Bicycle Man

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. A passing fox cocked his head, listening to the singing coming from the hovel. Accompanied by the tinny tune of a music box, a raspy voice sang a jaunty tune. Had the fox known his early twentieth century music hall songs, he would have recognized the lyrics from I Do Like To Be Beside the Seaside.

A rattling sound came from the cabin in an undulating rhythm. The candle flickered but hung on. The glossy pink Cruiser bike, leaning against the wall, trembled as the silver streamers sprouting from the handlebars sparkled in the thin light of a waxing moon. The timbers heaved as if they were made of billowing cloth, as the cracked windows strained into bubbles that squeaked as they reached breaking point yet never broke.

Still, the fox stayed and watched with interest, until a booming sound rang out into the night, startling the little fellow into a hasty retreat. As he sped away, rippling waves of amber light radiated from the cabin like swells in a tea-stained pond, briefly distorting the appearance of the cabin and its surroundings before evaporating into thin air.

In their wake, the light shining through the windows had become that of sunshine and blue skies. The singing had been replaced by the soothing sound of surf and seagulls, the shouting of children and the laughter of a woman.

But by then, the fox was long gone, and perhaps, wisely so.

Deon DuToit

The four boys loitered outside the shabby convenience store, exchanging barbed remarks as they leaned on the railing of the veranda, sucking on frozen lollies. Once a charming Victorian villa, necessity had transformed the front rooms of the lower floor into a shop, while the back rooms served as a feed store for local farmers. Now, while the spacious veranda still boasted rickety wicker chairs and a porch swing, it was crowded with baskets of produce, precariously stacked amongst sacks of fertilizer and charcoal.

The boys had little interest in anything other than what they could pinch, and how much they could aggravate old Mr. Asman, the proprietor. An easy target, he shuffled along, peering myopically when asked for something they felt sure he could not possibly procure while they filled their pockets elsewhere. They had been coming to Forever Summer Camping and Trailer Park all their lives, but they had conveniently forgotten the past kindnesses of Mr. Asman. As always, they fell in line with Randall’s lead, seeking to outdo each other in the many ways one might make an old man’s life miserable. Randall liked to think of them as his posse.

Their attention caught on a peculiar sight coming down the sandy road from the woods to the north of town. A middle-aged man of medium stature was pedaling a pink Cruiser down the middle of the road, silver streamers glittering in the sunlight. A floppy felt hat failed to contain the wild curls blowing into his sparkling grey eyes, while his face was hidden under a bushy beard, as steely gray and peppery as his hair.

Waving cheerfully at the postman, his plaid shirt parted to reveal a threadbare white tank top, stretched thinner by a budding beer belly. A pair of crumpled khakis ended just above his ankles, to reveal a pair of old suede shoes.

“What the hell is that?” Franklin, also known as Franklinstein, whooped and laughed uproariously.

Randall smiled coldly.

“Dinner,” he said, sending the boys into spasms of hilarity.

Behind them, Mr Asman tut-tutted and spoke softly, words dripping with the vestiges of a time gone by.

“That, boys, is Mr. Deon DuToit, a native of South Africa who has graced us with his presence this summer. Do treat him with the kindness that I know you have been taught to show strangers. Show him some Georgian hospitality, alright?”

“Mr. What, now?” asked Randall with a glint in his blue eyes. “Mr. DuTwit, you say?”

“DuToit,” said a gravelly voice behind them before Mr. Asman could answer. “My friends call me Manjolo.”

The boys turned in surprise. Their eyes had never left the man on the bicycle and yet, here he was. Even Randall seemed momentarily unnerved, while Mr. Asman simply looked up the street, shook his head uncertainly and headed back into his shop.

Randall quickly regained his swagger.

“Well, we ain’t friends, Manjelly,” he deliberately mispronounced the name. “I’m gonna call you…Bicycle Man. Nice girly bike you got there, Bicycle Man.”

His posse sniggered, eyeing the older man for a reaction.

DuToit took his time, holding Randall’s gaze with an unflinching stare. He seemed to smile, though the scruffy beard made it hard to tell. Sniffing the air like a dog catching a scent, an odd expression passed over his face, as if struck by grief or rage or a combination of both. His eyes never left Randall’s face, and it came and went so quickly it would’ve been easy to think it was only imagined.

