Authors: Thomas Williams
When they had gone, with their
utensils, hampers and casserole dishes, the leftovers upon their
insistence transferred to his refrigerator, Luke stood in front
of the cabin. The bare trees and the brushy pasture were in the cold
shadow of the mountain. Jake sat at his feet, for once not asking to
hunt. Jake was five years old, according to his estimate and the
vet's, which meant in a man's term of life about thirty-five, but
each ensuing year would add seven to that quick metabolism. Phyllis
and Tillie seemed in good shape and would last for a while longer,
but upon George, and especially Eph, a shadow had fallen; he had seen
it.
It wasn't just that he
disapproved of what was happening down there in the world. In the
most literal way he couldn't understand it, and he seemed himself to
be the carrier of a virus causing death. You murder what you touch,
but I will touch you last.
Out of the corners of his eyes
something loomed, and at first it seemed the mountain grew, as if the
forces that had raised it were back in motion, heaving bedrock
upward. But it was the black shutter of a storm coming over from the
west, the mountain, under it, dim and iron-gray with snow.
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