Tell Tale Horn Hash

Run: #854 September 9, 2002


Hare:  Async
Location:  George Washington Management Area, Burrillville
Scribe: Edgar Boom Boom Poe
Weather:  High 60's, Clear - a beautiful humid evening.
Present: Dr WHO, Basket Boom Boom, WIPOS, Oozing, Trail Hoover (SESYB) , Fuwangi Boner, Bondo, EverReady, KNO, TreeHouse

The Run:

Starting from somewhere deep within the park boundary, and far from the sanity outside, it couldn’t have been a more pathetic night for a hash. The rain from last weeks holiday event long gone, and every scratch of ground was bone dry. No shiggy tonight boys put your wellies away for this one.

The regulars had already assembled and scattered before I arrived, almost 15 minutes late. Having read the directions 2 days before, and not stopping this evening to refresh my memory, I was sure I would remember and make it in time.

Baxter was looking pathetic from the porch, as I ran from the car, grabbed some shorts and sneakers, a quick pat on his head, and off I drove down 102. His limping had grown worse over the weekend, and he would miss his second hash in a row, poor fella. He did look forward to Monday’s Hash.

I drove to the start of GW and remembering the directions to say a half-mile past Cady’s on the right. Surely the hare made a mistake, because there isn’t anything a half-mile past Cady’s on the right but the lake. You’d need to go a mile or more to get to the intersection, so as I drove past the guardhouse and to the split. I was thinking the next part being a right at the split in the roadway. But again, it was suppose to be a mile down, and this split was a far shorter.

I turned around at the shelter, drove back out to 44 and down to Polaski Park. The hare should have said Polaski if he wanted us to start there. Bad guess, nobody was there, and I felt foolish, turning around and going back to GW. I drove further down the dirt road this time, and just as I was calling Dog Meat to check the directions on the web, I came to the split. Driving a few feet further, saw a number of cars parked on the side, and told Dog Meat, “Never mind”.

I ran down the first left and found flour, clearly marked on the very dry ground, unlike my hash last week in the deluge. It was like Noah’s flood, it rained so hard, no flour would be found. Tonight the humid air hung like a scrotum, with moisture enough to cause ones lungs to suffer, and perspiration to flow down cracks I don’t even want to think about.

As I continued deeper into the woods, I was thinking about Baxter at home, and how he’d be uncomfortable running in this late summer heat wave, and that he was probably resting under his favorite pine tree, when suddenly, I heard a call ahead. “Are you?” I found a check that was an obvious falsie, so I continued straight and came to another, just as WIPOS was running back towards me. “I didn’t see anything ahead”, he exclaimed. I told him I would be going straight and try to catch the pack, and I’d call out if I hit flour.

Which I did about 400 yards ahead. Here the trail led back to the main trunk line. This seems to be the hares MO; circle jerks off the main truck. WIPOS followed me, as we finally heard a horn in the distance.

It was an eerie solemn shriek of a horn’s blast, not shouting for joy, but of punishment and anguish. It rang again, and the blood running down the back of my neck suddenly turned cold, like a layer of snow falling of a pine bough and landing deep within your collar. Tis Bondo’s horn and nothing more.

I was alone, far from the sound of WIPOS and yet so distant from the pack, that I could have turned around and gone back to Baxter, and few would miss me. Why would we run at night, sun long since fallen behind the quiet conifers, with hunters here unable to see what they would shoot at.  Tis that North Kingstown homeowner that cursed my being, and placed me here, as that blasted horn sounded off in the distance. Tis Bondo’s horn and nothing more.

How distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, running here by Bowdish shore. Snow did cover shallow rivers that ran below my vision’s gore. Lightning reflected off the shadows, moving as death before. Hear the bugle off in the distance. Tis Bondo’s horn and nothing more.

Accuracy, the lightning striking, between the trees, like daylight flashing. Could that be my Baxter running, running there in darkness more? Oh, what evil, fiend or friendship, ghostly specter of this night, could I endure? Evil yet, no beer be waiting, evil still is Async smiling, smiling, smiling at the lost tenor. Another blast, tis Bondo’s horn and nothing more.

Suddenly, I was thrust back from the past to today, and glad to leave that long since past event where it belongs. There, a short distance ahead, thumping feet like thousands marching, pounding feet like migraines pulsing with thunderous roar. There among the piney woodland, all along the Bowdish shore, hasher running for the beer. Not alone anymore. Where is Bondo and his horn? Not here, nothing more.

It was under covered bridge, that we found it. Lying there so cold and somber, in a cooler for our pleasure. Where is Bondo? No one cares, so pass the beer. Songs were sung, and glasses emptied. Songs did tell of ladies waiting, waiting for that cursed Bondo. Nevermore. But peace is fleeting, and joy short-lived, soon Bondo joined us for the last round of cold ones. His horn clutched tightly under arm.

The trail continued back through the covered bridge and along the North South Trail. We followed along black dark trees through filtered views of moon less sky and twinkling star. Clockwise around a small lake cluttered with dead branches, reaching out for exposed flesh and ripping there. Rocky trail to run upon, branches tripping down upon, no soft ground to lie upon, when feet did fly above. Hear in distance, is that thunder, ripping down the valley, crossing water? How unsettled is the tone beyond this darken shore. Tis Bondo horn, nothing more.

We made it in, with Async and beer waiting. First was Basket, then the Slasher, Summers Eve with Kno behind. All had lights to glow the shadows. Beers half gone a few more stragglers made it in. Ben and Bondo, Tree House fumbling, Eager Beaver left her den, and Oozing with his dead man’s ligament. Only one remained, Bone Head was last to arrive, having decided that we would be more fun then the Sorority Party he was invited to at URI. It was as dark as it would get tonight, and with unusual proficiency, we all started out towards the finality of this delusive event.

We made our way to Cady’s and with beer and food there was much joy as never had been seen there. But the thoughts of Bondo’s horn rang in my ear. It was there I devised this devilish plan. To sneak beyond the pack and to Bondo’s van to steal his menace to our ears. To destroy the demon that tormented us Monday night after Monday night. It must stop. I went out the side door, and found the van open. Thereupon, I took the thing that plagues me so. And there, under the first step to Cady’s porch, I buried it. Crushing it with my foot, and smiling to myself, with satisfaction.

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his horn I had no desire. I think it was his horn! Yes, it was this! One of his sounds resembled that of a dying vulture, raising the hair upon my neck. Whenever it fell upon my ears, my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the horn of the old man, and thus rid myself of the horn for ever.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror, if he knew, would have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that parking lot, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.

And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound was heard, by a neighbor! The old man's horn had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into Bondo’s van. I returned quietly, but shortly, Bondo shrieked once -- once only. In an instant and looked across the table. His beer was gone. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done.

But for many minutes the horn like a heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man’s horn was dead. I removed my beer and thought of it’s the corpse. Yes, it was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon my heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. The horn was stone dead. It’s sound would trouble me no more.

I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness, the rising shriek of the drone horn -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOUD, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A SHIP BLAS UNDER BRIDGEWAY. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the hash chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! -- "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the bleating of his hideous horn!"

On On,

Edgar Boom Boom Poe