'The Hermit' by Salvatore DiFalco

 

The tortured landscape looked forsaken. Smoke billowing from a wood cabin by the black lake suggested habitation.

            “Why’s the water black down there?”

            “Why wouldn’t it be?”

            We trekked down to the cabin, comprised of rotting planks and old rubber tires. I knocked on the door — a rectangular slab of particleboard, splashed with white paint.

            After a moment someone fiddled with the door lock. It opened and a dead-ringer for Jusepe Ribera’s Saint Paul the Hermit stood there in a filthy brown tunic and rope sandals.

            “What d’you want?” he asked.

            “We can use fresh water, and any viands you can spare.”

            “D’you have horses?” he asked.

            “We don’t have horses.”

            “I don’t like horses. You can take water from the trough over there. But I can’t let you inside the house. The missus has a raging fever.”

            “Nice you don’t live out here alone,” you said.

            The old man squinted and tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

            “He meant nothing,” I said. “We’ll just get some water and leave. Thank you.”

            “Now just a second,” he said. “Do he mean I’m too old and ugly to have a wife? Or that maybe I had one and we’d been drinking all weekend and had us a fight and after she clobbered me upside the head with a frying pan I stabbed her in the neck with a steak knife and she bled out all over the kitchen floor and she’s been in there untouched for three or so weeks?”

            We retreated from the door.

            “Where you boys going?” the oldster cackled. “I changed my mind about y’all meeting the missus. Come on inside right quick. I’ll introduce you, hahaha.”

            We hastened away. These were uncertain times. We heard cackling long after we lost sight of the cabin.