Speaker 1: Twelve. It had no value to him other than it
gave him something to do all day long. The summer
had been an unmercifully and overbearingly hot one. The coal shaft,
even several feet under the ground, provided none of its
typical cooling, and the trees that surrounded the hole where
he lived gave their usual shade, but they also seemed
to enclose him in a cell where no breezes were permitted. Everywhere,
whether above or below ground, seemed to be trying to
deprive him of breath that he didn't have to struggle for.
Moving about to try and find even a temporary acceptable
existence was a constant and exhausting chore. But lying perfectly
still while he tried to wait the worst out only
afforded him the opportunity to lie in a wash of
his own sweat and smell the ever growing stink coming
from his damp body. It was at the pool where
he had come up with the idea. The pool had
supplied him with water every day for more than fifteen years.
The pool was also a draw to the animals that
he snared each day for his daily meal. He would
not have survived a week, much less more than fifteen
years without it, and aside from the coal shaft, it
was about the only thing he could think of to
be thankful for. But it was small, not so much
larger than a pot that his mother always used for
making soap, in large enough to give him ample water,
but small enough that it wasn't so much of a
job for him to break all the ice away with
the rifle barrel when it froze over. A few times
each winter, in just bare feet and trousers, he went
again to the pool with the sole purpose of lying
on his stomach in the leaves and splashing water on
his face every time he grew warm. He expected to
be there all day and possibly well into the evening.
It was much too warm to think about eating something
directly off the fire. He did not recognize the man
staring back at him. He knew who he was, because
he just knew, but he did not recognize him. With
sweat inching down the sides of his face, Reuben continued
to gaze at the surface of the water. So far
as he knew, it was the first time that he
had looked upon his own image since before leaving the
battlefield in Maryland. It was a shocking and disturbing ghost
of a man that stared back at him. His first
thought had been accusingly of this place and what it
had done to him, the man looking back from the
surface of the pool, with his long and matted gray
hair and beard, the sunken cheeks and the vacant eyes,
the deep lines and crevices marking a once smooth and
fair face. This place had he done this to him.
It had isolated him and ravaged him little by little
over the past decade and a half. But then he
thrust his hand into the water so that he could
splash some one into his face in order to cool
it and to make the other man disappear. He didn't
ever want to see him again. But the heat displaced
for just a moment, and droplets of water falling from
his beard. He thought about this place and knew that
he had been wrong earlier. This place had not done
these terrible things to him. This place had sheltered him
and provided for him. It had taken him in even
knowing that he was an embarrassment and a disappointment. He
was a coward, a coward that had betrayed the trust
of the men that he had sworn to stand beside,
and that had stood beside him. He was a man
that had turned his back on all that he had
been taught growing up about honor and faithfulness, and still
this place had won welcomed him. When he had sat
weeping on so many nights over the loneliness his heart
felt for the one who had said that she would
love him forever. This place had offered him warmth and
a dry place to lay as the tears dried and
sleep finally came. Blaming what he had seen on anything
other than himself was just as cowardly as running from
the battlefield had been. It was he who had brought
all of this about to himself, and the blame could
be laid nowhere else but at his own feet. If
he had stayed, like all those thousands who had been
just as scared as he had been, had stayed, then
perhaps he would have died as he had been afraid
of doing. But at least he would have rested in
peace and rested honorably instead of enduring a living death
each day. And now the days would be worse now
that he knew what he looked like, not pleasing to
behold neither inside nor outside anymore. It was the heat
that pulled him from his dark thoughts. He had changed.
The image on the surface of the pool had proven that,
but the heat had not, and it was still stifling.
He lay still, aside from the splashing of water onto
his face every couple of minutes, and he forced his
mind to become empty. It seemed there were no good
thoughts left to be had in this world. Then it
occurred to him to how relaxing it would be if
he could just sit down in the pool, like he
had in the place that was walled out large enough
for him to swim a little in back home when
he had been a child. He opened his eyes and
allowed all the gold and purple specks brought on by
the bright white sun to disappear. The pool as it
sat was much too small to get in, and even
if he could, it would not be a relaxing way
of reclining. But if the pool were enlarged a bit,
that would be altogether different. He reached his hand over
the edge and grasp a handful of sodden dirt and
moss that seemed to be forming the rim, and was
surprised at how easily it pulled away with just a
tug from his hand. He was sure that farther away
from the water, the ground would be less inclined to
let go, But he wasn't intent on fashioning a lake,
so he gave no worry to what might be. Handful
After handful, he pulled and threw across the pool into
the surrounding trees, and then abruptly stopped. The water had
become murky and cloudy as a result of his ministrations.
He heaved himself up from the ground and went back
to the coal shaft. He should have thought earlier to
fill his canteen with clean water before doing as he had.
There was a trickle from the spring a few yards
up from the pool, but it was harder to fill
the canteen from there. He would allow the water to
settle and clear, and then he would plenish his water
supply and began again. The following afternoon. He had enlarged
the pool in width and length enough to sit in
it comfortably, but it was still too shallow. Well, that
was the bad news. The good news was that digging
out the death could be done while sitting in the
cool water. Sitting in the water came almost to the
tops of his thighs. Lying on his back, it barely
reached his hips. But it was cooler in the water
no matter how he was positioned, and he made no
great efforts to grab handfuls of leaves or muck from
the bottom. He would extract a handful and toss it
over the side, and then use his fingertips to drizzle
the water over his chest. After a couple of minutes,
he would pull a bit more up and toss it away.
The rubon was not on a mission. He was content
and labored only in the pool when he felt the urge. However,
just as he was about to let go of a handful,
a glitter caught his eyes attention, and he clamped down
hard with his fingers before it could be thrown into
the foliage. Perhaps it had been part of a brightly
colored leaf that had tumbled down during the fall of
the year and somehow managed to avoid the right process.
Perhaps it had been the shell of something like a
crawdad or a snail that had caught the light just so.
But when his fingertip flicked away all the slimy debris,
what was left was a nugget made of pure gold.
The size of a musket's mini ball. Most would have
examined and adored it for a moment, and then replaced
it securely on the bank before plunging both hands up
to the elbows back into the muck in search of
more Reuben Miller wasn't like most people, though. He washed
it thoroughly so he could admire it and all its splendor,
and then he tossed it over onto his trousers, where
it rolled off into the leaves. He reminded himself to
make sure and relocate it before he left for the evening.
He very much wanted to see how it glittered and
brightened when illuminated by the firelight. He continued to deepen
the pool, but only whenever the mood struck him. He did, however,
take glances through the muck before simply throwing it into
the trees and scrub it. Became something to do, and
that was something he hadn't had in a long while.
Over the following two weeks, the pool grew deeper, and
his comfort level in the pool was considerably higher, and
one of the two bowls that he had carved years
ago now held more than two pounds of gold nuggets. Chips, flakes,
and dust. He didn't have a pan of any kind,
so the usual method of extracting gold, specks and dust
from the mud wasn't available to him. But the other
bowl was. Each evening before leaving the pool, he would
fill the bowl full of mud and then return it
to the coal shaft, where he would empty the black
contents onto the rocks that surrounded his firepit to dry,
and the next morning he would scrape the dried material
from the rocks into his palm, and with the tip
of his knife, he would separate the dirt from the gold.
