by Paul Hazel
men who made them and from the limitations inherent in
maps themselves. That man’s knowledge of his world continues to be imperfect is perhaps widely enough accepted as to need no defense. The problem with mapping is, as it has
always been, that each map is the surrogate of space and not
the space itself. It is a problem familiar to poets: It is the
heart, before a line is written, that takes the wound. . , .
At Ohomowauke the river bends, following the nearly
perfect figure of an “S” tipped on its side. Along this broadly
cursive pattern Devon lies both west and south. The figure is
too huge to be seen from the hill at Ohomowauke which gave
the town its name. The name itself meant owl’s nest (or
literally owl-place) once but owls stay deep in the wood
where they can sit all night among the boughs. Crows fly
higher but never high enough. Coming in from the moon you
would have seen it, shining with the moon’s reflected light.
Even a thousand years before the English came to make their
marks on the land, amid the illiterate vegetable scrawl of the
naked continent, there would have seemed a sign, as if a
vanished race had left a message for a god. Certainly it would
not have surprised the Reverend Mr. Longford if this were
so. He had devoted many months to the attempt to reduce
just this possibility to a few clear lines of proof.
He settled back easily atop the cart in the stationyard.
He was gazing over the empty tracks to the place where the
train, although he would hear it long before, would come into
view. After forty years his whiskers were still the rich chestnut color they had been at twenty. His eyes were deep and 41
4 2
WIMTERKING
with the years had seemed to grow deeper still. To the
dismay of a score of women in a half dozen churches he had
married young and fully expected to have his helpmate with
him through eternity. It was a quarter of twelve already; the
train was late.
Longford had come north from Maryland, from a little
country church in Mt. Airy where at the request of his bishop
he had spent three years. Longford had left in November and
gone to stay with a sister in New York. In January, right after
Christmas, he had been installed in the parsonage at
Greenchurch. Before he had ever heard of Wykeham or the
Will, he had asked for the appointment. While in divinity
school, one of the numberless tiny colleges named after
Wesley, he had been looking through an atlas and discovered,
like a piece of ancient mischief, the figure of an “S” lying on
its side. During the years that followed he had never quite
forgotten it. When at last the bishop had offered Devon,
although he was quick to point out that the post included
certain added and unusual responsibilities, Longford had
agreed at once.
There were three cars in the carriage house, two model
A’s and the Pope-Hartford, but all were up on blocks. In the
.first months, with so many more pressing matters to contend
with, Longford had never had Charon Hunt, blacksmith,
mechanic, drive his equally primitive Ford pickup along the
dark wooded road which led to Greenchurch. The pickup
itself was so old and so often fell into disrepair it needed both
Hunt’s skills to keep the relic just bolting along within the
village. Then too, the cars were probably not worth the
trouble. Longford imagined that with Wykeham coming the time
was not far off when they would be replaced with a fleet,
of sleek new ones. Longford had no illusions on that point.
Wykeham after all was a boy of twenty and could afford to do
what he pleased. Longford, however, having no other choice,
had backed the cart from the hay barn, settled the horse and
hitched him, then set off down the long avenue toward the
village. At the top of the green, behind the feed store and the
church, he had passed by the rambling building that served
as Hunt’s garage. Parked to the side was the dark green
Dodge Longford had driven from Maryland and then nursed
patiently up from New York. It had waited since January for a
The HOI and the Tower
4 3
missing part. For three months Longford had wandered past
it several times a day, going on foot around the village on
pastoral visits. This evening, after dinner, he had walked the
two miles to the big house at Greenchurch to fetch the cart
and later, after Wykeham had been settled, whatever luggage
he had brought with him lifted to the porch and the lights
switched on, Longford would walk back. But when he saw
the car, the corners of his deep blue eyes rose in a smile. It
was much the same smile he would have given on this or any
night to shut-ins and invalid members of his congregation.
The pains of this world are temporary, it seemed to say, wait.
