by John Pipkin
The signs of the fire are everywhere. A heavy smell of charred wood, the bitter tang of immolated flora and fauna, drifts into Concord from the desolate forest and lingers in the air. Even when the wind blows away from town, the smell has so permeated carpets and curtains and clothing and living trees that the evidence of his guilt is discernible. People carry kerchiefs held to nose and mouth like bandits. The townspeople of Concord are grateful to have been spared, but their gratitude is soon overtaken by anger. Henry cannot walk the streets of Concord without suffering icy stares and hearing behind his back the angry, accusing whisper: woodsburner.
People come from Boston to witness the damage and carry black smudges back to the city with them. People come to scavenge. In every home, at every hearth in Concord, a visitor is sure to find a pile of firewood already blackened. Carpenters and cabinetmakers come to the woods and take what little can be saved. The soot makes its way onto hands and faces, shirtfronts, jackets, skirts, and hats. The patrons of Wright's Tavern complain that the taste of their beer is sorely tainted, acrid, and smoky on the palate. For months, even the cleanest Irish whiskey tastes like scotch.
And in the unburned world there are still pencils to be made.
Henry returns to his father's factory, but he knows he must do something more. Woodsburner, they call him. He hears the accusations in his dreams. Woodsburner. The whispers are everywhere, like the drifting ash. Woodsburner. Woodsburner. Henry thinks at first that he will immerse himself in work. He and his father become so successful at concocting their lead mixtures that other pencil-makers demand it. Soon the selling of lead itself becomes more profitable than the tedious manufacturing of pencils. They become lead salesmen, purveyors of the blackest bits of earth.
A pencil made with lead from John Thoreau & Co. is a writer's delight. But that does not save Henry from the scorn of his own conscience. Henry knows that every act is itself a cause, a link in a chain, germinating future effects unforeseen. There is a debt to be paid—for what is taken, for what is lost, for what is carelessly thrown away. Henry thinks of the string of uneaten fish, a sacrifice for no purpose. America is not so stalwart a place as it may seem. The bountiful stores of plumbago and lumber and coal and fish and fur and all the other incomprehensible riches of the continent, riches waiting for industrious men to come along and scoop them up—these things are not endless. Once gone, they are gone for good. Even lifeless clay, taken from the ground, leaves only a hole in its stead. Man's inability to conceive of the world's limits does not render the world limitless. And there is no longer a new world for the empty-handed to flee to from here.
The vast wilderness that covered the shores of the New World seemed impenetrable until they built a city. The hills and rivers of Boston seemed immovable until they leveled and filled them. Concord was an outpost in the wilderness until it grew to devour its landscape, like an actor kicking away his props. And then the fire took its portion of what little remained. Henry David Thoreau knows he must atone. He has seen the swiftness and finality of loss. There are wildernesses still, and what was lost at Concord might yet return, if it knows that its return will be safeguarded. Henry cannot live among men now, cannot give his time—always in short supply—to those who call him woodsburner as if this were all he will ever be. He will seek out what is not yet lost. He will help other men grasp the limits of the seemingly infinite; he will look to nature for instruction.
There is nothing left in the blackened woods to sustain a man, Henry thinks, but there is another place he might go. Adjacent to the devastation, the woods at Walden Pond did not burn. Through those green and budding trees, he might watch the lonely charred trunks nearby, offer meek consolation as they wait for the spring that will not come. Together, Henry and Waldo have often mourned the distressing number of trees felled each year at the pond, and Waldo has hinted that he might purchase a parcel of the land himself in order to protect the beautiful surroundings from further abuse. Walden, Henry thinks, would serve as good a place as any to settle down by himself. The privacy and stillness might even grant him opportunity, at last, to make a book from the notes and sketches he collected with his brother during their trip on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. Henry knows what he must do. He will turn his back to those who would call him woodsburner. He will build a simple cabin near the pond, perhaps, and study nature's infinitesimal beauties, as frail as they are profuse. He will commiserate with displaced creatures, tend to the injured woodlands until they revive. And, if they will have him, he will become their steward.
37
Oddmund
He will build them a fire, unafraid.
They are running through the trees with no sense of urgency or fear. Their footfalls are light, their course without direction. West, perhaps, is their general heading, but they have sacrificed their bearing to giddiness. Euphoria consumes any sense of direction that might have guided their steps. They run as if in chase, though pursuer and pursued are the same, roles they exchange through embrace or glance; to catch and to be caught reaps the same reward.
It is Emma's turn to follow now, and she runs with a lightness that surprises. She holds her arms around herself to support her bulk, but does so more out of habit than need. Beneath her dress she wears the undergarment that she fashioned out of a dismembered corset and her husband's old handkerchiefs. The tight lacing and the whalebone do her hugging for her, hold her bosom close as she hops gracelessly over a rock. Then he reaches back for her, grabs her elbows, and slingshots her forward. They switch places, and it is her turn to lead them nowhere.