It was a tedious and mind numbing exercise, but he
had nowhere to go, and he was in no hurry
to build up his riches. Others would have torn down
half the hardwood ridge to collect more, but others had
things they could spend the wealth on in places that
they could go to spend the wealth, and Reuben hadn't either.
To Ruben, collecting the gold was the same as whittling
or bird watching, just a new way of filling in
the hours between when he awoke and when he laid
down again. He was thankful for finding the gold, but
not for the same reasons that others would have been.
On occasion before he could stop it from happening. His
mind would wonder, and he would begin to think of
all that he could do with his newfound wealth. Not
a large one, because the years had taught him how
very little he needed to be sheltered and comfortable, but
a fine house somewhere with a porch that caught the
rising sun. He wouldn't mind having one of those on
a lot with grass, and a picturesque town somewhere, a
town with an eatery that served meals on tables with
white tablecloths and kept plenty of cool buttermilk chilling in
the spring house. He didn't think that he would ever
want to prepare another meal for himself if it could
be helped. But not that being wealthy made and want
to have people serving him. He was just tired of
killing and cooking his own food. A piece or two
of fried chicken a couple of times a week wouldn't
go down badly either, and skewered robins and woodpeckers roasted
over a coal fire were not the same thing. Owning
more than one pair of pants and two shirts per
year wouldn't be bad. Sometimes it seemed as if his
clothes didn't even need him in them to stand up
on their own. Pants that weren't full of holes all
the time would be nice. He was always dripping rabbit
or possum blood as he prepared a supper for cooking,
and the blood always managed to fall on the parts
of his pants where his bony legs showed through pants
that covered his legs entirely all the time. Well, he
wouldn't feel awkward walking to the cafe and pants like
that once every couple of weeks. Walking down to the
barbering shop would be something to look forward to and
not minding sitting on the bench and waiting his turn,
because other men would be there and they would be
telling stories about how well a particular pair of dogs
had worked during a quell hunt, or whether red worms
or night crawlers had been the preferred bait. On their
last visit to the river to do some fishing for
blue channel catfish, he would make sure that he had
located into one of those towns that had a center,
one of those places right in the middle of town
where they had a nice little stage or platform built,
and sometimes during the warm months when the weather was agreeable,
folks would go up on it and play music and
have singings. He had heard from some that he had
served with that there were towns like that, and back
in Marion, the Seilers each spring would straighten their place
up and throw a barn dance, and that was fun.
But he'd never seen a singing right in the middle
of town before. He'd heard lots of singing, but it
had always been in a church house, and they do
more than frown on dancing there. All of that had
an undeniable appeal, but it would never come to pass.
And Reuben thought, as he stared at the goal that
was slowly sifting through his fingers, you have to go
to a town like that before you can live in
a town like that, And going anywhere was out of
the question. He couldn't leave this place until he knew
for sure that the war was indeed finally over with,
and he would never know that if he never left
this place. It was a bit of a snake eating
its own tail sort of affair. And even if he
did somehow discovered that there had been a secession to
the fighting and that everyone had shaken hands and made up,
he would never know if a man was just looking
at him wrong, or was eyeballing him to identify him.
He was safe here, and he was secure here, but
he was also trapped here. Thinking any way other than
permanent residence here was just foolishness that gained him nothing
other than sadness. Besides, what good would it do him
to go to a town like he had conjured up?
Even if he could get there and set up housekeeping.
All the money he could carry might buy him something
to wear other than rags, and it might put good
food in his belly. But when he went back home afterwards,
he would be walking alone, and the house would be
dark when he arrived there. Those things would not bring
him happiness. The one thing that would was days and
days of walking away and probably mourning over an empty
grave if she remembered him at all. That was a
new thought. He shook the gold dust from his hand
back into the crude bowl and sat back to ponder
all these years with nothing for companionship save his own thoughts,
And still he could have a new one now and again. Well,
that took him by surprise. Of late, he had begun
to think that he had used up all his allotment
of original thoughts. And while the revelation was heartening, the
subject was less so, simply because not a day in
more than fifteen years had passed that he had not
thought of her and all that was to have been
it did not mean that she had passed her time
in the same way. It was a sobering and dreadful notion,
but one he could not blame her for. Old Man
Whitlow remarried two weeks after his Eynez took her last breath,
But he and Story were to have been different from
those around them. What they had formed was stronger than
log chains. At least that was the way he had
always thought of the bond. She had been young and
beautiful when he had walked away to fight in a
war that neither of them truly understood, and while there
were deep concerns on both of their parts, it was
her hope and his intention to walk that same road
back to her one day. But because he had not
done that, had he had the right to expect her
to grow old and maybe not so beautiful while she
waited alone. Nothing had ever pleased Reuben so much as
seeing Starry smile. It was her happiness that made him happy.
Shouldn't he be sitting in his burrow, hoping that she
found a way to be happy, after finally realizing that
he was never coming back to her. No, he said aloud,
storry is to be happy, but only because I am
near to her. That was the vow that we made
to each other. Never once have I forsaken her or
forgotten to think of her in all these many years.
I know Story better than any one. I know she
has kept her promise and has done the same. No
one was ever so true as story. Reuben felt better
after reminding himself of that fact. Thirteen the musky dines
were ripening in The basket that he had woven from
oak splits and lined with fur was nearly full, but
he flung it aside and threw himself into the nearest
depression in the ground, and he held his breath as
he listened. The horse that he had heard was close,
not a few trees away and loping down the ridge,
but close enough to hear. At least, he believed the
sound to have come from a horse. He listened intently
for a repeat of the sound. If he heard it again,
he was almost sure that he would be able to
verify his assessment. Or stand corrected. He just needed to
hear it again to know there was a sound. Or
he thought that maybe he had heard something he wasn't
sure about the latest possible noise, And then it reached
his ears again. The horse sound, not the possible other thing.
It was almost definitely the sound a horse makes when
it screams, either from terror or pain. Some don't know
that horses can scream, but they can. He had heard
them do it often enough when he had still been
in the ranks. The horses are tough and strong, just
like men are tough and strong, but both will scream
under the right circumstances. He had heard the screams of
both often enough, and the screaming had been one of
the deciding factors in his decision to run away. He
began to listen even harder, not for the sound again,
so as to identify it. He now knew what he
had heard. Now he needed to hear it again so
he could know where it was coming from. Sounds here
bounce off trees and stone and the ridges themselves. Yet
to listen closely else the sounds would send you off
in all directions. Owing to how noises swirl around here,
it fell on his ears again, only softer and weaker, perhaps,
but enough that Reuben thought he knew from where now.
