came from his father Byron and was simply a formality, for most of them knew where to go—and more importantly, half the horses knew exactly where to go, having hauled the wood up those hills in the last month. The wood, bark hanging like toffs of deadened skin, was enough in the end to make the horses mad. But a formality was very important here.
It was pitch black, except for those lanterns hung against poles, when Owen started back to camp. And it was snowing now, hitting him full in the face, with the grating trees making the sound: Holdfast .
He could not see the trees even four feet away—could only follow the path because it was the most open track. These were the gnarled and toughened trees. Like the men, they came to root in tough soil and could not be easily defeated. In fact, they were much like the men who cut them. They seemed benighted, but were magnificent, and made great wood.
The snow hurled down as if the world was in torment, and as if the torment was saying that this taking of trees was a wicked thing.
He had seen much death. He had also seen so much of the prophecy on Will’s broken body that he still cried aloud. Would his body fill the glad maw of prophecy too? Even as an atheist, and somewhat of a modern calculated man, he still believed in—what? Well, whatever it was, he spoke to it every day.
Far away one lantern gleamed in the horse hovel where the young tend team Gibbs—a tend team was a boy hired to feed and keep the horses—was working with the Clydesdales and the Belgian teams. Finally seeing this small glimmer, Owen followed it in, half-blinded as he was by snow. But now he had first-hand knowledge of how easy it was to be lost.
He was freezing, his face and his arms, his wounded leg almost unable to move the last two hundred yards. He would not let the fuckers know this. For as always, not being Will, he was wary of these men. If they knew he was in pain, the weak ones would want to go around rather than down, and the weaker ones would try to challenge him in some way.
He came in, and the men looked at him silently. The teamsters nodded politely, and he nodded back, in taciturn accord and no more, as the profound jumbled-up wind blew and called.
He took a book to the bunk. Being one of the few men in the camp considered educated, this was looked upon as strange and spectacular, and not quite “manly” by the men moving around him, disjointed in their evening talk, muted because the new boss was in. In the days to come he would only be here periodically—for he had work to do at the mill. That’s why having the right Push was so important. And he couldn’t be here, he knew, for the woods would get to him—unlike his brother he didn’t have the “feel” for it. But once this year was done, and with Reggie Glidden and perhaps next year Simon Terri in charge (Simon who had gone to get the doctor at Will’s death, a man this year hired to Sloan with his Micmac friend Daniel Ward), he would propel himself into another life. Away from the torment of his past—for it did torment him—and away too from Camellia, who was a horrible temptress even if she did not know it. No wonder so many worried on her behalf.
“She has the bastard French,” he heard the Scot maid say.
Tonight the men brought him a treat—to show they knew his stature—a white cloth napkin to wipe his face after he ate a piece of hot apple pie and drank a scalding cup of tea.
It was a lonely world, and this showed its loneliness, down deep. Small implements from home made it lonelier still. Great burly men became mothering to young swampers in their charge, and overcame embarrassment in doing so. Later, meeting on the roads in summer, they might not even acknowledge each other.
To the men, he looked peculiar—a small replica of the Jameson clan, yet an unknown quantity in their lives, a strange anomaly of substance they could not easily fathom.A ladies’ man, some said—too cute by half to lay into
It was pitch black, except for those lanterns hung against poles, when Owen started back to camp. And it was snowing now, hitting him full in the face, with the grating trees making the sound: Holdfast .
He could not see the trees even four feet away—could only follow the path because it was the most open track. These were the gnarled and toughened trees. Like the men, they came to root in tough soil and could not be easily defeated. In fact, they were much like the men who cut them. They seemed benighted, but were magnificent, and made great wood.
The snow hurled down as if the world was in torment, and as if the torment was saying that this taking of trees was a wicked thing.
He had seen much death. He had also seen so much of the prophecy on Will’s broken body that he still cried aloud. Would his body fill the glad maw of prophecy too? Even as an atheist, and somewhat of a modern calculated man, he still believed in—what? Well, whatever it was, he spoke to it every day.
Far away one lantern gleamed in the horse hovel where the young tend team Gibbs—a tend team was a boy hired to feed and keep the horses—was working with the Clydesdales and the Belgian teams. Finally seeing this small glimmer, Owen followed it in, half-blinded as he was by snow. But now he had first-hand knowledge of how easy it was to be lost.
He was freezing, his face and his arms, his wounded leg almost unable to move the last two hundred yards. He would not let the fuckers know this. For as always, not being Will, he was wary of these men. If they knew he was in pain, the weak ones would want to go around rather than down, and the weaker ones would try to challenge him in some way.
He came in, and the men looked at him silently. The teamsters nodded politely, and he nodded back, in taciturn accord and no more, as the profound jumbled-up wind blew and called.
He took a book to the bunk. Being one of the few men in the camp considered educated, this was looked upon as strange and spectacular, and not quite “manly” by the men moving around him, disjointed in their evening talk, muted because the new boss was in. In the days to come he would only be here periodically—for he had work to do at the mill. That’s why having the right Push was so important. And he couldn’t be here, he knew, for the woods would get to him—unlike his brother he didn’t have the “feel” for it. But once this year was done, and with Reggie Glidden and perhaps next year Simon Terri in charge (Simon who had gone to get the doctor at Will’s death, a man this year hired to Sloan with his Micmac friend Daniel Ward), he would propel himself into another life. Away from the torment of his past—for it did torment him—and away too from Camellia, who was a horrible temptress even if she did not know it. No wonder so many worried on her behalf.
“She has the bastard French,” he heard the Scot maid say.
Tonight the men brought him a treat—to show they knew his stature—a white cloth napkin to wipe his face after he ate a piece of hot apple pie and drank a scalding cup of tea.
It was a lonely world, and this showed its loneliness, down deep. Small implements from home made it lonelier still. Great burly men became mothering to young swampers in their charge, and overcame embarrassment in doing so. Later, meeting on the roads in summer, they might not even acknowledge each other.
To the men, he looked peculiar—a small replica of the Jameson clan, yet an unknown quantity in their lives, a strange anomaly of substance they could not easily fathom.A ladies’ man, some said—too cute by half to lay into
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