Randall had time to think that Bicycle Man reminded him of that actor his mom adored, Mel whatsit, but that hardly impressed Randall. Last summer, he'd won the Tom Cruise Look-Alike Contest, after which he took to referring to himself as Maverick, though his posse were named only what he allowed. Dufus. Dogbreath. Franklinstein. He had all but forgotten till now.

“Call me Maverick.” Randall adopted his best steely-eyed Tom Cruise pose.

DuToit shrugged.

“Suit yourself, Maverick,” he said in his strange flat and guttural accent, brushing by the boys with a wave. When he walked, he held his head out in front of him in an aggressive stance belying his cheerful demeanor, stubby legs pumping him along in purposeful strides, as if they were constantly trying to keep up with the momentum of his protruding belly pulling him along.

Randall felt strangely belittled by the man’s disinterest, all his teenybopper hormones boiling, clamoring for retaliation.

“I do wish you would stop loitering, you’re making people uncomfortable.” Mr. Asman sighed as he shuffled along, stooping to fill a sack with potatoes.

Randall scowled at the old man.

“You sayin’ we is less important than them, Mr. Assman?” Randall played on the first few letters of the name. “Ain’t our money as good as anybody’s ‘round here?”

Mr. Asman straightened up slowly, the sack of potatoes balanced in his hand. Looking Randall straight in the eye, he sighed and shook his head slowly.

“That’s a damn fool question and you know it, son.”

Randall smirked at his posse, then pushed the bag out of the grocer’s hand as he turned to walk away. The potatoes tumbled and spilled all over the veranda. Mr. Asman stared teary-eyed at the laughing boys as they headed for the steps, leaving him to clean up.

To their consternation, DuToit blocked their way, peering at them from under the greasy rim of his hat, a strip of leopard fur wrapped around the crown.

“Now then, boys,” he said, “would I be correct in thinking this is not what one would call proper Georgian hospitality?”

Randall made to push past him but DuToit held up a finger, wagging it in his face, clicking with his tongue. Randall fell back a step, glowering at the man in surprise.

“What the hell? Don’t touch me, Bicycle Man, or I’m calling the cops. I’m a minor!”

“Uhmm, Randall?” Randall turned to glare at Dogbreath, daring him to speak. Dogbreath gulped, but some small part of him still fought for a sense of decency. He opened his mouth and dared.

“He never touched you, Randall.”

“It’s Maverick. I’ll be the judge of that, don’t you think?”

Dogbreath gave up the fight, his face clearly expressing a wish to be anywhere but here.

“Randall, hey?” DuToit smiled with surprisingly white teeth. The smile never warmed his eyes. “No wonder you’d rather be called Maverick. Well, Randall, you apologize to Mr. Asman here, and help him pick up my potatoes. Chop, chop, son, we haven’t got all day.”

To his posse’s amazement, Randall did just that, his movements strangely awkward, his face red and sweating as he handed the potatoes over to Mr. Asman, one by one. Mr. Asman stared with gaping mouth, holding on to the sack for dear life.

As Randall placed the last potato in the sack, he stood before Mr. Asman, his jaw working and his eyes blinking rapidly, tears rolling down his face.

“Boy,” said DuToit behind him, speaking close to his ear. “Cat got your tongue?”

DuToit snapped his fingers. The boy’s mouth opened with difficulty.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Asman.” Randall’s voice squeaked as he struggled as mightily to hold the words back as to get them out.

“Now run along home. Out of my sight, boy!”

DuToit made a chopping motion with his hand. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Randall slumped, barely managing to stay on his feet, clinging to the railing. Turning on rubbery feet, he glared at DuToit, whispering through clenched teeth.

“You’ll regret the day you ever met me, Manjolo.” He flung the name at the man, as if by finally speaking it he had also thrown the offer of friendship back in his face.

DuToit gazed at him coolly, but sadness crept into his eyes as he spoke softly, so softly only Randall heard him.

“Oh, but I have regretted that for many years already, my boy.”

The Cabin In the Woods

“Come on, Randall, don’t do this.” Dogbreath whined, but Randall wasn’t having it. He leaned into Dogbreath’s freckled face before spitting on the ground at his feet.