The leaves made no sound as he walked. Today had
been the first day that he had awoken out of
the past six that it hadn't been raining. It hadn't
been a heavy downpour all of that time, but it
had been steady and constant. He had been afraid that
all the rain might have washed the musky dines from
their vines, but it was still early enough in the
season that they held on strong. It was why he
had rushed to pick them up as soon as he
had seen that the rain had stopped. He used to
pick them every year as a boy for his mother
to make jelly, just as he did with blackberries and crabapples. Obviously,
he couldn't preserve the ones he picked now in any way,
but they were sweet and good for eating straight from
the basket, so long as it was done in moderation.
Enough would induce scours, and he neither wanted or needed that.
The sound of the distressed animal came to him again,
and it was unmistakably weaker than before, but he believed
himself to still be walking in the correct direction. It
made sense the direction he was traveling. The sounds he
was curious about were leading him toward the road that
he sometimes watched as he sat with his back against
a tree. If a horse was to be anywhere near here,
it was logical that it would be in the proximity
of the road. There was no certainty. He was simply
guessing about things as each tidbit of information revealed itself.
But since he now believed he knew exactly where the
horse was, Reuben felt that he could walk a little
faster and with less caution. He wanted to see what
was going on. It had been a very long time
since anything of note had occurred. This must have been
how I felt as a sprout when the traveling side
shows would come through and my father would take me
to see them, he thought. It took a few moments
to decipher what he was looking at. The jumble that
filled his eyes was disorganized and messy and not immediately discernible.
The horse screamed again. It was a weak scream, and
there would be very few more unless something was done
in quick order. The other sound that he had heard
came again, also, and it was weaker than that of
the animal, several somethings needed doing, or all would be
silent soon. Reuben inched up a few feet for a
better look and sat down on the wet leaves while
he took it all in and gave what was before
him some thought. All the days of constant rain had
done more than prevented Reuben from going out to pull
wild fruit from vines. He supposed that he might have
considered a few of the hardship's people that lived in
the real world might be struggling through at the same time,
if he had given any time to thinking about it.
But he had not done that. He tried hard not
to think about the world that he was no longer
part of if it could be avoided. So among all
things that he had not considered as he sat by
his fire during those days of constant rain was the
beating the roads were taking because of the current conditions.
The road just yards below him had suffered greatly. It
never had been used heavily, so it was prepared for
the assault. The once mediocre road was now little more
than a winding brown strip of bog and slop. Maybe
the wagon had been too heavily laden, or had been
loaded improperly, or had been trying to take the slightly
more than gradual curve too quickly. Reuben neither knew nor cared.
All that was certain was that a few yards away
a wagon was more off the road than it was
on it, and a chubby, balding fellow of advancing years
was trapped underneath it, and the horse that pulled it
was too exhausted from fighting the mud to regain its feet.
The horse was still in the harness, but it was
on his knees and sliding more to its side with
each passing minute. A rear wheel had slid, and now
the older man was wedged between it and the mud.
He was flat on his back, and the strength of
his arms were all that was keeping the wheel from
pinning him. Worse, his strength was failing, would soon be
gone completely, and if a man of even nominal strength
was to pull back on the wheel, even just a
couple of inches, the older man could slide his bulbous
body out of harm's way. Then the horse could be loosed,
and it might not stand up instantly, but the wagon
was going to continue to slide, and the animal would
be left free to wallow and thrash as it liked
until it was able to again stand. Reuben saw how
all of this could be done with only a few
moments of effort. He rubbed his chin and then thrust
his hands into his trouser pockets as he strolled down
to the wreckage. The man under the wagon actually started
crying when he saw Reuben walk up and stand beside
the wheel. The older man couldn't wipe the tears from
his eyes without turning loose to the wheel, and that
couldn't happen. He would have immediately been in worse shape
than he was already in the tears of hope and
joy rolled down his dirt round cheeks. I've never been
happier to see a man in my entire life. I
don't know how or why you happened up just now,
and now I'm eternally grateful that you did. The older
man wheezed out. The voice was strained and barely above
a whisper, but still Reuben flinched and took a half
step backwards. It had been the first voice he had
heard other than his own in almost sixteen years. Why
why are you so glad to see me? Reuben said softly,
and slowly. The man tried chuckling, but the wagon slid
another inch and cut off just that much more air
that he needed. As you can clearly see, I've gotten
myself into rather a spot of bother. My wagon threatened
to sidle into the ditch as we began the curve.
I was doing my best to keep it pushed up
the hill while Jake kept pulling forward. And I think
we were doing well until I slipped and fell. I
hollered when I did, and it startled poor Jake. And
you can see what has become of us. We've been
here for some time and are more than ready to
be free of the situation. Now that you are here,
perhaps we can remedy all of this before long. The
old man said, Oh, you mean that we could if
I help you, Ruben said, A dark, confused expression clouded
over the man's face when he heard Reuben's words. Why
I do not understand you have to help me. I
will surely die if you don't. The older man said, yes,
you surely will, but no, I do not have to help. You.
Always be accurate with your words. Less than that leads
to misunderstandings. My father taught me that Now do be
hushed for a time. It has been a while since
I've looked at shop goods. I much desire to see
what the world is claimed for these days, Ruben said,
as he turned toward the back of the wagon and
what used to be the road. The wagon contains nothing
but women's clothing. It is what I deliver. Stores order
them from the catalogs, and I deliver them. I'm just
over at Hamilton making a delivery. Anyone there can vouch
for me, the older man said. I have no need
of others to aid me in making up my own mind.
And I told you to be quiet for a while,
Ruben said, before he disappeared from the old man's view.
The old man hollered when the wagon grown and shifted
as Ruben climbed up into the bed. Get hell. I
cannot breathe, he managed to utter. Ruben heard him, but
he kept looking through the parcels and the wagon. A
wooden box under the seat held a fry pan, a
couple of tin cups, and a small assortment of utensils.
Ruben fastened the latch securely on the box and allowed
it to fall over the side of the wagon into
the mud. Obviously, the man had been telling the truth
about what he did for a living. There was naught
in the wagon aside from ladies where the wagon jiggled
when Rubin jumped over the side onto the road, and
the man squealed from the fright it gave him. If
it's money that you're looking for, there's none among my
things in the wagon. I have eight dollars in my
coat pocket, which you are more than welcome to if
you will assist me, the older man said in a
hurried fashion. The money could be mine whether I assist
you or not, but I have no need of eight dollars,
Ruben said, as he walked by the man and headed
toward the front of the wagon. The old man listened
as the less than helpful Samaritan pulled something from the
wagon's seat. He knew what it was being, as there
was only one item up there. Ruben held the rifle
out at arm's length and studied it. The shiny brass
plate on the shoulder stock red given with sincere appreciation
to William Sanders' honored friend and hero. Well, this is
a fine piece of workmanship. My father owned the same make,
but it wasn't near as nice as this one. How
did you come by a weapon so nice as this one?
Would you be William Sanders, Ruben asked as he walked
back to the man lying on the ground. The man
tried twice before he was able to manage making himself heard.
I am William Saunders, and that rifle was given to
me as a gesture of appreciation and gratitude some years back.
