Sartoris

by William Faulkner

  But his days were filled, at least, and he discovered pride again. Nowadays he drove the car into town to fetch his grandfather from habit alone, and though he still considered forty-five miles an hour merely cruising speed, he no longer took cold and fiendish pleasure in turning curves on two wheels or detaching mules from wagons by striking the whiffletrees with his bumper in passing. Old Bayard still insisted on riding with him when he must ride, but with freer breath, and once he aired to Miss Jenny his growing belief that at last young Bayard had outworn his seeking for violent destruction.

  Miss Jenny, being a true optimist—that is, expecting the worst at all times and so being daily agreeably surprised—promptly disillusioned him. Meanwhile she made young Bayard drink plenty of milk and otherwise superintended his diet and hours in her martinetish way, and at times she entered his room at night and sat for a while beside the bed where he slept.

  Nevertheless young Bayard improved in his ways. Without being aware of the progress of it he had become submerged in a monotony of days, had been snared by a rhythm of activities repeated and repeated until his muscles grew so familiar with them as to get his body through the days without assistance from him at all. He had been so neatly tricked by earth, that ancient Delilah, that he was not aware that his locks were shorn, was not aware that Miss Jenny and old Bayard were wondering how long it would be before they grew out again. “He needs a wife,” was Miss Jenny’s thought; “then maybe he’ll stay sheared. A young person to worry with him,” she said to herself; “Bayard’s too old, and I’ve got too much to do to worry with the long devil.”

  He saw Narcissa about the house now and then, sometimes at the table these days, and he still felt her shrinking and her distaste, and at times Miss Jenny sat watching the two of them with a sort of speculation and an exasperation with their seeming obliviousness of one another. “He treats her like a dog would treat a cut-glass pitcher, and she looks at him like a cut-glass pitcher would look at a dog,” she told herself.

  Then sowing-time was over and it was summer, and he found himself with nothing to do. It was like coming dazed out of sleep, out of the warm, sunny valleys where people lived into a region where cold peaks of savage despair stood bleakly above the lost valleys, among black and savage stars.

  The road descended in a quiet red curve between pines through which the hot July winds swelled with a long sound like a far-away passing of trains, descended to a mass of lighter green of willows, where a creek ran beneath a stone bridge. At the top of the grade the scrubby, rabbitlike mules stopped, and the younger negro got down and lifted a gnawed white-oak sapling from the wagon and locked the off rear wheel by wedging the pole between the warped, wire-bound spokes of it and across the axle tree. Then he climbed back into the crazy wagon, where the other negro sat motionless with the rope-spliced reins in his hand and his head tilted creekward. “Whut ’uz dat?” he said.

  “Whut wus whut?” the other asked. His father sat in his attitude of arrested attention, and the young negro listened also. But there was no further sound save the long sough of the wind among the sober pines and the liquid whistling of a quail somewhere among the green fastnesses of them. “Whut you hear, pappy?” he repeated.

  “Somethin’ busted down dar. Tree fell, maybe.” He jerked the reins. “Hwup, mules.” The mules flapped their jack-rabbit ears and lurched the wagon into motion and they descended among cool, dappled shadows, on the jarring scrape of the locked wheel that left behind it a glazed bluish ribbon in the soft red dust. At the foot of the hill the road crossed the bridge and went on mounting again; beneath the bridge the creek rippled and flashed brownly among willows, and beside the bridge and bottom up in the water, a motorcar lay. Its front wheels were still spinning and the engine ran at idling speed, trailing a faint shimmer of exhaust. The older negro drove on to the bridge and stopped, and the two of them sat and stared statically down upon the car’s long belly. The young negro spoke suddenly.

  “Dar he is! He in de water under hit. I kin see his foots stickin’ out.”

  “He liable ter drown, dar,” the other said, with interest and disapproval, and they descended from the wagon. The young negro slid down the creek bank. The other wrapped the reins deliberately about one of the stakes that held the bed on the frame and thrust his peeled hickory goad beneath the seat, and went around and dragged the pole free of the locked wheel and put it in the wagon. Then he also slid gingerly down the bank to where his son squatted, peering at Bayard’s submerged legs.

