Frank’s Sporadic Blog, With Fries

I felt as safe as I could possibly feel, going outside to meet the likes of Encorla Hisvin.

Darla, Marlo and I waited until what Marlo called hard dark before we moved the oven aside and descended into the dark. That’s when the only variation to my clever plan emerged, in the form of Mama and her infamous oversized meat-cleaver.

“Boy! You down there?”

I cringed. We’d not even reached the bottom of the stairs, and there was Mama’s shaggy head blocking out the light up above.

Darla clutched at my arm. “I swear I didn’t arrange this.”

Mama came stomp-stomping down the stairs. The freshly honed edge of her cleaver gleamed in Marlo’s torchlight.

“Don’t you even think on sending me off to baby-sit no banshees,” she gruffed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t suppose I could impose on you to keep your voice down to a mere shout?”

“I’m as quiet as a mouse, and you knows it. You better wipe that fool grin off your ugly mug or I’ll wipe off for ye, Farmer Brown. I ain’t to be trifled with.”

The last was delivered to Marlo, who wisely turned away so that the torch no longer lit his face.

“Hush,” I said. “Voices carry, Mama. I know better than to argue with you, and you know better than to get in my way. You speak when you’re spoken to, and you follow my lead, whatever that is. Got it?”

She just nodded. It was the best I could hope for. Whether she’d actually do anything I asked was anybody’s guess.

Evis came ghosting back out of the shadows ahead.

“All clear,” he whispered.

We set out. Darla kept her hand in mine, and I kept my free hand on Toadsticker’s hilt.
We hadn’t gone far when Marlo halted and began to carefully pick up and move the various cast-off treasures that made their home down in the dark with the crickets and the ghosts. Now I knew why I’d missed the cornfield tunnel my first time here—the entrance was covered with junk.

We all joined in, moving slowly and carefully. There might be soldiers hiding ten feet up, through the roots and grubs and soil. The last thing anyone wanted to do was bring a mob with shovels and picks down on our heads.

We cleared the entrance to the new tunnel in minutes. Marlo’s torch illuminated a much smaller, narrower passage, lined with bricks obviously older than the ones used elsewhere.

Marlo pointed, and aside from Mama we ducked and pressed on.

I picked half a dozen crickets out of Darla’s fine black hair. They never fell into anyone else’s. Darla never made a sound, though the things were fat and cold and wet in my hands.

I tried to picture our location, imagining that we walked up on the lawn. The tunnel ran more or less straight, which meant it took us under a couple of outbuildings. In three places, huge old blood-oak roots broke through the bricks, and by remembering the trees I was able to sense we were very close to the end of the tunnel.

I was right. Iron stairs, like the others, shone from Marlo’s torch.

We all moved to the foot of them and stood looking up.

These stairs were practically new. There was rust, here and there, but only in small patches, and they’d been sanded and painted recently.

The same system of chains and weights and pulleys was in place. But again, these lacked rust, and much to my delight they were liberally coated in a thick, fresh application of grease.

Marlo blushed.

And I knew.

This was how he managed to spend the night with the Lady without raising eyebrows at such a mismatched pairing. He could sneak in and sneak out of the House proper, at least while the corn was up. And I imagine he and his ladylove had a way to accomplish the same even in the cornless dead of winter.

Love will find a way, as they say. Often it’s a way that doesn’t speak well of the intelligence or maturity of the lovers in question, but it finds a way nonetheless.