It is all that I own, and it is dear
to me, not because of what it is, but because
of the people who gifted it to me. Saunders said, Well,
the writing says that you are an honored friend and hero.
How did you manage to become that? Ruben asked, It's
not important, Sanders said. Saunders's face was turning shades of
red and purple as he continued to struggle to keep
the full weight of the wagon wheel from bearing down
upon him. Now, you just lied to me, or you
lied earlier. You said this rifle was dear to you
and that it was the only thing that you possessed.
You would have not have said that if it was
a mere trifle, and they would not have gifted this
to you for no reason. I would be interested in
hearing how one becomes a genuine hero, not to mention
an honored one at that, Reuben said, if you insist
on hearing. I was in a town in Kentucky several
years ago. I had not long been started in this profession,
where I traveled so much. I was making ready to
depart when the chaos began over a calamity that had begun.
Some younger boys were doing nothing more than playing at
mischief when they managed to set the schoolhouse on fire.
Everyone was rushing for buckets of water when it was
discovered that some of the youngest girls had opted to
eat their noon meal indoors that day, and by the
time anyone realized this, the building was burning greatly. No
one knew exactly what should be done, and parents were
running in from the town very much in a panic.
For years before taking on my current profession, I had
been an apprentice to a blacksmith, and being so near
to the extreme heat was something I was familiar with.
I ran at the door of the school and forced
my way insight, and it was fortunate and that I
found all three girls in short order, and they were alive.
One clung to my neck, and while I carried the
other two back to the door, into the fresh air
in safety. That is all there is to the story,
Saunders said. Reuben looked at the man under the wagon,
and then again at the rifle. Believe me when I
say this to you, for there is no jest of
any kind in my words. What you did was a
fine thing, and you are indeed deserving of their affection.
You should have been honored, and you should feel pride
in the action that you took that day. Reuben said, well,
of honor you just as greatly if you will help
me today. I own very little much of worth, but
all that I have is yours. If you will only
assist me for a moment, Sanders said, all that you
have can be mine, whether I choose to dirty my
hands or not. Aside from a fry pan and this rifle,
you have nothing I desire or need. That is not
why I've decided to let you lay there and accept
whatever the fates decree. I live a rather isolated life,
and perhaps only by an innocent slip of the tongue,
you will one day relate the story of your salvation
to someone. Now that I cannot allow, William Sanders, I'm
going to take your fry pan and this rifle, along
with your possible bag and horn of powder. But before
I leave, I will wish you a speedy and painless passing.
You deserve better than to die in the mud. You
did a great and fine thing back then, and I
hope that golden crown full of stars await you. I
do not think you will wait long before you see it.
Ruben said, So you truly are going to take from
me my few meager possessions and then leave me to die.
Sanders asked, yes, I am. I wish it were not so,
but it is how it must be, Ruben said. Sanders
was struggling more and more for each breath, but he
was also angry, though he was trying to mask it
with confusion. I do not understand why must it be
this way. If the roles were reversed and I had
found you in this position, I would have helped you
all that I could. Sanders said, I have no doubt
that your words are true ones, and I believe that
no matter who was dying in the Mud, you would
attempt to assist them. But I am not you. If
I help you, then one day it will get out
that I did, and it will become known that I exist.
Maybe it will be of no consequence, but I cannot
afford to take that chance. If I pilfer through your
wagon extensively and then you are found, it will appear
that some manner of road agent fell upon you, and
the search for me will begin and will not likely end.
I can't have that happening either. The same would happen
if I did the merciful thing and ended your suffering quickly,
your body would be found and the hunt would begin.
And if I leave you as I found you, your
death will be marked as an unfortunate accident, and that
will be the end of it. Likely you will receive
a proper burial out of it, as someone travels this
road every couple of days. Reuben said this before he
turned to walk once more into the trees. Well you
do meet one kindness, Sanders asked, Will you do me
just one and what would that be? Reuben asked, will
you remove the tact from my good horse Jake, so
that he might gain his footing and rise again. He's
a good horse and has done nothing to earn a needless,
suffering death. Sanders said, you are right. He is just
an animal that does not deserve this. But when you
were found but your animal is not, then it will
be assumed that someone saw your misfortune as an easy
opportunity to steal your horse. Men who still horses are
looked upon less favorably than those who would leave you
to die in the mud. I'm sorry, but for my
own sense of well being, I'm afraid that poor old
Jake must suffer the same fate as his master. My
life would be upended if I were to supply either
of you with help. Good day, William Sanders, it was
an honor to meet you. We will not see each
other again, Reuben said, just before he disappeared into the tree.
Reuben forced himself not to look back at the wreckage
he had walked away from. In the days to come,
he would just adamantly force himself not to return to
the point on the hardwood ridge from where he could
see the road. Curiosity would grip him with iron like
hands on occasion and beg him to go and see
if the bodies had yet been removed, or did they
still remain drying, even as the mud was drying around them.
He would not return to that place, not even to
look from a distance. To do so would give him
the opening he needed to begin second guessing the decision
that he had made. He would not allow himself to
do that either. He had done what needed to be
done in the name of self preservation. No man could
be condemned for doing that, not by his peers, and
certainly not by himself. He regretted having to make the
choice and the way that he had made it, but
that did not mean that his decision had been the
wrong one. He regretted the way that he had chosen
to do many things during the past sixteen years, but
he was content in that he believed all those choices
to have been the correct ones. Many regret decisions they make,
and few can say that all they made had been
the right decision. He could say this fourteen The meat
tasted better than any he had eaten in a very
long time. It had only been a yearling dough, small
enough for him to have managed on to his shoulders
so that he could move nearly a mile from where
he had shot it before beginning to dress it out
lest someone nearby had heard the gun go off, but
still large enough to provide him with several days worth
of meat. The rifle that had once belonged to William
Sanders not only appeared fine to the eye, but it
also shot accurately, and Reuben, having been a batter than
average marksmen in his younger days, used a quality firearm
to bring down the deer in short order. It took
the better part of the day for him to cook
all the meat so that it wouldn't go bad, and
to prepare the hide for stretching while it cured. Now
the days could go on as usual, but now there
was meat set aside in case the snares fell on
hard times for a day or two, and at night
he would have a sizeable fur to drape over himself
while he slept. Compared to the way that he had
been getting by for more than sixteen years, he was
now enjoying being in the lap of luxury, far from
what the kings of the countries are accustomed to, but
for someone who had spent almost half his life living
underground in a coal vein, it was a marked step up.
He cut another of the ribs loose from the dough's
cage and sat back in his chabby rendition of a
chair to savor it. He had read as often as
he could when he had been a young man, before
the war had changed him as it had changed no other.
A few hundred miles to the west, and then across
the Mississippi, or as the Algonquin Indians called it, the
Father of Waters. From there it would be a journey
across the plains, and then his eyes would behold the rockies,
just as Lewis and Clark had seen them. Surely no
one so far west would be apt to recognize him,
And until he reached that place where east was indeed
separated from the west, he could be cautious and keep
only to himself. Then he could disappear into those mountains.
