Strange Seed (4 page)

The buck had lived off the vegetation in the forests and fields for eight years. He was one of the hunted, but man had done away with his hunters—the mountain lion and the wolf—or had driven them farther north, into Canada. So the life of the buck, in comparison with many of the other wild creatures, had been peaceful. His knowledge of death, and the necessity of it, was negligible. He’d seen men, but only from a distance, and he’d wondered, in a vague, instinctively cautious way, what sort of creatures they were. But men had never lain eyes on him.

The buck nibbled contentedly at the choke-cherry bush. As he nibbled, he half-listened to the small sounds around him; there, a raccoon shuffling through the grass to wash itself at the stream a few yards away; there, the tapping of a woodpecker against a large sycamore near the edges of the forest; from far above, the endless screeching of a hawk; all around, the drone of a million insects.

The sounds coalesced.
 
They were morning sounds and the buck was familiar with them.
 
There was no danger in the sounds.
 

The buck stopped nibbling.
 
He listened, his body tense and ready for flight, to the sounds of something heavy and not quite as graceful as himself moving toward him from behind, from the area of the stream.
 
Above the sounds was the hawk, and nothing else.
 
All the other creatures had quieted.
 
The leaves of the choke-cherry bush rustled a little in a tentative wind, masking the slight sounds of the thing behind.

Paul looked askance at the new bed.
 
“It won’t do, will it?” he said.
 
“It’s too big.”
 
He had chosen a huge, dark oak four-poster that dominated fully one-third of the small square room.
 
“I’ll take it back, Rachel.
 
I’ll get another one.”
 

Rachel sat on the bed and pushed on the mattress with the palms of her hands.
 
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
 
“It’s perfect.
 
I love it.”
 

“No,” Paul said.
 
“You think it’s cumbersome.”

“I think we’ll be able to sleep on it.
 
That’s what I think.”

“Uh-huh.
 
And get lost on it, too.
 
I don’t know what possessed me to buy the damned thing.”
 
He shrugged, abandoning the subject.
 
“I talked to that man about the windows,” he went on.
 
“He said something about a month’s wait for the window glass, that I should have taken measurements.
 
I told him that was his job, wasn’t it?
 
And he said it was, but that it would require two trips out here instead of one, that the extra trip would cost me twenty dollars, and if I wanted to save that twenty dollars I should take the measurements and telephone him.
 
I told him we didn’t have a phone and he said something about ‘foolish back-to-the-landers.’
 
Then he asked where I was from, I told him New York City, and he started chuckling.
 
Anyway, he ended up saying we wouldn’t last six months here.”

“You should have told him you were born here, Paul.”
 

“Why?
 
I don’t care what he thinks.
 
He’s nobody.
 
And he’s wrong.”
 
He paused as if to let his anger dissipate.
 
“Now, about a phone,” he continued.
 
“That’s going to take a while, too.
 
It seems they have to string wire, which takes time and money.”

“We’re going to have one, aren’t we?”
 

“Eventually, yes.
 
In a couple of months.
 
It won’t be so bad without one.
 
We’ll survive.”

“I suppose.
 
If it can’t helped…”
 
She sighed.
 
“Did you check to see if the car was ready?”

“Uh-huh.
 
It isn’t.
 
Shit, I’m tempted to go out and get another one.
 
I
would
if I thought the economics would work out, if a used car would be worth what I’ve got to put into the Ford to keep it running.
 
But I think it’s just a carburetor, and that’s only to be fifty dollars or so.
 
I doubt I could get a decent used car for that much.”

“You’re probably right,” Rachel said, clearly unconvinced.
 
“So what are you going to do?
 
Hire Marsh as your chauffeur until the car’s ready?”

“No.”
 
He grinned.
 
“We’ve got all the food and gasoline we need”—gasoline for the generator—“for the time being.
 
No, the mechanic said a week.
 
I won’t need Marsh till then.
 
I asked him to come back anyway on Friday, just in case.”

Rachel sighed again.
 
“And what about the windows, Paul?”

He waved agitatedly at the bedroom window.
 
“We’ll cover them, I guess.
 
There’s scrap wood in the barn.
 
It’ll look like hell, I know—“
 

“It’ll be dark as a cave,” Rachel protested.
 

“Well, it can’t be helped.
 
I’m sorry.”

A moment’s silence followed, then Paul made a small gesture designed to indicate the rest of the house. “I like what you did here today. It makes the house more presentable.”

“Oh yes, that.” She paused meaningfully. “I forgot to tell you; we had a visitor. A man named Lumas.”

“Lumas?”

“Henry Lumas. He said he knew you.”

“I don’t know anyone named Henry Lumas. Did you let him into the house?”

“He said he
knew
you, Paul. I told him our name was Griffin, and he said, ‘Griffin? Your husband’s father’s name wasn’t Sam, was it?’ I said yes, and he said he’d known your father, and that he knew you.”

Paul sat next to her on the bed and shook his head slowly, in condemnation.

“He said he
knew
you,” Rachel repeated. “And besides, he’s just a harmless old man. He brought us some firewood. That’s how I was able to get a fire started. He showed me how it’s done.”

“I really wish,” Paul began, “that you wouldn’t let strangers into the house when I’m not here. New York City should have taught you that much. How do you know this man wasn’t responsible for…” He made a long, slow sweeping motion with his arm. “For all this? How do you know?”

