by James Still
We sang “Old Rachel”; Old Rachel nobody could do a thing with; Old Rachel going to the Bad Place with her toenails dragging and a bucket on her arm, saying, “Good morning, Mister Devil, hit’s getting mighty warm”; and I spoke, after every verse, “Now, listen, Little Rachel, please be kind o’ quiet.”
We hushed suddenly. Beast sounds rang the hills. Crownover’s stallion had trumpeted afar, and our mare had whinnied.
“Sing ahead,” Mother coaxed, “the mare’s stall is latched. I saw to it. Sing what the Devil done with Rachel when he couldn’t handle her.”
We had no heart to sing more. “I propped the stall door,” I said. Fern’s eyes were beaded upon the black window. “Wisht it was allus day,” she said.
“Ah, now,” Mother chided, trying to comfort us. “A body gets their growth of a night. I’d not want the baby a dwarf.”
“I saw a low-standing man in the camps once,” Fern recalled, “not nigh tall as me.”
“I saw tracks in the draw—” I began, and hushed. They grew in my mind. They seemed to have been made by the largest foot a man ever had. The thought held my breath. “Wisht Poppy was here,” I said.
The baby sat up, round-eyed, blinking.
Mother spoke, making talk. “I wonder what name your father’s going to bring this chap. I promised him the naming.”
“He’ll fotch a sour ’un,” Fern grudged. “Ooge, Boll, Zee. One like smut-face little ’uns wear at the mines.”
“I told your father, ’Name him for an upstanding man. A man clever, with heart and pride.’ ”
“Hope it’s a rhymer,” I said. “Whoever named them fourteen Crownovers was clever. Hit tuck a head full o’ sense to figure all o’ them.”
“Once I knew a man who had a passel o’ children,” Mother related. “He married two times and pappyed twenty-three. After there come sixteen, he ran out o’ names. Just called them numbers, according to order. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty—” She paused, watching baby. He slept, leant upon nothing, like a beast sleeps.
“If Poppy was here,” Fern yawned, “I bet he’d laugh.”
“You’ll all be dozing on foot before long,” Mother told us. “Time to pinch the wick.”
The lamp was smothered; we crawled between covers. Once the light died the window hole turned gray. You could see the shoulders of hills through it. Fern and Lark hushed and slept. I lay quiet, listening, and my ears were large with dark, catching midges of sound. The shuck mattress ticked, ticked, ticked. A rooster crowed. Night wore.
In my sleep I heard the mare thresh in her stall, pawing the ground with a forefoot. I raised on an elbow. From behind the barn came an owly cough, and a voice saying, “Hold!” Someone stood inside the window, tall, whitegowned. It was Mother. I sprang beside her, looking. Fellows topped the ridge as ants march, up and over. Their heads were like folks’ heads, but their backs were humpty.
“Six walkers with pokes,” Mother said, “carrying only God knows what.”
I recollect waking with the sun in my face; I recollect thinking Father would come home that day, bringing the frames to set against robbers and bloom winters. Lark was asleep beside me, and Fern and the baby lay in Mother’s bed with their heads on a duck pillow. I recollect glancing through the window and seeing Mother run out of the fields.
I stood in my shirttail as Mother swung the door. Her hair fell wild about her shoulders. For a moment she had no breath to speak. “The mare’s gone!” she gasped. “Gone.”
Fern roused, meany for being awakened with a start. Lark’s eyes opened, damp and large.
“I propped the stall door,” I vowed. “Hit was latched and propped too.”
“Had Poppy been at home,” Fern quarreled, “stealers wouldn’t a-come.”
“I’d have figured she broke the latch of her own free will,” Mother said, “hadn’t it been for where the tracks led. I followed.”
“Was they brogan prints alongside?” I asked. They grew immense in my mind. “Bigger’n anything?”
“Just bare mare tracks. I followed within sight o’ the Crownovers’.”
Of a sudden I scorned the Crownovers. I could hear blood drum my ears. I said, “If I met one o’ them chaps, I’d not know him from dirt. I’d not speak a howdy.”
Fern twisted into her garments. “I bet them girl-chaps wear old flour-sack dresses, and you kin read print front and back.” She wrinkled her nose, making to cry. “I’m wanting to move to Houndshell.” She flicked her eyelids, but not a tear would come. She got angry, angry as I. “Ruther be dust in a grave box than have to do with them folks. Be my name theirs, I couldn’t hold up my head for shame.”