There he would be isolated as he was now, but
he would have the freedom to move about, hunt and
explore as he wished, maybe even build a small proper
cabin to live in, begin to once again live. Existing
was what he was doing now, existing until the inevitable
time that he no longer did the he would already
be buried. This place that he thought of as a
sheltering and providing home was really just a tomb a grave.
They hadn't filled in yet, and each day that he
awoke he found himself a little more dead than he
had been the day before. But it would not have
to continue, not if he was in a place like
the Rockies. Anytime that he liked, he could eat elk
liver for supper, and then go and rinse the grease
from his fingers in the clear, cool streams that were
full of trout. He could live there unmolested by the locals,
because he would make it clear to them that he
was only one man there to abide, with no intentions
of settling anything. For those that they had thought were
to follow him, they would leave him alone, and he
would do the same with them. And then, one day,
when the winters pained his bones too much to stay,
he would continue moving west until he felt the warm
spray of an ocean in his face. He had never
seen an ocean, only read about them. Some He thought
it would be pleasurable to take up residence where the
water in front of him was so vast that the
far bank could not be seen. Perhaps hire himself on
as part of a crew that sailed great ships across
the oceans to places that had never been written about.
Perhaps he would even be one of those who chased
after a whale. He had seen drawings of the men
that worked on those ships, and from those depictions, it
appeared as if each and every one of them were
in the same boat as he was, or similar enough
so that it didn't matter. He had to assume that
some of the men that did that type of work
were doing so because it had been a calling or
a lifelong dream, but the majority could easily have been
marked as men who were escaping life. It's what he
would be doing if he set foot on a deck
and made his mark in the captain's ledger book. It
was such an easy way to fade into the backdrop
that he couldn't have been the first to do it.
He was only more or less thirty six years of age,
and this life he had been living for more than
a decade and a half had made him strong of limb,
and deep winded. Once shown what his duties were, Reuben
believed himself as capable as any man, likely more so
than most. In fear of holding his own in any
work didn't reside within him, but close quarters with men
for months or perhaps years at a time would be
a situation to overcome. He remembered how loud and harsh
the man that had been trapped underneath the wagon had
sounded when he spoke. It wasn't the man's voice or
tone that Reuben had found off putting. It had been
that he had spoken at all. He wondered if he
could grow used to the constant chatter of men again.
It had taken years to grow accustomed to the quiet.
What would happen if he could not adjust to the opposite.
There would be no running away once he put to sea.
And hadn't it been the noise that had compelled him
to run and find this sanctuary in the first place,
But that had been a different sort of noise altogether.
Wouldn't that make a difference. It would have to, wouldn't it.
On board a ship there were bound to be the
occasional butting of heads, differences of opinion that couldn't be ignored,
just a fraying of nerves for no reason other than
close confinement and constantly doing the same labors that had
been done since leaving port. Those were bound to grow
into heated arguments and even the swinging of fists periodically.
But no matter what, it wouldn't be the same assault
on his senses that had caused him to flee the battlefield,
men left and right, day after day wouldn't be screaming
and dying because of what heinous pieces of flying burning
lead had done to their bodies. Always, always, there was
the sound of musket fire and cannon fire, and above
it all were the voices ordering men to rush toward
it and even into it. That would not be on
a ship. And at the end of the day, when
the labors were suspended for a few hours, while the
men were crawling into their box or gathering around a
table to play cards for match sticks, he could again
slink away and do as he had done on the
battlefield and go where the noise wasn't, find a place
to sit on the deck while he heard naught but
the sails snapping as they filled, and the waves lapping
at the sides of the ship. And from that place
he would be able to lay his head back and
see the stars as they were meant to be seen,
not through the branches of trees, and certainly not from
a hole in the ground, as a burrowing animal might
see a larger world that surrounded his home. There on
deck of a ship, he could be himself, while connected
to humanity, or at least a version of it. People
would be just a few steps away if he wished
to talk, but that would only happen when he'd had
his fill of looking at the starry sky, and from
that place, as he ventured from one side of the
world to the other, he could wonder and hope that
his own story happened to have been unable to sleep
and was herself looking up at the same time. There
would be a barely measurable satisfaction in knowing that they
had at least connected again, if only by both of
them taking a glance up at the same time. Could
a contentment or peace be found halfway around the world
that could not be found here, he wondered. At first
he thought yes, but as he considered it deeper, he
was near certain that content and peaceful were feelings that
would never be afforded him. Being on the deck of
a ship and feeling the warm spray on his face
might seem like all that was necessary to finally be
at peace, but it would never happen, And even wishing
when he knew full well that it was nothing aside
from a wasted wish, and it made him hate his
reality even more. Once the infinite wisdom of the universe
had shown him the pair of choices that lay before him,
and he had chosen at a different place, on a
different day, and at a different age. He might have
chosen otherwise, but the choice had indeed been made, and
the die was cast. Now the dealing with the aftermath
was all that remained, and it would remain each day
until there were no more days to be granted him.
He could run to whoever he chose, and no one,
in no thing was stopping him from doing so. Once
he had run, had run away from a thing that
had been successful. Now he was just as free to
run as he had been then. But he could no
longer run away from this thing that he was becoming
hateful of. He could only run to hate it in
a new place, a place that it likely wouldn't be
so accommodating. Reuben realized that while his mind had wandered
and realizations were being made known to him, he had
forgotten to chew. How long had he been sitting there
thinking with a mouthful of meat, He did not know.
What he did know was that he had lost his
desire to taste or swallow it. He threw the meat
covered bone that he was holding into the fire and
spit the mouthful into the flames to follow it. He
was sinking quickly into that place again, that bad place
where it seemed that light could never enter, that place
where the darkness didn't take away your sight. It was
the place where the darkness covered you and seeped into
you by way of your pores, and squeezed until you
felt your soul dying. He had been there before on
numerous occasions. In fact, knowing that he would not die
when he went there brought no relief. It was still
a horrible thing to go through. The worst was knowing
that he invited himself to go each time, things he
could have avoided or denied himself for the passage ticket.
But for all the heart sick he had felt and
was feeling now, sometimes it was worth all the pain.
Sometimes this place really got its claws into him, and
his despise of this place became almost more than he
could contain. But it wasn't this place, this rather small
opening in the earth, where he had lived for so
very long, and his hatred of it had sent him
to those dark depths. It was the wondering about the
what ifs, and the memories of what was that took
him there? If he were a stronger man, he could
stop himself from imagining and remembering. He could go each
day and collect a supper from a snare, and he
could spend all day sorting sand from gold and add
another half pound to his collection. He could do these
things and would have ceased to live. Oh, he would
still be alive, but not like everyone else. Admittedly he
was nothing like anyone else. But to give up his
ability to imagine a life different than the one he
now lived, or recall those moments that he was so
fond of, just so that the pain would not follow afterwards,
he would not do. Other men had times of imagining
themselves to be different than they presently were, and they
were also permitted to relive moments dear to them. He
would not give those things up. He would not further
separate himself from the whole of mankind just to avoid
the darkness. He shouldn't have to do that, should he.
