And then as Meco stalked away, Ben had looked around, not smiling but startled, awed—clearly aware, as Reuben was, of an astonished sharing. The Day of the Lion was perhaps the first day when Reuben understood that Ben was a person too. Before that, an image worshipped, slightly feared, not consciously loved. Afterward, a separate self, a brightly visible human being with gray eyes. On that rainy evening four years ago, Reuben now remembered, he had soon looked away from Ben’s warm stare, not quite able to bear it, and had resolved in secret: I’ll never quarrel with him again. The resolution had been broken of course, once or twice.…
* * * *
Ben Cory dwelt in a natural multiplicity of worlds. He could be active in the world of Deerfield’s daily occasions: the reasonable labors on his father’s farm grant; the school remembered from last year, where Ru’s offhand brilliance at the piddling studies was now making him disliked, and Ben no longer there to prevent the occasional bloody nose or comfort him after a pedagogic birching; the not-friendly church; the clumsy kindness of some boys and girls of the village, and the mindless, furtively obscene cruelty of others; nearer to him sometimes than any of these, the quiet land itself in the flowing of the seasons, the smells of summer morning and of the milky breath of cattle, the open fields and marshes, the frame of low hills and the all-surrounding presence of maple and beech and oak and pine, the wilderness.
Ben knew the unique world his mother’s presence created, where without much discomfort he was on his good behavior. With another sort of good behavior he could enjoy the world of being-with-Father, one often lit with unexpected mirth and kindness.
He possessed a sense of the outer world: an important Massachusetts, a half-mythical Canada inhabited hatefully by the Others, a New York not very real, an England thought of as Home—in a perfunctory way because of the ocean that made England, for a Deerfield boy, only slightly nearer than the moon. From his father Ben gained some clear perception of the war, the giants France and England raging over old hates and new advantages under two sick and stubborn sovereigns, Queen Anne of England and the doddering Sun King Louis XIV of France—yet the ocean itself was more actual to Ben than England or the war, for Ben’s own father had seen it once on a boyhood visit to Dorchester. He said, if your ear lay close on the pillow at night, the murmuring you heard then was not unlike the moaning of breakers on sand, and why shouldn’t a boy (said Joseph Cory) send himself to sleep by listening? The sound was eternal, Joseph Cory said—somewhere, always, ocean was breaking on the sand.
North of Deerfield the greater wilderness was a world inviting no one, a forest too old for imagining: green rounded hills secret in distance, swamps, valleys obscure, streams of unknown sources. That belonged to the bear and mountain lion, to the deer with midnight eyes and the comic grandeur of moose; to the rabbit—bouncing bread and butter of the wilderness—and the fox and weasel who followed him; to the down-footed lynx and quiet-sliding rattlesnake. Hunters, trappers and fur-traders knew something of that land, and had for nearly a hundred years.
The Abenaki knew everything about it—green depths of spring and balsam-pungent air, ardent stillness of forest summer afternoon, autumn explosions of gold and scarlet, and all the ways for men on an errand of killing to travel through it in silence when the ground was white and the evergreens bowed down and the northern lights a wavering of madness between them and the February moon.
Ben was welcome in yet another world as no one else was: a world that existed only when Reuben willed it.
Ru’s talking-spells began when he was about six and able to find hidden hens’ nests in the shed, to the sharp-faced ladies’ continuing indignation. At that time the Corys still maintained the yellow-necked rooster brought as a youth from Springfield (senile and resembling Louis XIV in other ways but named Sir Pudden) who believed himself master of the shed and hated Jesse Plum’s boots. He and Ranger and Bonny knew all about the nests. Ranger avoided them from a rigid sense of honor, with only a pensive lift of the white eyebrows in his black face. Sir Pudden stood about in glamorous attitudes—second nature if you have twelve wives, all of them cloth-heads. Bonny entered the shed in those days on a moral tiptoe, never certain whether the armed truce with Sir Pudden was still in force. Sir Pudden, to Reuben’s extreme sorrow, regretfully became soup in the year 1699. Even sorrow was grist for Ru’s talk-mill.
