Stephen King - Strawberry Spring

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STRAWBERRY SPRING

Springheel Jack.

I saw those two words in the paper this morning and my God, how they take me back. All that was eight years

ago, almost to the day. Once, while it was going on, I saw myself on nationwide TV - the Walter Cronkite

Report. Just a hurrying face in the general background behind the reporter, but my folks picked me out right

away. They called long-distance. My dad wanted my analysis of the situation; he was all bluff and hearty and

man-to-man. My mother just wanted me to come home. But I didn't want to come home. I was enchanted.

Enchanted by that dark and mist-blown strawberry spring, and by the shadow of violent death that walked

through it on those nights eight years ago. The shadow of Springheel Jack.

In New England they call it a strawberry spring. No one knows why; it's just a phrase the old-timers use. They

say it happens once every eight or ten years. What happened at New Sharon Teachers' College that particular

strawberry spring. . . there may be a cycle for that, too, but if anyone has figured it out, they've never said.

At New Sharon, the strawberry spring began on 16 March 1968. The coldest winter in twenty years broke on that

day. It rained and you could smell the sea twenty miles west of the beaches. The snow, which had been thirty-

five inches deep in places, began to melt and the campus walks ran with slush. The Winter Carnival snow

sculptures, which had been kept sharp and clear-cut for two months by the sub-zero temperatures, at last began to

sag and slouch. The caricature of Lyndon Johnson in front of the Tep fraternity house cried melted tears. The

dove in front of Prashner Hall lost its frozen feathers and its plywood skeleton showed sadly through in places.

And when night came the fog came with it, moving silent and white along the narrow college avenues and

thoroughfares. The pines on the wall poked through it like counting fingers and it drifted, slow as cigarette

smoke, under the little bridge down by the Civil War cannons. It made things seem out of joint, strange, magical.

The unwary traveller would step out of the juke-thumping, brightly lit confusion of the Grinder, expecting the

hard clear starriness of winter to clutch him . . . and instead he would suddenly find himself in a silent, muffled

world of white drifting fog, the only sound his own footsteps and the soft drip of water from the ancient gutters.

You half expected to see Gollum or Frodo and Sam go hurrying past, or to turn and see that the Grinder was

gone, vanished, replaced by a foggy panorama of moors and yew trees and perhaps a Druid-circle or a sparkling

fairy ring.

The jukebox played 'Love Is Blue' that year. It played 'Hey, Jude' endlessly, endlessly. It played 'Scarborough

Fair.

And at ten minutes after eleven on that night a junior named John Dancey on his way back to his dormitory

began screaming into the fog, dropping books on and between the sprawled legs of the dead girl lying in a

shadowy corner of the Animal Sciences parking lot, her throat cut from ear to ear but her eyes open and almost

seeming to sparkle as if she had just successfully pulled off the funniest joke of her young life - Dancey, an

education major and a speech minor, screamed and screamed and screamed.

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Stephen King - Strawberry Spring

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