The Preacher’s namesake was loyal too. Through all vicissitudes he remained a beat-up yellow tomcat, charging not a farthing for the privilege of scratching him under his evil chin.…
The same human race included that devil Shawn, the bronze butchers who fell upon Deerfield, a smiling murderer with one eye. Of course.
Sometimes also Reuben speculated: If they—Heath, or Hibbs, or Tench, or even dear Kate—if ever they knew that I am a monster, a lusus naturae, a two-headed calf, a moral leper so outlandish and beyond hope of forgiveness that, were my nature known, even the children in the street would be a bit afraid to throw dead cats and dung—what then? Would there then be any part of this earth where Amadeus and I might go, and not be hated, driven, feared, utterly condemned?… The thought came only in the darkest hours; seldom if ever when he was with Mr. Welland, the world excluded, the ugly pockmarked face an unfathomable essay in the beautiful, the moment blazing or peaceful as sun on summer grass. Here in the mist, the fear touched him as an almost trivial thing, an arrow missing the mark, a fire burning somewhere else, a lesson glimpsed further on in the book. Blessed be the mask—and yet I hate it, will ever hate it, wearing it only because I wish to live, remembering it was not worn in the time that some have named the Golden Age.
If I am a monster—who seem to myself a young man not incapable of the earthly virtues, who love the sun and rain as well as any man and would never willingly do a dishonest thing or hurt anyone, who need and rejoice like any man in all the harmless glory of the senses—then who made me a monster? If I am evil, who set the standard whereby men and women are to be judged? Let Mr. Cotton Mather tell me God did so and will punish the transgressor: I am not interested, nor is Amadeus, who doth believe in God after his own fashion.
Reuben knew he was near the beech tree. He put out his hand to find the amiable tower of it and leaned against it in the mist, remembering. I stood here last year, having made certain discoveries. A good day—April, I think. Ben rode home smiling. A long time ago.
It was never possible to hold away for any long stretch of minutes the knowledge that Ben was gone. One schooled the mind to repeat that lesson, though it might whimper and snarl miserably in repeating it: He is probably lost. Then, the lesson driven home once more, he turned usually to Vesalius, or Micrographia, or Neurologia Universalis (Ben’s gift!), or the collected works of Ambroise Paré, or the Severall Surgical Treatises of Richard Wiseman, because Mr. Welland said it was time for him to acquire a small preliminary hint of the enigmas of knife and suture.
“But why do so many die after trifling minor surgery? Don’t we all suffer small cuts and bruises repeatedly and take no harm by it?”
“We don’t know. Doctors despise surgery; send ’em to the filthy barber surgeons, and they die. I no longer send anyone to the barbers, Reuben. If surgery can’t be avoided I stumble through it myself, trying to follow the methods you’ll read in that book of Paré’s, with these grim little tools—that’s splendid steel, by the way, I care for ’em like an old housewife—and I’ve lost very few under the knife, but I can’t tell you why. Why, maybe they’re so bemused by the wig that they stay alive so to have another look at it.…”
At other times it was scarcely possible to drive the lesson home at all. Then in partial retreat from the unbearable he permitted the dream of Ben’s return—telling over this complex year as it might be told to him, polishing those whimsical or naughty inventions that used to be rewarded by the startled stare of his gray eyes and his rocketing laughter. Reuben knew such fantasy to be a drug, but yielded in times of need. “You see, Ben, not to put too sharp a point on it when likely it was dull—” No no! Not that way, seeing he may have truly loved her. “You see, Ben, doubtless because their fortunes went down with ours, Captain Jenks being lost or presumed lost—why, she married. Some ancient December blossom”—revise!—“some man named Hoskison, a merchant of Salem where she now liveth, but her mother and Charity dwell with the mother’s brother at Dorchester, the said Charity being a most sweet maid, little Benjamin, and greatly changed, who hath not forgotten thee.”