Bemused by the chickens’ personalities, Reuben elaborated names for all of them—Martha, Patience, Hoobah, Binega, many others. Every new batch of fluff-balls drove him to a dither of vicarious maternity. At night he kept Ben awake with flowing tales in which these names acquired quasi-human characters who could range up and down in a special world with horizons of Reuben’s choosing.
In the conventionally documented world nobody ever chopped William Stoughton into small red gobbets. That vinegar-blooded Saint, deputy governor during the witchcraft frenzy of 1692 and again later, died in 1701, but not in the small red gobbets Duchess Hoobah made of him in one of Reuben’s narratives. The conventionally documented Stoughton would not have been interested to learn how an obscure Joseph Cory, remembering 1692, had loathed him out loud in the presence of wide-eared children. It didn’t matter. The past of one, or two, or two thousand years, the fluid present, the future that can exist only in myth, all came to focus in Reuben’s here-and-now, in the theme and variations of a small clean mouth chirping in the dark.
Ben seldom suppressed the talk. He liked to offer details of adult wisdom, or new words that Reuben would roll with relish on the tongue. The stories gained in sophistication, especially during the last three or four years, when the boy had developed a taste for listening to Jesse Plum. Princesses appeared; decapitations were limited to villains, wizards and Frenchmen. Allegory too: the tales no longer rambled but were innervated by unifying purpose, and Ben knew rather plainly that he was receiving gifts from a mind altogether separate and unlike his own. Ru also acquired some tact, and awareness of the times when Ben preferred to sleep.
If he itched with questions, though, and found Ben reluctant to answer, Ru might take advantage of his smaller size, punch and prod, try to smother Ben with the covers or nag after the forbidden tickle-spot at the edge of the ribs. He could hurt if he gripped a handful of hair, but he generally managed to stop short of open war. Ben imagined, sometimes with uneasiness, that his brother could study his mind, feel with his nerves, control him as a small man controls a big horse with wit alone. After such assaults, secondary eruptions would demonstrate that the little wretch was still awake—pinches, pokes, muffled war whoops, prohibited words: original sin taking its own time to simmer down.
Nowadays Ru’s stories would be delivered sotto voce, lest Father shout up telling the boys to go to sleep. The hushed story-teller’s voice illuminated the inner world, making of the night a sheltering room. Ben would be more aware of his brother than if darkness had not hidden him—the warmth, the harmless small-boy smell of him, above all the voice and its comic or startling or grandiose inventions.…
Ben sighed in the exasperation of insomnia, and slid out of bed to stand barefoot in the cold, saying a proper prayer in an undertone. His mother preferred to kneel, but admitted it was wise to conform to surrounding custom lest one forget in a public place. Puritans did not kneel, regarding it as a mark of popery. Faintly relieved, Ben walked to the garret window to glance into the winter night, wondering if a dark moving thing he saw was that it ought to be. Yes—the watch, on his rounds. Ben could make out the black stem line of a jutting flintlock. The shadowy important man marched along the northern limit of the stockade, passing out of sight to Ben’s left behind the meeting-house.
“Ben, what ails thee?—can’t sleep?”
“Restless.” Ben stumbled back into bed shivering, squirming down away from the cold. “Go back to sleep—sorry I disturbed thee.” It must be after midnight, Ben thought, and all well. But as he tried to settle himself,
inviting sleep with a better conscience, the snow outside the palisade, pressed high against the logs, nagged at him like the thought of a broken lock on a back door.
Chapter Two
Ben surged up on a stiff arm, listening. The uproar had been in the shed, he thought. Maybe Ranger had broken his rope and run out. Now Ben could hear only the bumping sickly turbulence of his own heart. In a dream he had been flying; the dream had betrayed him into this agony of listening where no sound was, and fear grew over him like frost on a stone image.
“Arm!”
That noise was part of the dream. In the dream, faceless beings had been shouting, not willing that Ben should fly.
Then he knew the cry was the summons of the watch in a world of no dreaming—a few rods away, near the north end of the palisade. It flared, a jet of terror in darkness, and died.
The covers dropped. Cold slapped and squeezed Ben, but he could not move until some sound released him from this frozen waiting.