Odd does not care where they are headed. Almost any direction, any direction but east, will take them someplace new, someplace to start over.
Emma's final vision of her husband will fade. The word itself is already foreign to her: husband. Will its meaning transfer to wherever they are going, or can time and distance divorce the word from its object? She can see Cyrus Woburn in the fading image she carries. She imagines him still sleeping where she left him, stupefied by drink in the chair by the fireplace, the fire in the hearth an unusual color, more blue than yellow, his watery eyes half open and not seeing, an empty bottle on his lap, and in his hand the last of her expensive books. In the fire, the doomed pages of a splayed book curl into ash, one at a time, as if the flames were taking the time to read what they consumed. Around the chair and in his lap are the dozen or so cards with lewd illustrations that Emma retrieved from their hiding places and flung in his face when he staggered into their home so drunk that she could not fathom how he had made the trip without leading his horses into a ditch. When she confronted him with the cards he struck her, for the first and last time, and then he lurched toward her bookcase as she cowered in a corner and wept.
Emma will never know what she might have been driven to do after her husband had fallen into the chair by the fire, insensible at last. She might have flown into a rage, reached for the nearby poker, dragged his feet into the fire, grabbed the empty bottle and smashed it over his head. Not until Odd arrived did she realize that her shaking hand was clutching the kitchen knife so tightly that she had cut her own palm. She might have committed any number of irreversible deeds had Odd not come at that very moment, clothes torn and scorched, bleeding, blistered, wild-eyed. She noticed straightaway that he stood differently and walked toward her as if his feet owned the places they trod. He touched her gently.
Without hesitating, he said quietly, “We will go now.”
Odd had not known what he would find when he arrived, but he knew what he wanted. He had walked through fire to embrace those wants, and he was confident of the consequences. He had no right to hope for success, but he knew what he must do. He knew he would start over, though there would be no need to cross oceans or change names. They are running, but not fleeing.
Emma is happier than she has ever been. She has never run like this, has never known what it is like to be chosen by someone who does not expect her to be grateful for the choosing. She can ba
rely keep from leaping in her stride, weightless with happiness. Odd knows where he is going. He pretends he does not, but she knows him better than that. He is a careful man, a man to be trusted, though she has never seen him look so reckless or exude such boundless energy. He said something about being a “stronger animal” now, and she is happy to wait forever for an explanation. They find a clearing where they will spend yet another night in their journey. Emma has lost count of the days and does not care. The fire Odd builds is larger than what they require. Logs stacked in a pyramid, a skeleton of right angles beneath the bright, flickering skin. In the dark night, leaves appear overhead in flashes as the flames leap and lick at the high branches overhanging the clearing. Odd is not worried. The fire will do what he wants it to, for he is the author of its world.
From a distance, anyone watching might think this a pagan ritual, two dark figures dancing without rhythm around a bright fire in the blackness of the night. Anyone who cared to come closer would see and hear that they are neither chanting nor clapping. They clasp hands, embrace, break apart and come together again, but without discernible pattern. They are not dancing but jumping for joy, like children so overwhelmed with happiness they must pound it out of themselves. And this is all that they will take with them into the New World: this happiness, and these stronger children of their former selves.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Woodsburner is a work of fiction that draws upon a number of real events. On April 30, 1844, Henry David Thoreau did indeed set fire to the Concord Woods during an excursion with his friend, Edward Sherman Hoar. In July of the following year, Thoreau took up residence in a simple cabin at Walden Pond, thus embarking on what would come to be regarded as one of the iconic undertakings of American literary history.
For details of what happened on the day of the fire, I have, for the most part, relied on two primary sources: the newspaper report in the Concord Freeman of May 3, 1844, and, of course, Thoreau's own journals. It is interesting that Thoreau does not mention the fire in his journal until an entry in 1850, in which he describes the event at length. By Thoreau's own account, he was attempting to cook a fish chowder in a pine stump. Driven by strong winds, the fire quickly grew out of control and spread north from Fair Haven Bay. By the day's end an estimated three hundred acres of the Concord Woods lay in ruins, and were it not for the efforts of the people of Concord, the flames might have reached the town itself. Meteorological records confirm that the early months of 1844 were exceedingly dry, and on the day of the fire a strong wind was blowing out of the south. Had the winds shifted, the fire might have spread to the nearby Walden Woods, though it is likely that the new railway to Fitchburg would have, ironically, provided a firebreak.
