21 Oct The Peddler Man

The Peddler Man, The Peddler Man

Could Bring You Delights or an Old Tin Can

There Will Be Nothing to Lack

When the Peddler Man Opens His Sack

My grandfather was the first to encounter The Peddler Man.  He would often tell us stories of sitting on his porch, staring out at the endless expanse of Kansas farmland and countryside, when the fellow with the pack on his back came up the road.

He seemed pleasant enough, agreeable, willing to make any kind of deal.  Thing was, even though it was turn of the century, he was dressed as if he were from another time altogether.  No suspenders, no linen shirt or button-up slacks for this one; he seemed as if he had stepped out of the pages of the Brothers Grimm, with a burlap shirt and green drawstring pants.  He was also barefoot, a terrible idea for walking who knows how many dirt roads before he arrived here…and how many more he would walk after.

“But did he really walk that distance?  Did he really walk from anywhere?  That, I don’t rightly know,” he would tell us when we were children, relating the story of this mysterious traveler.  “All I know is that when he would come, it was to either signal a great good coming to the farm, or a great ill.”

At my young age, I couldn’t bear to be kept in suspense.  “Well, which was it?  How could you know what it was?”

“Well, Terrence, my young lad, there was no real way to tell.  It all depended on what he brought with him.”

My brother, a few years older than me, slightly more jaded, rolled his eyes.  “So, Gramps, what was he, exactly?  Some kind of angel or demon or something?”

“I don’t rightly know.  He only showed up three times in my life, and then I never saw him again.  Once was a great, wonderful, and grand event.  The other two…well…”

He trailed off after that.  He never spoke of the second two; we only knew them as nebulous events, things he didn’t want to dwell on.  I thought it was because they were so horrible they should never be spoken of.  My brother thought it was because he never could come up with a story good enough to top what was already in our imaginations.

“What was the one great, wonderful event?”

Grandpa beamed at this.  He loved to tell this particular story.  “Ah, well, you see, I had recently lost my parents; I was a much younger man at the time, and I took over the family farm.  I had not yet found somebody with which to share my life, and to be fair, it was hard to do so.  With my own younger brother incapable of running the farm by himself, and money too low to cover hired hands to take care of it for me, I was unable to go and do things where I could meet a young lady.  I mean, it’s not as if things have changed all that much since then, if you look around.”

It was true.  When my brother and I were young, we had no real concept of the middle of nowhere, because we didn’t have a concept of anywhere.  This was where we had grown up, and except for the occasional ramble into town with our father to buy whatever supplies we needed, we only had the faintest inkling of cities and places like them.  It was only when we were approaching high school age that we realized we lived in what was fashionably known as “the hinterlands, the back hundred and fifty, nowhere,” and many other pejorative names.  I could only imagine what it was like for someone like my grandfather, eking out a lonely existence with only a much younger brother to take care of.

“So, as it was too difficult to go out and do things, I did what I could around the farm as best I could.  And one evening, I was taking a moment to site and admire the scenery, when I see a dot moving down the road.  The dot grew closer, and as it got closer, I realized it was a man, walking, with a great big pack on his back.  The thing raised up over his head, like a great brick of Stonehenge, blocking the light behind him, casting him in shadow.  He came to a stop in the road, just in front of the house, and then turned to face me.”

He then described the man once again, exactly as I have above, as someone who looked as out of place in the American Midwest as we would walking the roads of China.

“Well, that strange man, my lads, he stopped and stared at me, refusing to take another step.  Not a drop of sweat on his brow, even though he clearly should have been crushed under that pack.  But he just watched me, on the porch, until I finally stood up, stepped down off the porch, and addressed him directly.  ‘Now, dear sir, I can imagine you’ve walked quite some way.  Would you care to come inside and refresh yourself?’

“He did not speak just then, but he bowed low, and I was afraid the pack would topple from his back and crush me beneath its weight. ‘I need no refreshment, my good sir, but thank you kindly for asking.  I simply ask if you would take a look at my wares, and make a selection.’  At this, he finally undid his straps, and he placed the sack down on the road next to him.  I heard it make a frightful clunk, and a clattering of dishes and cups, and was deathly afraid that something had broken inside.

“But no, nothing of the sort.  He laid the pack down flat, and he undid a massive zipper, all the way around, and oh, what a sight it was!  The pack unrolled into a blanket that seemed to stretch all the way across the road, and wrapped in its contents, securely fastened by thick fabric straps, were trinkets and amazing things the likes of which I could never imagine.  Music boxes, solid gold cups, lamps that looked like they could contain a genie or two.  It was as if the circus had come to town, just for me, and I could take a piece of it home with me.

