Part 64 (1/2)

Clouds s.h.i.+fted and began to chase one another with mad enthusiasm across the heavens. Light pulsed into darkness and gleamed again. The mare's tails thickened into a mackerel sky, ridge after ridge of gray-white against pale blue; but that cleared with a rush eastward toward the foot of the valley, leaving the air with a sheen as smooth as that of a knifeblade when the racing images darkened again.

Old Nathan rubbed his thumb across the lichen, eliminating the character. The sky reverted to the bright afternoon normalcy from which the cunning man's art had dragged it briefly.

”Thet's t'day and t'morry,” Old Nathan said. ”Don't reckon we need fear a storm fer thet while.”

”You know what you know, Nathan,” the old woman said. She s.h.i.+vered again. Her hand rested on the rock as she gazed out over the valley.

Old Nathan settled his broad-brimmed hat. ”Waal . . .” he said.

Sarah looked at him sharply. ”Ye needn't t' go, Nathan Ridgeway,” she said. ”I jest cloomb up t' look from a high place. Hit's a thing I do . . . but I don't see you here, ez a rule.”

The cunning man shrugged. The cardinals had resumed their feeding, commenting in griping tones on the quality of the late pokeberries. The humans had shown themselves to be no threat, and therefore of no interest. . . .

”Sometimes,” Old Nathan said in the direction of the far horizon, ”I think I might move on west. No pertikaler cause. Don't reckon I'll iver do it.”

”Thet girl you had back along b'fore ye went off t' the war,” Sarah said, also facing the western end of the valley. ”Slowly, her name was. Ye think on her, iver?”

”Mebbe,” said Old Nathan. ”Sometimes, I reckon. But thet's over and done long since.”

The sun was still near zenith, but its rays had little warmth now in late fall. When Old Nathan left the shelter of the outcrop to walk back to his cabin-he hadn't saddled the mule, hadn't wanted the beast's company or any company-the trail would be chilly.

Darkness would not be long in coming.

”My datter-in-law, Ellie . . .” Sarah Ransden said. She glanced at Old Nathan. ”I b'lieve ye've met her?”

Old Nathan nodded toward the horizon. ”I hev.”

”Ellie reminds me a powerful lot uv Slowly,” Sarah continued. Her tones were flat.

She turned her head away. ”I don't see Ellie much.” Bitterness tinged her voice. ”Nor my son neither, not since he moved out. He allus figgered I should uv left Chance Ransden myse'f, 'stid uv waitin' till Cullen druv him out with an axe handle an' him jest a boy. Cull don't understand what hit is fer a woman married to a feller like Chance Ransden-”

She turned to meet Old Nathan's eyes, for the cunning man had turned also. ”-and it could be thet I did do wrong, fer Cull and myse'f both. The good Lord knows I hain't been lucky with men, Nathan Ridgeway.”

Old Nathan snorted. ”I hain't been lucky with people, Sary,” he said. ”But I reckon the most of thet's my own doing.”

His thumb had rubbed a patch of limestone free of lichen. He wanted to leave, but that would mean moving past the woman and he didn't much care to do that either. In the forest above, a squirrel berated a crow for startling him, and the crow offered to s.h.i.+t in the squirrel's mouth if the critter didn't shut it. Life went on.

”Chance warn't a bad man,” Sarah Ransden said in a tone that reminded Old Nathan of the days when they had been children together. ”Only thar was a divil in him. I thought I was blest ez an angel that he picked me, him so handsome and a sight younger. But the divil rode Chance Ransden, harder an' harder iver' day till the last time he tried t' take a strap t' Cull . . .”

She stiffened. In a flat, age-cracked voice she concluded, ”Thet war the last I saw Chance Ransden, ten year since. Figgered he run off t' the Neills, he were thick ez thieves with thim. But I niver heard word one uv him agin. Nowadays, I don't reckon I will.”

”I reckon I'll be movin' on now,” Old Nathan said. He paused to clear his throat. ”Good t' see you agin, Sary.”