“It’s Maverick, you idiot. Shut the hell up and move. Bicycle Man messed with me. He’s gonna learn you don’t wanna do that. Or maybe you do, Dogbreath?”

Dogbreath shook his head demurely.

“Good, now git!”

Randall slapped him across the head. Dogbreath took it without protest as Randall smiled in smug satisfaction. He’d been bossing this posse around forever, and every year he just got better at it. It was almost like they waited for him to take charge, to intimidate them. Sometimes he wondered who enjoyed it more, him or them. But right now wasn’t the time to wonder. He needed to find Bicycle Man’s place so he could make a plan that would set things right. Because what happened yesterday wasn’t right, and he would not let that mangy dog sleep in peace.

Randall still wasn’t sure what had, in fact, happened. One minute he was fully in charge. The next, he had felt inexplicably compelled to do and say whatever that bastard told him to. No matter how he fought it, he could not help himself. He had to pick up every damn potato as if his life depended on it.

Randall never apologized to anyone but his dad, but yesterday, as he fought to keep his mouth shut, it felt as if all his innards would force themselves up his throat and out through his lips unless he uttered an apology.

Afterwards, he felt sick in every cell of his body. He barely remembered the walk back to camp, or falling into bed as he fell backwards into a dark abyss of troubled sleep, a darkness that felt alive with monsters and shadows. His parents said nothing, just frowned and checked his forehead.

Randall had no recollection of his dreams, except one. A vibrant dream of white beaches and blue waters, a pretty woman with a baby in her arms that she swung around, laughing with joy. In the dream he had been fascinated by the spectacle, by the sensation of hate, the burning desire to wipe that happy smile from her face. To silence the baby’s giggles.

The dream changed and faded. The woman and child fell silent, staring at him with accusatory eyes as they blew up into balloon-like versions of themselves that drifted away on a cold wind. Paralyzed with fear, he woke to his own whimpers, tangled up in the sheets.

Randall kept an eye on his surroundings. He wanted to be sure he saw Bicycle Man before Bicycle Man saw Randall. The creep had a funny way of turning up where you least expected him to, and as for his parting remark, the man was off his rocker. How he could have been regretting meeting Randall for years when they’d only just met? Bicycle Man would pay for what he'd done to him.

The bicycle tracks were easy to follow and Randall hummed as he jogged along, feeling the thrill of the hunt like a hound dog, hot on the scent of its quarry. Stopping suddenly, he blew a low whistle of excitement.

“Here it is,” he whispered, waving his posse back. “If you hear him coming, whistle.”

The cabin reeked, stinking of rot and years of neglect. Neither the man nor his bike were anywhere to be seen. Hopping onto the porch and letting himself in through the dilapidated door, Randall felt disappointment setting in. The man must travel with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back. There were no personal belongings in sight. In the bedroom, a tattered cotton shawl lay bundled on a sagging mattress. Randall pulled a face, then stooped to look under the rickety bed.

His face brightened as he pulled out a worn leather satchel. Spilling the contents just as a piercing whistle rang out, he stared at a collection of animal teeth, bones, rocks, feathers and a rolled up piece of leather. Another whistle got his attention. Stuffing everything into the satchel, he winced as his fingers hit a sharp edge, then closed on a small box.

Without a glance, Randall stuffed it in his pocket, shoved the satchel under the bed and high-tailed it out of there. Whatever it was, it would have to do.

It’s All Fun and Games…

“Oh man, you did it, dude!”

Dufus high-fived Randall as he turned the wooden box in his hands. The cover boasted a delicate drawing of a small child playing an instrument while singing with a bird.

“What is it?” Dogbreath leaned in to look in the light from the campfire.

Randall shrugged him away. Opening the box, he blinked as the tinkling sounds of the music box rang out into the quiet night. He had held off looking until they were in their safe place. The boys had found the cave years ago while exploring, and Randall had made them all swear a blood oath to never tell a living soul.

They were bigger now and the cave seemed smaller. They'd spent much of last summer clearing away the brush out front, dragging in old furniture abandoned by other campers. It was where they first experimented with beer and cigarettes, looked at girly magazines, and made elaborate plans for world domination that went nowhere.