It came, a yelling that soared upward like fire swallowing dry pine, throbbing yells made by only one kind of creature alive.
A different voice pierced the clamor, snarling in search of authority: “À droit, vous! Là-bas! Enfoncez les portes!” And a wild drawled afterthought: “Prisonniers!” The voice was smothered by the yells and a whinnying of some other man’s laughter.
Footsteps pounded on snow. Steel assaulted wood. Then—Reuben still sleeping—the flintlocks began to talk, the near ones a dry thundering, the farther ones like slamming doors.
Ben could move. He reeled up, shocked into panic, thrashing against sullen-clinging bedclothes. “Ru!” Ben punched and shook him. “God damn it, wake up!” Reuben made an empty noise. “Raid! It’s the French!” Reuben leaped under his hand, comprehending. “Here!—your britches. Your shoes—no, bugger it, these’re mine, where’d you put yours?” Ben slammed his forehead on the foot of the bed, searching; his nightshirt tripped him and he flung it off. A floor-splinter lanced fire into his knee. He heard two thuds, one below the window, the other in the same instant on the opposite wall. “Ru!”
“Leave off shouting, Ben.”
“That bullet—”
“What bullet?”
“Never mind. Will you tell me where your shoes are?”
Reuben could not answer. Joseph Cory’s voice fumed at the foot of the stairs: “Come down! Coats—don’t forget your coats!”
Ben shouted: “We’re coming!” He pursued the shoes under the fallen bed-cover. He found his own breeches and shirt, then his hunting-knife where it always rested on the table by the bed.
Orange glory beyond the window marvelously bloomed, flooding Reuben’s angelic face and thin naked body moving toward the square of light. “Why,” said Reuben—“why, the cods’re burning us!”
“God’s mercy, get away from that window!”
He had to pull Reuben from it; force the shoes on his feet and find armholes for him. Father was calling again. Ben hustled his brother to the head of the stairs. “Stay here. I’ll get the coats.”
The room shimmered. Red-black ghosts in a swirling jig hid the coats, defying Ben to come get them and fall on his face. He got them; then he too was drawn against his will to the window.
The fire danced on his left, the heart of it out of sight—west and south, beyond the training field, the Hawks house perhaps. North, near the meeting-house, a confusion of shapes under gunfire was twisting toward some climax. Five fire-tinted men broke away, soundless to Ben, moving with apparent slowness. One leaped forward in mid-stride to drop in the white; his arms sought each other above his head, scooping the snow as if he would embrace it, or climb like a hurt bug up the side of a world for him overturned.
The others disregarded him, plunging toward the Cory house. Reuben was trying to speak. “I’m here, Ru. We must go down—could be trapped.” Reuben mumbled something. “What?”
“Ben, I must—”
“God damn it, don’t be looking for the pot, use the floor, if they burn us who’s to care?” Ben called again to his father, but his voice was swallowed by a bang. Not his father’s gun—Jesse Plum’s musket, a piece of trash the old man had picked up at third or fourth hand, likely to shoot anywhere but forward. “Come on, Ru!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Your coat. Here—I’ll button it for you.”
“Ben, I didn’t pray tonight, nor I didn’t forget neither.”
“What? Oh, put on your coat!”
“I didn’t pray.”
Ben forced the boy’s arms into the coat and lifted him, amazed at his own strength, at the sureness of his feet on invisible stair-treads. “Ru, you deceive yourself.”
“Mr. Williams saith that without prayer—”
“Ru, be still!”
Jesse’s wretched gun slammed again, a different sound, a spattering clang, followed by the stridency of Jesse cursing and weeping.
Ben’s mouth brushed Reuben’s cheek; he tried to say something reassuring. How could even a child suppose the disaster was on his account? What of all those in Deerfield who did pray? He supposed Reuben would presently recover his wits, and set him down, but held him still in the hollow of his arm.
No true dark prevailed here in the entry facing south. The front room’s west window admitted the glare of the burning, showing the empty four-poster. Ben’s father was a specter in a nightshirt, cursing himself for not having locked the shutters. “Where’s Mother?”
