Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

“Now, I will climb that ridge and I will ask all the questions that you provide me pertaining to the boy. Perhaps I’ll learn something. Or I won’t. But for every angry thought that rages within your head against the brokers and against the M.P.P.’s who have put these men into their current position of exclusive authority, let it be mitigated by the knowledge that you have a friend and advocate in me .”

Sheriff Muntle reached down to shake the hand of my brother, who in taking the proffered paw of my bear-like friend used the clasp to pull himself to his feet. Brushing himself off in the seat, Augustus asked the lawman, “Do you ever wonder what became of your brother?”

“Every day,” replied the sheriff gazing off into the distance. “Though in my heart I know that he must be dead. It could be very different, though, with your son. Perhaps there is something different that happens to every man and woman and child who ventures beyond this ridge. I have always wished to know, and I confess to you gentlemen that there was a time in my youth when I considered doing the same thing as your Newman has done. It is devilish difficult to keep emboldened, adventuresome young men such as your son and my younger self confined within this valley — to say to a bright-eyed, inquisitive young lad: ‘Here is everything that you may know and now you must not pursue another thing.’ It’s the reason, I warrant, that 250 of our beloved kinsmen and women have left us. It’s the reason that we weep for that fraction who have returned with gruel for brains — those who dare to go and learn of the world beyond the ridges, only to be so cruelly punished for taking up the quest. The sadness of it all is sometimes difficult to bear. Well, I’ve said enough, haven’t I?”

Muntle took out his handkerchief and placed it to his eyes. In Dingley Dell in the year of our blessed Lord 2003, the shedding of tears was not a demerit in the measure of a man, but merely an unqualified aspect of his character.

“So give me your questions, gentlemen,” said the sheriff through a sniffle, “and let us find out what we’re able.”

For a long interval my brother and I walked along, exchanging not a word with one another until we reached the village of Fingerpost. Augustus and Charlotte had always lived here, in first one rented cottage and then another. Gus had tried his best to put food on his family’s table, whilst scheming and dreaming of ways to earn a better income through his own creative (and sometimes not so creative) initiative. Alas, not a single one of Augustus’ schemes and dreams had ever come to lucrative gain, and in the meanwhile my brother had been forced to make ends meet by working in a succession of disparate occupations. He had been a plasterer, a furniture maker, a dustman, a waiter, an old-clothes man, a ticket porter, a venison packer, and a wheelwright’s sawyer. He had earned wages as a fruitier’s assistant, a ginger-beer man, a coal-deliveryman, a shoe vamper, a church warden, an office clerk, a sexton, and a fire agency policy copier. His latest job was keeping inventory in a dried fish warehouse; it was a vocation he did not at all relish, and he had already started casting about for some new line of work.

Once inside the village of Fingerpost and nearing his house, Augustus was compelled to stop and speak, and what he had to say sent a chill throughout me.

“I have made a decision, dear brother. I must go and look for my son.” I stared at Gus in disbelief. I could scarcely find breath to say, “But you must know that there is the strong likelihood that such a venture would be tantamount to committing suicide.”

“Then are you saying that it is more than likely that your nephew Newman is himself dead?”

I shook my head. “I’m saying that your going abroad in your current state — frantic, wild-eyed, and reckless — will not achieve the objective you seek and may expose you to great harm.”

Augustus allowed the weight of my hard words to sit heavy upon his brow for a moment. Then he returned in an angry tone: “You don’t know what is out there. It’s all conjecture on your part. What if Newman is alive? What if he’s trapped somewhere and waiting for his father to come rescue him?”

“And what if he is someplace where you shall never find him? You’re my only brother, Gus. How could you even think of doing such a thing?”

“Because Newman is my only son . You cannot hope to know in your bachelorhood, Freddie, how it feels to lose a child.”

“I am not insensible to your pain, Gus, but I cannot allow you to do this.”

“And just how do you intend to stop me?”

“By any means possible.”

“We shall see about that.”

I took a deep breath. “Have you not stopt to think of what this would do to Charlotte? To your daughter Alice?”

“Alice no longer wishes to be a member of this family. And Charlotte no longer loves me.”

Both statements took me aback — especially the latter. “How can you be sure of such a thing?”

“I’ve seen it in her look, Freddie. I’ve felt it in her touch. Ours has been a hollow marriage for some time now — long before Newman went away. I know that he’s an unruly, devilish, pranking boy, but I love him with all of my heart, and without him there should be little left for me but a slow march to the silent grave with only my brother for occasional diverting fraternity. So I am prepared to take the risk at whatever the cost. I owe it to both Newman and to myself.”

I looked into my brother Gus’s eyes and saw the terrible pain of his predicament. And yet I could not, under any circumstances, ratify his decision. “I forbid it.”

“Forbid it? Just what will you do, Freddie: have your friend Muntle place me under arrest?”

“If I must.”

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly serious, brother.”

Not another word was said. Gus had had his say and I had made my remonstration, and it remained to be seen if what I said would do any good.

ewman Trimmers staid his hand as it reached out to pull upon the loose bark of the old tree that stood before him. He had for a brief moment sought to know if through actual ingestion he might learn if some part of it was edible. Newman was hungrier than he’d ever been in his life, but concluded as the hand came to rest again within his lap that perhaps he could go another few hours without being reduced to gnawing upon trees and chewing up leaves and twigs.

My nephew had hidden himself in the forested hills that overlooked the country home of Dean and Evelyn Ryersbach since his escape on Saturday. He had begun his journey home with a strong sense about the direction he must go to reach Dingley Dell, but the woods had tricked him, had turned him round, and had left him disoriented in very little time at all. Here there was nothing for a boy to eat without tools of procurement. There were mushrooms, but Newman durst not taste them, for he knew that some mushrooms found in the wild weren’t toothsome at all, but poisonous toadstools that tricked the eye. He had come upon the mountain stream that had earlier tried to drown him and had seen a fish swimming therein and had grabbed for it without success and had soaked himself anew, and now he was wet and cold. The sun could not find him here in the wooded darkness. Nor would food walk itself up to him and leap into his lap and ask to be eaten. A deer had approached, and Newman and the creature had considered one another for a long interim before it parted. Newman supposed that the animal had walked up to find out who he was and to learn why he sat shivering and wet and cold and hungry beneath a tree. Who was this creature who did not behave as two-legged creatures usually did — tramping noisily about except for that time of year when they softened their tread to be furtive and cunning and then, paradoxically, to murder the quiet with noisy blasts from their smoking sticks?