“I don’t, Paul. But I think I’m a good enough judge of character to—“

“Just promise that you’ll never again let someone into the house when I’m not here.”

She sighed. “I promise.”

“Good.” He paused. “Did this man stay long?” His tone was vaguely apologetic.

“No,” Rachel answered after a moment. “He just brought firewood in, we talked a while, and he left. He’s really quite a harmless old man, Paul. He’s got this great mound of white hair—he looks like an emaciated Moses. Well, he’s not really emaciated, just very thin. He lives in a little cabin out in the woods.”
 
She nodded to the west.
 
“He says he’s been living there for close to twenty years. He knew your father very well, apparently,”

“Oh?” Grudging interest.

“Yes. He had nothing but good to say about him. He said it was a real shame your father died so young.”

“He was just thirty-six.”

“
That
young, Paul? I didn’t know.”

Paul smiled feebly and cupped his hands in front of his knees. “Someday,” he said, “I’ll tell you about my last week or so here, after my father died, I mean. It makes…interesting after-dinner talk.”

“Yes, I’d like that, Paul.” She looked questioningly at him. “I’m sorry,” she continued. “That sounded callous, didn’t it? You’ve always been so secretive about that part of your life. It must be…” She searched for the right word. “It must be painful to talk about it.”

“No,” he answered. “Not painful.”
Confusing
, he wanted to say, but it would require and explanation, and he wasn’t up to that. “Just unpleasant, I suppose.” A smile that Rachel mistook for self-pity flashed across his mouth. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.” He stood abruptly. “Now we’ve got work to do. Maybe I can put up some of those shingles on the east wall of the house before nightfall.”

“Do you think the vandals were responsible for that too—for ripping those shingles down?”

“Probably.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a measuring tape. “Here,” he began, and handed the tape to Rachel. “You can measure some of those doorways while I’m outside. Marsh has some doors that might fit.”

Rachel took the tape from him and studied it briefly. “I just take the inside measurements, right?”

He smiled. “That’s right. It shouldn’t be too difficult for a bright girl like you.”

She returned his smile. “Don’t be so sure, Paul. I
am
female, you remember—very weak, very dependent, et cetera, et cetera.” She made a little, coy, mincing motions with her mouth and hands.

Paul’s smile broadened.

“I mean,” she went on, “anything other than breakfast-making, baby-making, and love-making…well, I’m just a babbling idiot.”

Paul laughed suddenly—a genuine laugh. It was the first time he’d laughed since they’d come to the house and it told Rachel that the tension she’d sensed in him was decreasing.

“You don’t agree, Paul?” Rachel asked. She held the measuring tape extended between her outstretched arms. “See all the numbers on this thing, Paul? It’s very
confusing
.”

His laughter increased.

That’s nice
, Paul, she wanted to say, but knew it would make him self-conscious.
That’s more like your old self
.

His laughter subsided. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Just…thank you.”

He left the room.

*****

It was all much better now, Rachel told herself. She leaned against the living room doorway and folded her arms across her stomach. And it hadn’t taken much to make it better. Just a few odds and ends of furniture—a white wicker chair, hers; a red wing-backed chair, Paul’s; a small cherry-wood table, a roll top writing desk, very old, a brightly colored rug, and, most importantly, plans to erase the awful damage done to the house. That wasn’t much. In time it would be quite a beautiful little house. One day, she might even be able to call it home.

She felt something tickling her ankle. She looked: “Hello, cat,” she said. She’d have to think of a name for the animal, of course. She couldn’t go on calling it “cat,” although Paul seemed to feel it was all that was required. “It’s not like it’s a bona fide member of the family,” he’d told her. “It’s just a cat, and it’s supposed to be quite a mouser. God knows this house needs one.”

She stroked the cat, pleased by the upward-thrusting motion of its huge gray head. “I don’t care what Paul says,” she cooed. “You’re going to have a name, like everyone else.”

*****

Laughter! It had been a long time since Henry Lumas had heard laughter from within that house. The Newmans had been too gloomy and self-involved for it, which might have been part of their undoing.

Sam Griffin had known how to feel good and how to laugh. He’d had his share of trouble, more trouble than ordinary men, but, up to the day the earth took him, he had been happy with himself. And that counted as much as enough sun, or enough rain, or easy winters, or bright, strong children. It counted
more
, as a matter of fact..

Lumas watched as Paul clumsily hammered a shingle into place, stepped back and gauged the accuracy of his work. “Damn,” Paul murmured; the shingle was slightly out of line. He ripped one of the nails out, repositioned the shingle, put another nail into it, and stepped back again.

“That’s better,” he said aloud.

“You want some help there, young man?” Lumas called.

The rabbit knew nothing about death. It had lived forever. It would continue to live forever. Still, there were the predators. The fox, the great horned owl, the red-tailed hawk. And the others.

Instinct did not tell the rabbit that its enemies required its death, only that its flesh would make a satisfying meal. So when the rabbit’s lungs refused to work because its throat had been crushed, it slid into death not as frantically as its killer might; no memories or sympathies crowded back. Its eyes opened wide, its always twitching nose stopped twitching, its muscles tensed, as if readying themselves for use, and it died.

Then its body was carried away by the ears for use as food. And its killer was neither joyful nor saddened because of the killing. Its killer had been beset by hunger and a craving for meat. And the rabbit had not been cautious as it could have been.