And so she is, he thought, strolling sure-footed away from the beech in the deep quiet of the mist—so she is; and he wondered in passing whether any self ever lived that was not divided by contrary hungers. Occasionally with Charity—when she sat close by him, or pushed at his chest with friendly impatience, or rubbed her cheek on his shoulder in her impulsive way that was half child, half woman—occasionally Reuben could be reminded of those needs the world allows. Never enough, he thought; never complete; never the sure and hearty answer that Ben, for example, would have known.
And never, in fact, quite free from a sense of the pressure of the world, of the command to conform and be like all others; and since to yield to that nagging, to conform and be like others at whatever sacrifice, is to lose oneself in the meanest of all vanities begotten of fear, it is not acceptable to the lonely.
Charity came often to Roxbury, lending Kate a hand in the kitchen as well as the sickroom. She did so even more often after the move to Dorchester, for her uncle allowed her to ride about a good deal—much more, some said, than was at all fitting, safe or decent for a young girl. She was calmer at fourteen, not so much given to fits of temper, at least not at Roxbury. Reuben seldom saw her in her mother’s company, since Madam Jenks at Dorchester had submerged in a stately retirement, letting it be known that she was not long for this world, the which was merely a place of trial for the life to come, and blessed reunion with One Who Was Gone and, though the best of men, had never quite understood the palpitations of her heart, and was even given at times to profane thoughts and actions, for the which he doubtless repented in the end, and was taken to the Lord, a good provider with all his faults, and sometimes fluttered in her chest so that she could scarcely breathe at all, but were in no sense connected with her overweight, which was slight and for that matter incomprehensible since she ate like a very sparrow, and suffered also from insomnia and risings from the stomach.
Some day, Reuben thought—oh, some day perhaps that other world ought to be explored, if only for the sake of the slow, strange enterprise of trying to learn a little about the human race. Amadeus would probably say that it ought.
Never with Charity of course. Reuben was aware that Charity, very much a woman this last year, did not regard him as a potentially aggressive male, but as a friend who could be trusted to listen with kindness, share a moment of mirth, speak with intelligence about the fantastic pictures she still liked to draw, and even take her part against those restrictions of a woman’s world that chafed her to rage. Besides, there was that day in November, soon after the move to Dorchester, when Charity Jenks threw her snarled-up sewing all the way across Kenny’s library and flung herself crying into Reuben’s arms, to speak of a sorrow until then unknown to him. A servant of theirs, a French-born slave Clarissa, had been sold to New York when the household was broken up, seeing there was no place for her at Dorchester—and that girl, said Charity, had been her real mother for years and years, and was the only friend she would ever have. “You have me,” said Reuben, and was startled to watch her considering that, sniffling, accepting it and seeming remarkably comforted. A few minutes later she was speaking, for the first time freely and shamelessly—about Ben. And then of the house at Dorchester, which was near the shore. She had found a place where tumbled rocks made three walls excluding the land, the fourth side open to the sea—you could look out for miles on a clear day, and could hardly fail to see any of the ships that came into Boston out of the south; she’d draw him a picture. She did so; and then this spring, about a month ago, Reuben had seen that lookout for himself, making a harmless conspiracy of the secret approach to it, since otherwise tongues would have wagged and clattered. It had seemed to him, in the fair sun of that spring afternoon, beyond reach of a thunderous high tide but not beyond the reach of the spray, that Charity was alm
ost happy, though not in the same way or to the same degree that he had been happy himself for some moments, even hours, in the past year.…
