GEWALY ART

The evening air, hot and humid, stifled the camp. The sun had just dropped behind the horizon, leaving a gathered darkness that was disturbed only by a crackling fire dancing in a pit. Burning pine logs gave off both light and enough smoke to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Three brothers sat on buckets around the fire. Peering through the smoke, each boy could stare at the glowing faces of his siblings, the jumping shadows ominously twisting their features. They were at Bundick’s Lake, deep in southwest Louisiana. Their father had gone to check the trot lines, leaving them alone to fend for themselves. While he wouldn’t be gone long, Harold, the oldest of the three brothers, decided that he’d be gone just long enough to tell a campfire story.

Harold started the tale solemnly. “About a year ago, poor Brian Jones made a huge mistake. Brian knew of Ruth’s fighting skills, so he was wise enough to keep his distance. But he didn’t know about her other skills. He taunted Ruth—he called her names and made fun of her clothes—and he thought he could safely do it from a distance. He didn’t know that Ruth played softball. While she wasn’t a pitcher, she had the arm for it. She could throw with uncanny power and frightening accuracy. It’s always the unknown that comes back to bite one. On that day Brian danced around, making faces and screaming insults. With the composure of a debutante, Ruth picked up a softball and hurled it at him.”

Harold paused, staring deep into the fire as if in a trance. The other two boys shifted nervously on their buckets.

Harold continued, “Brian never saw it coming. Like a bullet shot from a rifle, straight, fast, and hard, the ball connected with Brian’s forehead with a sickening thud. He dropped like a rock, landing face-first in a mud puddle.”

Again, Harold paused. He lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of his siblings, and then he spoke.

“An ambulance came to pick him up. Brian was out cold. Medics had to use a gurney to get him into the vehicle. I was told that he made it to the hospital just in time. The local facility was able to keep him alive, but ultimately, they didn’t have the resources to treat him properly. Within the week, I saw the family pack up and leave town. I was told they went to a bigger city, to a better hospital, to get the attention their son needed. Brian hasn’t been heard from since."

The trio sat in eerie silence for what seemed like an hour. Finally, Joe, the middle child of the three, spoke.

“Our sister did that? I can’t believe it,” Joe said.

Troubled by the story he had just heard, he slowly shook his head from side to side.

Tommy, the youngest, didn’t say a word—he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he thought about crying. Sure, their sister was a bit gruff at times, but he had no recollection of ever seeing her behave like in the story. He didn’t think she was even capable.

Admittedly, he didn’t know Ruth as well as he probably should. They were nearly eight years apart in age, and they had never spent any real quality time together. He couldn’t simply discount the possibility. Still, the tale didn’t mesh with some of the times he could remember, or at least with times he thought he remembered. He was very confused—things weren’t adding up.

Joe and Harold quietly watched as Tommy wrestled with the turmoil rising in his head, his eyes glistening as he fought back tears. Joe had to get himself under control as well, but for a different reason. He knew the story was a hoax and the incident had never happened. Harold knew it too; while Ruth played softball, she couldn’t throw hard enough to knock a fly off a banana peel. He also knew that even if she could separate the insect from the fruit, she wouldn’t—Ruth couldn’t hurt a fly. She wasn’t that kind of person. They just wanted Tommy to think she was.

Two years separated Ruth from Harold, and another two separated Harold from Joe. In their ongoing struggle for sibling supremacy, because she was the oldest, Ruth retained the upper hand—even though it was currently two against one. To finally tip the scales, the two boys had to be sure that Tommy was an ally, especially since he was coming of age. The two of them simply needed to tell the story, and they needed Tommy to hear it.

It wasn’t the first time they pulled such a prank. For years, they planted rumors about Ruth. Before this night, the tales were tame by comparison: she invaded their space whenever she felt like it, she was a tattletale, and she was Daddy’s little princess.

Truth be told, Ruth didn’t really like her pesky little brothers, and she never hid that fact. To them, the feeling was entirely mutual. So they kept their distance from her—and they tried to convince Tommy to do the same. The story was the last great hope of making that happen.

While the campfire story wasn’t the beginning of the legend of Ruthless Ruth, it was designed to cement a single piece of lore into the recesses of Tommy’s brain: Don’t trust Ruth, stick with your brothers—she is the enemy. Or so the story went.

The thought made Tommy bristle, and the information came at a most inopportune time. Prior to the campout, Tommy had concocted a plan, and to bring that plan to completion, he would need Ruth’s help. He was supposed to have a discussion with her the moment he returned from the campout. If the story was true, the discussion could end before it even began, sending his plans into an uncontrollable tailspin. Now, looking out over the water, he wished they could stay on the lake forever.

Continued...

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