Most of the burned land was privately owned, and Edward Sherman Hoar's father paid reparations to the owners, which dissuaded them from taking legal action against Edward and Henry. For months afterward, the residents of Concord complained of the lingering effects of smoke and ash, and it appears that the sudden loss of woodland may have also bolstered their growing sense of the natural world as a place in need of protection from careless adventurers. A modern-day visitor to Concord might be surprised to learn that deforestation was already a concern in the early 1800s as rapidly growing cities, towns, and farms spread across the land. The first half of the nineteenth century saw two concurrent developments in the way that Americans viewed their new world. Increasingly, as Americans flocked to cities, they began to view the countryside as a thing apart from where they lived and worked, a separate place to be visited for recreation. And at the same time, many were growing conscious of the natural world's vulnerability; it should come as no surprise, then, that among Thoreau's contemporaries, the seeds for the modern environmental movement were being sown.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to all who generously read the unpolished manuscript and offered advice: Marsha Moyer, David Liss, Amanda Eyre Ward, Dominic Smith, Caroline Levander, and Ted Weinstein.
For research, I owe thanks to the Concord Free Public Library, the A. Frank Smith, Jr., Library at Southwestern University, and the libraries at the University of Texas at Austin. A number of texts were essential to this work, especially The Days of Henry Thoreau: A Biography, by Walter Harding; Thoreau: A Life of the Mind, by Robert D. Richardson, Jr.; The Pencil: A History of Design and Circumstance, by Henry Petroski; American Literary Publishing in the Mid-Nineteenth Century: The Business of Ticknor and Fields, by Michael Winship; and, of course, the writings of Thoreau himself, especially A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers and his incomparable Journal. The following organizations and Web sites were invaluable resources as well: the Walden Woods Project (www.walden.org) and the Thoreau Society (www.thoreausociety.org).
I can hardly find words to describe my indebtedness to Marly Rusoff for believing in this project, and I am awed by the finesse with which she and Michael Radulescu piloted the manuscript through the shoals and eddies of publication. With great insight, enthusiasm, and thoughtful critique, Janet Silver embraced the manuscript and helped me find my way to its full realization. And I will be forever grateful to Nan A. Talese for welcoming me to Doubleday and enlisting the expertise of Luke Hoorelbeke, John Fontana, Sean Mills, Greg Mollica, Pei Loi Koay and so many others.
In the course of writing this book, I came to know many talented authors through the Writers' League of Texas. Every writer should be so fortunate as to have access to such a vibrant writing community (www.writersleague.org).
I am especially happy to be able to acknowledge, at last, the boundless encouragement of my parents, John Paul Pipkin and Mary Frances Pipkin.
And, to be sure, without the immeasurable patience and support of my wife, Eileen, these pages would never have had the slightest hope of coming into being.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN PIPKIN was born and raised in Baltimore, Maryland, and he holds degrees from Washington and Lee University, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and Rice University. He has taught writing and literature at Saint Louis University, Boston University, and Southwestern University. He currently lives in Austin, Texas, with his wife and son. He can be reached via his Web site at www.johnpipkin.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by John Pipkin
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Nan A. Talese/Doubleday,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.nanatalese.com
DOUBLEDAY is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Pipkin, John.
Woodsburner : a novel / John Pipkin. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
(alk. paper)
1. Thoreau, Henry David, 1817–1862—Fiction.
2. Walden Pond (Middlesex County, Mass.)—Fiction.
3. Forest fires—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.165 2009
813′.6—DC22
2008033233
eISBN: 978-0-385-53047-7
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part 1 - DURING
Chapter 1 - Henry David
Chapter 2 - Oddmund
Chapter 3 - Eliot
Chapter 4 - Caleb
Chapter 5 - Henry David
Chapter 6 - Oddmund
Chapter 7 - Oddmund
Chapter 8 - Eliot
Chapter 9 - Caleb
Chapter 10 - Anezka and Zalenka
Chapter 11 - Henry David
Chapter 12 - Oddmund
Chapter 13 - Emma
Chapter 15 - Henry David
Chapter 16 - Eliot
Chapter 17 - Caleb
Chapter 18 - Eliot
Chapter 19 - Oddmund
Chapter 20 - Eliot
Chapter 21 - Emma
Chapter 22 - Oddmund
Chapter 23 - Henry David
Chapter 24 - Caleb
Chapter 25 - Oddmund
Chapter 26 - Henry David
Chapter 27 - Eliot
Chapter 28 - Oddmund
Chapter 29 - Caleb
Chapter 30 - Henry David
Chapter 31 - Oddmund
Chapter 32 - Eliot
Chapter 33 - Henry David
Part 2 - AFTER
Chapter 34 - Anezka and Zalenka
Chapter 35 - Eliot
Chapter 36 - Henry David
Chapter 37 - Oddmund
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
Copyright
