All True Not a Lie in It (3 page)

The martin bangs on. Hill’s father knows he has no grip on anyone’s brains now, and so he folds his hands and says Meeting is at an end for this day. Plenty of talk and hand-shaking as the rest make their way out, all looking quite relieved and able to be kindly again now that the marrying is done. I feel my Ma’s relief and Daddy’s grimness as the Friends nod to them. I am thinking to take this opportunity to ask Daddy about that gun when a finger arrives in my ear.

I stretch my foot backward to crunch William Hill’s toe. He pulls his finger out but not before he says with great cheer:

—A baby is going to come out of your sister. Out her stomach.

—Out her big arse, Hill. Like a chicken. I know you love to look at chicken’s arses.

I see Hill grin wide but I walk on with Bets behind our brothers. Once out the door, Israel turns and says loud:

—How can you stand and watch her go? And never speak to her again. Nothing about this wedding is right. It is nothing! None of these people can say we are wrong—

Ma hushes Israel as though he were young Squire. Daddy shakes his head but keeps quiet. Israel stalks off and my legs burn to follow. I know he will be going to fetch his gun, he will go up to the hills away from all of this, perhaps he will not come back until morning.

I am about to set off after him when Ma grips me and says:

—Hold little Neddy now. Stop him going into the road.

And my young brother smiles, he is always smiling. Sweet Neddy. I lift him. He has a high smell like Granddaddy. I say:

—Now look.

I hold him up so he might see Sallie’s arse as it retreats to the cart in which it will travel to a new house to lay an infant. Cast out, married to her squinting outsider husband. Neddy calls:

—Gone. Gone.

—Yes.

I set him down, his face is perplexed but he does not cry. Ma and Daddy stand still looking after Sallie as though they do not know what to do with themselves now, but they go on looking as though some answer will appear. I turn as the bird flies out the open door of Meeting House, it leaves a pile of purple droppings on the threshold. The only answer we get.

—Bets. Bets.

The night of the wedding I do not sleep, though the house is silent. Ma and Daddy are quiet in the loft upstairs. I think to get Bets out of the bed next to mine and Neddy’s, but she is heavy in her sleep and only rolls flat onto her back when I whisper. And I recall she threw shad guts over me the last time we went night fishing. So I tug the sheet over her face and leave her like a corpse.

I crawl past Sal’s empty bed. I know it is empty for ever and this gives me an odd prickling about my heart. I feel my way along the floor and I find Israel’s bed empty also, which is a disappointment to me. He has not come back. But perhaps I will find him.

Once I am free of the house I go over the kitchen-garden fence with a pail, thinking to get worms. The moon and a few stars are showing themselves. I trot over the Owatin Creek bridge and down
towards the river, I can hear its quiet rush. For a moment I am quite happy.

A thick rustling comes out of the night before I get to the water. I say:

—Israel?

A shadow crashes from the birches and snatches my arm. My happiness peels away from me.

—Are you fishing, Dan? I thought you might come out. I will go with you.

It is not Israel, it is William Hill. His mouth smells of iron, I know he is smiling in the dark, as if he has eaten my happiness. He is only one year older than I am. He sits before me in my Uncle James’s school and turns about to breathe on me with this breath. Sometimes he whispers answers at me if he thinks I do not know them. I do not listen, I would rather sit blindfolded on the one-legged stool in the corner than listen to him. Uncle James is always sorry for punishing me and gives me sweets at home later.

But Hill has money, it tumbles from his pockets, he is careless with it. Sometimes he gives me some of his money for a dead squirrel or a walk with me up the creek to a fishing place. His pleased face over the fence or around the edge of the door.

I say:

—You do not know where I am going.

—To your granddaddy’s? I do not mind. I would like a look inside his house. Does he keep whores in all the rooms?

And again I run, again he follows me. He thinks he knows where I will go but he does not. I take a long winding way over the fields. I will not go to Granddaddy’s, though I cannot think of anywhere else in particular. I only want to run Hill until he is too tired to go on. I race through dark pasture and corn and flax until the moon ducks in back of the clouds and I can only make my way by knowing the fields in my mind, not by seeing them.

I run in grass up to my knees for some time. Soon enough the back of my hand catches a farm fence, all rough split rails. I know it is the Blacks’ fence and I know they all have the summer fever. It has given Ma something safe to talk about with the other women. Well, I have no care for sickness. I am sick worse of William Hill.

I follow along the fence towards the yard. A horse has got out of the stable and is standing by the front step. I put my hand over its soft nostrils as I pass, it puffs in my palm. I will find the root cellar and hide there with the turnips until Hill goes. But I hear him lumping along into the yard and so I go up the front step of the house. I find the door, the sick-rope is knotted on the latch, but I hear Hill talking to the horse as if to me: Where are you? And so I go in.

In the thicker dark of the room I stand, keeping myself still. I am not afraid, I am afraid of nothing. I hold my breath in. A curious noise comes from across the floor, a rattle.

I pick my way over the floor to the far wall, but soon enough Hill’s breath is on the back of my head and I stop. He says:

—Go on.

—Do you want to catch it?