  “Don’t you git too clost ter dat thing, boy,” he commanded. “Hit mought blow up. Don’t you hear it still grindin’ in dar?”

  “We got to git dat man out,” the young one replied. “He gwine drown.”

  “Don’t you tech ’im. White folks be sayin’ we done it. We gwine wait right here ’twell some white man comes erlong.”

  “He’ll drown ’fo dat,” the other said, “layin’ in dat water.” He was barefoot, and he stepped into the water and stood again with brown flashing wings of water stemming about his lean black calves.

  “You, John Henry!” his father said. “You come ’way fum dat thing.”

  “We got to git ’im outen dar,” the boy repeated, and the one in the water and the other on the bank, they wrangled amicably while the water rippled about Bayard’s boot toes. Then the young negro approached warily and caught Bayard’s leg and tugged at it. The body responded, shifted, stopped again, and grunting querulously, the older negro sat and removed his shoes and stepped into the water also. “He hung again,” John Henry said, squatting in the water with his arms beneath the car. “He hung under de guidin’-wheel. His haid ain’t quite under water, dough. Lemme git de pole.”

  He mounted the bank and got the sapling from the wagon and returned and joined his father where the other stood in sober, curious disapproval above Bayard’s legs, and with the pole they lifted the car enough to drag Bayard out. They lifted him on to the bank and he sprawled there in the sun, with his calm, wet face and his matted hair, while water drained out of his boots, and they stood above him on alternate legs and wrung out their overalls.

  “Hit’s Cunnel Sartoris’s boy, ain’t it?” the elder said at last, and he lowered himself stiffly to the sand, groaning and grunting, and donned his shoes.

  “Yessuh,” the other answered. “Is he daid, pappy?”

  “Co’se he is,” the elder answered pettishly. “Atter dat otto’bile jumped offen dat bridge wid ’im en den trompled ’im in de creek? Whut you reckon he is ef he ain’t daid? And whut you gwine say when de law axes you how come you de onliest one dat foun’ ’im daid? Tell me dat.”

  “Tell ’um you holp me.”

  “Hit ain’t none of my business. I never run dat thing offen dat bridge. Listen at it dar, mumblin’ and grindin’ yit. You git on ’fo’ hit blows up.”

  “We better git ’im into town,” John Henry said. “Dey mought not nobody else be comin’ ’long today.” He stooped and lifted Bayard’s shoulders and tugged him to a sitting position. “He’p me git ’im up de bank, pappy.”

  “Hit ain’t none o’ my business,” the other repeated. But he stooped and picked up Bayard’s legs and they lifted him, and he groaned without waking.

  “Dar, now,” John Henry exclaimed. “Hear dat? He ain’t daid.” But he might well have been, with his long, inert body and his head wrung excruciatingly against John Henry’s shoulder. They shifted their grip and turned toward the road. “Hah!” John Henry exclaimed. “Le’s go!”

  They struggled up the shaling bank with him and on to the road, where the elder let his end of the burden slip to the ground. “Whuf.” He expelled his breath sharply. “He heavy ez a flou’ bar’l.”

  “Come on, pappy,” John Henry said, “le’s git ’im in de waggin.” The other stooped again, and they raised Bayard with dust caked redly on his wet thighs and heaved him by grunting stages into the
wagon. “He look like a daid man,” John Henry added, “and he sho’ do ack like one. I’ll ride back here wid ’im and keep his haid fum bumpin’.”

  “Git dat brakin’ pole you lef’ in de creek,” his father ordered, and John Henry descended and retrieved the sapling and got in the wagon again and lifted Bayard’s head on to his knees. His father unwrapped the reins and mounted to the sagging seat and picked up his peeled wand.

  “I don’t like dis kin’ o’ traffickin’,” he repeated. “Hwup, mules.” The mules lurched the wagon into motion once more, and they went on. Behind them the car lay on its back in the creek, its engine still muttering at idling speed.