“Don’t lay blame for shore,” Mother warned. “The mare’s tracks went straight, yet they might o’ veered a bit this side. There’s nothing we can settle till your father’s here, and he aimed to stop by Crownovers’ anyhow.”
Fern stamped her feet against the floor. “I wisht this house would burn to ashes. We’d be bound to live at the mines where they’s girls to play with, and hain’t no robbers.”
“Ramshack house, a-setting on a rock,” I mocked.
Mother turned hurt eyes upon us. She stood before the cold fireplace and began to lay off with hands like the Houndshell schoolteacher. “Fifteen years we lived under a rented roof, fifteen years o’ eating out o’ paper pokes. We were beholden to the mines, robbed o’ fresh breathing air, robbed o’ green victuals. Now, cellar nor neighbors we’ve got here, but there’s clean air and ground and home. I say this house hain’t going to burn. That chimley’s to rise higher.”
“Poppy ought to be a-coming,” Lark sniffled.
“The land not grubbed,” Mother lamented, “no seeds planted, the mare stolen. Oh, it’s Houndshell for us another winter.” She turned away, her shoulders drawn and small.
We children ate breakfast alone, one of us forever peering through the window hole toward the way Father would come. Fern held the baby, giving him tastes of mush. We scraped the pot; we sopped our plates, for Mother had gone into the far room. But she came as we pushed the chairs aside. We stared. She wore Father’s breeches. The legs were rolled at the bottom. “I can’t climb a ladder or straddle a roof in a dress,” she said. “Allus I’ve wanted to take a hand with this house. Here’s my chance, before your father’s back. He’d tear up the patch if he knew.”
“It’s man’s work,” Fern said grumpily.
Rocks were gathered, clay batter stirred, a ladder leaned against the roof. Up Mother went with a bucket of mud. I climbed, lifting the rocks in a coffee sack, reaching the poke’s neck to her on gaining the tiptop. Mother edged along the hip-roof, balancing the sack and bucket. Her face went dead white. Traveling the steep of a roof was not as simple as spoken.
Fern began to whimper, and the baby cried a spasm. “Come down!” Fern called. “Come down!”
Mother buttered two rocks with clay, placing them on the chimney. They rolled off, falling inside. She was slapping mud to a third when a voice roared beside the house. A man stood agape. A stranger had come unbeknownst. Mother jerked, and the bucket slipped, and the coffee sack emptied in a clatter across the shingles. The fellow had to jump limber dodging that rock fall. He roared, laughing, “Come down, woman, afore you break yore neck!” Mother obeyed, redfaced, ashamed of the breeches she wore.
We studied the man. He was older than Father, smaller, and two hands shorter. His eyes were bright as new tenpennies. An empty pipe stuck out of his mouth, the bowl a tiny piggin carved from an oak boss. “When a woman undertakes man’s gin-work,” he spoke, “their fingers all turn to thumbs.” He didn’t stand back. He hauled rocks and a new batch of clay up the ladder; he fashioned that chimney to a fare-you-well.
Lark and Fern and I whispered together.
Fern asked, “Who be this feller?”
Lark ventured, “Hit might be Old Bloody Tom, come for a coal o’ fire.”
I mouthed words in their ears. “I’d vow he’s not a Crownover. His feet hai
n’t big enough.”
“We’re obliged,” Mother said when the stranger descended. She wore a dress now, though she was still abashed.
The man bowed his arms, tipped the pipe, discounting. “A high perch I’ve needed to search about. A horse o’ mine broke stable last night. I’m looking for him.”
Lark raised on his toes, straining to tell of our mare. Mother hushed him with a glance.
“Animals are apt to go traipsing with another nigh,” the man continued, eying the barn, “but they usually come home by feeding time. Like as not, they’ll bring in a furren critter, and it’s a puzzle to whom they’re belongen. I allus said, men and beast air cut from the same ham.” He bent his knees to glance under the house, and grunted knowingly. He shuffled to go. “Yonder atop the roof I beheld you’ve got a sight o’ grubbing to do. Hit’d take Methuselum’s begats to ready that ground for seed.” He started off, speaking over his shoulder, “If you had fitten neighbors, they’d not fail to help.” He went down-hill and up-creek, and we watched him out of sight.
