Demon Box

The sight of the little bottle had produced a twisted silence on the bus. The wind-stirred brushing on the metal roof stopped. Everybody watched as M’kehla drew from his hair a long ivory knife with a very thin curved blade. He dipped the point into the bottle and put a tiny heap of white powder on the bowlful of green mint, three times.

“Observe,” he said, and raised the pipe to his lips.

With the lighter boring a long blue flame into the stone bowl, M’kehla drew one deep breath and held it, eyes almost closed. Within seconds we all saw his eyes snap wide, then narrow, glittering afresh with that dark, sharp humor. He breathed out an inviting sigh and lifted the pipe toward my cousin. Davy dropped his eyes and shook his head.

“Not this father,” he muttered.

“I guess I might try one blade tip,” I ventured, feeling like somebody should defend the family honor. “For the sake of science.”

We all watched as M’kehla repacked the pipe. He swayed as he worked, singing in a sweet, incomprehensible whisper. His hands danced and mimed. When he picked up the tiny vial a dusty sunbeam streamed through the window and illuminated the green glass. The hair on my arms stood up. I cleared my throat and looked at my brother.

“You want to join me, try some of this superstuff?”

“I never even tried it in my car. I’ll get the dry ice ready for the brand. Come on, Percy. Learn something.”

Buddy stood up and started for the door, pushing Percy ahead of him. I looked at Dobbs. He stood up too. “I guess I gots to finish the sound, boss.”

Rampage was supposed to be picking up the keg at Lucky’s and Bucko had to take a leak. One by one they ambled to the front and out the door, leaving only M’kehla and me.

And the pipe. I finished my beer and set the bottle back under my stool. “Well, as you say… let us so embark.”

M’kehla hands me the pipe and fires it up with his little blue flame. Green smoke wriggles out of the stone hole. The mint mild in my throat… cool, mentholated, throat raw smoke Kools throat raw smoke Koo—

Everything stops. The green wriggle, the dust motes in the sunbeam. Only M’kehla is moving. He glides into my vision, his eyes merry. He asks how it goes. I tell him it goes. He tells me ride loose sing with it never let it spook you. Riding loose here. Good, and don’t move until you feel compelled. Not moving, boss. Good, and what is the terrain this time? The terrain, boss? Yeh, Home, the terrain—What does it look like this time? It looks, this time it looks, it looks to me like you’re right it looks like the future!

M’kehla smiled and nodded. I shot to my feet.

“Let’s go get them cows!” I yelled.

“Yaa-hoo!” M’kehla whooped.

We stepped out into the Fourth of July noon just as Dobbs cued up James Brown and the Famous Flames blaring “Out of the Blue” over the airwaves, and the breezes blew, and the leaves danced, and the white pigeons bloomed above us like electric lilies.

I was a new man, for a new season.

In the pasture we moved with the smooth certainty of a well-trained army, M’kehla commanding the right flank, me the left, Betsy at the rear calling out calm instructions, and the fleet-footed kids filling in the gaps. The herd would try to escape to the right and M’kehla’s force would advance. They would try to plunge left and I would press my platoon forward. We corraled the whole herd without one renegade breaking through our lines.

The branding was even more efficient. The kids would cut out a little maverick and haze him into a corner of the corral and M’kehla and I would rush in and throw him on his side and hold him. While Buddy stirred the big metal brand in a tub of dry ice and methyl alcohol, Betsy would shave the animal’s side with the sheep shears. Then everyone would hold everything while Buddy stuck the icy iron against the shaved spot for the required sixty seconds. If the spot was shaved close enough, and the brand was cold enough, and the animal held still long enough, the hair would grow back out in the shape of the brand—snow white. Nothing moved, yelled, or bellered during this holy minute. Just Buddy’s counting and the calf s heavy breathing. Even the mother in the adjoining corral would hold her worried lowing.

Then Buddy would say “—sixty!” and we’d turn loose with a cheer. The branded dogie would scramble to his feet and scamper away through the escape chute, and the army would be advancing on the next wild recruit.