A Rage Unfettered

Introduction: Over the course of history, many nations have thought themselves forsaken by their chosen God: the Israelites, the Carthaginians, etc. Hidden amongst the names on this prestigious list is the small town of Waters Head, Alabama. This sleepy community was once a bustling village situated at the point where Mullen’s Creek met the Poosa River. Cut off from the world by a labyrinth of swamps and dead rivers, the natives of Waters Head lived quietly, stuck in a time not quite backwards but perpendicular to the present.
But, as modern environmentalists will attest, natural landscapes have little in the way of defenses against the progress of an industrializing society. Waters Head’s destruction was tied to the bridges that began to dot the river bottoms of the south. Huge bridges of steel, concrete, iron and rock. Bridges spanning swamps, creeks, rivers, lakes and even ideas, for with the progress of a developing nation came the infant mentality of a new capitalist world.
Visions of the power of science and engineering first infected the minds of the youths, spreading like a virus through the generations. Soon, these new ideas mutated into an alien form as a skeptic mentality took hold. Time honored traditions became widely criticized scandals. An entire generation and its culture had fallen out of vogue.
Change, that glorious and destructive word, was in the air and in the hearts of an entire nation. Yet, the strongest currents of the critical revolution ran beneath the surface as undertows of emotion and the subconscious that went mainly unexpressed. When, however, these elements of change were unleashed, great deeds could be accomplished or terrible acts committed.



Chapter 1: The mist of the early morning descended upon the swamp bottom like so many falling grains of sand. The back water was cool, quiet with the break of dawn as the old river, reminiscent of the trek of time itself, snaked its way south. A small spurt of land separated moving water from stagnant filth, life from death. Along this thin peninsula, several lanky, skeletons of oaks and cypress trees had taken root. Amongst these dead and dying branches, the fog stretched its tentacles, seeming to follow a path known only to the river from which this ghostly presence was born. A shot reverberated in the humid air.
“6 A.M. and already hot as hell,” George said with a degree of pride for his newly acquired vile vocabulary.
“Shutup, George,” was the only response Johnny could give while stuck in the mire of the far shore of Green Taylor Swamp. “I’m tired ‘nouf without you makin’ it worse with your blabbin’.” Exhausted from the long night chasing coons and blood hounds around a veritable mosquito heaven, the twin brothers rested on the red clay bank. George checked his game pouch again only to turn away, embarrassed by the two measly coons representing a night’s work. But that didn’t stop George; at fifteen, he was too stubborn and oblivious to care about losing his energy. Johnny was of a different vein; always silent and contemplative, he rarely seemed interested in anything for long.
“Hell, the Poosa sure is low for this time of year,” commented George as he looked reverently at the mighty waterway. He lowered his gaze to meet his brother’s dark blue eyes nearly covered by a thick, shaggy black hair. With a furtive motion, both boys turned away back toward the swamp. After all these years, they still could not accustom themselves to being so similar in physical appearance, as if their spiritual differences were betrayed by some sort of reflective perversion of their physical reality.
Another shot. This time much closer. The boys sprang up with an air of expectancy as they listened to the far off whine of the coon dogs. The gamble had paid off. Coons were on this spit of land. In the distance, a small orange cap could be seen bobbing through the branches. Papa Wilcutt was never one to hurry except when he was after coons or whiskey.
“Here comes Papa and Sissy,” George yelled over the sound of the dogs while pointing towards his favorite of the litter.
“What did I tell you about shuttin’ up. Don’t make me tell on you to Pa.”
“Listen, Johnny, listen quietly.”
“What do you hear—.”
It was only a small crack and subsequent rustle, but it was enough. The twins were off like a flash. Through the brambles they caught sight of their prey: two of the largest boar coons ever seen in that part of central Alabama. These beasts had become quite the tall tale in this small region. The locals had even named them. The one with the limp and scarred cheek was called Mars, a fitting title for such a temperamental creature. The other coon was quieter and arguably smarter. He had earned the name Homer. But all the slyness was ought for not now that the famed Wilcutt hounds were on them. The twins began envisioning a grandiose scene where they would tell the girls in town about their role in killing these two legends. They might even claim they killed the two behemoths, but that would come later. Now they had blocked the coons route at the farthest tree on the little jut of land. No escape.
“Boys, Boys. You seen ‘em. You got ‘em boys,” Papa yelled encouragingly as he arrived with the hounds. “Now we can flush them out.” Papa began to gather small brushwood, piling it at the base of the tree’s trunk. He lit a fire and watched as the flames climbed the old masthead of the shore. Johnny looked at his brother fearfully, waiting for his eyes to glaze over, the sign of his anger. George always reacted at such moments with great confusion followed by a chaotic fury. Johnny saw the gleam leave his brother’s eyes just before Mars fell from his perch in the sky.
A screech went through the night air. Before Johnny even knew what had happened, George had ripped a sapling from its roots and gone after the coon as if he were a rabid hound. Nothing could stop the fury now; the whirlwind had been unleashed. George’s muscular arms rained blows down upon the helpless ball of fur as though they were the tools of a blacksmith brutally shaping a chunk of iron. Johnny heard a distinct cracking sound as bone turned to splinter. He turned away, afraid to look at the destruction.
“Get him, George, hell ya, get that coon,” Papa yelled encouragingly as he slipped from the log he had taken seat on. His smell belied a long career spent drinking. Johnny reached for the gun, snatched it away, and sent a shot up into the air. George whipped around, a changed look on his face.
“Don’t be wastin’ bullets I paid for with my own money.”
Johnny was stunned to see his brother revert to his old form so quickly.
“You crazy or somethin’. What’d that coon do to you? Papa had it cornered in the fire, weren’t no way out.” But Johnny could see that George did not understand.
“What you talkin’ about. I killed the coon, weren’t I supposed to do that?”
“That’s right, son. Don’t you be listenin’ to your no count brother, he don’t understand the glory of the hunt,” Papa chimed in drunkenly.
“If by glory, you mean drunken fury, then yes, I don’t understand ya.” But before Johnny could go further, Papa had taken the gun and shot Homer down from the tree. A truly unfitting end to such a noble and respected denizen of the swamp.
“Now we got two biggun’s to take home. One to eat and the other for show. Course there won’t be much to show with Mars. You done good, boy, real good,” said Papa as he turned with George to wade back across the swamp, the blood trickling from the game pouch into the murky water.
Johnny kept his distance as they zigzagged through the reeds and cypress knees. With his eyes towards the shore constantly wary of moccasins, his mind trailed back to the terrible event he just witnessed. Once again his brother had taken a life without any regard or reverence; he simply snubbed it out as he if it were a particularly unsatisfactory cigarette. Even now, George walked with a lighter step fed by his heightened adrenalin from the kill, an action he had probably already forgotten. Moreover, Papa encouraged the violence. Unable to take the coon’s life in a respectful manner with his shotgun, he proudly left the job up to his son, absent of all feelings of shame, a side effect of the liquor…