He stepped toward the woman. Instead of edging back to let him by, she put a hand on Old Nathan's arm. Her fingers, tanned and sinewy, stood out against his faded homespun s.h.i.+rt like tree roots crawling over gray rock.

”You don't need a young gal, Nathan Ridgeway,” she said. ”Ye need an old one what's worn inter the same ruts ez you.”

”I don't need airy woman, Miz Ransden,” the cunning man said harshly. He lifted her hand away from his arm. Their fingers were much of a kind, dark-tanned and k.n.o.bby at the joints. ”You know thet.”

”Thar's companions.h.i.+p,” Sarah said. ”Thar's hevin' somebody t' say howdy to in the mornin'!”

Old Nathan pushed past her. His boots scuffed bits of stone down the slope until they pattered to a halt among the fallen leaves and pine straw.

”I niver figgered thet was enough t' offer airy soul, Sary,” he said gruffly. ”Thet's why I sint Slowly away whin I come back from King's Mountain.”

He paused and looked westward again. ”Thet's as fur as I've been, King's Mountain. Reckon the way thet turned out, I kin see why I hain't been travelin' since. . . . But I should hev gone, Sary. Comin' back here t' lick myse'f where iverbody knew me, thet was wrong. I should hev gone.”

Old Nathan started up the trail. Nuthatches disputed sharply over a pine cone. The birds were not so much angry as a.s.serting their kins.h.i.+p and mutual interests.

”Thar's a storm comin', Nathan Ridgeway,” the old woman called from the overlook. ”You know what you know . . . but my bones tell me thar's a storm coming.”

”Cullen, honey?” Ellie said in a plaintive voice. ”Hain't ye comin' to bed, sweetest?”

Bully Ransden sat at the table with his shoulders hunched. Though he faced in her direction, he didn't bother to look up to where his wife lay under the quilt's protection.

The threat of the season's first snow hung in the chilly night, but it was more than the temperature that caused Ellie to s.h.i.+ver.

”G'wan t' sleep,” Bully said. He held the simple box he had purchased at the auction. His fingers moved over its surface like the blunt, questing heads of serpents. The fire had sunk to a glow, but an alcohol lamp on the table threw its pale, clean light over Bully's face and the object in his hands.

”Cull . . . ?”

”Shet it, will ye?” Ransden snarled. ”Or I'll shet it fer ye!”

Three nights before, a strip along the bottom of the box had slipped sideways to display a hollow base.

Inside was a key, shaped from apple wood instead of metal and so cunningly fas.h.i.+oned that it hadn't rattled against its compartment when Ransden shook the box.

The key sat on the table beside him. He had still not found any sign of a keyhole.

Ellie began to cry softly.

Bully Ransden put the box down and pressed the knuckles of his two great fists together. ”Ellie, honey,”

he muttered to his hands, ”I'm right sorry I spoke t' ye thet way. But you jest get t' sleep 'n leave me be fer the while.”

”Cull,” the woman said, ”why don't ye jest break hit open and come hold me? Hit's only a sc.r.a.p uv wood.”

”Hit's the only thing I've got uv my Pappy's, girl!” the Bully snapped in a barely controlled voice. ”I hain't a-goin' t' smash it t' flinders!”

Ellie Ransden sat up in the simple bed and shrugged the quilt aside. She wore only a linen s.h.i.+ft, but she had let her hair down for the night. It hung across her shoulders and bosom in a l.u.s.trous black veil. ”Cull,”

she said, ”you hated Chance Ransden, an' you were right t' hate him. You oughter take thet box and throw hit right straight into the hearth.”

Bully looked up with anger bright in his eyes. His mouth formed into a snarl. The woman faced him, seated like a queen on her couch and for the moment as proud and fearless.

”Ye know what I'm sayin's no more thin the truth,” she added in a tone of trembling calm.

He gave a shudder and looked at his hands again. ”Tarnation, Ellie,” he said. ”Hit's jest a puzzle. Whin I figger it, I'll be over 'n done with the blame thing.”