The Bacco Stick Read online

that ny-lon mop so's to keep down the dust.” He pushed the basket toward Plebo. “Now take one of these nuts, and get yourself comfortable, because Mishka gonna learn you a story, of how’s I gots to be known as `Lucky Mishka'".

  Plebo sat back and cracked the nut between his teeth, looking up in awe at the giant figure looming above him. He already knew of Mishka's talent for telling a useful, if not always provable, story. He curled his legs under his body, nibbled the delicious nutmeat, and watched Mishka closely.

  Mishka crushed a nut in his hands and popped the pieces in his mouth. He settled on a corner of the mattress and faced the boy. "See, I was out to the Oil River one day," he began. "Over by that big metal skeleton, the one the folk's say was used to be called `fack tree'. And I was finding chestnuts, like you know I be real good at. And I turned away, for only one second mind you! Cause that's how careful you gotta be, what with all them kill-for-nothins running loose, you know."

  Mishka grinned at the sudden wide-eyed fear spreading across Plebo`s face, even when he knew for certain that there wasn't a single one of the dreaded hunters within sight or hearing, on that early summer morning almost two years ago.

  "Anyhow`s, I turns right back, and it was gone! Somebody had stole my whole pack of choice nuts! Well, I jumped right up and trained my sharp eyes on the countryside, and there he were! One of them sneakin' sombitch weasels was zig zagging off, like he was ducking hummer-sticks, with my own bag of chestnuts danglin from his terrist-lyin' mouth!

  I grabbed up my dog stick, the big one you know, like I always take when I'm after the really mean packs, and I go after that dog-lovin better-dead-n-red rot weasel". Mishka knew that the young one's always enjoyed his stories better, if he threw in a liberal peppering of salty swearing.

  "Well, I chases him for a long time til's we finally comes to this big mound--the very one you is now safely hid in, boy. Only I didn't know about that then. So, he runs straight at this old broken barrel, thinking he be quick enough to escape old Mishka, but you know how tough that be." Plebo bobbed his head up and down in sync with Mishka's.

  "Then I wind up, you see, and let go my dog stick. Not to kill him none, cause I told you before, it ain't right to kill nothin, cept' maybe pack dogs and terrists of course."

  "What's a `terrist'?" said Plebo, a new look of fear and puzzlement spreading on his face. Mishka didn't know for sure, and had never actually seen one. But the old lady had once talked about one, with such loathing in her voice, that he figured it must be OK to kill one, if you ever did see it. The old man, the one with the crazy white beard, said that ‘terrists’ had nothing to do with it though. They were long gone before any of the trouble started, he said. It’s the ‘govment’ that did it, he said. What did he know? She said. He was crazy and old, she said. Real old.

  "Don't you worry none about terrists, boy. Mishka has already scared off the last of them critters from our parts. Anyhow, I let fly at that little sombitch, aiming right for the metal barrel he's trying to hide behind. And. . ."

  Plebo's eyes were riveted on Mishka's rising arms.

  "BAM! goes my stick, square on that old drum." Mishka slammed his hands together in sync with his favorite part of the story, and smiled when Plebo nearly jump off his knees.

  "I walk up careful like, so's not to scare him, cause they scare real easy, you know.

  And then . . .

  "I reaches down . . .

  "And slowly . . .

  "I take hold of the piece of metal . . .”

  Mishka leaned toward Plebo and watched the muscles tense in his skinny neck.

  "And. . .

  "It's gone,” he whispers. The faint mote laced light filtering from the air shaft, sparkled out of the whites of Plebo's saucer eyes.

  "My bag of chestnuts has disappeared--again! But that ain't all. Poor weasel musta' been caught with his head between the metal drum and that big stump buried in the mound, cause he just lay there, in a little ball. No blood to be seen. And no hard breathing like when they're scared. Stone dead. I felt real sad on that, but it ain't like I tried to, you know." Plebo's down-turned mouth told Mishka that he understood.

  Mishka suddenly sat upright. "But, that's when I seen it. A deep, black, hole. Not too big, you see, but bigger then what might be used by a weasel, or maybe a c'yot. And, black as your skin it was, inside.

  "Well, not being fraid of nothin, I jumped right down that hole and found me the finest hider ever was. And, you's in it right now, boy! And, you know what?"

  Plebo shook his head quickly.

  "Right down there, at the bottom, in this very room. I find's my whole bag of nuts, safe and sound! And a whole 'nother stack, near twice as big!"