He had already given up so very much. The pain
and the darkness did not come while he was sitting
on the deck of a ship, or tending a fire
in a proper fireplace in a cabin within the Rockies
or bitter Root or Teton mountain ranges. And it did
not as he sat beside a small quiet pond holding
Storry Henderson's hand. It came when he opened his eyes
and looked around and saw that he was still only
one step removed from the animals that live in burrows
like he lived. That was when the darkness overwhelmed him.
And when he saw the ragged assortment of sticks covered
with skins of animals that served as his bed, And
when he saw the only fry pan that he had
stolen from a dying man, And when he saw his
long fingernails with dirt wedge under them, that was when
he knew that he would never again know the touch
of story, would never again hear how she was looking
forward to spending the remainder of her life beside him.
That was when the darkness fell like a cold, sodden
blanket upon him, and the pain began. Fifteen just before
the small bell that hung by the thin wire above
the door began and appeal, that was when it happened.
Utilitarian type knives that anyone who worked on a farm
a running trap lines might be able to make use
of had arrived earlier in the day, wrapped securely in
old brown paper to ward off rust and prevent Nixon's
scratches during their journey from the manufacturer to the various
stores and shops that had ordered them. Her father liked
knives of all shapes and sizes, always had, so he
was as usual excitedself when they finally offloaded from the wagon.
He had been waiting anxiously for some time for them
to finally arrive. She had waited just as long for
some curtain linen by the bolt to get to the store,
but he couldn't have cared less about that. It was
the knives that he wanted to unwrap and clean up
so that they shone like mirrors in his display case.
He did as he normally did when new stock that
he had been answer awaiting finally arrived. He tore open
the boxes like a man on a mission, and through
anything other than what he was waiting on to wherever
it chose to land. It was his store. Maggie simply
worked there. She was his daughter and saw timore of
the daily running of the place than even he was
aware of. But picking up and disposing of the papers
that products had been wrapped in was a chore for
someone of lesser rank than the owner. She had just
finished filling the wooden keg with fifteen pounds of flour
so that the customers could weigh out as much as
they wanted or had funds to purchase. It was her
intention to gather up all the old papers after she
had moved the keg to its customary position on the
table in the center of the room. She didn't like
those greasy papers littering the hardwood floor that she scrubbed
and waxed at least once a week. She kept the
floors too nice and shiny for disorder, toy from her
hard work. As soon as she felt her foot slide
on one of the papers, she immediately wished that she
had replaced the lid on the keg before moving it,
or tidied up the papers. At least one slip, one
misplaced step, and for a moment, a fifteen pound cloud
hung in the air, and then it didn't any longer.
It would be many years before Maggie Neil heard the
word gravity and what it meant, but in that small
store that afternoon, she understood just how cruel that same
gravity could be. The keg rolled away from her and
across the room as she sat coughing out puffs of flour,
and that was when the door opened. Storry immediately whipped
out a handkerchief from her sleeve and began to fan
the air with it to try to disperse some of
the haze. She wasn't dressed as finally as she had
been when Maggie had last seen her, but she was
still just as elegant looking. There was something about the
way and which Story carried herself that made her all
the time appear a bit more put together than any
of those around her. But despite her lady like ways,
she could not refrain from laughing out loud. When she
finally saw Maggie sitting on the floor, covered head to
toe with white flower, she looked like a living snowman. Story. Well,
I've seen to come at a bad time, Story said,
I will leave and come back when your hands aren't
so quite full. Well, if you leave now, I will
never allow you back inside this store again. Now, hurry
up and lock that door before anyone comes in and
sees me in this condition. Maggie said, it wasn't that
Story kept giggling and sometimes just outright belly laughing. It
was the fact that she never once tried to hide
the fact that she thought all of this was deliciously funny.
Once Maggie had stood up and his story began using
the broom to sweep the majority of the flower off
of her, it begins. It's starkly evident that Maggie's cheeks
were terribly red underneath all the white. Maggie was sweeping
up all the flour on the floor while Story poured
them each a cup of coffee from the pot on
the woodstove. Now try not to shake your head back
and forth as you speak, dear, it looks like snow
falling off the cedar boughs during a stiffed wind each
time you do that, Story told her when they had
taken seats on the stools behind the counter. Now, don't
you think that you should unlock the door in case
someone comes in and wants to buy something? Starry asked,
you haven't heard anyone trying the door since you've been here,
have you? No one comes in this time of day.
It's the time of day when usually I can get
the most done because I'm alone. Maggie said, Well, I
came in at this time of day. Storry said, well,
I was talking about regular people. You aren't regular people.
Maggie said, well, I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed
to feel about what you just said, Story told her.
Maggie didn't try explaining what she had meant. She figured
Story already knew and was just making polite conversation. And
by the way, why are you in the store. What
are you doing back in Hamilton? I figured you'd be
too busy running Baltimore alongside your husband, Maggie said, me
and Baltimore Oil and Water. My husband adored that town,
but it was always too busy for me. There is
an awful lot to do there, and it seems as
if there's always something new to look at. But no
matter what, I always felt rushed at whatever I was doing.
Starry said, you said that your husband adored Baltimore. Did
something sour him to the town or does he just
have no reason now to return to it? Maggie asked,
if he'd had his wish, Paul would never have stepped
outside of Baltimore's city limits. Again, Paul was having a
supper with some men that he did business with, and
then came home afterwards, complaining that something that he had
eaten had not agreed with him. That wasn't the first time,
and Paul did everything that he did at a full run,
and he never stopped to even slow down. Eating included.
He had what my father would have called a nervous disposition.
He was even that way with his affections. So even
if I were not particularly longing for such things, it
was over with rather quickly. But that night, when he
returned to our home, he really didn't look at all well.
We called the doctor, and the man stayed by Paul's
bedside with diligence all through the night as he steadily worsened,
but nothing, it seemed, could be done to save him.
That was three months ago. Our daughter is back in
mary and being cared for by my mother. She is
just learning to walk now. Well. I had to return
to Baltimore to settle some affairs and see to the
selling of our home. I will surely miss Paul, but
maryn is home again, and I will take comfort and
no small amount of pleasure in raising my daughter there.
Storry said, I'm very sorry to hear of your loss.
I'm sure it has been terrible for you. Maggie said,
as she patted the woman's hand. I would imagine that
there will be a few moments of deep grief to
come my way yet, But honestly, I have not had
time to indulge myself with sorrow or pity. Too many
things needed to be seen to. Ruby had to be
taken care of, and Paul's business affairs did as well.
The men that Paul dealt with were very kind and sympathetic,
but once he had been buried, then the demands began.