“I looked and looked, and though many things caught my eye, none did so quite like a a beautiful set of jeweled cuff links.  I don’t know why they did, as I never attended anything so fancy as to need them in my entire life.  But I couldn’t help it; they burned into my brain, and I needed nothing so much as those cuff links.

“I pointed them out and asked him, ‘How much are those?’

“He smiled, and undid them from his sack, and placed them in my hand.  ‘Everything I carry with me has an owner in need.  My job is to provide it.  As for payment, I will return sometime in the future, to collect whatever it is that you are able to give me.  But understand, every object has its price, and if you cannot provide me with a suitable offer, we will negotiate.’

“Now, I had no idea what he meant.  I was little more than a boy, on the cusp of manhood, and a bargain like that, how could I resist? And so, with the deal done, he closed up his pack, placed the impossible weight on his back, and went on down the road.

“And you know what came next, don’t you, boys?”

We did, indeed.  Not more than a few days later, a motorized car came driving up the dirt road, zooming by at high speed (well, at that time, 13 miles per hour was quite the speed to go).  It was a Pope Electric, and one of the earliest cars available in America.  The driver was taking it across the country, to see just how powerful its electric engine could be.

Again, my brother took this all with a grain of salt.  It sounded nice as a story, but a Pope?  Built in Connecticut, finding its way to some backwoods road in Kansas that just happened to drive by a farm owned by our grandfather, who got a chance to test drive it?  I remember him complaining years later that the vehicles had a range of 40 miles, and that the most impressive jaunt they had at the time was in 1903, driving from Boston to New York in the span of a day.

If my grandfather’s stories did nothing else, they got my brother fascinated about the ins and outs of the world, if only to constantly refute everything he ever said.

“Well, that stranger took me into that cab, and though I hadn’t told my brother where I was going, I drove out, bouncing down the road, watching the wheels bounce around on the dirt.  He took me all the way to a small town up the road…Gaynorsville, it was.  And what a place it was.  I’d never been far enough to actually be in a town.  It wasn’t large, when you got right down to it, but compared to how often I saw neighbors on the farm?

“And there I met Jenny.  Sweet, lovely Jenny.  She was sitting and waiting outside a big meeting hall in the center of town, looking lonesome and worried.  I asked her why she looked so glum, and she said it was because she had been waiting all day for a certain gentleman to take her to the dance later on in the evening, but he had failed to arrive.

“‘Oh, my goodness.  Well, let me tell you something, young lady.  I may not be the man who was intending to dance with you…but something tells me I’m here to do it anyway.’

Upon hearing this, she smiled, and at the dance, I realized I had those new cuff links in my pocket.  I placed them into my shirt, and I tell you, if they weren’t magical, they certainly seemed to be that night.  Oh, what a night we shared…and as you boys know, it eventually lasted more than one night.”

Yes, it did.  Grandma Jenny was the love of his life.  Sure, when he came home that first night, this time riding with Jenny on her horse she had taken to town, his brother was near dead with worry, but upon meeting Jenny, he, too, was struck with her beauty and demeanor.  Turned out she lived only a few miles away, at a farm further down the road even than Grandpa’s, so it was no trouble for them to meet up, court, and finally wed.  Her parents gave them full blessing, and it became a boon to both families once their only son, my father, came into the world, as they were able to share their farmhands with my grandfather, and both became immensely successful and profitable.

“Yes, that was the good story.  And now, you kids get to bed.”

We did as we were told, and as me and my brother were tucked in for the night by our mother, who kissed us good night before we woke up early to do farm work all over again the next day, our father came in to tell us he would be gone in the morning, gone for a drive to town to make another pickup, and would have to do it before dawn.

My brother just nodded, turned over, and fell asleep almost instantly.  But before my father walked out, I had something to ask him. “Dad, are Grandpa’s stories true?”

“They are as true as he believes them to be.”  Hearing that, I knew he meant ‘no,’ but was too polite to say otherwise.

“But Dad, why does he never tell us about the other two times the Peddler came back?”

My father sighed.  “He doesn’t like to tell those stories because he feels he is responsible for things beyond his control.  You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve told him he doesn’t have to beat on himself like that, but he remains thoroughly convinced.”

“What do you mean?”

