Crackpot Palace Read Online Free PDF

it became clear to me that they’re not trees but sculptures made of limbs and pieces of trees. He’s got like an army of tree-beings in his yard.”
    Saturday we drove out Atsion and Lynn slowed down as we passed the sagging yellow house. The sculptures were primitive, writhing forms like Munch’s Scream, made of twisted magnolia wood. “Jeez,” I said and made her turn around and pass it twice again.
    Crackpop appeared in and disappeared from my life well into the spring. I didn’t see him as frequently as I had at other times, and when I did spot him, I thought of his sculptures, and studied him closely. During the summer’s first thunderstorm, I caught him tromping along Lenape Trail toward the pizza shop. The rain was beating down, and he was drenched. The two cars in front of me, one right after the other, hit the puddle along the edge of the road, sending a sheet of water up over him. He never slowed down or even acknowledged what had happened, but stayed on parade, jabbering away. A few weeks passed then where I didn’t see him, and out of the blue at dinner I asked Lynn if she had. She said she saw him coming out of the woods down by 206 one night on her way home.
    That first summer, we spent a lot of time at the lake with the kids. On the weekends we cooked out, and then, as the sun was setting, we’d walk the twisting trails of town. The dark brought a certain coolness and the breezes would ripple through the oak leaves, carrying scents of wisteria and pine. The kids ran after toads, and every now and then someone would appear out of the dark.
    Late one night in the middle of July, we crossed the dirt bridge that spans a section of Upper Aetna Lake. I had my younger son on my shoulders and Lynn had his older brother by the hand. We approached a bench that faced the water, and just as we drew up to it, I was startled by the sudden bright orange glow of a cigarette. The spot was cast in deeper shadow by a stand of oaks, and the figure was invisible until the ash glowed and momentarily lit up a face. I did a double take when I saw that it was Ginny Sanger.
    I said hello to her and reminded Lynn that we’d met her at the Christmas party. The old woman said that she was visiting the couple who’d had the party, and while they were getting the kids ready for bed, she decided to duck out for a walk. “I like this spot,” she said.
    â€œWe’re trying to get these two guys home before they both fall asleep on us,” I said.
    â€œWe’re losing the race,” said Lynn.
    â€œI see you have to go,” said Ginny as she stamped out her cigarette. Now it was perfectly dark under the oaks. “But I never got a chance to finish telling you how I got into the local history.”
    â€œYeah, you told me it was that guy Sherman,” I said.
    â€œThat’s true,” she told me. “I started reading books and going to lectures on the area after talking to him. This is the part I wanted to tell you, though. From my own study and from having related some of Sherman’s stories to a Lenni-Lenape storyteller I met at a conference, it became clear to me that Mr. Gretts was making everything up. The place names were right, and some of the details, but in all the texts I’ve scoured I’ve never seen any of the things he’s spoken to me about.” There was a moment of silence and then she laughed.
    â€œThat’s pretty interesting,” I said, and an image of Crackpop marched through my thoughts.
    Ginny nodded. “Sherman spends a lot of time in the woods,” she said. “One of his big things is, and he always whispers this one to me, like someone he doesn’t want to might be listening, that there is still a band of Lenape roaming the Pine Barrens, living in the old way, like it was before the Europeans. They’ve always been there, he says.”
    I would have liked to hear more, but we had to get back home. As