Run, Boys, Run
“Got damn, it’s hot today, y’all!” the boy said as he took a break from fiddlin’ and wiped the sweat from his brow. The crowd nodded and yipped in agreement, raising their beers and grabbing another. It was a beautiful day to be at the festival.
This was a town like no other. There were 300 people in this town. No more. No less. If someone died, another was born. There are some who say that the town is cursed. Others say it is just special. The families there, after years of keeping to themselves, began showing signs of what outsiders might consider a low gene pool. No one moves out. No one moves in. No one gets out alive.
“I’m damned tired of driving,” thought the man as he drove up to the festival. “This seems like a good stop up here. A quaint town is just what I need.”
At the back of the festival lot, the stranger pulled in, driving, not a truck, but a big, old black Rolls Royce. He kicked up spurs of dust, blowin’ up a storm, driving faster than he should on a dirt lot. He wasn’t from the small town deep in the heart of the south. He wasn’t from a small town at all. That much was obvious. Some of the crowd took notice, and the men elbowed each other to alert those who were too involved in the boy’s fiddlin’ to see the stranger drive up. No one ever came to town. This was cause for alarm.
When the man got out of his car, he was a sight that the women of the town had seen nowhere but on the steamy romance books at the grocery. He was tall, with long, silky black hair and a face chiseled from stone. He wore only tight jeans and boots, showing off his muscular chest and arms. It seemed like he glistened from sweat, though it could have been oil he had rubbed on earlier. Would he do that to the interior of his car? Make a mess like that on the nice leather seats?
He strolled towards the crowded stage area with his own fiddle case in hand. As he did, he smiled a slick smile at all the ladies, who couldn’t help but blush as their panties got wet just looking at him. The women were all dressed the same in long blue-jean skirts and white off-the-shoulder tops. They all had their hair in tight buns. Not one hair was out of place.
He nodded at the menfolk as they eyed-up the stranger, ready to protect whatever might need to be protected from this devil. The men were also dressed the same. Each of them was in blue jeans and red or blue shirts. They all had Stetson hats on.
When the stranger got to the stage, he sat upon a hickory stump in front of the boy and waited for him to finish the tune he was playing. The boy hobbled to the edge of the stage on his bad leg and acknowledged the stranger with a nod.
“Boy, you play real good. But I play, too,” the stranger said. “I’m running a little behind, so I would like to make a bet with you. Care to take a dare? I don’t have all day, though.”
The crowd looked at the boy collectively and gasped.
Laughing at the man’s accent, the boy said, “Well, sir. I’m not sure what ya think ya wanna wager, but with fiddlin’ I’m the best. Ever.”
The stranger laughed heartily at this and leaned back on the stump. He opened up his fiddle case. The sun shone brightly off of what was inside. It projected light around his head and the ladies let off a collective ohhh. Each of the men back-handed their women in unison. It was as if they communicated their thoughts with one brain.
“Okay Boy. I’ll bet my fiddle of gold for all your souls. I’ll bet the souls of everyone here in town that I am better than you,” the stranger said with a smile. “If you win, you get this beautiful fiddle. If you lose, Boy, I get your souls and this town will perish. It will be nothing but a bloodbath. I will watch as each of you tear your neighbors, families, and friends limb from limb. It will be beautiful.”
The boy laughed. He looked around at the crowd, where he could see the anger on the men’s faces. He saw the surprise lingering on the women’s brows. This was a challenge he was willing to take. He knew he could win. He wasn’t reared up to lose.
“You got this, Kid!”
“Rosin up yer bows!”
“Let’s kick this fucker’s ass!”
The crowd chanted support until the boy raised a hand to answer the stranger.
“Yer gonna regret this, sir,” he said.
The man laughed again, “I’ll start us off then!”
He opened up his case, climbed up on stage, and rosined his bow from tip to frog, making sure he prepared it well for battle. When he positioned the fiddle on his shoulder, he looked bigger than any of the men in town. The sun shone and reflected off his fiddle, making it look like his fingers were shooting fire with each lick of his bow. He played fast, and he played hard, looking lustfully at the ladies and trying to win over the men. Sweat glistened off his chest as he played. The bulge in his pants grew, attracting quick looks from the ladies lest they be back-handed again. His hair moved back and forth as he swung wildly while he played.
From out of nowhere, it sounded like he had a symphony of musicians playing with him. Everyone looked at each other in awe, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. It was like a symphony of angels descended to join this stranger play, or maybe they were demons. His fiddle playing sounded like none they had ever heard before. Some of the crowd smiled, others had tears in their eyes. Though it was amazing in its own sense, the boy knew he was still the best.
When the stranger was done, the boy said, “Well, yer pretty good, Old Man. But let me show you how we play a fiddle here in this small town.”
The boy was ready, his bow already rosined. He stood tall and proud in front of his neighbors, family, and friends. He played one song to the cheers of the crowd, then another, then another. He played the songs that had been played for 300 years in that small town. Just when the stranger thought the boy finished, the boy started a fourth song, and the crowd jumped up and down on their feet. They screamed and danced. They laughed, whooped, and hollered. The stranger hung his head. He knew he had been beat.
Before the boy had even finished playing, the stranger laid the golden fiddle down in front of the boy and stood back. The boy finished his song and said, “I done told you I’m the best. If you ever want to try again, you c’mon back, ya hear?”
The stranger turned to leave, and a smile crept across his face. He didn’t say a word. The crowd cheered and started patting the boy on the back. The men gave him congratulatory handshakes, and the women gave him kisses on the cheek.
As the stranger reached the edge of the fairground, the fiddlin’ began again. This time, no one was playing. The sound kept getting louder; the crowd began holding their ears. Children were screaming. The ladies were crying. Some of the townsfolk looked to the PA system to unplug it, but the fiddlin’ kept going. The stranger walked on.
All at once, the boy could see some of his neighbors’ ears bleeding. When he looked out across the lot and saw the stranger looking in, he knew how it was all happening. He knew the Devil was at work and trying to steal 300 souls from his small town.
“It’s the Devil!” the boy pointed, “Let’s get him! Run, Boys, run!”
The crowd was confused. Some of them looked to where the boy pointed and ran after the stranger. The music mesmerized others and seemed to put them in a violent trance. They began fighting their neighbors, wives, and friends. If they weren’t brawling, they were chasing. Blood was everywhere. They knocked out teeth, and eyeballs hung from their sockets.
In the distance, the Devil stood, arms outstretched, waiting near his Rolls Royce. The boy picked up the golden fiddle this time and played harder than he had ever played. He battled the music that the Devil had playing at the fairgrounds until he was drenched in sweat, and tears of blood ran from his eyes. The crowd slowly stopped fighting. They focused on the boy. Finally, FINALLY the music stopped. When he looked to the parking lot, the Devil had disappeared.
It was over for good this time. The boy won.
“I’m the best there’s ever been,” he whispered.
**Amazing artwork: David Garrett/ https://www.facebook.com/elsa.cornelissen.3**