  Plebo had a big grin on his face, but was very careful not to bear his teeth, knowing that that would not be polite.

  "But it weren't even done yet!" Mishka continued. "I crawls backup to the top, so's to give a proper to the poor weasel, and he's gone too! The sneakin' faker done proper-gandized me for sure."

  Mishka stopped and sat quietly for a moment. "Well, I thought on it for a while. And, you know, I figured it came out about as good as could be. I don't has to carry the inside hurt any more, on the weasel you know. I gots all my chestnuts back, and more! And I gets the finest hider ever seen. Now you tell me, boy, who's the luckiest."

  "You is, Lucky Mishka!" said Plebo, his eyes wide with appreciation and envy. "You the luckiest man I ever seen.” He looked at the basket still in Mishka’s lap. “Can I have another nut, Mishka? Can I have just one more?"

  Plebo waited as the big man hesitated for a moment, and then scooped up the nut that was pitched at him. He smiled his thanks as he eagerly bit the shell open and stuffed the meat into his mouth. His face screwed up as he frowned at Mishka.

  "What's them kill-for-nuthin's always so bad for, anyhow, Mishka," he asked, pushing nut crumbs into his mouth with his dirt-caked thumb. "And, how come you never scared of them?"

  "Don't know." Mishka said, sitting up straighter. "They ain't nothing, though, if you keep sharp, boy. You know, I feel sad for those pinko-lovin' kill-for-nothins, most of the time. I do. They wears them heavy clothes, heat or cold, and ride around with no end, on those rot smelling `chines, with the loud roaring and the smell awful smoke. And them bright flashing lights what go off’n on all the time, that send you crazy if you look too long.

  “And, they ain't got no safe house, like I do, boy, or they wouldn't be out scrounging for something to kill all the time, would they? And they gotta keep killin' with those boom-sticks, and the loud hummer guns, which makes that hot skinny light, that makes a man fry like meat with no fire of any kind, as I can see. And you knows what a deep inside pain that is, like that time I almost killed that weasel. But at least I got this good hider. Sheet! They don't get nothin’! They just kill and leave em' there, beast or man. Then they make that funny cackle noise, and show their teeth. And they talk to their 'chines, boy, like they was a man too. Poor Crazies!"

  "Yeah. You sure is lucky, Mishka," Plebo said, as he looked around the large room. He looked back at the basket in Mishka's lap. "Another one?" he asked feebly.

  Mishka was staring at something on the shelf. "What you say, boy? OH. Yeah, take one more and then you git going. I said one mind you, then off with you. Like I told you earlier, Mishka's got some business to do."

  Plebo reached carefully into the extended basket and watched Mishka as he continued to stare at the shelf. He withdrew his hand and crawled toward the entry hole.

  "Mind you close the hole right." he heard, as he skirted up the tunnel. "And mind those warning signs!"

  "Yes sir," he said, as he slipped the four chestnuts into his pocket and slid quickly through the opening, and scampered off.

  Mishka shook his head and then crawled up the tunnel. He pulled the barrel cover into position, and then crawled back into the dugout. He fluffed up the canvas mattress and leaned against the shelf wall. He reached up to retrieve the bac
co stick, and then took a melamine plate from the stack of three that he owned. Carefully, he laid the bacco stick on the plate, and with delicate strokes, began brushing the powdery ends, sweeping the ashes into a rubbish can. He knew that the ashes were bitter, and not worth any salvage effort.

  Placing the plate carefully on the floor, he reached into a leather satchel hanging from a peg that had been driven into the dirt wall. Rummaging through the assorted treasures, he finally located a small metal lighter, from which the top had long been missing. Mishka stared at the lighter, remembering the one Plebo proudly showed him. That one had a lid. The poor kid had traded a watertight can for it. All the more foolish, because the thing never worked. Mishka smiled and shook his head.

  Reaching up to the shelf again, he took down a small glass bottle, which he shook lightly, to be sure some of the precious fluid was still there. Slowly and carefully, he worked the carved wood stopper from the bottle, and set it back on the shelf. Holding tightly to the bottle, he pulled a spoon out of his jacket pocket and poured a very tiny portion of the clear liquid into the spoon.

  "Daw gone!" he swore quietly, as he suddenly stopped and stared, first at the bottle in one hand, and then at the spoon in the other. It had been so long since he had last used the bottle, he couldn't remember how he was supposed to use the spoon without dropping the bottle, or how to