Child of God (7 page)

B
ALLARD HAS COME IN FROM
the dark dragging sheaves of snowclogged bracken and he has fallen to crushing up handfuls of this dried or frozen stuff and cramming it into the fireplace. The lamp in the floor gutters in the wind and wind moans in the flue. The cracks in the wall lie printed slantwise over the floorboards in threads of drifted snow and wind is shucking the cardboard windowpanes. And Ballard has come with an armload of beanpoles purloined from the barnloft and he is at breaking them and laying them on.

When he has the fire going he pulls off his brogans and stands them on the hearth and he pulls the wadded socks from his toes and lays them out to dry. He
sits and dries the rifle and ejects the shells into his lap and dries them and wipes the action and oils it and oils the receiver and the barrel and the magazine and the lever and reloads the rifle and levers a shell into the chamber and lets the hammer down and lays the rifle on the floor beside him.

The cornbread he has baked in the fire is a crude mush of simple meal and water. A flat tasteless crust that he chews woodenly and washes down with water. The two bears and the tiger watch from the wall, their plastic eyes shining in the firelight and their red flannel tongues out.

T
HE HOUNDS CROSSED THE
snow on the slope of the ridge in a thin dark line. Far below them the boar they trailed was tilting along with his curious stifflegged lope, highbacked and very black against the winter’s landscape. The hounds’ voices in that vast and pale blue void echoed like the cries of demon yodelers.

The boar did not want to cross the river. When he did so it was too late. He came all sleek and steaming out of the willows on the near side and started across the plain. Behind him the dogs were falling down the mountainside hysterically, the snow exploding about them. When they struck the water they smoked like hot stones and when they came out of the brush and onto the plain they came in clouds of pale vapor.

The boar did not turn until the first hound reached him. He spun and cut at the dog and went on. The dogs swarmed over his hindquarters and he turned and hooked with his razorous tushes and reared back on his haunches but there was nothing for shelter. He kept turning, enmeshed in a wheel of snarling hounds until he caught one and drove upon it and pinned and disemboweled it. When he went to turn again to save his flanks he could not.

Ballard watched this ballet tilt and swirl and churn mud up through the snow and watched the lovely blood welter there in its holograph of battle, spray burst from a ruptured lung, the dark heart’s blood, pinwheel and pirouette, until shots rang and all was done. A young hound worried the boar’s ears and one lay dead with his bright ropy innards folded upon the snow and another whined and dragged himself about. Ballard took his hands from his pockets and took up the rifle from where he had leaned it against a tree. Two small armed and upright figures were moving down along the river, hurrying against the fading light.

I
N THE SMITH’S SHOP DIM
and near lightless save for the faint glow at the far end where the forge fire smoldered and the smith in silhouette hulked above some work. Ballard in the door with a rusty axehead he’d found.

Mornin, said the smith.

Mornin.

What can I do for ye?

I got a axe needs sharpenin.

He crossed the dirt floor to where the smith stood above his anvil. The walls of the building were hung with all manner of implements. Pieces of farm machinery and motorcars lay strewn everywhere.

The smith thrust his chin forward and looked at the axehead. That it? he said.

That’s it.

The smith turned the axehead in his hand. Won’t do ye no good to grind this thing, he said.

Won’t?

What ye aim to use for a handle?

Get one, I reckon.

He held the axehead up. You cain’t just grind a axe and grind it, he said. See how stobby it’s got?

Ballard saw.

You want to wait a minute I’ll show ye how to dress a axe that’ll cut two to one against any piece of shit you can buy down here at the hardware store brand new.

What’ll it cost me?

You mean with a new handle and all.

Yeah, with a new handle.

Cost ye two dollars.

Two dollars.

That’s right. Handles is a dollar and a quarter.

I allowed I’d just get it sharpened for a quarter or somethin.

You never would be satisfied with it, said the smith.

I can get a new one for four dollars.

I’d better to have thisn and it right than two new ones.

Well.

Tell me somethin.

All right.

The smith stuck the axe in the fire and gave the crank a few turns. Yellow flames spat out from under the blade. They watched.

You want to keep your fire high, said the smith.
Three or four inches above the tuyer iron. You want to lay a clean fire with good coal that’s not laid out in the sun.

He turned the axehead with his tongs. You want to take your first heat at a good yeller and work down. That there ain’t hot enough. He had raised his voice to make these observations although the forge made no sound. He cranked the lever again and they watched the fire spit.

Not too fast, said the smith. Slow. That’s how ye heat. Watch ye colors. If she chance to get white she’s ruint. There she comes now.

