The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 2

by Donald Harington

  Pounding the wheat by hand with the Indian mortar and pestle was a lot of work, taking hours and hours, and then Adam said it would have to be sieved, and he helped her fashion a sieve from a tin can with nail holes punched in the bottom, which was slow but it worked. In the box of kitchen gadgets Sugrue had brought from home was one of those old tin hand-crank flour sifters, and when she got through using that she discovered that she had enough flour to make at least one loaf of bread, and maybe a pie.

  But when she got up one morning to light a fire in the kitchen stove so she could bake that loaf of bread, she discovered that she was out of matches. There had been several boxes of Diamond “Strike Anywhere” Kitchen Matches, but she had used one or two whenever she wanted to light a fire or a lantern or even a candle, and now she was all out! And winter was coming on and it was cold in the house!

  “ADAM!” she yelled. “How can I start a fire?”

  This time, thank heavens, he came when he was called. Put on your coat, silly, he said. He could say that, not ever feeling cold or hot himself.

  “I have to light a fire in the stove!” she said. “And I’m all out of matches!”

  I don’t have ary a match, he said.

  “You don’t have ary a anything!” she mocked his language. She had once asked him what “ary” meant, and he said he figured it was just a way of saying the old-time “ever a” or “e’er a”.

  “How did you make a new fire when you ran out?” she asked.

  We didn’t never run out. It’s terrible bad luck to let a fire go out, and it never happened to us.

  “But didn’t you ever make a fire without matches? The way the Boy Scouts do or whatever? Rub a couple or sticks together or something?”

  What’s Boy Scouts? he wanted to know. Naw, but one time I lit the forge in the shop with a kind of bow drill like the Indians made. Let’s see if that there bow drill aint still anywheres about.

  But it wasn’t. They searched through all the stuff in the shop and even with her coat on she was getting very cold. Many days later she remembered that Sugrue had possessed a pocket lighter that he lit his cigarettes with, and she went to the outhouse and searched in the remains of his disintegrating trousers on the floor, managing to say “ew” not more than a couple of times, and found the Zippo lighter. But that was many days later, and now she was cold and eager to get the oven ready for some bread.

  Listen careful, Adam said, and I’ll try and tell ye how to fashion a bow drill. It aint near as hard as making a firkin.

  It took some whittling of an Osage orange branch, the type of tree that left those big inedible (except by Ralgrub, who loved them) horse apples all over the ground, the tree that got its name from the fact the Osages who’d lived and hunted hereabouts (years after the Bluff-dwellers had died out) made their bows and arrows out of it. She made the bow drill’s bow out of that, and also the spindle. The bearing block she made from an oak barrel stave which she drilled with the bung-borer, an augur Adam said was used to make the bungholes in barrels.

  The idea was fairly simple, and all she needed now was something for a little bundle of tinder. Adam said the fluff of cattail was the best thing, but that not being within hiking distance, she substituted the fluff of a milkweed pod (It’s called butterfly weed, Adam explained, and it’s good for all kinds of things). The idea was to wrap the bow’s string around the spindle and saw back and forth to set the spindle spinning in the hole of the bearing block until it charred and then the hearth board began to smoke as the char dust ignited into a coal, and the red coal was dumped onto the milkweed down of the tinder bundle, which you blew upon until it burst into flames.

  Although the idea was fairly simple, it took Robin most of the day to make it work. By the time she got the tinder bundle burning and carried it into the house and put it in the kindling in the stove, it was too late to make the bread that day, but at least if she kept the fire burning and never let it go out completely for the rest of the winter, she’d have no problems. She was proud of herself for making fire. She understood how the very first people who lived must have felt when they learned how to make fire. But she understood she’d never have been able to do it without Adam.

  She left the woodstove in the living room burning all night. It was a cold night, but she did not let the animals into the house. There were too many of them, and while Ralgrub was still young and practically helpless it wouldn’t be fair to let her spend the night in the house if none of the others could, and it wouldn’t be smart to let all those dogs into the house. “You understand, don’t you, Hreapha?” Robin said, and Hreapha was content to spend the night in her usual spot, a hole she’d dug in the earthen floor of the barrel shop, out of the wind. As for Robert, he never came around at night any more anyway. Wherever he spent the night, he was all worn out the next day, and spent the whole day sleeping on the porch.

