbles toward the river.
The road hangs on the river's edge, suspended sometimes on a cliffside, sometimes striking across the high ground to cut an oxbow. Though rutted and worn, it remains solid and intact. Its age is evident-- in the wrip-wrap and retaining walls that shelter it from the river's sweep, the stone mileposts that dot its length, the walls of river-rock that mark its margins, the ditches tiled with smooth stone. Here, a wall has crumbled. There, a milepost lies in the ditch. At Mary's Creek, the culvert has collapsed. The retaining wall, blindsided by the stream, has been swept away. The roadway slumps. Crossing the washout, you wet your feet when a stone rolls from beneath you. you clear the creek in a convulsive leap. Behind and beside you, a rolling stone bounces once, twice. The sound of striking, chipping rock is followed by the hollow "thomp," the splash. The river is high.
Careful step by step, you pace the old road. You tick off the miles, stone post by stone post. So you can know, with some accuracy, how far you've come. And your inner compass, usually reliable, says your feet point north and a little east. A near-perfect sense of place, you muse. You have distance, direction. Only destination is lacking. Where are you going? You need, you're looking for, a sign.
Step. Step. The soft sound of mud, sighing away from a sole coming down and rushing back to suck and cling as it is lifted, alternates with the brittle rustling of coarse, wet grass underfoot. It is hard to scan for signs and watch your footing. But, in the end, the first signs are at your feet.
The road swings more to the east, away from the river and across a broad meadow. Converging from the west until it runs parallel to your route, separated only by a stone-lined ditch, is the bed of an old railroad. The rails are long gone. The ties sprout moss and grass grows in thick clumps from the ballast between. The bed, one high and perfect and straight, has slumped at the edges in places, filling the ditches and forcing the runoff onto the road. But, stepping to the high ground of the ancient railroad bed, you find another path. Worn down its center is a single rut, relatively free of sodden vegetation. And it is drier; though the surface is muddy, the gravel below lets the water percolate away. Each step is treacherous--a moment of sliding mud arrested by relative solidity. But you look at the road beside you--flooded, in sections looking like a chain of small lakes stretching across the meadow. You opt for the higher ground.
You are not the first. Even as you take your first sliding step, you see the marks of those who came before you. The tracks of children. Paw prints. There are two sets, one somewhat larger than the other. They must be muddy paws by now. Think of the little child-feet, with muddy soles and mud oozing up between the toes. The image takes you back. Where are their shoes? Are they waifs, too poor to own a pair? Or do they carry them in their hands? Perhaps both shoes and rubber over-boots, tied together, or slung over a shoulder. Are these prints the evidence of juvenile rebellion, adventure, joyfully illicit mud-squishing, puddle-jumping? Are their pants legs rolled up? The tracks are fresh. They have passed this way since the rain. How long ago is that? What time is it? Time is hard in this gray, wet twilight world.
You look to the west, where clouds bunch up against the mountain slopes. Is that the sun, peeking between the clouds? There, in that saddle. Yes. The sun is going down. Mountains and clouds catch a brilliant glow, are limned in gold. The sun is going down. Turning your back, even as the first hint of rose creeps into the lower grayness, you step and slide along the railroad bed, following in the naked footprints of children.
Beyond the meadow, the way is wooded. Road and railroad run together beneath a canopy of old maple. Precipitation, long delayed by its journey through the treetops, patters down around you. The road is drier here and clearer than the railroad bed, where blowdowns lie rotting in your path. You leap the ditch, take a few strides, and find the children's footprints have joined you. The going is better, drier underfoot than it has been. You make good time, walking away from the setting sun. You cross a wooden bridge -- patched and propped with plywood, 2x4s and old railroad ties, but still secure. The railroad bridge is gone. A stone pillar leans toward the rushing stream below. LITTLE COONTAIL CREEK is inscribed on its surface -- somewhat overgrown with moss, but still legible. Beyond the creek, the forest thins and the unsteady drip of belated rain is joined by the sullen sounds of the swollen river as it struggles against its banks.