Well, it would be no simple or pleasant thing, to tell Ben about Faith’s marriage. Do it quickly, lightly, ready to go along with whatever mood took Ben at the news. Then later, maybe, the wedding could be described in—in harrumphitatis Reubencoribus. “I did endeavor, little Benjamin, to place my spirit in such posture as to snap up any unconsidered morsels of hymeneal sanctity that might be flipped my way when the good and just Eliphalet Hoskison re-entered that holy state in manly pride and a gingery-yallery weskit”—Revise! Leave out most of Hoskison; to Hell with Eliphalet Hoskison and the ivory buttons on that hemi-spherical weskit!—“but my chaste resolution, sir, was overruled, and barely indeed could I repress the cachinnations of a lewd nature and subsume the concupiscent, when my perspiring attention was led astray by observation of a touching yet not wholly tragical prodigy—prodigal tragedy—of nature. Nay rather, in these latter years I have come to regard it as a pastoral or even, mm-yas, a comical-historical-pastoral interlude, the which I will elucidate if you perpend. The dominie who wedded those twain was not, little Benjamin, a tall man, and on the top he was bald as a baby’s bottom—for this I can summon witnesses if need arise. Now as he stood before us in the ultimate or perhaps the penultimate prayer, it was required of him to lower that benevolent denuded skull, and I did behold, advancing unto the pinkish radiance thereof, a small fly. A fly, sir, buffeted by the gathering winds of October and, I think, lonely. He circled the dull glow thrice, I saw it, and thrice flew away, and yet once more returned—drawn, do you see, to the services in spite of original and later sin—and circled a last time resisting the call, unrepentant, naughty in mortal pride and unredeemed, but in the end lit softly upon the holy ground. There did he scrub his forelegs, Benjamin, and listen, taking thereafter a few sprightly steps toward a certain silvery fringe, the which must have indicated to him: ‘Thus far and no farther!’ Strait is the gate and few that enter, mm-yas. Frustrated and remote indeed from a state of grace, he did flirt his saucy wings, and listen, and scrub his middle legs, and bravely attempt another region of the fringe where he was again baffled and cast down. Fiat justitia, ruat caelum! I watched him returning to the center, broken (as I thought) in spirit, not one of the elect yet loathing his sins and mourning after the pardon of them, but there most delicately—O Ben, Ben, as a fellow sinner I foresaw this and my bowels yearned for him—there most delicately did he lay down a mild brown memento of his presence as a representative of the secular arm. Thereat he shuddered but the act was done, ad majorem lignocapitis humani gloriam. He listened then as it were with an absent mind. He cocked his red head at me as we listened, and I knew then, Benjamin, I knew from the shameless manner of his conversation that mercy and salvation had passed him by. He sampled the pink surface with an heretical tongue and thought little of it. Lost even to the sense of decorum, he r’ared up behind and scrubbed his ultimate legs—furtively, however, you understand, like any other boy in church. And then at last (in fact at very long last) he rose up and buzzed away—relieved but not saved, not saved at all, by the resonance of an Amen.”
Later. Mm-yas—much later, if at all.…
He walked in the mist, no longer remembering but in the here-and-now, coming at length to the cottage, where he would have tapped on the window, but Amadeus Welland came to him across the lawn out of the mist. “I slept a while but was restless. A turn around the garden—sends me off sometimes. Is it one of his bad nights, Reuben?”
“Nay, not bad, in fact I thought him rather cheerful, as far as one can guess. I read to him, his usual Montaigne, and then a little from the Religio because he seemed to be listening and enjoying it. When Kate relieved me I think he was not far from sleep. Ah, how long, Amadeus?”
“No one could possibly say. I once knew the apoplexy to leave a woman quite motionless and yet alive for six years. Others go in a few moments, a few weeks. And there are remissions, don’t forget. It’s no mere word of comfort to say that he might recover his speech, even the use of his left side, or partial use. I’ve seen that happen. Or it might be that when he falls asleep tonight, or some night, he won’t wake.”
“He said once—if I rightly understood the words, but he was excited, trying too hard to speak, and so they were difficult—he said he could not die until Ben comes home.”
“Well.… The mere thought of it might do much to keep him in this world a while. Nobody understands the power of the mind over the flesh—or ought I to say, over the rest of the flesh? Or the power of flesh over the mind. We don’t know, we don’t know.”
“I know it is May, and a misty night.”
“Yes, and thou art here.”
“And I think I enjoy the misty nights, Amadeus, mm, even the nights when the moon’s down as much as the others, and I’ve wondered why, and I think I know the reason. I enjoy them because I know that, while others are sometimes afraid of the dark, I am not. I can tell you, I can tell you surely, I’m not afraid of anything in nature. Am I speaking nonsense, I wonder? Why, before a lion my flesh would cringe and squeak, I don’t doubt it, but somewhere, Amadeus, somewhere in here there’s a part of me would hold calm and yield nothing even to the thought of mine own death.”