  Robin slept alone now, and usually it didn’t bother her too much, but occasionally she felt lonely. She’d not forgotten Paddington, and ached to have him with her. Sometimes, even, she recalled how nice it had been to go to sleep lying snuggled with Sugrue. One evening she spoke aloud, “Adam, would you like to sleep with me?” But, as so often was the case, she got no answer. It didn’t matter. Even if he had answered, and said he’d be glad to sleep with her, she wouldn’t know he was there. She wouldn’t be able to feel him. She’d just have to pretend that they were snuggling up and keeping each other warm…but no, his body wouldn’t be warm because he didn’t have any body.

  Sometimes he occupied her dreams. She had never seen him by day nor even made any attempt to imagine what he looked like, but he was clearly visible in her dreams, a tall boy of twelve in overalls with an unruly shock of brown hair and a very nice face. She could almost touch him. In fact, she did touch him in her dreams. It seems she kissed him, and hugged him. He was very bashful, and blushed a lot. When she wasn’t dreaming about Adam, usually her dreams went bad, and involved being lost in the woods and pursued by animals that wanted to eat her, or fires or tornadoes. Her ninth year included a lot of nightmares, from which she sometimes woke up screaming or crying for her mommy. She also knew that when she read the horror stories in the Bible—the beheading of John the Baptist, Absalom accidentally hanging himself, Moab making lime out of the king’s skeleton (did she need any lime for anything?), the murder of the daughter of Jephthah, and David killing Goliath not once but twice—these stories would give her nightmares, and she tried to stop reading whenever she came to one of those parts of the Bible. The few times she had really nice dreams, often involving Adam, were mostly just before waking in the mornings, so that she had trouble waking up and wanted to go back to sleep and return to the dream.

  Often in her ninth year she repeated her invitation, “Adam, would you like to sleep with me?”

  Finally when warm weather had returned she got a reply. Gal, I don’t never sleep.

  “Oh,” she said, and thought about that. “There’s no bed in your bedroom,” she observed. But he didn’t seem to spend any time in that room anyhow. She couldn’t imagine how anybody, not even an in-habit, could stay awake constantly all the time. “Don’t you ever get bored?” she asked.

  What’s bored? Bored is when you caint find something to keep you curious. So long as there’s anything going on in the world, I’ll never be bored.

  “But what’s going on in the world? Nothing ever happens around here.”

  She heard his scoffing laughter. You just aint looking for it. Or you caint see it. Or caint hear it. Or caint taste it or smell it or feel it. Why, there aint a moment goes by that something wondrous don’t occur.

  “Like what?”

  Like a orange garden spider building her web. Or like the wind a-slewing through the cedars. Or the sound of them dogs afar off a-hrolfing and a-hrothgaring as they chase their game. Or the lightning bugs all over the meader at dusky dark. Or the fine smell of oak wood fresh cut. Or the sweet breeze that puffs from your nose when you’re a-sleep
ing.

  “So you watch me when I’m sleeping?” she wanted to know. Her breath caught and she felt uneasy.

  Iffen I don’t have nothing better to watch. Which aint too often.

  “And you watch me when I go to the bathroom?” She didn’t mean bathroom, because there wasn’t one, and she didn’t mean when she was taking a bath, although she did mean that too, except that she didn’t take a bath very often.

  He did not answer, which she took to mean that he did. But somehow her sense of modesty, what little was left of it, wasn’t offended. Being watched by an invisible in-habit isn’t nearly as embarrassing as being watched by someone who has real eyes. And since she rarely wore any clothes any more when it was warm, and had outgrown all her clothes anyhow, her going naked made her less and less self-conscious about it. In fact she felt more self-conscious when she had to dress against cold: when it was cold she had to try to squeeze into an outgrown coat or else wear something of Sugrue’s that was too big for her. She had thought about taking the scissors and the needle-and-thread and cutting down some his garments to make them fit her, but she wisely realized it would be better to just wait until she grew into them, and meanwhile she went without clothing in warm weather and made do with whatever would fit or wrap around her in cold weather. None of her shoes fit any more, and all of Sugrue’s were much too big for her, but she wore them if she had to walk in the snow. Otherwise she went barefoot all the time.