They liked Paul, that business was uppermost on their minds,
and I had to wade into that immediately. I had
a fair understanding of what all Paul did because I
helped him with certain parts of his work. It was
his opinion that the more work I did that that
was just so much less that needed to be done
by someone who required payment for their work. And if
I were doing the work, then it would be done
from my home. If something needed attention, a trip to
an office or a delay until the following day would
not be necessary. So because of that knowledge, I have
been able to keep the business functioning and intend to
keep doing so. Story said, but you're going to do
it for Marion. Maggie said, why that's correct. Baltimore is
a fine place, but I wished to raise Ruby where
I was raised. She is scarcely overyear old, and it
is awful that she grew up never knowing her father.
So I want her to know the rest of her
family to make up for that. Story said, and you
named her Ruby, Maggie said, I did. She is my
precious jewel, the one I was certain that I would
never have. Story said, she being your jewel is not
why you named her as you did, is it, Maggie
ask Story took a sip of her cold coffee and
made a face stealed for the taste. Now she drank
all that remained in the cup. We never discussed it.
We knew that we wanted a family, two or three
children running around and getting under foot all the time,
but we never went so far as to consider names.
Now I will never know if he thought about the subject,
but I always knew that our first child would be
named after him. Ruben is a fine name for a
boy that would have grown into a kind and strong man,
just like his father Ruby, because she would be precious
just like her father. But he was taken from me
before those names could be given to our children. She
was my first, and I was determined to name her
as I had always planned. Paul was very fond of
our daughter, but he never had a thought one way
or the other about what she should be named. So
I was happy, and I suppose he was content with
my choice. Story said, by naming her as you did,
is that not a constant, painful reminder of something maybe
best left in the past, Maggie asked, Everything, in some
way is a reminder some things refused to be left behind.
Paul was a fine man, but being such a contrast
made him the biggest reminder. The memories that are so
treasured by me couldnt be seen as clearly where I
was and had been for these past two years. So
I'm going back to where they are vivid, and it
is there that I will raise their namesake. I will
tell my daughter often about her father, so that in
some ways she will know him, But in my heart,
I will always wish that different blood flowed through her veins,
Story said. The women sat in silence for a time.
Neither of them made a move to refill the cups.
Will you ever come by and see me again? Maggie
asked as she unlocked the door. I do hope so.
I would like that very much, Maggie, But I think
my traveling days are over with for a long while.
At least I hope that they are. For now. I
just want to raise my daughter. Story said you sadden me,
story good night, more than anyone I have ever met.
You saddened me, Maggie said as she opened the door. Well,
I sadden myself. If I should learn the secret to
putting it away from myself, I will share the secret
with you, though I fear that the secret does not exist,
Storry said as she wrapped her arms around Maggie. Into
her ear, Storry whispered to the shopkeeper, you think at
the time that moment you create her of importance, But
one day you will realize that those memories of those
moments are the most important things in the world. Some
days they are all that sustain you, and without them
you would surely fall from this world into the known blackness.
Maggie quickly closed the door and rushed herself behind the counter.
She did not want to own the memory of the
sad woman driving away all alone. Sixteen. He shivered and
shook racking tremors rattled his entire body almost without end
unless he focused and gripped himself tightly, but they came
again almost as soon as the last episode had stopped,
cold as he had never experienced, had him in its clutches.
He forced his teeth together and bent down hard as
he tried to become one ferocious knot of limb and
flesh and sinew. The fire was dying. He squirmed and
writhed himself nearer to what remained, but felt no additional warmth.
After having done so, he was hugging himself beneath the
furs that he had covered himself with. Maybe had helped
a little, though he wasn't sure. The last thing he
wanted to do was force an arm out from under
his fur blanket. But if the fire were not improved,
he had no idea what he would do when it
finally went out. There was no way that he would
survive the process of starting a new one. He wasn't
all that sure that he would survive with the existing one,
but still it remained that he needed to do something
before it was too late. With teeth chattering and clacking
together in a soft, pitiful whimpering, escaping him. He reached
out and pulled his chair closer, and then tipped it
over to fall upon the small flames. The additional heat
was not immediately felt, but the sound of wood crackling
and popping as the fire began to eat it it
reassured him, and he clutched it himself again under the
hides of those animals that he had killed over the years.
There was an infinite amount of coal left to be
chipped away from the walls, but he did not know
if he could stand, much less swing a heavy, cold
steel rifle barrel with any strength, and for a moment
he did not concentrate on the new warmth the blazing
wood was providing. He thought instead of what he was
going to do when his chair had become nothing more
than ashes. He would still be without strength, and would
still be without stamina, and the room would begin to
grow cold again. He peeked out from under his furs,
and he saw the two pouches stowed under his bed.
There was more than five pounds of gold nuggets and
dust and flakes in each one. Now he would gladly
have given both just to be warm again and to
be sipping a cup of hot tea like his mother
used to make. His body shook violently again with chills,
and he groaned. It had started just as a minor
itch somewhere in the back and down toward the bottom
of his throat. No matter how often he swallowed, he
just couldn't seem to tame it. It wasn't worrisome, it
was just extremely annoying. The emptiness of his life had
become something of a routine, and things that changed that
simple routine were annoyances to him. He had become extremely
intolerant of annoyances. It had only been his better nature
that had prevented him from eating three of the potatoes
that he had snitched from the bin beside the smokehouse
of the farmstead a few miles down the way last fall.
The potatoes were good when fried in the dripplings from
the meat that he was roasting, good enough that he
could have eaten two a night instead of just one,
and good enough that it had been a struggle to
lay three of them by untouched. He had saved the
ones with the most eyes so that he could plant
his own hills, and by his count, he should have
thirteen the plant if he ended up being fortunate, he
would harvest potatoes of his own from six to seven hills.
He was hoping that the wildlife left him that many
unmolested or destroyed. The animals that were around ate most anything,
but for some reason they were not so fond of
potato vines, and he hoped that worked in his favor.
It was cool out first thing that morning, perhaps a
bit early in the year for setting tater hills, but
he decided to risk it. He had long ago figured
out that trying to hide or make his planting seem
invisible did him no good. The animals around eventually found
them anyway. Now he tried to put whatever he planted
where they could catch the most sunlight. It wasn't the
easiest thing to do, given how deep he was in
the trees. He only had two potato slips left to
bury when he had wiped the dirt from the side
of his nose and frowned. He realized as he was
wiping the dirt away that when he had pressed a
finger against his nose so that he could blow it
and clear away the obstructions, that it had been the
third time he had done that that morning. He thought
about the itch deep down in his throat, and he
knew what lay ahead of him. Days, perhaps many as
eight or ten of them, he would be blowing his
nose and coughing, and all the time feeling as if
he needed to swallow, but knowing that it was going
to hurt. Each and every time. His eyes would swell
nearly shut, and he might even have a fever some
of the time. He had been fortunate in that he
had only taken the coal three or four times in
the nearly seventeen years that he had been living as
he was, he sort of half smiled. He was fortunate
in that he hadn't died during the first year that
damn tooth episode had tried its best to do him in. Also,
after he had been here a while, he nodded to himself,
and if the rotten tooth hadn't killed him, then the
dang spring coal wasn't likely to either. He didn't suppose.