My father sat down on the end of my bed, rubbing his face.  He didn’t have Grandpa’s way with words, but he could explain a story just fine if he needed to.  “He said the farm did well for a long time, but then, the Peddler came back along the road, and he asked for his payment.  Your grandpa was more than happy to oblige, and tried to give him whatever cash he needed.  But the man said no, he needed something just as valuable as the thing he gave, and money by itself was not worth a thing.  When nothing Grandpa could give him sufficed, he said the Peddler would return once more after he could find a suitable price, and he left.

“About three days later, your Great-Uncle was killed in a threshing machine owned by your Grandma Jenny’s folks.  A total freak accident, no way it should have happened.  But it was an awful way to go.  Even with the old mourning periods, the coffin in the front parlor was kept closed, simply because there wasn’t enough of him left to be visible, and what was wasn’t pretty.”

This was not a story I wanted to hear before going to bed.  “And he…he thinks that…”

“Yes, he thinks the Peddler took his brother as payment.  He told me that one time, when I was your age, and he’d had a bit of alcohol in him.  He drinks a lot less now…thankfully…”  My father trailed off then, as if remembering things he wished he could forget.

“But he got a third visit.  Why would the Peddler have visited again?”

“He didn’t ever tell me that.  He just said he met him once again, and he asked if a payment had been decided.  At that, he berated the Peddler, telling him that he’d already extracted a hefty fee, and that he had no more business here.  At that, the Peddler, packed up, stated that he would no longer bother him again.

“And he never came back?”

“No.  But your Grandma Jenny died a day later.  She just grew ill and died, just like that.  Or, that’s what he says.  I think she was very ill for a long time, but just hid it very well.  Mom was like that; she was always very proud and never let on more than she ever wanted anyone to know.”

“But he thinks the Peddler took her, too.”  I didn’t ask this time…I figured that was what the answer was.

“Yep.  To this day he swears he made a deal with the Devil, and the Devil took his due when he was slighted.”

I nodded.  “And you think it’s not true?”

He sighed.  “I really don’t know what to believe, Terrence.  Tall tales like that have been around a lot longer than the rest of us could ever hope for.  I think it helps him cope with the loss.  But a magic man walking the roads with a pack full of wonders?  I doubt it.  I’ve never seen hide nor hair of him, and I think if he was real, he’s probably long gone by now.  He wouldn’t have been all that young when your Grandpa met him, so even if he’s alive, he probably isn’t walking up and down the roads anymore.”

No, my father wasn’t the storyteller my grandfather was, and he certainly showed it when he left then, leaving me well assured that I wouldn’t sleep well that night, dreaming of a man coming down the road with wonderful things, only as soon as I picked one, he would laugh, grow large fangs, and attack me right then and there.

However, outside the realm of dreams, we woke at the crack of dawn, had breakfast, and got to work doing what we did every day of the week: tending to duties around the farm.

Things went completely as normal, until I took a break out on the front porch.  Things had definitely improved in the adjoining years between my grandfather jumping in the alleged Pope automobile and today, and I was able to enjoy a nice, cold Coca-Cola as I plopped down into one of the rocking chairs.  I could hear cicadas in the distance, and my brother rambling around with a toy truck somewhere in the house.

“You look like someone in need of something special, young man.”

I nearly dropped my Coke as I glanced out into the road.

A man stood there.  He appeared shabbily dressed, but not in any distinguishable way.  His clothing was mismatched, strange, long since out of style, but put together in an ensemble that was probably never in style to begin with.  But the pack.  The impossibly large pack on his back.

But how did he get there?  The road was empty when I came out to the porch.  He could not possible have walked here without me noticing.

He smiled at me in a most unusual way.  It was not malicious or threatening, but it still appeared plastered on, as if he wasn’t fully in charge of it, but it was being manipulated by something behind it, almost like a puppet.

Also, he did not appear old.  Despite my father’s reassurances, they both looked to be about the same age as each other.  If this was the man my grandfather met all those years ago, either time had been incredibly kind to him or time has forgotten to inform him of its passage.

“I have something here I’m sure you will enjoy.  Come, and see.”

With that, he removed the pack from his back, and placed it on the ground with a heavy thunk.  He laid it flat, and unzipped it.

It was just as Grandpa said.  The pack fell open, and as it did so, a cavalcade of items appeared.

Clearly, despite his supposed interminable age, the man did appear to keep up with the times.  There were Captain America comic books, pop guns, western hats, detective novels, all things that I loved when I played in the yard or heard on the radio.  They were all beautiful, and either brand new or aged in a way that only made them more exciting to look at.

