Edgar Pangborn - Davy

Baruch was past fifty when the rebellion began. He said his manuscripts and optical gear made a load too heavy to carry, and he would have no one else burdened with it if you please. I remember him so, in the doorway, stoopshouldered, shrunken, tortured eyes winking and watering, garments haphazard rags although he had money for good clothes, saying this and plainly meaning instead that he would not trust others, heedless ham-handed blunderers, to carry a load so precious. Then — ready to reject instantly any show of affection — he gave Dion a small book bound by himself, painfully handwritten by himself, a labor of pure love. It contains everything that Baruch knew and could tell of lens-making, so that granted the brains and patience (we have them) we can duplicate the practical part of the work at any time.

Many times since that day of retreat it has disturbed me to think of a lens-maker afflicted with something like blindness; of a man with a love for humanity who can’t stand the sight, sound, touch of human beings near him. I can imagine nothing more ridiculous or insulting than “feeling sorry” for Baruch; I suppose his rejection of communication is the thing that wounds.

We killed a stag that afternoon. I saw him in a clump of birches and let fly my arrow for a neck shot. He went down and Sam was beside him at once, the knife swift and merciful in the throat. Jed was generously admiring. Vilet watched us, me cocky and proud, Sam still-faced with his reddened knife waiting for the carcass to bleed out, and I saw a waking of lust in her, her eyes dilated, lips a little swollen. If Jed had not been there, present but not really sharing the heart of the excitement, I could imagine her inviting Sam to spread her on the ground. There was that in her smoldering gaze at him — and at me, who after all had shot the arrow. But Jed was there, and in a few minutes we were busy cutting what meat we could carry, the heated moment gone.

We camped for that night in a ravine that must have been a good ten miles from Skoar, but still fairly near the Northeast Road — once or twice we heard horsemen. We made a temporary fireplace of rocks for cooking, below the rim of the ravine, where the blaze could not be seen from the road. When Jed and Vilet took their turn at gathering wood, leaving Sam and me alone, he answered a question before I spoke it: “A camp-follower they call ’em, Jackson. Means she’s been whorin’ it for a living, puttin’ out for any Jo in the comp’ny that had a dollar. She’s good at it, too — I been in there a few times, never a dull moment. She was doing all right — the men treated her nice, got her food free, no pimp or modom riding her, chance to save up her cash for a rainy day. Every comp’ny’s got one-I dunno how ’tis in the Moha army. Our boys always make a real doll out’n the comp’ny whore. It’s natural — only female thing they got to love, and so on… Well, old Jed he kindly got religion, or he’d always had it, but I mean it so’t of rifted up on him, anyway he decided God didn’t wish him to stay in the A’my when there was a war on and a real chance he might be expected to hurt somebody. And it seems God told him to take Vilet along on his way out. He says it was God.”

“So who else would talk thataway?”

Sam gave me one of his long cool stares, checked on the distance of Jed and Vilet off in the brush, and went on with the story: “It come to a head yesterday after we holed up near the road waiting for the Mohas. I blundered onto Jed and her in the bushes, supposed they was just fixing up for a quick piece, but it wasn’t that. Jed he was lit up with the holy spirit or whatever, asked me to stick around and bear witness. He was explaining to Vilet how God wants her to give up the sinful life and love the Lord, along with him who’s intending to lead hencefo’th a life of mercy and purity. Damn, he’s already so gentle and goodhearted and mush-headed you wouldn’t think there was room in him for enough sin to stuff a pisswilly walnut, but he don’t think so. Got a conscience like a bull bison, that man, stompin’ on him all the time. Well, looked to me like Vilet got a bang-up conversion, and when old Jed cut loose with this ’ere repent-leave-all-and-foller-me, why, bedam if she didn’t, she did bedam… Jed he wanted I should come along too. I didn’t estimate I was no-way called. He allowed they’d stay close by for a day or two and pray for me, and if’n I changed my mind I could sneak away from the outfit and make screek-owl noises three at a time till they j’ined up with me. Kay, S’s I, and they took off. Dunno how they ever got by our sentries, him that clumsy with his poor eyesight, but Vilet’s sharp in the woods, got him by some-way. Hadn’t no intention of going with ’em, Jackson — I’m a loner by trade-but then I got my head hurt in that skirmish and the comp’ny took off without me. Real lost for a while. Damn nigh blundered into the Mohas like I told you. Bypassed ’em and come on down along the road — wrong way too, didn’t realize I was headed for Skoar till daylight. Did the screekowl thing a few times not expecting anything, but Vilet heard and answered, and we got connected. Know a rema’kable thing? — they got it fixed they’ll go all the way to Vairmant and cut a fa’m out’n the wilderness which shall be lo, a temple in the lorn waste land and like that. A’n’t bound thataway myself but bless ’em, s’s I, hope they do.”

“I notice you be calling ’em Jed and Vilet instead of Jackson .”

“Oh, that. Wa’n’t speakin’ to ’em direct.”

“I see. Like hell I see.”

Sam put his hand on my head and pushed down — not hard, but I was sitting on the ground the next moment. He rumpled my thatch; all I could do about that was laugh and feel good. “ Jackson ,” he said, “if you wasn’t a big serious brain just like me I wouldn’t betrouble myself to explain it. You see, in this world a man’s got to piss up some kind of a whirlwind or nobody knows he’s there. Now, me bein’ mean, ugly, common’s an old dry bullturd in an upland medder, if I didn’t do something a mite extra-onery — well, tell me, an old dry bull-turd, what does it do?”

“Just kindly sets there onto the grass.”

“That’s right! That’s prezactly what it does. You never knowed a bull-turd, anyway not an old dry one, to get up on its hind legs and call people Jackson as if it didn’t know their right names, nor you never will. So now I’ve answered your question fair and honest, what the hell you got into that sack? Been achin’ about it all afternoon.”

I might have told him the full story then about my golden horn — I did months later, when we happened to be alone-but Jed and Vilet were coming back. It wasn’t for them somehow — there was all the trouble of explaining why I hadn’t killed the mue, other difficulties. Jed heard Sam’s question, however, and when he saw me reluctant and unhappy he gave me a little talk about how since the Lord had thrown us together we must try to be all for one and one for all, which meant sharing everything and not having secrets from each other. So it would be spiritually good for me to tell about what I had in my sack, not that he supposed for one minute it was anything I didn’t ought to have, but — ayah, and meanwhile old Sam is standing off there not doing a thing to get off the hook, just minding the fire and spitting the venison on sticks to grill, and now and then casting me a blank look which might mean: Go ahead, be a bull-turd!

“Jed,” I said, “would you hold this image again, the way I can look at it whiles I talk?”

“Why, sure!” He was startled and mighty pleased. Vilet sat down by me, her chunky hand on my back. Affection was her natural way, going along with the bouncy sex though not the same thing. She liked to touch and nudge and kiss, make known her body’s warm presence without any fuss, just as at another time she might say, merely by pouting her mouth or rolling her hip, “Let’s have one!”