Cormac McCarthy: Outer Dark

The storekeeper was a dark lean German of middle years whose wry humor merely puzzled the occupants of the five hundred square miles of sparse and bitter land he commissaried. He watched her at the screen door until she got it open and entered, diffident, almost disdainful, as if sore put upon to take her trade to such a place.

How do, he said.

When she looked at him he saw that she must have been ill, her eyes huge and sunken in her pallid face and the dress slack and folded upon her. She nodded gravely. I wonder could I get a drink of water from ye, she said.

Yes mam. He came from behind the counter, noticing now the bundle of cloth she carried so darkened with sweat and her way with it as if she would keep it from sight. He crossed the dark oiled floor to the box and drew up the waterjar, loosed the tin screwcap for her and handed it across. She took it in both hands and thanked him and tilted a long drink down her thin throat.

Get all ye want, he said. Just set it back when you’re done.

Thank ye, she said, holding the jar before her and getting her breath before she drank again.

Been a little warmer ain’t it? Today.

She arrested the jar at her mouth and lowered it and said Lord ain’t it been, then raised the jar and drank some more. When she was done she replaced the cap and put the jar back in the cooling box.

Was they anything else for ye?

I thank ye, she said, I believe that’s all. What do I owe ye?

That’s all right, he said.

Well I thank ye.

Yes. Have ye got far to go?

Where to?

There was a moment of silence. The storekeeper tugged at one ear. Well, he said, I don’t know. I allowed you was travelin.

I hope not to have to a whole lot, she said. I’m a-huntin that tinker is what it is.

Tinker?

That’n come thew here about two weeks ago they said never had no cocoa.

The storekeeper waited for her to continue. She was looking up at him curiously. She said: Have you not seen him?

He shook his head slowly. No, he said.

It wasn’t but about two weeks ago.

No, he said. I’ve not seen him.

Had just the littlest chap with him.

Tinkers don’t stop here, the storekeeper said, and I don’t welcome em to. They has most likely been one thew here lately. I don’t know. They come and go. But they ain’t lookin for me and I sure ain’t lookin for them.

Well, I thank ye.

And I ain’t got no cocoa neither.

I know it, she said. My brother trades here.

Brother?

Yessir. I expect you know him.

I expect I do if he trades here. What’s his name?

He’s in here this afternoon. Culla Holme.

Why he just left here. Quiet feller? Come in here this afternoon with that old shotgun and sold it to Buddy Sizemore?

He done that? she said.

Well, the storekeeper said, maybe I ought not to of told that.

I’d hate for you to know what all else he done, she said.

The storekeeper started to smile and then he stopped smiling. She hitched the bundle up beneath her arm and cast about her with her sunken eyes. I thank ye for the water, she said.

Yes, he said. You welcome.

Well. I best get on.

Come back, he said.

At the door she stopped again, turned, trapped in fans of dusty light, a small black figure burning. Listen, she said.

Yes.

I’d take it as a favor if you’d not tell him I been in here.

Your brother.

Yessir. Him or that tinker either one.

She stood for a while on the porch, the shadows long upon the road and the birds growing quiet. She looked to her left and to her right, the sandy pike coming out of the forest and flaring at the store and going on again. She crossed the road and turned to face the store for a moment and then she started up the road to the left. She walked very slowly. Before she had gone two miles she was walking in darkness. A cool wind came out of the forest. From time to time she stopped and listened but there was nothing to hear. She heard her steps small and faint in the silence. When she saw the light through the trees before her she stopped again, warily, her hands to her labored heart.

She was met at the door of this small house by a man holding aloft a lantern beyond which and gathered in its fringe of wan light she could see the faces of several women of different ages, including an ancient crone who was without a nose.

Yes, the man said. What is it?

The old woman’s black eyes closed and opened again slowly on either side of such long bat’s nostrils.

Are ye lost?

She clutched up her bundle. Lost, she said. Yes, I’m lost. I wondered could I just rest a spell.

The man watched her, one hand raised with the lantern, the other fondling a button at his chest.

Yes. Tell her yes.

Thank ye, she said.

The man turned to the woman who had spoken. Hush, he said. He turned again to the traveler. Where do ye come from now?

Just down the road a piece. I just wondered could I maybe rest a little spell.

Just a piece down the road? Must be a considerable piece for me not to know ye. You live twards town?

I don’t know, she said.

Ha, the man said, don’t know where ye live?

I mean I don’t know where town’s at.

The man’s eyes grew narrow. Who’s out there with you? he said.

They ain’t nobody but me. I’m just by myself.

Who’s out there? he called, looking past her and addressing the untenanted night out of which she had come.

She turned and looked with him.

Come up, whoever’s out there.

These faces watched but no one appeared. The man turned to her. You sure they ain’t nobody with ye?

No, she said. I just come by myself.

All right. Which way did ye come?

I live down twards the Chicken River.

Say ye do? And where is it you’re headed on such a dark night.

I’m a-huntin this here tinker.

Tinker? What’d he steal?

Well. Somethin belonged to me.

And what was that?

It was just somethin.

Well come in anyway.

Thank ye, she said.

The women parted before them and they advanced upon and set back the darkness inside as far as a large trestle table where the man turned and put down the lamp. Now, he said. This here is my family. They’s a boy here somewheres. Where’s he at, old woman?

He had better be bringin me in some wood.

He’s a-bringin in wood. Now, what was your name young woman?

Rinthy Holme.

All right. This here’s the family. Dinner be ready here in just a few minutes. Ain’t that right?

The woman nodded.

And you welcome.

Thank ye, she said. She turned to the woman but she had already gone from the room. The grandmother and two girls or women of some age stood watching her.

Get ye a chair, the man said.

They watched her sit, holding the bundle up before her, the lamp just at her elbow belabored by a moth whose dark shape cast upon her face appeared captive within the delicate skull, the thin and roselit bone, like something kept in a china mask. Lord, she said, I’ve not sat hardly today.

They had been eating for several minutes before the boy joined them. He studied her with cadaverous eyes and began to load his plate. She reached another piece of the store bread from its wrapper. She said: I bet I ain’t eat two pones of lightbread in my life. I was raised hard.

The woman regarded her above a poised and dripping forkful of fatmeat. We eat what we’ve a mind to here, she said. We ain’t never had nothin but we don’t care to get just whatever to eat if we got the money. Do we, Luther?

That’s right, he said. I ain’t never belittled my family nothin to eat they wanted. They get that baloney down at the store all the time. They can get them salmons if they’ve a mind to.