Steeplechase (12 page)

Homer was distracted by the framed photograph on the wall. He jumped up to take a look. “Who's this old guy?”

“Some pastor from days gone by. I forget his name.” Joe stood up, too, and peered at the spidery writing under the photograph. “The Reverend Horatio Biddle. Oh, sure, I remember him. He's got a tombstone out there in the graveyard.”

“Well, it's too bad,” said Homer, sinking back in his chair. “I gather you don't have any juicy scandals for me. But that's all right. In fact it's just as well. I'm ashamed of myself for asking. It's not me, Joe, honest it isn't. It's my editor. That's the kind of stuff he wants.”

“Now wait a minute, Homer. Hold your horses.” Joe frowned. “I think there was a scandal about a tree.”

“A tree? A scandal about a tree?”

“Well, maybe. It sounds unlikely. I'm probably wrong.”

“Well, how about a lost church?”

“A lost church?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but—”

“No, wait.” Joe stared fiercely at Homer's whiskers. “A lost church. It strikes a chord.”

“It does?” Homer pulled a folder out of his bag and handed Joe the letter with the sentimental poem, the verses about the mysterious church that was “lost, tempest-tossed and forever abandoned.”

Joe read the poem aloud.
“Deep in the forest primeval and shrouded in shrubbery, a prey to woodworm and weevil, the empty church stands.
” At the end, he looked up at Homer and said, “Goodness me.”

“Oh, it was just some amateur poetry group, way back in 1869,” said Homer, feeling foolish. “They told this woman it was worthy of Oliver Wendell Holmes. See at the top where it says that?”

“Mmm, yes.” Joe stared at the poem and murmured, “‘
Lost, lost is the music
!'” Looking up dreamily, he said, “Oliver Wendell Holmes, that's right. There was something about Oliver Wendell Holmes.”

“You mean something else about Holmes, not just this poem?”

“I think so.” Joe stood up. “Look, Homer, I'm late for a meeting. And anyway, I'm no good to you. The person you ought to speak to is old Miss Flint. She knows more about the history of this church than anybody else.”

“Miss Flint?”

“Right. Miss Flint is one of our oldest citizens. In fact, I think she was born here.”

“Oh, good, I was hoping you'd have a dear little old lady.”

“Dear little old lady?” There was a pause. Joe seemed to have fallen into a reverie. Then he woke up and said thoughtfully, “The fact is, Homer, I've never met the woman. I gather she's something of a recluse. She lives out on Acton Road on the corner of Route Two A. You know, right behind the pizza place. You know the pizza place?”

“Can't say I do.”

“Well, that's where she lives. I tried to call on her once—you know, the new clergyman in town making polite pastoral calls on all the old folks and shut-ins.” Joe shook his head. “But there was a
KEEP OUT
sign at the end of her driveway, and anyway, it wasn't exactly a driveway, just sort of a cart track, so I didn't.”

Homer's interest was fired up. “Maybe I should phone her.”

Joe shook his head. “Doesn't have a phone. Lives alone, never goes anywhere.”

“Well, how does she survive? She must buy food somehow.”

Joe shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe she lives on roots and berries like an old witch in the woods.” He stood up and waved his hands in apology. “No, no, I shouldn't say such a thing. I should worry about her health, old recluse like that. I notified the Council on Seniors, but they didn't have any luck, either. I hear that the town nurse really kicked up a ruckus, but it was still no soap.” Joe was scrambling into his suit coat. “Sorry, Homer, I've got to go. Church school superintendent, she's waiting for me.”

“Oh, well, okay.” Homer stood up, too, and grinned at Joe. “It'll be different with Miss Flint and me. I'll just turn on the old Irish charm.”

Joe's “Good luck” sounded doubtful. He charged out the door, then dodged back in again, having forgotten something important. “Say, Homer, they tell me that book of yours is a bestseller.” Joe strode across the room to shake Homer's hand. “Congratulations. I'm on the waiting list for it at the library.”

Fat lot of good that'll do my book sales, thought Homer ungratefully as Joe rushed out again. From the far end of the corridor, Joe was shouting something else. Something about old Miss Flint? What was the word?
Gray? Hay? Play? Sleigh?

As Homer's car headed south in the direction of Route 2A, he guessed what Joe had been shouting. It was Miss Flint's first name, Fay.

The Witch in the Woods

A
t first, Homer couldn't find the track going off into the woods, where the fabled Miss Flint was living like a witch on roots and berries. Quarry Pond Road ended at Route 2A, and from there a left turn soon brought Homer to the pizza parlor, but if there was a nearby track going off into the woods to the place where the fabled Miss Flint was living like a witch on roots and berries, he couldn't find it. As he turned the car around, a fragrance wafted past his nose and he could almost taste his favorite flavor, pepperoni with plenty of mozzarella. This time, staring left and right, he found what he was looking for. Tall weeds obscured the
KEEP OUT
sign, but the path was faintly visible. Homer parked the car on the shoulder of the road, pushed through the weeds, and set foot on the path.

It was a long walk up and down through a forest of white pines, oaks, and hemlocks, with here and there the gaunt trunk of a dead tree. Homer recognized the low bushes on either side, and he wondered if the gnarled hands of the hungry old witch reached down to gather the blueberries. But then he came to her vegetable garden. Well, of course old Miss Flint would have a vegetable garden. Blueberries alone wouldn't keep an old lady alive.

Cautiously, Homer moved closer. He saw no witch's cottage, but as he leaned over the fence, he heard a noise and caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, the flick of a garment, a swaying in the tall grass. The slammed gate shivered. A rake tipped over in a slow arc.

It was clear that the dear old lady needed time to prepare for a visitor. She'd want to comb her witchy hair and poke the fire under the caldron. Well, no, of course there wouldn't be a caldron, but surely there'd be a teapot. She'd want to put the kettle on.