  Its owner lay m the springless wagon, lax and inert with the jolting of it. Thus for some miles, while John Henry held his battered straw hat between the white man’s face and the sun. Then the jolting penetrated into that region where Bayard lay, and he groaned again.

  “Drive slower, pappy,” John Henry said. “De joltin’s wakin’ ’im up.”

  “I can’t help dat,” the elder replied; “I never run dat ottobile offen de bridge. I got to git on into town en git on back home. Git on dar, mules.”

  John Henry made to ease him to the jolting, and Bayard groaned again and raised his hand to his chest. He moved and opened his eyes. But he closed them immediately against the sun, and he lay with his head on John Henry’s knees, cursing. Then he moved again, trying to sit up. John Henry held him down, and he opened his eyes again, struggling.

  “Let go, God damn you!” he said. “I’m hurt.”

  “Yessuh, Captain, ef you’ll jes’ lay still—”

  Bayard heaved himself violently, clutching his side; his teeth glared between his drawn lips and he gripped John Henry’s shoulder with a clutch like steel hooks. “Stop!” he shouted, glaring wildly at the back of the older negro’s head. “Stop him; make him stop! He’s driving my damn ribs right through me.” He cursed again, trying to get on to his knees, gripping John Henry’s shoulder, clutching his side with the other hand. The older negro turned and looked back at him. “Hit him with something!” Bayard shouted. “Make him stop. I’m hurt, God damn it!”

  The wagon stopped. Bayard was now on all fours, his head hanging and swaying from side to side like a wounded beast’s. The two negroes watched him quietly, and still clutching his side, he moved and essayed to climb out of the wagon. John Henry jumped down and helped him, and he got slowly out and leaned against the wheel, with his sweating, bloodless face and his clenched grin.

  “Git back into de waggin, Captain,” John Henry said, “and le’s git to town to de doctor.”

  The color seemed to have drained from his eyes too. He leaned against the wagon, moistening his lips with his tongue. He moved again and sat down at the roadside, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. The two negroes watched him.

  “Got a knife, son?” he asked.

  “Yessuh.” John Henry produced it, and by Bayard’s direction he slit the shirt off. Then with the negro’s help Bayard bound it tightly about his body. He got to his feet.

  “Got a cigarette?”

  John Henry had not. “Pappy got some chewin’-terbacker,” he suggested.

  “Gimme a chew, then.” They gave him a chew and helped him back into the wagon and on to the seat. The other negro took up the lines. They jingled and rattled interminably on in the red dust, from shadow to sunlight, uphill and down. Bayard clutched his chest with his arms and chewed and cursed steadily. On and on, and at every jolt, with every breath, his broken ribs stabbed and probed into his flesh; on and on from shadow to sunlight and into shadow again.

  A final hill, and the road emerged from the shade and crossed the flat, treeless valley and joined the highway. Here they stopped, the sun blazing downward on his naked shoulders and bare head, while he and the old negro wrangled as to whether they should take Bayard home or not. Bayard raged and swore, but the other was querulously adamant, whereupon Bayard took the reins from his hand and swung the mules up the valley and with the end of the reins lashed the astonished creatures into mad motion.

  This last mile was the worst of all. On all sides of them cultivated fields spread away to the shimmering hills. Earth was saturated with heat and broken and turned and saturated again and drunken with it, exuding heat like an alcoholic’s breath. The trees along the road were sparse and but half grown, and the mules slowed to a maddening walk in their own dust. He surrendered the reins again, and in a red doze he clung to the seat, conscious only of dreadful thirst, knowing that he was becoming light-headed. The negroes too realized that he was going out at his head, and the young one removed his frayed hat and Bayard put it on.

  The mules with their comical, overlarge ears assumed fantastic shapes, merged into other shapes without significance; shifted and merged again. At times it seemed that they were traveling backward, that they would crawl terrifically past the same tree or telephone pole time after time; and it seemed to him that the three of them and the rattling wagon and the two beasts were caught in a senseless treadmill: a motion without progress, forever and to no escape.

