Glastenbury

I hate Glastenbury Mountain.

I hate the people of Glastenbury. I hate Vermont.

I hate my loose tongue, and I hate the force that has loosened it. My name was Henry McDowell, and I am a victim of unfortunate circumstance.

It’s been that way all my lives—William Conroy, the young ambitious petty thief, was also a victim of unfortunate circumstance. As was Will Lang, the mobster who stuck his hands in a few too many bad schemes. Will Riley, too, poor soul, found neither solace nor strength in the service—only terror. Compelled to flee, he too was a victim.

Yes, my fortune has always been black. But until ten months ago, I knew how to handle it. This… is beyond my control, and I am afraid of what I might do next. And I am afraid of what might be done to me if I stop running.

Listen: a man with a difficult past seeks refuge in the Green Mountains, where he may work and earn his due like any other respectable American. A fighting man, a man who wouldn't take flack from a soul. Not a particularly handsome fella, but a strong one, and at heart, a good one. He’s a man who’s had more than his fair share of human strife, and all he wants now is rest and food on his table.

In his search for work, he is drawn to a little town in the North, where there ain’t more than thirty families at a given time—Glastenbury—despite the warnings of locales from other settlements and villages. “Go to Woodford,” they say, “hell, even go to Bennington. Just don't go to Glastenbury. ‘Bout thirty years ago,” they say, “people started seein’ the Wild Man up there.” But this is a man without fear, and he knows he needs a place without commotion or bustle. He needs Glastenbury, where the mountains outnumber the roads. He needs peace. But when he arrives in Glastenbury, he’s told he’s better off continuing south, maybe into Somerset.

“The reds don’t like this place,” one old man tells him in the dirt street (if a trail may be called a street). “Used to bury their dead here, they did. All it’s good for, ‘sfar as they concerned. Say the winds are foul up on the mountain.”

“Reds don’t know shit but corn,” he says, and he seeks out the Eagle Square sawmill, which employs a small number of hard-working, level-headed men who won’t jump at their own shadows. He sets to work immediately, and he keeps his nose down. The work is good. He works long hours and he keeps his nose down, ‘cept for when he’s spoken to. And when he’s spoken to, he still keeps his nose down, and he keeps his tone low.

He works for a few weeks. He builds his own little place in the woods, along the same road as some of the other jobbers, and he makes friends with some of them. German Harrington is a funny fella, a little older than him, and he’s got a wonky lip that sort of hangs down on the left—but he tells a damn fine story. Another is John Crowley, who ain’t yet forty but has the audacity of a wolf pup. He enjoys both their companies though, and he happily slides into their way of life. He folds up the old uniforms and hides them under the floorboards. He’s ready to begin anew, but he won’t forget what’s come before.

Time passes. He settles. He works, and during lunches he travels down the mountain road from the mill and takes drinks with German and John. And at night they drink German’s ‘shine and sit on the porch and fire at the coyotes in the trees. “Y’always know they there,” German says one night. “Y’can always feel em watching.”

In the mornings he stumbles awake and it’s off to work again. Slowly he finds peace in that simple life. No captains, no commanders, no shells, no bullets…no death. Just a foreman and lots of wood and trees. For once, he thinks he might belong in a place.

A month or two in, he’s driving trunks through the saw and having a yack with John. The saw goes haywire when it catches a knot in the wood. The wood goes flying through the air and disappears among the tree-line. It is early April—the third of April—and the ground is still muddy from the melted snows. “Better grab that,” John tells him. “Foreman don’t like wasted wood.”

“It don’t matter.”

“Big piece, Hank. You should get it.”

“‘Tweren’t my fault though.”

“‘Tweren’t mine, you were the one watching it.”

He goes across the clearing away from the roaring saw and clusters of men and clouds of dust. Among the trees he searches, but it’s as if the board has vanished. He continues into the darkening woods and suddenly trips over a large rock. He curses and rises and sees the rock has caught the sun in a funny way. Muddied, he bends and picks it up in a gloved hand. It is heavy, like a brick. And though it is black—blacker than lead—it seems almost to glimmer, seems to vibrate in his hands with a life of its own. He turns, thinking he’s heard voices in the trees. But he is alone. He hides the rock under a bush, and when work is done that night, he returns and retrieves it. He does not drink with German and John that night. He sits in his cabin and examines the rock.

It is a perfect sphere. In the dull fireplace light it glimmers just as brightly. Still he hears the voices, wrapping almost incomprehensibly around each other, and he only catches snippets,

(hello can you hear me i am)

(doesn’t realize what i could do to him)

(we want to help you)

(deserve more than this)

but alone, he can really listen to them all night, decipher their tales, their desires, and at dawn he falls asleep with them.