“Yeah, what is it?” Franklinstein slouched in a lawn chair, peering over the flames.

Randall stuffed it back in his pocket.

“Junk.”

He fumed as the boys sank into silence. When Randall was in a mood, it was better to keep your head down and your mouth shut. The fire crackled as they stared into the flames, listening to the occasional call of a night jar, the chirping of crickets.

“Why so gloomy, boys?”

The boys spun around to see DuToit leaning on his bike at the edge of the clearing, his leather satchel draped over his shoulder. Randall’s face drained of color as he swallowed hard, two red spots appearing high on his cheeks, but he kept his cool, his eyes narrow and calculating.

“What do you want, Manjolo?”

“Why thank you, Maverick, don’t mind if I do.”

DuToit wandered over, sitting down cross-legged between the boys. Randall’s eyes never left the scruffy man as he made himself comfortable, looking around amicably as he rubbed his hands together.

“I said, what do you want, Manjolo?”

“Ah! Is that what you said. Well, I’d like many things, but right now I’d just like back what you took from me.”

DuToit peered at Randall, his eyes bright in the light from the fire.

“What’s with the girly bike, Manjolo?” Randall smirked, ignoring the insinuation altogether.

DuToit smiled as if amused by the ploy. He shrugged.

“I like it, Maverick. I think my daughter would have liked it.”

Something about the way he said it, the way he looked intently at Randall as if he expected him to share in this familial knowledge, sent a shudder down Randall’s spine. He didn’t like where this was going, so he changed the subject again.

“Manjolo, what kind of a stupid name is that?”

DuToit tut-tutted and wagged a finger at Randall. Despite himself, Randall flinched. DuToit chuckled.

“It’s an African name, stupid.” DuToit was mocking him, but Randall refused to rise to the bait, and DuToit indulged him, as if enjoying the game and leading Randall into it, like a danse macabre only he knew the steps to. “Means determination and strength. Those who knew me then, knew I needed it.”

Randall blinked. The man spoke in riddles, how was he supposed to know what the freak was talking about?

“Knew you when?”

DuToit didn’t answer, just gazed at him in silence. Then he shook his head, got up and ambled back to his bike. The boys let out a sigh of relief, waiting for him to leave.

Their relief was short lived. DuToit returned with a bicycle pump and the front wheel. Plopping back down, he proceeded to let the air out of the tire, massaging it gently. Listening to the rhythmical hiss of the air leaving the tire, Randall tried to read into the man’s intentions, the better to counter them. He had a sinking feeling that he was engaged in a fight he had foolishly picked himself, not realizing his enemy was way out of his league. For the first time in thirteen years, Randall wondered if he might have made a serious mistake.

The boys whispered among themselves. Randall ignored them, fighting the rising dread, feeling as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs as his heart pounded in his chest. Something was wrong. He had no words to explain it, and they wouldn't understand anyway. They had not experienced what he had yesterday. The helplessness, the terrifying loss of control.

Fitting the pump to the valve, DuToit smiled at him pleasantly.

“No, boy, that’s not what we’re doing. Tonight, we’re going to get down to the nitty-gritty and finish this, once and for all.”

Randall stared at him in confusion. The man seemed to read his mind, yet for all his talking, he gave nothing away. He waited in silence, his whole world a tunnel that led straight to DuToit’s grey eyes, burning a hole in his soul.

“So, boy, what’s your name?” DuToit suddenly turned on the boy closest to him, as if they were all just having a friendly fireside chat.

“Du-dufus,” stammered the kid.

DuToit shook his head and said gently: “Your real name, son. Not what this dorp idioot calls you.”

“This what?”

DuToit thought for a moment then snapped his fingers. “Village idiot. Sorry, sometimes the Boer in me speaks louder than the Brit, hey?”

Dufus just stared. DuToit sighed.

“That’s what I am, boy, that’s what they call us Dutchmen in South Africa. Boers. My father was a Boer, my mother a Brit. Right, history lesson over.”

Absentmindedly, DuToit pulled out the handle of the pump and pushed it back in with a practiced move. Randall made a funny whimpering sound but didn’t budge.

