reproach. On the loose stones William had piled on his mother’s grave.
Daylight called on him to look. To say what he had done. Yet he could see, he told himself, only as far as his eyes looked. Only as far as the land lay flat before him. Only up to the earth-tethered clouds. He could, too, he knew, look into his own heart as he could look into the guts of a deer when he slit the white underbelly. He held memory like a knife in his hand. But he clasped it shut and rode on.
He could not think of what he’d done. He couldn’t think of what he’d do. He would simply come back as he’d gone. He’d stand silent in their cry of hate. Whatever the world said, whatever the girl said, he’d find her. Out of his corruption life had leafed and he’d stepped on it carelessly as a man steps on spring shoots.
The horse had brought him out on the brow of the hill. Below him he could see the road which ran up the creek past Felix Prosper’s, past Theophil’s, past the Widow Wagner’s, past William’s, round by the flat lake to his own gate. From the height of the hill the land below seemed ordered and regular, but as the horse slipped down over the shale into a clump of pines he wondered where in all the folds and creases he would find the girl. He remembered her words: What do you want me to do now? His silence. Greta’s eyes behind him. Must the whole world suffer because Greta had been wronged? Must the creek dry up forever and the hills be pegged like tanned skin to the rack of their own bones?
Below in the valley he heard the creak of a wagon-box and the rattle of wheels. He wondered why he’d seen nothing on the road when he’d looked down from above. Theophil must be up and about some business of his own.
14
Theophil did not hear the wagon as it passed. He turned and pulled sleep about him like an empty sack.
15
It was Ara who drove the horses. Angel was beside her on the seat. The Widow sat on a heap of quilts and a feather bolster in the box. At each jolt of the wagon she called on God.
Angel looked over her shoulder.
He’s given you lambswool and goose feathers, she said. What more do you want?
The Widow groaned.
Touch them up, Angel said to Ara as she looked at the team. Felix can’t do anything but fiddle. The wonder is he stayed about at all.
Angel took the whip out of the socket. Ara’s hands tightened on the reins.
What if they bolt? she said.
Dear God, the Widow said, shall I be drawn to death by my own son’s team?
Loose the lines, Angel said to Ara, or they’ll snap. You can’t urge and hold a thing at the same time.
The horses broke into a trot. They tossed their manes and lifted their feet.
I never thought I’d be driving a team down this length of road, Ara said. Wherever I go I most often go by my own strength.
16
At the other end of the valley William and the boy still waited.
It seems a strange sort of thing, William said, to light another fire on the top of what fire has destroyed. The curious thing about fire, he said, is you need it and you fear it at once.
Every time a shoe has to be shaped, or the curve of a bit altered, or a belly filled, someone lights a fire. In winter we cry out for the sun, but half the time it’s too hot, the butter melts, the cream sours, the earth crumbles and rises in dust.
With a stick he pushed away the embers from the foolhen which the boy had snared in the kinnikinic bushes.
The boy was sitting silent and restless beside him.
I did wrong to stop with you, the boy said. A grown man doesn’t need someone to sit up with him no matter what the occasion.
A man needs living things about him, William said. To remind him he’s not a stone or a stick. That he’s not just a lone bull who can put down his head and paw the bank and charge at anything that takes his fancy.
He had taken the bird out of the ashes and was dividing the carcass.
You didn’t stop, though, to stay with me, he said. You stayed because waiting is better than thrashing
Daylight called on him to look. To say what he had done. Yet he could see, he told himself, only as far as his eyes looked. Only as far as the land lay flat before him. Only up to the earth-tethered clouds. He could, too, he knew, look into his own heart as he could look into the guts of a deer when he slit the white underbelly. He held memory like a knife in his hand. But he clasped it shut and rode on.
He could not think of what he’d done. He couldn’t think of what he’d do. He would simply come back as he’d gone. He’d stand silent in their cry of hate. Whatever the world said, whatever the girl said, he’d find her. Out of his corruption life had leafed and he’d stepped on it carelessly as a man steps on spring shoots.
The horse had brought him out on the brow of the hill. Below him he could see the road which ran up the creek past Felix Prosper’s, past Theophil’s, past the Widow Wagner’s, past William’s, round by the flat lake to his own gate. From the height of the hill the land below seemed ordered and regular, but as the horse slipped down over the shale into a clump of pines he wondered where in all the folds and creases he would find the girl. He remembered her words: What do you want me to do now? His silence. Greta’s eyes behind him. Must the whole world suffer because Greta had been wronged? Must the creek dry up forever and the hills be pegged like tanned skin to the rack of their own bones?
Below in the valley he heard the creak of a wagon-box and the rattle of wheels. He wondered why he’d seen nothing on the road when he’d looked down from above. Theophil must be up and about some business of his own.
14
Theophil did not hear the wagon as it passed. He turned and pulled sleep about him like an empty sack.
15
It was Ara who drove the horses. Angel was beside her on the seat. The Widow sat on a heap of quilts and a feather bolster in the box. At each jolt of the wagon she called on God.
Angel looked over her shoulder.
He’s given you lambswool and goose feathers, she said. What more do you want?
The Widow groaned.
Touch them up, Angel said to Ara as she looked at the team. Felix can’t do anything but fiddle. The wonder is he stayed about at all.
Angel took the whip out of the socket. Ara’s hands tightened on the reins.
What if they bolt? she said.
Dear God, the Widow said, shall I be drawn to death by my own son’s team?
Loose the lines, Angel said to Ara, or they’ll snap. You can’t urge and hold a thing at the same time.
The horses broke into a trot. They tossed their manes and lifted their feet.
I never thought I’d be driving a team down this length of road, Ara said. Wherever I go I most often go by my own strength.
16
At the other end of the valley William and the boy still waited.
It seems a strange sort of thing, William said, to light another fire on the top of what fire has destroyed. The curious thing about fire, he said, is you need it and you fear it at once.
Every time a shoe has to be shaped, or the curve of a bit altered, or a belly filled, someone lights a fire. In winter we cry out for the sun, but half the time it’s too hot, the butter melts, the cream sours, the earth crumbles and rises in dust.
With a stick he pushed away the embers from the foolhen which the boy had snared in the kinnikinic bushes.
The boy was sitting silent and restless beside him.
I did wrong to stop with you, the boy said. A grown man doesn’t need someone to sit up with him no matter what the occasion.
A man needs living things about him, William said. To remind him he’s not a stone or a stick. That he’s not just a lone bull who can put down his head and paw the bank and charge at anything that takes his fancy.
He had taken the bird out of the ashes and was dividing the carcass.
You didn’t stop, though, to stay with me, he said. You stayed because waiting is better than thrashing
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