When he awakens the next day, he is neither rested and nor on time for work. The foreman gives him flack but he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear anyone, ‘cause the rock is still talking. By now he’s certain it’s alive, and it is all he can consider. He develops a certain affection for the rock.

That day, John tells him to come have a drink at German’s.

“Sure,” he says, and goes, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to go home and listen to the rock. John keeps trying to make conversation, but he’s too distracted: the rock is too loud. His temper is short from lack of sleep, and when John asks him where he was born, he is barely listening. He says: “Glastenbury.”

“Ain’t true,” John says. “You just got here.” He ignores him. They have a few drinks at German’s, then return to the road to the mill. The rock weighs heavy in the pocket of his overalls.

Again John asks, “Hank, where you come from?”

Without a thought he says, “I was a sailor, but I deserted.” He freezes in his tracks, eyes widening. Ahead, John also stops and slowly turns. He stares at Hank long and hard, then says:

“You were not.”

He realizes what he has said. He realizes who he has said it to. “I am so,” he croaks. The voices rise in his ears, and they chorus the same line over and over: He can’t know. No one can know. He’s unsure if it’s the rock or his conscience, or both. But he’s certain this will not die. John is still staring, processing. He says:

“Is Henry McDowell really your name?”

Hank is silent.

John says, “Always seemed like you mighta been lyin’. Figured you were just queer. I’ll be damned.”

Dark clouds fill Hank at this sudden infringement of his secret. He sees before him his life, a glimmering and shiny new thing, tearing at the seams from John’s suspicion. This cannot be allowed, a voice whispers in his head, amid a sea of whispers. Uncertain of the speaker, he knows only that it is not himself. It doesn’t matter. The danger is real, and Hank is blinded by ancient rage, a rage he’s never known, and his hand is lifting the rock from his pocket and hurling it. The rock strikes John’s head, which seems to bounce off it. He falls, body limp. Hank is there to retrieve the rock, which he lifts again and bashes into John’s skull. Blood sprays his front. John lies motionless in the dirt. Horrified, but only coldly, numbly, Hank’s mind is unrepentant. The voices chorus in a chaotic assembly,

(he provoked you)

(you had no choice)

(you know this is right)

and regret only comes much later. Gazing upon the body, it is not the bloodied image that terrifies him. It is that a force separate from himself has inhibited and compelled him.

He tays the night. He hides in the lonesome woods, afraid of his new home. He is urged—forcefully urged—to seek out others, to show them his power, to show them what he can do. He feels black. He feels tainted by something unholy. Finally, he flees undercover of darkness, aimless, knowing only that no other should ever come in contact with the rock.

I understand now what happened that day. I know the rock is alive, just as I knew I had no choice but to run—but why did I take it with me? Do I fear another finding it? Or did it compel me to bring it? I do not think so, for as I departed the mountain, a powerful force tried pushing me back. Perhaps it was my guilt. Perhaps not. These days when it speaks to me, it shows me things. They confused me at first— random folks, all on the mountain but separated by time: a girl in a red coat, a little boy with sandy hair, a hunter lost in the woods—but now I think I understand. The rock knows who it will claim, and it knows when it will claim them. Don’t matter if it ain’t happened yet. The rock, you see, is full of people, full of those it’s already taken. And I think the only reason it hasn’t swallowed me is that I haven’t removed my gloves in ten months. My hands must be so red.

I’ve reached Connecticut, but the voices haven’t stopped. They keep me shiftless. For a while I was afraid I’d never settle, but the rock has shown me so much that I fear nothing. Don’t matter if I’m Henry McDowell or Will Conroy or Will Lang or Will Riley. All those men are dead, just like John Crowley, and I am what’s left. I know what the rock can do. I know what I must do. I will go to the police and confess. I will tell them my names and I will tell them of the voices, but not the rock. And when they find me insane they’ll commit me. They’ll leave me to my fractured peace, where I will dwell on the terrible things I have done. In a moment when the clouds pass over the sun and all eyes are averted, I will slink into the darkest shadow with my rock, and I will be gone. But I must keep it with me, so that it cannot return to Glastenbury. So that it cannot take anymore lives as it has compelled me to do. Despite my resolve, though, I wonder: what will happen to it when it swallows me? Will some other poor soul stumble upon it one day? Or, satiated, will it finally sleep…at least for a while—?