  Chapter thirty-three

  As she had planned, Hreapha gave Robin a snake for her tenth birthday. It wasn’t easy. She wasn’t at all certain that Robin would even appreciate the gift, because a snake, even a baby snake, is not in the least cuddly and cute. But she discussed the matter with the in-habit, and while he was amused at the idea of giving someone a snake for a birthday present, he knew there might be obstacles to overcome in the way of fomenting a bond between Robin and her newest pet. King snakes, he said, were known to live to a ripe old age, sometimes twenty years or more, and would Robin want to keep a slithery reptile on the premises for that long a time?

  But come to think on it, he allowed, maybe it’s high time she learnt that pets don’t have to be furry and cuddlesome.

  Hreapha offered to present the snake to Robin as a birthday present from them all, including the in-habit, who was not physically able to present Robin with birthday gifts, and had not yet done so.

  By the way, Hreapha asked him, when is your own birthday? It’s not right for us to honor Robin each year and ignore your birthday.

  I aint got ary, he said. Ole Adam has one, which is right before Christmas, but I’m jist his remainder, don’t ye know? I don’t never get no older, so I don’t have birthdays.

  Do you mean you’ll be twelve all your life? Hreapha asked him.

  The in-habit chuckled. All my “life” aint exactly the way to put it. But I’ll never change a whit.

  That August, without leaving his haunt, that is, within barking distance of the house, the in-habit helped Hreapha find a rotting stump where a mother king snake (Ort to be called a queen snake, I reckon) had laid a clutch of nearly a dozen eggs in a pile of loose damp stuff. The oblong eggshells were white like chicken eggs, but not brittle; they were tough and leathery.

  How do you know the eggs are king snakes’ and not rattlesnakes’ or copperheads’? Hreapha asked.

  Them pizen snakes don’t lay no eggs. They just have live babies the same way you do.

  Hreapha told all her offspring about the plan for Mistress’ birthday, and asked them to take turns watching the snake eggs to see when they hatched.

  Shoot far, exclaimed Hrolf. What if the mother snake comes around to keep a watch on her eggs?

  The in-habit explained that snake mothers don’t ever pay any attention to their eggs once they’re laid, nor do the baby snakes ever get any attention from their parents. Pore things is all on their own. He also explained how the baby snake has a tiny but sharp “egg tooth” on the tip of its snout which it uses to slit the eggshell so it can escape.

  Of the dogs, only Hruschka would have nothing to do with the eggs, for she had a morbid fear of snakes that she would never overcome. Hreapha herself was on watch when the first hatchling emerged, so tiny, hardly bigger than a worm, and totally helpless. How do they nurse? Hreapha wanted to know.

  They sure don’t drink milk, not that I know of. By and by they’ll be able to catch little critters and eat ’em, but for now your best bet is to see if you caint find some baby mice to feed ’em. Or little lizards. Or tree frogs.

  Hreapha instructed her dogs to help in rounding up sufficient lizards, frogs and baby mice to feed the newly hatched snakes. They left the snakes alone with their food overnight, because snakes don’t like to be disturbed while they’re feeding.

  Hreapha then had to decide which one of the several hatchlings to capture and present to Robin. Do we want a male snake or a female snake? she asked the in-habit. And how can I tell them apart?

  Iffen I had fingers and thumbs I could tell ye, he said. And you don’t have fingers nor thumbs neither. Ralgrub has got ’em, and I could try to explain to her how to sex a snake, but maybe you’d better just take your chances on getting a female.

  Why a female?