Dufus nodded. “Donald.”

“What?”

“My name is Donald.”

DuToit shook his hand, then repeated the process with the other boys as Randall continued to eye him nervously, sweat beginning to dampen his Green Day t-shirt.

“Right, Donald, Chad and Franklin, listen close.” DuToit waved them in as he spoke, his tone soft and conspiratorial.

“I have no beef with you. I just want what’s mine. Any of you have it?”

They all shook their head, beacons of innocence. DuToit scratched his beard, eyeing them with suspicion.

“You’ve all heard the expression it’s all fun and games until…yes?”

They all nodded.

“Until what?” asked Franklin.

DuToit pursed his lips. “We shall see. But if I tell you to run…RUN!”

He yelled the last word as the boys startled like nervous deer. DuToit laughed, bumping his forefinger against his nose and then at them with a wink. Uneasy, the boys settled back in their chairs, looking to Randall for guidance.

But Randall only had eyes for DuToit.

“I think you should leave now, Manjolo.”

Randall spoke quietly, but his eyes blazed with fear and foreboding. The vein in his forehead stood out swollen and thumping, sweat beading and running down his face and neck. DuToit scoffed, but didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his attention back to the wheel.

“Right, I got a good whiff of teen spirit about the cabin, so let’s make this easy. Tell me who has it, give it back and we can have a nice, early night, hey?” DuToit’s face was open and friendly. Imploring, even.

Randall didn’t buy it, glaring at the boys, daring them to speak. They shook their heads, looking at the ground. DuToit nodded sadly, then gave the pump a good shove, followed by a few dozen more. With every slide and hiss of the pump, Randall jerked as if punched in the gut, but made no sound. DuToit looked at his pinched face, shrugging as if to say suit yourself as he kept up the steady pumping.

It was Donald who first realized the futility of DuToit’s efforts.

“Manjolo, your pump’s not working, man.”

“Isn’t it?” DuToit smiled softly, eyes on Randall.

Chad gasped. “Randall, what the hell?”

All eyes turned to Randall and his bulging belly, becoming bigger with every stroke of the pump, as if he was beset by a sudden, miraculous pregnancy that was in a hurry to unfold. Spreading his hands over his stomach, Randall looked down and whimpered as if it was only now, seeing himself through their eyes, that he really understood that this was indeed happening to him.

DuToit paused.

“So, Maverick, anything to tell me?”

A hint of defiance lingered in Randall’s eyes as he stared at DuToit.

“Suit yourself, Maverick.”

As pure terror filled Randall’s face, DuToit fiddled with the pump, only to give it several swift but powerful thrusts that blew Randall’s belly up to the size of a basketball. Blood began to seep through his shirt as Randall screamed and writhed in pain. The boys sat frozen in horror, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.

Holding one hand up to stop DuToit, Randall panted as he dug into his pocket and held out the box. DuToit clapped his hands together and beamed at Randall.

“Now see? Was that so hard?”

Taking the box, DuToit continued speaking as if Randall was not sitting across from him clutching his splitting belly, pleading for relief.

“It was my wife’s. We picked it up on a trip to Brighton Beach in 1912. It was a beautiful day, like you’ve never seen. She and little Sarah had such fun on the beach, just giggling the day away...”

DuToit smiled, relishing the memory.

“Please,” panted Randall, pointing a shaking hand at his belly. “Please.”

DuToit snapped back to the present.

“You are in pain, yes?”

Randall nodded.

“Yeah, that will leave a mark. Call them stretch marks. Women do.”

DuToit opened the valve on the wheel to let the air out but nothing happened.

“Oh right, that won’t work. You know, Maverick, the thing is, when they taught me this trick, they didn’t tell me how to let the air back out. I never thought to ask, silly me.”

“Who’s they?” Donald whispered.

“Aren’t you the curious one?”

Donald nodded, pale but mesmerized by the spectacle.

“It was the sangomas, the witchdoctors.”

DuToit turned to Randall.

“You still don’t remember, then?”

Randall’s eyes flared with desperation.

“Remember what?” he screamed, then hunched over his bloated belly, weeping hysterically.

DuToit was unmoved, simply waited for him to quiet down. When Randall finally gathered himself enough to look at him, DuToit spoke softly.