Politely, Homer passed the time by inspecting the witch's garden. What did poisonous plants look like? Henbane and so on? Peering inquisitively through the chicken wire, he saw only lettuces in a row and early peas climbing twiggy sticks, just as they were doing at home. But this garden was far neater than the one Mary had so carelessly planted in May. No creeping Charlie romped among these tomato plants, no evil crabgrass sprawled around the zucchini. Homer was envious. He told himself that both he and Mary had more important things to do than weed the tomato patch. They were far too busy to be nasty neat like this, whereas a witchy old lady in the woods had nothing better to do.

He stopped inspecting the garden and wandered around it to the gate. Here there was a path. Homer sauntered blithely along it until he came to a low building nestled in bushy beds of marigolds. It was not a moss-grown witch's cottage, but a clap-boarded house as neat as the garden. The door was shut and curtains hid the windows.

Homer was an experienced old trespasser. Boldly, he knocked on the door. No one came to open it, but he could feel the presence of someone on the other side, listening. At the window, the curtains trembled. He moved to the window, tapped on the glass, and called, “Miss Flint?” in a syrupy voice, trying to sound like a courteous Visigoth, a gracious Assyrian whose descent on the fold was entirely in accordance with etiquette. He could see a shadowy form behind the gap in the curtain, but it made no move to let him in. Rashly, Homer tried a touch of cheery informality. “Fay?” he called sweetly, beaming through the gap in the curtain and pressing his nose against the glass.

At once, a thin hand reached out and slapped the curtain shut.

1868

Josiah's Ax

Measured a chestnut stump on Asa White's land, twenty-three and nine-twelfths feet in circumference, eight and one half feet one way, seven feet the other, at one foot from ground.

—Henry Thoreau,
Journal
,

June 2, 1852

A Battlefield

J
osiah Gideon had been away for three days in Boston, attending a State House hearing on the cost of pauper relief and the funding of almshouses. He had prepared a fighting speech, but the mills of the legislature ground slowly.

He was the last in a long parade of interested parties, some with outrageous arguments for a reduction in spending, others good-hearted but soft-spoken. Josiah was not soft-spoken. The walls of the hearing chamber echoed with his fury, his thundered statistics, his scandalized report on conditions he had witnessed for himself. His eyes blazed, he thumped the table and shook his fist, and then he ended by reminding the legislative committee of a bitter old saying, The poor are brought up with a reverence for God, the hope of heaven, and fear of the poorhouse.

It was late afternoon when he stumbled out of the State House, made his way to the livery stable, and set out for home under a threatening sky. Before long, the heavens opened. Josiah's wife had pleaded with him to go by rail, and now he regretted his refusal. The wind became a tempest, the rain came down in sheets, and the road before him was pitch-dark. It was four o'clock in the morning when he led his horse into the stable, rubbed down her streaming sides, forked hay into her stall, felt his way into the house, pulled off his drenched coat, and climbed the stairs.

Julia lifted her head from the pillow and said, “Oh, Josiah” as he crept in beside her in his nightshirt. But after throwing one arm over her, he fell instantly asleep. Her bad news would have to wait. Julia closed her eyes and curled close to her husband, dreading the morning.

Josiah slept late. Julia went about her morning chores, tiptoeing upstairs now and then to look in the bedroom door, but Josiah slept on and on. She made breakfast for Isabelle and James. When she brought the tray into James's room, they looked at her anxiously. “Does he know yet?” said Isabelle.

Julia shook her head. Then James made a sound and looked up at the ceiling. There were footsteps overhead. Josiah was up and about. There was no putting it off. Isabelle could see the foreboding on her mother's face as Julia climbed the stairs.

“Josiah,” murmured Julia, “come to the window.”

“What is it?” He was buttoning his shirt, but when she said nothing, he turned to look at her, and something in her manner warned him. He crossed the room in one stride, looked out, and uttered a shout of horror. The chestnut tree was gone.

Fearfully, Julia watched him throw on the rest of his clothes. As he wrenched open the bedroom door, her hand on his sleeve meant, Gently, Josiah.

It was too late for gentleness. Across the road, the lower slope of the graveyard was a battlefield. All the mighty branches of the chestnut tree lay tumbled and sprawling on the ground. While he had been away, the careless axes and the long two-handled saws of the brothers Fitzmorris had hacked and ground their way through the living wood.

It had been the work of a single day. Yesterday morning, Brendan and Daniel had begun the task by sharpening the steel blades of their axes. They had carried them to the graveyard, along with a number of saws with kerfs of different widths, a pail of water, and a ladle. Standing under the tree, they looked up and studied it, then walked all around it, prodding the rough bark and choosing the place to begin. Then they hefted their axes and began chopping. Brendan chopped out a notch on the north side, the side that was intended to tip and fall. Daniel's notch was on the south, a little higher up the tree. But the heavy work of felling was left to the sharp slanted teeth of their various saws. Patiently, the brothers sent a crosscut saw wheezing back and forth until the weight of the tree caught and held it, and then they pounded wedges into the notch and began again. But not even their long two-handled saws could drive all the way through the central core of the tree, so Brendan and Daniel sliced off edges—east, south, and west—until the longest saw could handle what was left.

Halfway through the work, they stopped for a dram, a chunk of salt pork, and a slab of bread. Then both of them stretched out flat on the grass and slept in the shade of the doomed tree, the last kindly shade it would ever let fall. They did not sleep long. Soon they were up and at it again, laboring steadily, hour after hour, heaving their axes and driving their saws in and out. About five o'clock in the afternoon, they saw a trembling thrill run through the leaves overhead, and the tree began to creak on its narrow stem.