  Hreapha could hear the in-habit hemming and hawing. Being the smartest of the animals hereabouts did not endow her with the ability to understand right away what would eventually occur to her: that a snake, being symbolically phallic, would be even more suggestive as a male. Especially to a ten-year-old girl who was just a year or two short of puberty, and who spent all the hot summer in a state of nakedness like all the other creatures on the place (except possibly the in-habit, and Hreapha decided that invisible clothing didn’t count anyhow). Robin was as totally lacking in self-consciousness about her nakedness as she was about her singing. She had a lovely voice, and she sang all the time, although more often than not she did not sing any actual words of a song, but just pure tones in some kind of melodic chant. Her voice must have carried to the far reaches of the haunt. Except for Hrolf, who seemed to appreciate it, and of course Hrolf’s mother, the other dogs found Robin’s singing objectionable, and usually ran off into the woods to get away from it.

  If Hreapha had given full thought to the sexual allusions of snakes, she’d have gone ahead with her plan to give Robin a fawn for her birthday. But she’d already gone to the trouble to prepare a cage of sorts for the new pet: there was a discarded two-gallon glass jar in the trash that the garbage detail would have buried, but Hreapha rescued it, and rolled it with her nose out to one of the stalls in the barn, where she managed, with help from Hrolf, to get it into a vertical position. Now that the bunch of baby snakes had been more than adequately fed as a result of all the dogs’ round-up of tiny rodents and reptiles and amphibians, to the extent that they were beginning to crawl away from their nest, Hreapha selected the prettiest hatchling, to the extent that snakes can be pretty, and, hoping it was female, transported it gently in her jaws to its new home in the glass jar in the barn. For the next few weeks the dogs regularly dropped assorted baby mice, lizards, and frogs into the jar, until Robin turned ten.

  Ma! hollered Hrolf one morning. That snake has done turned itself inside out!

  The in-habit was summoned to inspect the damage, which wasn’t damage after all but simply, according to the in-habit, a shedding of the skin, and the snake would shed its skin once again before Robin’s birthday. The in-habit explained to them all that it was the only way the snake could grow. It had to shed its skin to get larger. And they were feeding it so much that it was getting large fast. It looked already like a miniature version of the six-footer it would become; it had the same markings: black with white and yellow crossbands that forked on the sides and ran into each other. It was indeed a pretty creature.

  The day arrived for Robin’s birthday, and the in-habit persuaded her to use one of the last boxes of cake mix to make herself a birthday cake. Hreapha overheard their conversation.

/>   “That would be selfish,” Robin said. “Making a birthday cake for yourself.”

  How’s that any more selfish than anything else you do for yourself that you have to do because there’s nobody to do it for you?

  All the inhabitants, including the in-habit, were invited to the birthday party, and each was given a piece of the cake. Ralgrub and Robert especially enjoyed the cake, and the dogs, although they didn’t have sweet teeth, dutifully ate a piece each.

  Robin cut one more piece and held it up to the air. “This is your piece, Adam, but I’ll just have to eat it for you.” And she ate Adam’s piece.

  Mmmm, moaned the in-habit, that was sure scrumdiddlyumptious. And now if you’ll kindly foller your dogs out to the barn, they’ve got a real present for you.

  “Oh, really?” said Robin. She heeded the invitation and followed them out to the barn.

  “Hreapha! Hreapha!” exclaimed Hreapha, that is, Happy Birthday! And just look what we’ve got for you!

  “Eeek!” exclaimed Robin. “It’s a snake!” And she backed away from the glass jar.

  Hit’s a shore-enough king snake, said the in-habit. The masterest snake there is. Won’t do you no harm, but it’ll slay any pizen snakes that try to come around. Some folks call it a chain snake on account of them markings that look like links in a chain.

  “What kind of birthday present is a snake?” Robin demanded. “I can’t pet it.”

  Pet it all you like, said the in-habit. Go ahead, stick your hand in the jar and take aholt of it real gentle-like. I guarantee she won’t bite you.

  “She?” said Robin. “Is it a girl snake?” Robin slowly and cautiously put her hand into the jar and took hold of the snake and lifted it out of the jar and cradled it in her arms the same way she would cradle any other infant. The snake squirmed and wiggled to get loose from her grasp, but it soon settled down.