“Did she say please and beg for mercy? Did you drown her first, or did you start with our little Sarah?”

Randall and the boys stared at him in bewilderment.

“Wh-what?”

“Do you even know why you did it?”

Randall stared into the cool grey eyes, so certain in their knowing.

“I told you I’d never forget. I told you I’d hunt you down in this life or the next, and you laughed in my face. Who’s laughing now, hey?”

DuToit turned back to Donald.

“See, afterwards, I went back home, to Africa. I was lost for such a long, long time, Donald. But the sangomas found me. They saved me, they taught me. They showed me how to beat death. How to smell souls. The rotten ones, like our Maverick here, oof, but they smell bad with all the dark deeds in their hearts. Even so, I can still catch the beautiful scent of my girls in there.”

DuToit stared at Randall, his eyes dark and flat now. Leaning in, he sniffed the air.

“You stink, Maverick, you stink of death and rot. Death, rot and all the beautiful souls you have defiled. Well, no more, Maverick. You got another life, but where are they, hey?”

Randall whimpered, staring at DuToit without comprehension, pleading for mercy.

“Please, please, I didn’t do this. Mercy, for the love of God, mercy!”

But even as he pleaded his innocence, Randall remembered a dream from long ago. He remembered their faces clear as day, happy and bright before he filled them with fear and suffering. Before snuffing them out.

“Mercy? When have you ever shown anyone mercy? In this life or the last one?”

DuToit looked around at the horror-struck faces.

“Has he ever shown any of you this mercy he speaks of?”

The boys shook their head, looking anywhere but at Randall as he slumped sideways, landing on the ground in a blubbering heap.

DuToit opened his satchel and pulled out the leather roll, a handful of large incisors and a small gourd, decorated with blackened etchings.

“Lions.”

DuToit said it solemnly as he placed the teeth in a small circle on the flattened leather patch. Emptying the satchel, feathers and bones were placed in the middle of the circle and a rounded stone atop them.

“Crowned Eagle.”

DuToit smirked.

“Stone.”

Satisfied, he took up the gourd and sang in a strange language with closed eyes, shaking the gourd at timed intervals. It rattled like a rattlesnake in his hand, and to the boys it felt like time stood still. All they could take in was the man and his rattle, weaving an ominous song of murder and unholy grief, the thirst for revenge and closure. His every emotion poured out of him and into them, and for a split second they, too, had lost their woman and child to a homicidal maniac.

They, too, wanted bloody revenge.

The song faded to a humming that came from DuToit and all around. DuToit’s eyes opened. As he looked at Randall, quivering on the ground, it seemed to Randall that DuToit looked at him from a far-away place, far above him. When DuToit spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion, silky soft.

“I am no murderer, boy, I would not want the stench of your soul on mine. You will have a chance, however small. We shall roll the dice. Perhaps vengeance will be mine, for me to take to my maker and offer him for my penance. Or perhaps…your posse will save you.”

DuToit turned to Donald.

“Remember what I said? It’s all fun and games?”

Donald nodded, eyes huge, brimming with tears. DuToit smiled, almost lovingly, whispering to no one in particular.

“Until someone lets the lions out.”

DuToit smashed the gourd on the ground, red seeds spilling everywhere. Ripples of liquid light exploded from the gourd as a ring of fire tore a hole in the night, scenes from an African savannah shifting rapidly through the hole as if it were a Kaleidoscope blowing bubbles in the hands of an impatient child. When it finally stopped, they stared at a peaceful scene of grass, trees and zebra.

DuToit turned to Donald, speaking as calmly as if asking him to pass the peas.

“Donald? Run.”

As he uttered the last word, a scrawny lion appeared in the opening, his tail whipping the grass flat. Slinking through the hole, immediately followed by another, he paused, sniffing the night air.

Randall crawled clumsily away from them, screaming for DuToit, but DuToit stood by his bicycle, wheel pumped and attached, with his back to the scene. Slowly, he got on and pedaled into the night.

Randall screamed as the first lion began to lick at his stomach, beating it’s head with his fists, kicking at the second lion as it grabbed his ankle, begging for his posse to help him.

But by then, his posse was long gone.