We set a steady lookout for Father. As the hours crept into afternoon Mother complained, her voice at the rag edge of patience, “Your father ought to come while daylight’s burning.”
But Father arrived when the bull-bats were flying and night darkened the hollows, and he came alone and emptyhanded. No windowframes he brought. I recollect he smiled on seeing our glum faces in the light of the great fire Mother had built. Even baby sulled a mite.
“What bush did you get them pouts off of?” he asked.
Mother lifted her hands in defeat. “I’m a-mind we’ll have to endure the camps a spell longer.”
“Hark!” Father exclaimed. How strangely he looked at Mother, at us all. The mulligrubs were writ deep upon our faces.
“The mare stolen, no chance for a crop. Oh, the sorriest of folks we’ve moved nigh.”
“Hark-o!”
“Them Crownovers hain’t fitten neighbors,” Fern scoffed. “A man come a-saying it.”
I spoke with scorn, “They’ve got rhymy chaps. Their names sound like an old raincrow hollering ’cu cu cu, cucucu.’”
“A man come a-saying—”
“Even if the garden and crop were planted,” Mother despaired, “there’d be no place earthy to store winter food.”
Father grinned. “Why, we’ve got a cellar dug by the Man Above. Old Izard Crownover says it’s yonder in that brushy draw—a cave hole in solid limerock that’ll keep stuff till Glory. Now he ought to know.”
Our mouths fell open. We could scarcely believe.
“Ah, ho,” Father chortled, swinging the baby onto his shoulder. “They’s another thing we’ve got for sartin, and that’s a name for this little tadwhacker. He’s to be named for a feller proud as ever walked. I’m going to call him Zard, after Old Izard.”
“A man come a-saying—”
“Old Izard himself,” Father said. “Why, them Crownovers are so proud they dreaded telling us o’ using our cave for a cellar. They called hit trespassing. Walked their stuff out in the black o’ night.”
“The mare might o’ broke the latch,” Mother admitted, “but her tracks went straight as a measure.”
“Come morning,” Father chuckled, “you kin look up Shoal Creek, and there’ll be the mare and Crownover’s stally hauling windowframes in a wagon. And there’ll be Old Izard and his woman and all his rhymers a-walking, coming to help grub, plow, and seed. Such an ant bed o’ folks you’ll swear hit’s Coxey’s Army.”
Father halted, remembering what Izard had told him. He eyed Mother and began to laugh. Laughter boiled inside of him. He could barely make words, so balled his tongue was. “From now on,” he gulped, “thar’s one thing for shore.” He threshed the air, his face fiery with joy. “I’m the one wearing the breeches.” He struggled for breath. He choked.
Mother struck the flat of her hands against his back. “The nature of a man is a quare thing,” she said.
Locust Summer
I recollect the June the medicine drummer and his woman came down Shoal Creek and camped three days in our mill. That was the summer of Mother’s long puny spell after the girl-baby was born; it was the time seventeen-year locusts cried “Pharaoh” upon the hills, and branches of oak and hickory perished where their waxy pins of eggs were laid. Wild fruit dried to seeds, and scarcely would birds peck them, so full their crops were with nymphs. Mulberries in the tree behind our house ripened untouched. Lark and I dared not taste, fearing to swallow a grub. Fern vowed not to eat, though I remember her tongue stayed purple till dog days.
“A rattlesnake’s less pizenous than berries in a locust season,” Mother kept warning. She knew our hunger; she knew how sorry Father’s cooking was. “A body darst eat off o’ vine or tree.”
“A reg’lar varmint and critter year,” Father told Mother. “Aye gonnies, if they hain’t nigh as many polecats in the barn as they’s locust amongst trees. Yet nothing runs as wild as these chaps. Clothes a puore tear-patch, hands rusty as hinges. Hit’ll be a satisfaction when you’re able to take them back under your thumb. I’d a’soon tend a nest o’ foxes.”
“I figure to strengthen when the locusts hush,” Mother said. “A few more days o’ roaring and they’ll be gone.” And she glanced at Fern, being most worried about her. “Still, I can’t make a child take pride if they’re not born with it. Fern’s hair is matty as a brush heap. It’s eating her eyes out.”
“Humph,” Fern said. She didn’t care a mite.