—Do you?

The Blacks have only daughters. One of the youngest lies beneath the open window hot as a pie, her teeth clacking and her eyes bound up with a white cloth to save them from the fever. I lean closer to see. Hill shoulders me down beside her and takes up a lock of her hair, then presses the end of it into my ear. In his father’s low kindly Meeting tones again, he whispers that Molly Black and I are now married till death do us part.

—Kiss her. Hug her.

My brother Israel told me at one time that sick hair will lay bad eggs in your ears. I do not know if this is true but the hair pricks me horribly. I make my shoulders stiff. I do not wish to wake the sick girl. Though I will not have Hill think me a coward.

I bend and put my lips to Molly’s burning cheek. Her teeth rattle on. I laugh and roll away but Hill says then reasonably:

—Or breed her. I will watch.

—No.

—Go on, Dan. I am trying to help you. I will save you from whoring, you will need a wife.

—No.

—Dan.

I jab him and again I say:

—No.

He sighs up another lungful of helpfulness. Molly’s teeth give a great rattle and I reach out to cover her mouth. Hill bends with his face big and close:

—I want to see what you will do now.

I break free of his iron breath, I fly out the door and this time he cannot keep up. I run as the stars watch blinking. This time I will run for ever.

My chest burns but I pound on and do not stop. The moon is up now, and I run back to the river by another way, past some cabins of a few of the praying Indians who come to Meeting. I see the dull white of two of their ponies in a grassy patch, I smell the smoke of their fires. A door opens, but I keep on. I skirt round a field. I will run up the river, farther than I have ever gone, perhaps farther than anyone has gone.

I hear the river at last. As I am crouched on the bank to catch my breath, a short low call comes. It is not a bird, I know.

I crawl along a way until I hear a small splashing. Someone is just upstream, stepping into the water. I see how tall he is. His dark hair hides against the sky and trees, but his pale legs show. He has
no breeches on and his shirt is loose and open. He takes up a thin stick and snaps its end. He turns his face.

Israel. He has seen me already, I know, but now he is looking up the bank behind him, where the sound of light steps moves away into the woods. I say low:

—Is that a deer? Will you get it?

I know he could get it easy if he wished to. I have followed him plenty of times in the early morning, I have seen the way his eye roams in a dark, lazy fashion over the dawn sky until at once it goes still and he shoots. He can get jays and crows, and sometimes deer. He does not know all the times I follow him. But sometimes he catches me out and shows me the way to look for the marks of deer hooves on grass, or for their droppings, or their hair snagged on branches. When he is home in the evening, he often lets me measure out his powder. Four times he has let me scrape his deer hides. Twice he has let me shoot squirrels with his gun. He gave me an old broken barrel without a stock, I have it beneath the pallet of my bed. I dream of it, though it is unsatisfactory dreaming. I would like to be as good a shot as Israel. He is Daddy’s favourite, and Daddy has set him free to hunt. He will not mind the bellows in the forge or work the looms at any rate, he goes where he pleases and has no care for what anybody says. He cares only for hunting and getting away from the town. He has shown me how to hide my steps and keep my weight even on my feet and go silent. I know the deer traces no one else but Israel has seen, and some he has not seen. But I do not know what he does at night.

With the water rushing round his legs he looks at me. He says very quiet:

—No deer here. What are you doing about tonight, Danny?

I do not wish to tell him about Hill and little sick Molly Black. I say:

—Hunting. What is it then, that noise?

He raises his head. He spikes a fish with his stick, its body gives a brief shine in the moonlight as he turns it in the air. In his calm fashion he says:

—Hunting, are you? With what? Only fish here. And you.

A ball rises into my throat. He knows about every animal and where it goes and how to find it. Everything is easy for him. I say:

—Where have you been? You have not been here long, you only have one fish. Did you hunt already? What did you get?

He turns and his face goes silvery where the moon catches it. I say:

—Why are you out again? You are always leaving your bed. Come on, we can get a deer. I will help.

But he says nothing. He pulls the shad off his stick and goes on fishing as if I am not here.

—Israel!

—Go home now, Dan.

He is walking up the river against the current, lifting his bare feet. I shout:

—I hate this place! I hate Exeter. I will get something without you.

He says nothing, he only looks up briefly, and I run on. I think of running again, but it is darker now, and alone I have no hope of any deer or any escape. I go home and thump dirty into bed beside little Neddy, who sleeps as hard as Bets does. Anger thumps in my blood, anger that Israel is so free and I am so pinned and so young. I am angry too at Hill for following me and wanting to see what I will do now. I see his big face. William Hill, trotting about in my mind as if it is his own field. Dunghole. I am ready to shoot anything. But as yet I have no gun.

Israel steals in sometime before dawn. I hear him settle into his bed and breathe slow. I will find out where he goes. I will follow him. I turn over and put my hands over my eyes, and I am struck by
a thought of the blindfolded girl with her skin on fire and the prickle of her hair like hay.

I wonder whether I crept into her sick dreams, a little husband. Molly, I did catch your slow fever when I kissed you, though not badly. I am alive yet. But you know this. You dead know about me and what I have done.