Moonlight & Its Revelations Jan 24 '07 (Updated Jan 29 '07)    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet Popular Products in Music Revelation [Digipak] by Journey From $12 Machine Gun Etiquette by The Damned From $40 The Bottom Line The "Where's Jake Gyllenhaal?" entry in my Southern Gothic cycle. We’d been out gigging frogs that night at Melton Marsh, so called because some old fool by that name wandered out there years ago and never saw the need to come back home. Based on what we knew of Widow Melton, he probably found a warmer bed amongst the water, mud, and weeds than he ever did with that scowling bag of misery. Spring came early that year to our quiet little corner of the great green land, and the unseasonal warmth had brought the scoundrels out like an eager wing of the Confederate cavalry. So busy were they croaking lust at their lady-friends and the full bright moon overhead that they never even stopped to consider the unromantic plans the three of us had in store for them. It was Nathan, me, and Bigsby who descended on that haunt of water-dwelling things, though if truth be known, the evening would likely conclude the way it always did- with a trio of friends sharing a bottle of whiskey on a secluded patch of dry land, posing no threat whatsoever to the creatures of the night. Local gossip would give way to spook stories, then to the pledges of eternal companionship that fellas often make once the firewater starts to settle in. On the evening in question, we headed back home later than usual, and opted for a shortcut across the land of a minor planter named Jasper Wilton. We’d seen his slight and quiet self enough to know that he’d probably not raise much of a fuss over three young lads in their cups using his property once to reach the safety of their homes. As we crossed the cotton fields and approached his residence, I thought I saw a big black shadow ascend the steps leading up to the back door, having come from the direction of the slave cabins that sat grimly back by the old pine woods. I tried to draw the attention of Nathan and Bigsby to what I’d seen, but they were far too affected by drink to focus on anything other than the darkness into which they shambled. Later on, when I laid my head down on the pillow, the memory of that ominous shape entering the Wilton house opened up my mind to a ghastly train of possibilities, the worst being a massacre of that timid man and his scarcely-seen and sickly wife Luanne as the first two victims of a countywide slave rebellion, like the one that claimed so many lives only twenty years before. I worked myself into such a panic, it’s a wonder I fell asleep at all. Needless to say, the sight of a very much alive Jasper sitting in the pew on Sunday was exactly what I needed to breathe easy again and sure enough, there he was singing hymns next to fat Linda Forkendale. I sighed in relief and tried to let go of the entire incident; however, the second time we made a detour along the very same route, I saw a figure moving stealthily away from the house and toward the wooden structures that housed the slaves. My friends again missed what my far less drunken eyes had caught, and I began to sense that here was the genesis of a real mystery. Figuring that Nathan and Bigsby would only slow down my investigation of the matter with their orneriness and disbelieving taunts, I resolved to uncover the identity and purpose of that nocturnal visitor on my own. By the time of my first stakeout I had developed a theory that the creeper was a slave who had taken a fancy to the missus of the house, though the malady she was said to be suffering from pretty much ruled out the possibility of her engaging in any kind of secret tryst. The pain and nature of her affliction caused man and wife to occupy beds in separate chambers, with Luanne very rarely leaving hers. Most believed she wouldn’t make it through planting season, and folks wondered if Jasper would find the gumption to carry on in her absence, as he was known to still be very much in love with the woman, but not possessing even a fraction of her strength. My nighttime vigils revealed to me early on that the visitor was none other than a hulking cotton-picker by the name of Callust, referred to usually as Cal. He was an older slave with a gentle disposition which belied his threatening size and seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy, and was clearly Wilton’s favorite, often accompanying his master into town. I felt certain that Callust’s actions were not of a malicious nature, but curiosity caused me to commit myself to at least one more session of watching from the shadows, in order to ascertain the reason why a common slave was stealing regularly through the back door of the Wilton place under cover of darkness. On the night I finally learned the purpose of Callust’s secret visitations, I was held up by unforeseen circumstances and thus did not arrive until far later than usual. Deducing that Callust had already effected his entry by the fact of the back door being slightly left ajar, I walked around the house a time or two, then scaled the giant live oak that stood outside the only lit window like some ogre watching over a sleeping princess he’s taken prisoner. It took me a moment to adjust to the soft light given off by a solitary candle in the corner of the room, then my mind began the frantic scramble to make some sense of the images it was being fed by my startled eyes. And here is the scene that astonishes me as much today as it did back then. Lying together on a mahogany bed large enough to accommodate an entire flock of sheep, in a state of undress and soundly asleep in each other’s embrace, were the man of the house and his choicest laborer. I must have clung to that tree for the better part of fifteen minutes, unable to avert my gaze and stunned at a development I never would’ve expected in a hundred years. And then came the final event that really caused my jaw to drop. As I hung on to that oak, still trying to process what I was seeing through the window, a lady came hobbling into the room, the signs of agony at having to move written across her skinny face. She walked up to the bed on which Jasper and Callust rested, and instead of pulling out a knife as I expected she would, Luanne Wilton merely kissed her husband on the forehead before blowing out the candle and leaving them in peace. That was the last time I saw her, for death came calling a few weeks later on a woman who only ever wanted happiness for her man, regardless of how or where or with whom he chose to seek it out. And while no one ever doubted the sincerity of Jasper’s love for the departed Luanne, the speed with which he worked through his grief came as a shock to everybody but me. Copyright 2007 A Sympathy Most Peculiar http://www.epinions.com/content_4942831748 Changing Out The Ghosts http://www.epinions.com/content_4941586564 The Coming of Elliot Stephens http://www.epinions.com/content_4939489412 Where Everybody Looks The Same http://www.epinions.com/content_4938047620 Abner http://www.epinions.com/content_4937785476

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