My eye, however, fell on something I never would have expected to see: a ray gun.  It looked just like one I envisioned from a recent story in Astounding Science Fiction.  I saw my hands reaching toward it, and then all my warnings from my grandfather filled my mind, and I pulled back.

“Something wrong, young man?”

I shook my head.  “I don’t think I can afford the price.”

He smiled once more.  “Young man, I think you may have gotten the wrong impression from me.  I never take more than anyone can afford.  I think some simply do not understand what it is I am looking for.”

I blinked, and looked at him.  “And what is it that you’re looking for?”

He leaned in close.  “Not money.  But you will know when the time comes to pay…just as you will know why you crave this item so much.”

With that, he took the ray gun and placed it in my hand.

As I looked at it, admiring the smooth plastic design and decals, I looked back to see the Peddler before he left.  But he was already gone.  His pack, which had still been unrolled while he’d been talking, had vanished along with him.

It was closing in on lunchtime when my father’s truck came rambling back up the road toward us.  My mother was genuinely concerned at this point and was very happy to see him, as his trip should have only taken a few hours, not all morning.

She ran out to greet him and ask where he had been, but when the driver door opened, it wasn’t my father that got out on the driver’s side.  It was a man in a pressed suit, holding a pistol, and he aimed it at her.  The other side opened, and another man got out.  He wore much simpler clothes, dirtier, more ragged, but he, too, was armed, and he was dragging my father with him.

Me, I had come out onto the front porch to see what was going on, and I had placed the red plastic ray gun on the sill.

I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but from what I could gather some time later, my father had been speaking to a potential investor who might have been able to take some of the farm off of our hands; it was too much for us to deal with as it was these days. Unfortunately, it turned out that the investor wasn’t an investor at all, but a mobster heading out west, trying to develop a potential stopgap where all kinds of illicit goods could be handled away form prying eyes before traveling back to the coasts.

I’d heard about mobsters on the radio, certainly, but I never thought they could be out here.  It almost seemed too outrageous to be true.   But here they were, and as I watched my poor, beaten and disheveled father being dragged around by the shabbier of the two men, I had to admit to myself that as unreal as this was, it was still happening right in front of me.

My grandfather came to the door, listening to the commotion, wondering what was going on.  At that moment, the well-dressed man pointed his gun at him, asking, “You!  You the owner of this place?”

“Last I can near tell, unless someone has been lying to me for the past few decades.  What about it?”

The gun popped, and I saw a puff of smoke, and behind me, my grandfather fell, clutching at his chest.  I watched the blood appear on his chest, and his gasp of air.

The well-dressed man waved his gun around.  “Guess the property is mine by default, then.  Guess that means the rest of you have until the count of ten to get on your way.  Heard it’s a ways to walk to town, so get moving.  And don’t bother talking to the police; I have a feeling they’ll be backing up our claim.”

Both he and the other man laughed.

I held up the ray gun.  The shabby man noticed me, pointed to his compatriots, and they both laughed.  “Look at that!  Kid’s gonna send you to Saturn!”

I knew it wouldn’t help.  It was just a toy.  It would maybe flash, maybe make a little beeping sound, but a part of me hoped that, as a gift from the Peddler, that it would actually do something.

The end of the ray gun lit up.

A moment later, so did the shabbily-dressed man.  He dropped my father and his gun, looking at his hands as he began to glow.  “Oh, God, I’m burning up!  I’M BURNING UP!”

And so he did.  His skin darkened to a crisp, his soft organs obliterated as he shriveled into a blackened skeleton.  He crackled a few times before he collapsed in on himself, turning to dust.

The well-dressed man watched in horror as his partner disintegrated, before he saw me turn the weapon on him.

The ray worked slightly different on him.  He didn’t dry up the way his partner did…not right away.  His skin bubbled and pooled from his body, and he raked clawed, bony hands through the melting flesh of his face as he turned into soup.  It was only as he folded in on himself that he finally charred and his remains blew away in the wind.

My parents stared on, wide-eyed in surprise and fear, as I turned to my grandfather,

Unfortunately, he was already gone when I turned to check on him.

Now, time has passed.  We buried my grandfather, I’ve grown up, and I still run the farm.  I couldn’t leave it, no matter how hard I tried.  I have never seen the Peddler again, though I know for a fact he will come back.

I don’t know what he will ask from me.  Despite his reassurance, I don’t know if I will have the proper payment.

But, just in case, I have never gotten married.  And I call my brother every day.

And still I watch, for a stranger to come down the road.  And I pray when that day comes, I will be ready.