  But at last and without his being aware of it, the wagon turned in between the iron gates. Shadow tell upon his naked shoulders and he opened his eyes, and his home swam and floated in a pale mirage. The jolting stopped and the two negroes helped him down and the young one followed him to the steps, holding his arm. But he flung him off and mounted and crossed the veranda. In the hallway, after the outer glare, he could see nothing for a moment, and he stood swaying and a little nauseated, blinking. Then Simon’s eyeballs rolled out of the obscurity.

  “Whut in de Lawd’s name,” Simon said, “is you been into now?”

  “Simon?” he said. He swayed, staggered a little for balance, and blundered into something. “Simon.”

  Simon moved quickly and touched him. “I kep’ tellin’ you dat car ’uz gwine kill you; I kep’ tellin’ you!” Simon slid his arm around Bayard and led him on toward the stairs. But he would not turn here, and they went on down the hall and Simon helped him into the office and he stopped, leaning on a chair.

  “Keys,” he said thickly, “Aunt Jenny. Get drink.”

  “Miss Jenny done gone to town wid Miss Benbow,” Simon answered. “Dey ain’t nobody here, ain’t nobody here a-tall ’cep’ de niggers. I kep tellin’ you!” he moaned again, pawing at Bayard. “Dey ain’t no blood, dough. Come to de sot a and lay down, Mist’ Bayard.”

  Bayard moved again. Simon supported him and he lurched around the chair and slumped into it, clutching his chest. Dey ain’t no blood,” Simon babbled.

  “Keys,” Bayard repeated. “Get the keys.”

  “Yessuh, I’ll git ’um.” But he continued to flap his distracted hands about Bayard until Bayard swore at him and flung him violently off. Still moaning “Dey aint no blood,” Simon turned and scuttled from the room. Bayard sat forward, clutching his chest. He heard Simon mount the stairs and cross the floor overhead. Then he was back, and Bayard watched him open the desk and extract the silver-stoppered decanter. He set it down and scuttled out again and returned with a glass, to find Bayard beside the desk, drinking from the decanter. Simon helped him back to the chair and poured him a drink into the glass. Then he fetched him a cigarette and hovered futilely and distractedly about him. “Lemme git de doctuh, Mist’ Bayard.”

  “No. Gimme another drink.”

  Simon obeyed. “Dat’s three already. Lemme go git Miss Jenny en de doctuh, Mist’ Bayard, please, suh.”

  “No. Leave me alone. Get out of here.”

  He drank that one. The nausea, the mirage shapes, were gone, and he felt better. At every breath his side stabbed him with hot needles, so he was careful to breathe shallowly. If he could only remember that . . . Yes, he felt much better; so he rose carefully and went to the desk and had another drink. Yes, that was the stuff for a wound, like Suratt had sai
d. Like that time he got that tracer in his belly and nothing would stay on his stomach except gin-and-milk. And this, this wasn’t anything: just a few caved slats. Patch up his fuselage with a little piano wire in ten minutes. Not like Johnny. They were all going right into his thighs. Damn butcher wouldn’t even raise his sights a little. He must remember to breathe shallowly.

  He crossed the room slowly. Simon flitted in the dim hall before him, and he mounted the stairs slowly, holding to the rail, while Simon flapped his hands and watched him. He entered his room, the room that had been his and John’s, and he stood for a while against the wall until he could breathe shallowly again. Then he crossed to the closet and opened it, and kneeling carefully, with his hand against his side, he opened the chest which was there.

  There was not much in it: a garment, a small leather-bound book, a shotgun shell to which was attached by a bit of wire a withered bear’s paw. It was John’s first bear, and the shell with which he had killed it in the river bottom near MacCallum’s when he was twelve years old. The book was a New Testament; on the flyleaf in faded brown, “To my son, John, on his seventh birthday, March 16, 1900, from his Mother.” He had one exactly like it; that was the year Grandfather had arranged for the morning local freight to stop and pick them up and take them in to town to start school. The garment was a canvas hunting coat, stained and splotched with what had once been blood, and scuffed and torn by briers and smelling yet faintly of saltpeter.