He knew that he would probably be uncomfortable for a
few days, but it would pass. It didn't make a
lot of sense to him to worry about what was
going to happen. What made sense was getting the rest
of his potatoes planted. While he still felt reasonably well,
and then go and fill his canteens to the brim
with fresh water. Actually, he would need to fill them
a couple of times. He needed to water his plantings
before he went and put himself to bed. And maybe
with enough warm rest he could beat the most of
the sickness before it started. That was his hope. Anyway,
He drank two large mouthfuls of fresh water after adding
cold to the fire. The additional heat was near, immediate
and satisfying. And wrapped in his furs, he closed his
eyes and tried to remember if his mother had always
said starve a cold and feet of fever, or feed
of cold and starve a fever. He couldn't recall which
way that pearl of wisdom had gone. Either way, he
wanted nothing to eat. Earlier, before he had gone outside,
he had cut himself an ice sized piece of meat
that he had roasted a few days prior. He managed
to swallow one mouthful, but threw the rest away. It
had tasted of iron or copper. He had thought that
his meat had gone bad, but now he knew that
it was the way everything tasted when you have a cold.
Remembering that taste had been enough whichever way the old
saying went, he wasn't eating anything else for a while.
Just before he closed his eyes, he reminded himself that
while he still felt like it, he should break off
a few days supply of coal so that he would
have it when he really was feeling poorly. He told
himself that he would do it as soon as he
awoke from the short nap that he was going to take.
And Reuben fell asleep and did not wake again for
nearly seven hours. Years in this place had taught him
to avoid making idiotic mistakes. Taking that nap before all
was done that needed to be done had been a
huge one. It felt like morning, but through the hole
that served as an entrance, he could see that the
sun was nearly set. The fire was low, too low.
He had slept too long, and now the payment was
due for his indulgence. He swung his legs over the
side of what he called his bed and then sat there,
hugging himself with one arm while he used his free
hand to rub vigorously at his knees, which were throbbing.
And he coughed, and it hurt down deep in his
chest and in his back, and he wanted to have
coughed something up so that he could spew it from
his mouth. He believed that he would feel better if
something were pulled from inside him and thrown away, but
nothing came up. His knees and elbows hurt like the
joints had rusted solid, and each movement to break them
free caused them to scream in horror and act. He
never stood up, at least not completely in a crouds
the way he had seen some elderly men walk. He
made his way to the fire ring and slowly added
a few fist sized nuggets of coal to the small fire.
The pieces he added were dribs and drafts that he
had dropped over time. There was no supply ready at
hand to draw from. Coal was everywhere, and it dawned
on him that he had none to burn. The chills
came upon him as he watched the flames grow and intensify.
He should have given thought to later that night or tomorrow,
but instead he shuffled back to his bed and pulled
all the skin blankets that he had made from it
and wrapped himself in them in cocoon form. He lowered
himself to the ground and laid by his fire. Even
with the makeshift blanket pulled tightly around him, he worked
until his knees were nearly to his chest. He had
no idea of curling him so into a knot what
helped retain body heat, but it was what he felt
like he needed to do. He coughed and did not
cover his mouth, as he had been talked to do,
and he did not care. His hands were too busy
holding the skins closed tightly around his body. Somehow, amidst
the shivering and coughing, he began to drift off into sleep.
He could feel the fire against his face, but it
didn't seem to be providing any heat. He felt it,
but he could not feel it. The fire burned brightly
as he fell deeper and deeper into the black, but
the fire diminished with each passing minute. When he awoke,
he felt miserable, still, even more so than he had
when the tooth had acted up. Now he felt no
heat upon his skin trying to worm its way in,
only cold in his bones working its way out. He
opened his eyes and concentrated on clearing his vision so
that he could acknowledge what he might see. The flickers
now and then of orange and red in the depths
of the fire. Ring could be spotted, but there were
no flames. The fire was all but gone now, and
he wondered if it might not be easier to just
go back to sleep and allow the life within him
to go out as the fire was going to He
lay there and tried to will himself back to sleep.
But the more he tried, the more the try and
kept him alert to what he was attempting. A shout
that hurt his mind echoed within his head, and over
and over it yelled at him and would not be
quieted until it had been accepted. You dishonored your father
and your family's name by giving up and running away.
You will not do it a second time by running
from life. Each in every move instigated sharp and prickly
cold shivers to run the length of his body. The
more he moved, the colder he became. But he moved
and continued to until he was standing, and he wavered,
but he did not fall. He tried to take a
deep breath, but it only induced a series of coughing
spells that made him bend at the waist and grip
at his knees until it had subsided. Breathing shallow now,
he slid his feet along the dirt floor until he
stood and stared down at the rifle barrel that he
used as a miner would use a pick axe. He
knew it well. He knew how heavy it was, knew
it would feel many times heavier in his current condition,
and he knew it would be ungodly cold. In his hands,
he swung the length of steel with the same precision
and strength that a tot might swing one of his
father's tools. At first, it seemed as if he would
be ineffective. The steel seemed to merely bounce off the wall.
But though his vision was blurred and the racking cough
came continually to suddenly halt his work, he kept swinging,
with his nose running freely and sometimes weeping from the
shuddering pain in his joints and the lack of progress
he thought himself to be making. He kept swinging, and
then the steel barrel simply fell from his hands, and
he was only too aware that he could not grasp
or lift it again. There was no such thing as
bending over to grab the fragments of coal that he
had chipped from the wall, And then tossing them over
near the fire. He was too exhausted and too light
headed to bend, was to fall, and there was no
strength for lifting and tossing. Lacking grace, he fell to
the dirt floor and began to collect all that he
managed to loosen from the wall. Slowly he gathered the
pieces into a pile, always aware that the fire was
dying just as surely as he felt like he was.
He tried to hurry, but it did not seem possible
to go any faster. Crawling and worming his way across
the dirt, Reuben laid hard fought coal upon what remained
of his fire, and sat there on his knees, watching
the flames as they began to grow. He held his
trembling hands near to them and felt the heat, and
his back shivered from chills, but his hands were warm.
He wanted to sleep, but he would not until he
had finished his work. He had done differently earlier, and
it had nearly been his undoing. He crawled back and
forth from the wall to the fire ring, bringing pieces
of coal with him each time, and when finished he
was amazed and gladdened by the size of the pile.
His efforts had produced. He would have never thought that
he had produced as much as he had. And he
wrapped himself once more in his blanket of first and
positioned himself so that the pile of coal could be
reached without getting up. He wanted to drink of water,
and knew that he should drink some just for the
health benefits, but he wanted to sleep even more. The
chills were still there, but now they weren't so violent
as they had been, and the cough still gripped him
suddenly and out of nowhere, but it had begun producing
mouthfuls of slimy, thick substances that he gladly spat to
the floor. The furs were soft and tender when he
rubbed his running nose with them, much softer than a
shirt sleeve. The blanket, made of pelts and hides, was
catching the heat of the fire and retaining it. He
closed his eyes and breathed evenly and slowly, and then
he knew nothing else.