He drew the axehead from the fire and swung it all quivering with heat and glowing a translucent yellow and laid it on the anvil.

Now mind how ye work only the flats, he said, taking up his hammer. And start on the bit. He swung the hammer and the soft steel gave under the blow with an odd dull ring. He hammered out the bit on both sides and put the blade back in the fire.

We take another heat on her only not so high this time. A high red color will do it. He laid the tongs on the anvil and passed both palms down hard over his apron, his eyes on the fire. Watch her well, he said. Never leave steel in the fire for longer than it takes to heat. Some people will poke around at somethin else and leave the tool they’re heatin to perdition but the proper thing is to fetch her out the minute she shows the color of grace. Now we want a high red. Want a high red. Now she comes.

He tonged the axehead to the anvil again, the bit a deep orange color with pins of bright heat breaking on it.

See now do ye hammer her back from the bit on the second heat.

The hammer striking with that sound not quite metallic.

About a inch back. See how she flares. Let her get wide as a shovel if it takes it but never lay your hammer to the edges or you’ll take out the muscle you put in on the flats.

He hammered steady and effortless, the bit cooling until the light of it faded to a faintly pulsing blood color. Ballard glanced about the shop. The smith laid the bit on the hardy and with a sledge clipped off the flared edges. That’s how we take the width down, he said. Now one more heat to make her tough.

He placed the blade in the fire and cranked the handle. We take a low heat this time, he said. Just for a minute. Just so ye can see her shine will do. There she is.

Now hammer her down both sides real good. He beat with short strokes. He turned the head and worked the other side. See how black she gets, he said. Black and shiny like a nigger’s ass. That packs the steel and makes it tough. Now she’s ready to harden.

They waited while the axe heated. The smith took a splayed cigarstub from his apron pocket and lit it with a coal from the forge. We just want to heat the part we’ve worked, he said. And the lower a heat ye can harden at the better she’ll be. Just a low cherry red
is about right. Some people want to quench in oil but water tempers at a lower heat. A little salt to soften the water. Soft water, hard steel. Now she comes and mind how when ye take her up and dip, dip north. Bit straight down, thisaway. He lowered the quaking blade into the quenchbucket and a ball of steam rose. The metal hissed for an instant and was quiet. The smith dunked it up and down. Cool it slow and it won’t crack, he said. Now. We polish it and draw the temper.

He brightened the bit with a stick wrapped in emery cloth. Holding the head in the tongs he began to move it slowly back and forth over the fire. Keep her out of the fire and keep her movin. That way she’ll draw down even. Now she’s gettin yeller. That’s fine for some tools but we goin to take a blue temper on her. Now she gets brown. Watch it now. See it there?

He took the axehead from the fire and laid it on the anvil. You got to watch her close and not let the temper run out on the corners first. Shape ye fire for the job always.

Is that it? said Ballard.

That’s it. We’ll just fit ye a handle now and sharpen her and you’ll be on your way.

Ballard nodded.

It’s like a lot of things, said the smith. Do the least part of it wrong and ye’d just as well to do it all wrong. He was sorting through handles standing in a barrel. Reckon you could do it now from watchin? he said.

Do what, said Ballard.

H
E LAUNCHED HIMSELF
down the slope, slewed up in snow to his thighs, wallowing in the drifts with the rifle held overhead in one hand. He caught himself on a grapevine and swung about and came to a stop. A shower of dead leaves and twigs fell over the smooth mantle of snow. He fetched debris from out of his shirtcollar and looked down the slope to find another stopping place.

When he reached the flats at the foot of the mountain he found himself in scrub cedar and pines. He followed rabbit paths through these woods. The snow had thawed and frozen over again and there was a light crust on top now and the day was very cold. He entered a glade and a robin flew. Another. They held
their wings aloft and went skittering over the snow. Ballard looked more closely. A group of them were huddled under a cedar tree. At his approach they set forth in pairs and threes and went hopping and hobbling over the crust, dragging their wings. Ballard ran after them. They ducked and fluttered. He fell and rose and ran laughing. He caught and held one warm and feathered in his palm with the heart of it beating there just so.

H
E CAME UP A RUTTED
drive and past the roof of a car sliced off and propped on the ground with cinderblocks. A light-cord ran across the mud and underneath the car roof a bulb burned and a group of depressed looking chickens huddled and clucked. Ballard rapped on the porch floor. It was a cold gray day. Thick gouts of brownish smoke swirled over the roof and the rags of snow in the yard lay gray and lacy and flecked with coalsoot. He peeped down at the bird against his breast. The door opened.