“Have I not alway known that, in thee?”
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“So again I learn something.… I’m tired.”
“Come in then and rest.”
“Yes, that’s my wish,” said Reuben, but he knelt and took Welland’s hands and rested his forehead in the warmth of them.
“Art thou in need of me?”
“You’ve taught me how tomorrow is another region, so let it be—I’m not part of it tonight. I shall be forever in need of you.”
“But there will be years.…”
“When you die before me, a thing I do accept because I must, I shall be in need of you still, and will bear the need, and laugh sometimes, and work as you’ve taught me, and grow old—I swear I’m not afraid. I told my brother once I would sail with him to the Spice Islands. Where do children go, Amadeus?”
* * * *
“Matthew, you may call me an old fart, you that’s no bloody lamb yourself, but I can remember when I was a boy in Gloucester. More and more I remember it, the decent way of living there and the little houses—no easterly ever shook them houses, Matthew, tight to the ground the way they was, they a’n’t got the wit to build no such way in Boston. Good, that it was. Eh, I remember that low-tide smell in my mother’s kitchen, year ’round, call it a stink if you like, not me, you might say I was born to it. That was a good life—if a man could live Godfearing, not go whoring after strange inventions, listening at the Devil in his left ear.”
“Oh, ’vast preaching, Joey, I got no heart for it.”
“I a’n’t preaching. Oons, I was only crowding thirteen when I first went on my father’s sloop. We was to the Banks, good luck all the way, home with cod to the gun’ls. Weight of one more fish scale would’ve sunk her, my father said, and said it was me brung him the good luck. Me! That’s a futtering laugh, that is, all the same he said it. I’ll trouble you for that bottle.… Dried-up scarecrow, five good teeth in my head, you got to remember I was young one time.… I can’t think how I ever come to listen at that man, and me a watchman, all done with the sea or should’ve been. Now don’t betray me, Matthew Ledyard. Don’t never let it out I said such a thing. I got no wish to die at his hand, and far from home.”
“You look young now—being it’s that dark a man can’t see his fingers.”
“Now that’s not comical, Matthew, that’s not kind.… Matthew.”
“Yah?”
“Moon’ll be up in an hour.… What if we don’t go back to the ketch?”
“You fool, he means to clear
out of here on the morning ebb.”
“I know that.”
“Well? Orders was to row back no later ’n moonrise. It was a favor, to leave us stay on the beach this long so to stretch our legs and catch a nap off shipboard—knows we got a bottle too. He wants them water kegs no later ’n moonrise and the fruit too, though I can’t say that’s good for nothing but to make a great slosh into a man’s belly, let ’em say it keeps off scurvy if they like, I won’t eat the bloody muck and never had no scurvy.… Joey Mills, don’t be more of a damn fool than you can avoid.”
“A man could hide on this island. He’d maroon us—willingly.”
“And him breaking his heart for a year because he’s short-handed?”
“But Matthew, he’s jumpy here as the Devil in a gale of wind. He’s got no love for the Bahamas. Call him mad, but he means all he says. Could he get him another vessel good as Artemis—ha! Diana—and enough hands for safety, he’d be off and away after his daft dreams to the other side of the world. He’d hunt for us here, yah, but not long.”
“Long enough to find your gandy-shank back’ard end sticking out of a bush and sink a hook in it. And we’d live on what? Fruit and clams?”
“I seen goat tracks back there a piece this afternoon.”
“Luff, you bloody beggar! You’re stern-heavy. Got your old arse spread to a following wind, let ’er freshen and down you go by the head. Tell you what he’d do. He’d say to that fat swine Tom Ball: ‘Down!’ he’d say, and down would Ball go on all fours and come rooting up the whole island for you like the hog he is.”
The Edgar Pangborn Megapack Page 95