“In the hall.” That was the name for the rear room, kitchen-parlor-workroom, heart of the little house. “Go to her, Reuben.” Ben let him go. The brass face of the clock blurred in its tall oaken cabinet; Ben could not make it out. His time-sense said it was near dawn.
Outside the front door voices set up a gobbling not in French. Joseph Cory yelled: “I hear you, God damn you!” And to Ben, quietly: “See to Jesse, I think his gun blowed. Find out if you will.”
If you will—he had never spoken so to Ben before. Ben groped through the doorway between the rooms; Reuben was shivering there alone. Ben found his mother and Jesse Plum in the hall, Jesse swinging his gaunt arms, one bare, the other trailing a wisp of nightshirt. The old man was fending her off. “Don’t impede me, Goody Cory! ’Tis a nothing—leave me fetch my axe!” He lurched clear of her helpless hands, and Ben glimpsed his right side where the nightshirt had been blasted away—cooked meat. A piece of the gun-barrel stuck from a crack in the wall. Jesse seemed unaware of pain.
“Let him be, Mother. Come away from the windows!” She heard, understood, came to him. Jesse plunged into the woodshed and returned with his axe dangling.
“A nothing!” Jesse hooted. The little blue eyes burned above a mad smile. “I’ll hold this side, Goody Cory. They won’t pass, not by me. I’ll see their guts cheese and the dogs eating it.” He raved on. Ben hurried back to his father.
“Look!”
Only a blot with eyes, at the west window. In wide fluid motion like the final leap of a cat, Joseph Cory swung his gun and fired. The thing toppled away. Below the ridiculous starred hole in the glass a choking body began a gradual dying.
“You got him.”
“I got him,” said Joseph Cory, and turned on his son a sickened face Ben had never known. “What of Jesse?” The choking continued. Goodman Cory’s voice climbed, beating down that noise: “Speak up, boy!”
“His gun did blow, he’s hurt but not down. He fetched his axe. I think he knows what he’s doing.”
Goodman Cory reloaded the gun. “Ben, I’m weak.” The choking became a bubbling squeal. Goodman Cory stumbled toward the window.
Ben’s mother was kneeling in the doorway between the rooms, Reuben clutched in her arms, her cheek against his head. She was praying. The light of the fires showed Ben her moving lips, her dark eyes that now and then sought
for him, too. Goodman Cory had halted short of the window, crucified by uncertainty, the flintlock a stiff burden. “Ben,” he said—“Ben, hear me.…”
The crash of an axe against the oaken door blotted out at last the clamor of a man strangling in his own blood. But Ben could still hear his mother praying.
“A stone axe, not steel,” said Joseph Cory, and nodded to Ben as one man to another. “No good against our oak.”
“Will you shoot through the door?”
“…and forgive us our trespasses…”
“Nay—only waste a bullet. Ben, thou art a man—if I’m lost, take care of thy mother and Reuben. Be ready. Readiness—I mean alway—later—all thy life—readiness, wherein I’ve failed.”
“You’ve not failed.”
“No time for kindness.” He shook Ben’s arm. “Ben—if God liveth he is far away.”
“…for thine is the kingdom…”
“Ben, hear me,” said Goodman Cory. “I say God is far away, no whit concerned with man.”
“Deliver us,” said Adna Cory—“deliver us from evil.…”
“I wanted learning, Ben. Find more than I did.”
The good oak was barely quivering under the petulant fury of the stone axe. “But Father, you know so much—”
“I? Learning—oh, a key to so many doors! Why, I never found but a few, sniffing at the threshold, a fool, a bumpkin. And Reuben must find learning too.” He pulled Ben close, crouching, whispering: “Ben, hear me. I fear for Reuben. I pray you, keep him from being too much wounded. I can’t understand him, Ben. Thou art mine own, I know thee—while he—nay, I haven’t words.…”
“But Father, you will—”
The pounding ceased. Sudden footsteps thumped rhythmically on snow. Something different smashed against the oak with the gross dullness of the invincible. Goodman Cory pushed his son into the front room. “The devils have found a log. Why, Ben, I shall live if I may.”
The Edgar Pangborn Megapack Page 66
