A Word About Muck: Part 2

It's Twain.....And expect an article on why Obama can't win the presidency because of a political power structure that's been in place for, literally, centuries, soon. I'm still checking my sources on that one.

Part II


We had been traveling in the deep flooded muck for nearly two hours, swatting mosquitoes and trying to keep at least above the chest in deep dank mud, and we had hoped that these creatures would be both numerous and easily captured. The dusk had set in to a hard dark night, but Barron's oil lamp lit the surrounding swamp better than could be suspected, and as it turned out, lighting was not one of our many problems.

For one, my dear fellow traveler's equipment had been a foremost problem from our first step. Barron's two large metal cages were hammering into each other on a constant basis, and the noise they created would easily scare not only any fretful rabbit, but a swamp monster himself if he'd even been absent minded enough to be spotted by our pair. I told Barron this myself, but he seemed to brush it aside.

"Nah," he replied, "These rabbits can't hear, actually. They are deaf, dumb and blind, and of this I am rather sure."

I disagreed. But I decided against vocalizing this disagreement. It was, after all, not my trip, and in fact prior to but a few hours ago I had never even heard of the creature Barron and I were clumsily stalking. Maybe it was a dumb animal.

But after yet another hour of searching it seemed more and more likely that my earlier hypothesis was indeed correct. We had seen not one animal, and certainly not the much sought after rare rabbit; not only this but we were increasingly being pestered by an insect population that clearly was not frightened away by the one-man-band that was my new friend Barron. It seemed to me that it would not be long before some of the more violent locals of this swamp lost their fear as well, and this concern I did vocalize.

Barron sighed. "I suppose your right friend, this rabbit seems to not have taken this storm seriously enough to come out from its hiding. Perhaps it waits for a more powerful showing of God."

"Perhaps," I said, and I sat down in a clearing on a large piece of oak that had apparently not stood up to the weaker showing of God that the good Barron had spoken of. I began immediately scratching at the welts that it seemed would be the only reward for this trip into the swamp. The Barron sat down, noisily, next to me and took his large beige hat off to scratch the dismally hair-less top of his head.

"You know, I only came to this town to repair my watch, Barron, but I feel great pride in at least accompanying you on this random adventure."

"Problem with a timepiece, eh? My, the God of Irony is strong and vengeful tonight," He proclaimed this with an air for the crazy, and looked at me with an odd smile, waiting for a response.

"I suppose I don't follow, Barron."

He laughed in his casual way, and again looked up at the stars and the quickly moving clouds.

"I, in fact, grew up the son of watch repairman, let me have a look at your problem there Samuel."

And now I understood the irony that had clearly followed me this entire night, and shared the smile which was still visible in the shadows of Barron's face. I calmly handed my defunct timepiece over to him, and we sat in silence as he studied the tidy piece of Americana. He then expertly cracked open the gold back and began peering at the tiny mechanism inside, and to my pure astonishment, as well as joy, he actually worked in the dim light of his lantern to repair what could have been ailing my timepiece.

"An Elgin 45th series, I believe," he said in the midst of his acute concentration. He was exactly correct.

"That's right."

"Well your problem is clear Samuel," and with this he pulled a tiny rock out of the back of my old watch, and placed it in my palm. "Rock in the gear," he said with a smile, and then closed the time piece and handed it back to me.

It immediately began ticking with the rhythm I grew up with, and I stared up to see the now visible moon at a nearly perfect midnight hour. I set my watch accordingly.

"Well Barron, I have the necessary fee for such a repair, and-"

Suddenly a crack from the brush before us quieted me completely. Barron quickly put his palm in the air, as if it were necessary, and inaudibly un-holstered his six-shooter. He got up swiftly from the oak log and moved towards the sound, I followed a mere step behind, trying to record in my head what would undoubtedly be viewed as the Great Discovery of the Red Rabbit of the Southern Swamp. Sweat was now visibly pouring off the brow of my friend, and when he raised his musket quickly I could see nothing but darkness before us, but clearly Barron saw something different.

He fired. The crack first killed the click of the crickets which had taken over the air around us, and then moved quickly to its intended target. As did Barron. He took off after his shot with a speed that I could not have foreseen from the short man, and I tried valiantly to keep up as he pulled through the bush looking for the killed red rabbit. I caught up to him standing next to a large palmetto brush, and to my shock he actually held the hind legs of a rabbit from his small hands. But his expression was sour and clearly disheartened.

I had been carrying the glare of the lantern, and now with its full force upon the dead rodent we could view its color; grey and light brown, with mud coating the legs and paws. No sign of red whatsoever, and it was now that I could see why Barron had no look of joy on his face.

"Must be a distant relative or something," he said glumly.

"Indeed," and I nodded hoping to ease the pain.

We exited the swamp and headed back to the city of Godlessness only a few short hours later. Barron had kept the dead rabbit and had put it in one of the two large cases he was carrying, just in case it decided to try and escape. I felt a frank joy at the feeling of a working timepiece in my pocket, and even managed to whistle on the walk back. My new friend was in no such mood, but had begun to pick himself up at the prospect of eating fresh rabbit at sunrise. For me the path was back home, up river to a swamp I even knew better than this one, and back to my position on the porch, overlooking the running river of the world I'd always known. And here it would be that I would sit back, with my newly repaired timepiece in hand, and watch as the time faded.