Part 17 (1/2)
”Yes.”
”My land,” and Mr. Absalom waved a thick arm to show, ”terraces back off thataway, and his land terraces off the other direction. We helped each other do the terracing. We were friends.”
”The path shows you were friends,” said the carpenter. ”The ditch shows you aren't friends any more.”
”You just bet your neck we ain't friends any more,” said Mr. Absalom, and his beard crawled on his jaw as he set his mouth.
”What's wrong with Troy Holcomb?” asked the carpenter.
”Oh, nothing. Nothing that a silver bullet might not fix.” Mr. Absalom pointed downhill. ”Look at the field below the road.”
The carpenter looked. ”Seems like a good piece of land. Ought to be a crop growing there.”
Now Mr. Absalom's teeth twinkled through his beard, like stars through storm clouds. ”A court of law gave me that field. Troy Holcomb and I both laid claim to it, but the court said I was in the right. The corn I planted was blighted to death.”
”Been quite a much of blight this season,” said the carpenter.
”Yes, down valley, but not up here.” Mr. Absalom glittered his eyes toward the house across the ditch.
”A curse was put on my field. And who'd have reason to put a curse on, from some hateful old witch-book or other, but Troy Holcomb? I told him to his face. He denied the truth of that.”
”Of course he'd deny it,” said the carpenter.
”Shoo, John, is Mr. Troy Holcomb a witch-man? I never heard that.”
”I'm just telling what Mr. Absolum said. Well.”
”If he was a foot higher, I'd have hit him on top of his head,” grumbled Mr. Absalom. ”We haven't spoken since. And you know what he's done?”
”He dug this ditch.” The carpenter looked into the running water. ”To show he doesn't want the path to join your place to his any more.”
”You hit it right,” snorted Mr. Absalom, like a mean horse. ”Did he reckon I'd go there to beg his pardon or something? Do I look like that kind of a puppy-man?”
”Are you glad not to be friends with him?” the carpenter inquired his own question, looking at the squared-log house.
”Ain't studying about that,” said Mr. Absalom. ”I'm studying to match this dig-ditch job he did against me. Look yonder at that lumber.”
The carpenter looked at a stack of posts, a pile of boards.
”He cut me off with a ditch. If you want work, build me a fence along this side of his ditch, from the road down there up to where my back-yard line runs.” Mr. Absalom pointed up slope. ”How long will that take you?”
The carpenter set down his tool chest and figured in his head. Then: ”I could do you something to pleasure you by supper time.”
”Quick as that?” Mr. Absalom looked at him sharp, for he'd reckoned the fence job might take two-three days. ”You got it thought out to be a little old small piece of work, huh?”
”Nothing too big or too small for me to try,” said the carpenter again. ”You can say whether it suits you.”
”Do what I want, and I'll pay you worth your while,” Mr. Absalom granted him. ”I'm heading up to my far corn patch. Before sundown I'll come look.” He started away. ”But it's got to suit me.”
”It will,” the carpenter made promise, and opened his chest.
Like any lone working man, he started out to whistle.
His whistling carried all the way to Mr. Absalom's house. And inside, on the front room couch, lay Little Anse.
You all know how Little Anse couldn't hardly stand on his poor swunk up legs, even with crutches. It was pitiful to see him scuff a crutch out, then the other, then lean on them and swing his little feet between. He'd scuff and swing again, inching along. But Little Anse didn't pity himself. He was cheerful-minded, laughing at what trifles he could find. Mr. Absalom had had him to one doctor after another, and none could bid him hope. Said Little Anse was crippled for life.
When Little Anse heard the whistling, he upped his ears to hear more. He worked his legs off the couch, and sat up and hoisted himself on his crutches. He clutched and scuffed to the door, and out in the yard, and along the path, following that tune.
It took him a time to get to where the carpenter was working. But when he got there he smiled, and the carpenter smiled back.
”Can I watch?” Little Anse asked.
”You're welcome to watch. I'm doing something here to help your daddy.”
”How tall are you?” Little Anse inquired him next.
”Just exactly six feet,” the carpenter replied.
”Now wait, John, that's just foolish for the lack of sense. Ain't no mortal man on this earth exactly six feet tall.”
”I'm saying what the stranger said.”
”But the only one who was exactly six feet-”
”Hold your tater while I tell about it.”
”I relish that song you were whistling, Mr. Carpenter,” said Little Anse. ”I know the words, some of them.” And he sang a verse of it:
I was a powerful sinner, I sinned both night and day, Until I heard the preacher, And he taught me how to pray:
Little Anse went on with part of the chorus:
Go tell it on the mountain, Tell it on the hills and everywhere-
”Can I help you?”
”You could hand me my tools.”
”I'll be proud to.”
By then they felt as good friends as if they'd been knowing each other long years. Little Anse sat by the tool chest and searched out the tools as the carpenter wanted them. There was a tale to go with each one.