Cormac McCarthy - Outer Dark

Well.

I was just wonderin could I maybe ride back with ye’ns this evenin.

I would say ye could.

I’d be much obliged.

The old woman had risen and was staring down at her as if beset by dogs or some worse evil. The two girls were whispering and peering from behind their hands.

Set down, mamma, the woman said.

Set her out some dinner, the man said.

Lord, she said, I just ain’t a bit hungry.

The woman had taken up the pail and now she stopped, still chewing, looking down at the young woman standing in the road.

Set her out some dinner, he said again.

While she ate she saw the boy coming across the mall toward them. When he saw her sitting on the edge of the wagon bed he stopped and then came on more slowly, limping.

Where you been? the woman said.

I’d as soon not hear, said the old crone.

I ain’t been nowheres.

You about missed dinner.

Shoot, he said.

It was late afternoon when they set forth again, out from the town, the wheels rasping in the sand, back down the yellow road. Night fell upon them dark and starblown and the wagon grew swollen near mute with dew. On their chairs in such black immobility these travelers could have been stone figures quarried from the architecture of an older time.

HE HAD BEEN listening to his own feet in the road for a long time now when the man spoke. The man said: What do ye say buddy.

Howdy, Holme said, stopping.

The man was leaning against a small walnut tree, his feet sprawled in the grass before him, one eye squinted in a kind of baleful good humor and a piece of dockweed sprouting from the corner of his mouth. He spared a wincing smile to this traveler. Set a spell and rest, he said, removing the weed and pointing at the ground with it.

I guess I better not.

Just for a minute and I’ll go up the road with ye.

Well.

Sure.

He came slowly through the dusty grass toward the shade and sat a little way from the man.

Hot ain’t it?

He allowed that it was. The man bore a faint reek of whiskey. He did not look at Holme but stared out at the road, smiling a little to himself.

Where ye goin? he said.

Just up the road.

That right? That’s where I’m a-goin. Just up the road. He tapped absently at his knee with the weed, smiling. Just up the road, he said again. He turned his head as if to see were anyone looking, then reached beneath his coat where it lay on the ground alongside him and brought forth a bottle blown from purple glass, holding it up in his two hands and shaking it. He looked at Holme. Care for a little drink?

Might take just a sup.

The man handed him the bottle. Get ye a good drink, he said.

Holme twisted loose the stopper and held the bottle to his nose for a moment and then drank. His eyes shifted focus and he sat very erect. He wiped his mouth and plugged the bottle and handed it back.

I thank ye, he said.

Good ain’t it?

It is.

You welcome.

He scooped the sweat from his forehead with one finger. The man sat watching the road, the weedstem twirling in his mouth and the threadthin shadow of it going long and short upon his face like a sundial’s hand beneath a sun berserk. After a moment he turned to Holme again. How will ye trade boots? he said.

Holme recoiled. He looked at the boots and he looked at the boots the man wore. I don’t believe we could work up no trade hardly, he said. I just come by these.

They look to be stout’ns, the man said. What did ye have to give for em?

I don’t know. I traded work for em.

I guess a man’d have to put in a few days to come by such boots as them, wouldn’t he?

A few.

The man smiled again. These old shoes of mine is about give out, he said.

Holme looked at him but he had fallen to watching the road again with a kind of dreamy indolence.

You live hereabouts? Holme said.

The man’s eyes swung on him. I live over at Walker’s Mill, he said. Other side of Cheatham. And I’d best be getting there. He took the weed from his mouth and spat. You ready? he said.

Holme stood. The man reached and got his coat and put the bottle in one pocket. He swung it loosely over his shoulder and rose and Holme followed him into the road where the afternoon sun fell upon them brightly. Holme watched the dust bloom from under the man’s bootsoles. The leather was dried and broken and the backseam of one was split and mended with bailing wire at the top. When he stepped the gash opened and closed rhythmically and his calf winked from the rent in time to the dull thump of the bottle against his back.

How far is it to where you’re goin? Holme said.

Three or four mile. Tain’t far.

What brings you up thisaway?

I come over to hive a swarm of bees for a man.

Holme nodded. I guess you traded it out in that there whiskey, he said.

I won that whiskey on a bet, the man said. Hivin em with no beeface and no smoker.

You get stung?

I ain’t never been stung, the man said.

I reckon you’ve worked a good bit with bees.

Some, he said. He swung the coat in a capelike arc about him and hung it over the other shoulder. Some, he said again. He pursed his lips and blew, as if wearied. How far is it to where you’re goin?

I don’t know, Holme said. Just to this here town I reckon.

The beehiver looked at him sideways and away again. Or do ye not know where it is you’re a-goin?

I don’t know, Holme said.

Why are ye goin then?

Goin where?

The beehiver didn’t answer. After a while he said: Well, say to that clump of sumac yander, pointing minutely with one finger from the hand that held his coat.

I’m lookin for my sister, Holme said.

That right? Where’s she at?

Holme watched the dry sand welt under his new boots. If I knowed, he said, I’d not have to look.

The beehiver ignored this. He was looking about him. They passed the sumacs and he said: I don’t see her.

Holme looked at him dully. After a while the man swung down his coat again and this time he brought forth the bottle. Drink? he said.

All right.

He handed the bottle across without looking. Holme took it and paused in the middle of the road with his feet spread, watching above the cone of bright glass receding from his face the slow wheel of a hawk. The man watched him. When he was done he held out the bottle and the man drank and stowed it again in his pocket and they went on.

How far you come? the man said.

Pretty good piece. I don’t know … I was over in Johnson County some.

Never been thew Cheatham though?

Not to recollect it I ain’t.

You would recollect it.

Is that right?

That is right. He kicked with his toe the flat dried shell of a wheelcrushed toad. They got the awfullest jail in the state.

I ain’t never been in jail, Holme said.

You ain’t never been in Cheatham.

Holme put his hands in the bib of his overalls.

What trade do ye follow? the man said.

I ain’t got nary.

The man nodded.

I can work, Holme said. I ain’t no slack hand.

You aim to hunt work in Cheatham?

I’d studied it.

He nodded again. They went on. They forded a small branch and the beehiver bent and scooped a palmful of water at his face and whoofed and shook his head. He ran one hand through his hair and then down the side of his breeches to dry it.

How much further is it? Holme said.

Tain’t far.

You reckon this here water is fit to drink?

It’s old swampwater, he said.

I’m kindly takin a thirst.

The beehiver smiled his little smile and slung the coat upon his shoulder again and they went on.