River, road and rail-less railroad converge along a steep bank, run parallel for perhaps a hundred yards, and then diverge. The land rises and the road rises with it. The railroad enters a shallow cut, once sheltered by walls of stone and oiled timber. But the walls have begun to come down, clogging the cut and cutting at the road's edge. The river winds its own way, though the sound of it is never lost. You pass over a low ridge. The three lines once again converge. and you find yourself at a junction.
At one time, there had been a bridge. The timbers thrown up on the opposite bank, stacked roughly by the river's force, attest to this, as they attest to its eventual fate. For you, this is a junction that offers no choices. Still, you look hopefully for a sign. If you are to find a destination, this will be the place -- at the crossroads.
You are not wholly disappointed. The sign is there, nailed to the trunk of a huge tree -- a metal plate, half covered by still-growing bark. But the letters are so faint, so worn by the elements that they reveal nothing. You hang your head in disappointment and there, at your feet, beside the muddy tracks of children, is your signpost. Scratched in the earth with a broken stick, which lies nearby, is a large arrow and to words in a childish hand: "to Soggytown." The arrow points on down the road, back into the deep woods. Dusk drags on, suspended at a moment of pinkish gray. You have your sign, your destination. Soggytown.
Passing through the woods in this impossible twilight, you enter open country once again. And in the distance, across the meadows, you can see structures, perched close to the river's edge. The road cuts inland; the tracks follow the river. You hesitate, stare at the distant structures. There is a haziness about them and then there is a brightness. Fire. The blaze leaps and builds, throwing into relief its immediate surroundings. It stands, it appears, at the center of a ring of pillars, obelisks. They look like standing stones from some ancient pagan sight. In the glare, people are moving. They are gathering around the fire. Behind you, the darkness is suddenly final. Night has come. You walk forward, toward the light.
You enter the circle, past pillars of fire-blackened brick. Walk around the roaring bonfire. An old man stands near the flames, holding up his hands as if to warm them. He is not tall, but straight and substantial, dressed in dark wool. Thick, curly gray hair clings close to his head. Beyond him, in an arc, a small crowd is settling in. Blankets are spread across the ground. The old man turns, speaks. "Hello, stranger. Sit down. We were just getting started. Come on, now. have a seat." And from the near end of the arc, young voices echo. "Come on, stranger. You can sit with us. You can share our blanket."
When you are seated, you look toward the blaze. The old man stands ready now. Ready for what? What have you gotten yourself into? Beside the man stands an easel and on it is a sign.
Soggytown.
The old man is speaking.
"Evening, folks. Good to see you all here. For those of you don't know me, I'm Pat Gordon. and I'm here to talk about 'Soggytown.' Any of you remember Soggytown? No? Well, aside from you two."
He addresses this last to the children beside you. They laugh and grin.
"Well, for the rest of you, a bit about Soggytown. But first, perhaps, a bit about me. Those two roads meet soon enough anyway.
"I'm Patrick Arthur Gordon. See, it says so on the sign. Tonight, I'm going to tell you a story. That's what I do, I guess. I'm a storyteller. Awhile back, say fort-fifty years ago, I wrote some books. In fact, I wrote a lot of books. They were mostly about children I knew and the crazy things they did. they were largely true, those books. I only changed a few things, when I figured the truth was a little too big to be believed as fiction. I didn't even change the names. those kids were something. . .
"Anyway, I wrote these stories for an outfit called Rover Books, and in them I called the town -- this town, those lights across the river -- called it 'Soggytown." It was a name the children used, because of the rain. They'd chant:
Soggytown, Soggytown --
That old rain keeps falling down.
River's rising, gonna drown
This old town, Soggytown.
"It's a silly rhyme. They don't sing it any more.
"But that's me and that's Soggytown. My story tonight's called 'Boys' Life,' though there's some girls in it too. And I guess it'll explain itself. You can decide how much to believe."
The old man clears his throat, picks up a sheaf of papers.
"I hope you don't mind me reading this. it's been a long time and, well, I just want it all to work right. It's been a long time. . ."
Again, he clears his throat and then it begins.