Lark and I would look scornfully at the baby nestled in the crook of Mother’s arm. We’d poke our lips, blaming it for our having to eat Father’s victuals. Oft Zard would crawl under the bed to sniffle, and Mother had to coax him out with morsels from her plate. He was two years old, and jealous of the baby. Fern never complained. She fetched milk and crusts to her hidden playhouse, eating little at the table. So it was Lark and I who stubbed at meals. A pone Father baked was a jander of soda. Vegetables were underdone or burnt. We would quarrel, saying spiteful things of the baby, though above our voices rose the screams of the locusts, “Phar-rrr-a-oh! Pha-rrr-a-oh!” The air was sick with their crying.
Father would blink at Mother. He’d hold his jaws, trying to keep a straight face. “No sense raising a babby nobody wants,” he’d speak. “Wish I could swap her to a new set o’ varmint traps. Or could I find a gypsy, I’d plumb give her away.”
“I’d ruther to have a colt than a basketful o’ baby chaps,” I’d say. “I allus did want me one.” I would think of our mare, and the promise Father once made. Long past he’d made it, longer than hope could live. He’d said, “Some fine pretty day thar might be a foal. Hit’s on the books.” But never would he say just when, never say it was a sure fact.
I recollect that on the morning the medicine drummer and his woman came down Shoal Creek I had gone into the bottom to hunt Fern’s playhouse. She had bragged of it, nettling me with her talk. “A witch couldn’t unkiver my den,” she’d said. “I got something there that’d skin yore eyes.”
I was searching the berry thicket when a dingle-dangle sounded afar. A spring wagon rattled the stony creek-bed, pulled by a nag so small I could hardly believe it, and a man and woman rode the jolt seat. It passed the mill, climbing the steep road to our house. I watched it go, and hurried after; I ran, hoping it came unbeknownst to Fern.
But Fern was there before me, staring. Mother came onto the porch, taking her first steps in weeks. She held the baby, squinting in the light, her face pale as candlewax. Zard peeped around her skirts.
The drummer jumped to the ground, his hat crimped in a hand. He was oldy, and round-jawed as a cushaw is round, and not a hair grew on the pan of his head; he was old and his woman seemed young enough to be a daughter. He bowed to Mother, brushing his hat against the dirt. He spoke above the thresh of locusts, eying as if taking a size and measure. “Lady,” he said, “could we bide a couple o’ nights in your millhouse, we’d be grateful. My pony needs rest.” The woman gazed.
Her hair hung in plaits. She watched the baby in its bundle of clothes.
Mother sat down on the water bench. She couldn’t stay afoot longer. “You’re welcome to use,” she replied. “A pity hit’s full o’ webs and meal dust. My man’s off plowing, else he’d clean the brash out.”
I couldn’t hold my eyes off the nag, off the tossy mane that was curried and combed. She looked almost as pretty as a colt.
Fern edged nearer, anxious. “Lizards in that mill have got razor throats. You’re liable to get cut at.”
“We can pay,” the drummer said to Mother.
“Not a pency-piece we’d take,” Mother assured.
Fern became angry, and I marveled at her. She doubled fists behind her back. “Spiders beyond count in the mill. Spiders a-carrying nit bags and stingers.”
“Lady,” the drummer said, speaking to Mother and paying Fern no attention, “I’ve traveled a far piece in my life.” He stacked his hands cakewise. “A host of sicknesses I’ve seen. Now, when a body needs a tonic, when their nerves stretch, I can tell on sight. I’ve seen women’s flesh fall away like a snow melt. I’ve seen—”
“Doc Trawler!”
The woman had called from the wagon, calling a bit shrill and quick, tossing her plaits uneasily. She had seen Mother’s face grow whiter than puccoon blossoms.
“Ask about the berries.”
“Ah, yes,” the drummer said irritably, dropping his hands. “My wife’s a fool for berry cobbler. She’s bound to eat though one seed can cause side-complaint. My special purge has saved her being stricken long ago.”
“Ask may we pick berries in the bottom!” The woman’s words cracked like broken sticks.
The drummer waited.
Mother stirred uncertainly. “Wild fruit’s pizen as strickynine when locusts swarm,” she cautioned. “Allus I’ve heard that.”
The drummer’s face lit, grinning. He swept his hat onto his head and climbed on the wagon. The woman smiled too, but it was the baby she smiled at.
“That mill’s a puore varmint den,” Fern spoke hatefully.