As the Reverend Mr. Longford turned the cart into the
stationyard he was content. Wykeham, he hoped, would soon
settle the odd business with John Chance. There was more to
the old gamekeeper, he suspected, than met the eye but it
was a matter between the old man and the boy. What he
really wanted from Wykeham was permission to fell a few
trees on the crown of East Wood, above the house. The trees
were giants and even now, before the April bloom they
blocked the view of the river. If he could have them down, he
was convinced it would open up the clear line of sight he
needed to make the final measurements. He was not unprepared. After months of planning he now had ample chains and flags and while in New York, scraping together the last of
his savings, he had purchased a new brass surveying compass. He hoped Wykeham had remembered to drop by the booksellers before he left New Awanux. One of the volumes
was particularly necessary. Longford smiled again as he thought
of it: G eod aesia, o r the Art o f M easuring L an d M ade E asie.
The darkness by the river was lit suddenly by the one
glaring lamp at the front of the train. As if smelling other
horses, the cart horse tossed its head.
The Bristol men and their women, carrying all they had,
climbed down first and looked around bleakly at the small
station and the one empty street: city people in a country
town. The stationmaster greeted them easily. There was a
boardinghouse, he told them, not far, just opposite Hunt’s
garage. And yes, there was work, for those who didn’t mind
long hours and were good with their hands. But, of course, it
was already Sunday; they would have to wait over. The man
in the cart, the Reverend Mr. Longford, was the man to see
4 4
W1NTERK1NG
but not until Monday. Though it wouldn’t hurt, the station-
master added with a wink, if the good Mr. Longford happened
to get a glimpse of them in the back pews of Greenchurch in
the morning. The stationmaster studied their faces, then
shook his head. Perhaps one or two would do, he thought;
the rest would be gone in a fortnight.
No one remem
bered a slender straight-haired woman
with no luggage. The surprise had long since passed from her
face. She hurried across the platform only pausing a moment
to stare at the horse cart. If she felt a blush rising against her
neck and cheeks, in the darkness it attracted no notice. She
looked back all at once and saw Wykeham step down from the
train, saw him raise a hand in greeting to the man in the cart.
The hand holding the reins lifted in turn, the greeting of
strangers. For a moment she felt the same dark knot of fear
she had felt as a child when she had dared herself over the
edge of sleep. But she continued on into the stationyard and
across the gravel and the darkness of the one long street
received her.
Wykeham counted out a few shillings for the stationmaster. The man looked disappointed.
“For your boy,” Wykeham said, “when he has unloaded
the boxes.”
The man brightened. “And the stable car?” he asked, a
hint of authority restored in his voice.
“It’s all in the shipping orders,” Wykeham answered.
“Though you might check them yourself to see if there is any
added expense. The car stays here the night and goes back
empty the first of the week.”
The man dug his hands into his pockets where he kept a
string of keys. “And the contents?” he asked.
“Quite safe,” Wykeham said, “by itself. You needn’t
bother. Longford will have a gang of men by tomorrow
evening to handle everything. I am sure we shall manage.”
“You wouldn’t know when?”
“Late, I should think.”
The stationmaster watched Wykeham turn. “Mr. Wykeham,” he called out suddenly.
The young man glanced over his shoulder. The station-
master looked almost embarrassed.
"My grandfather knew yours,” the man said. It seemed
The Hill and the Tower
4 5
like a compliment and for a moment it silenced him. But then
the man grinned. “Welcome home, sir,” he said.
“There’s something wrong with the mails,” Longford
complained when, the boxes loaded and Wykeham settled on
the seat beside him, they turned up the empty street toward
Greenchurch. “I had hoped you would have found me further
along but I’m afraid the letter didn’t come until this morning.” Longford gave the reins a shake as though to hurry both the horse and his preparations at once. “I did carry up some
fresh linen from the parsonage,” he said. “Monday I’ll see
there is someone out there to begin airing your own.”
“Tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind,” Wykeham said, as
though he had already given some thought of it, “after
breakfast. A woman, just on trial, for the kitchen and a maid.
Just to start. I shall be needing several. And in the afternoon,
say at four-thirty, a half dozen men.”
Longford pulled at his handsome whiskers. “William,”
he began, not yet insisting. “It has perhaps escaped your
attention. But after all there can be no question. . .”
The cart moved against the shadows of the trees. Away
from the last scattered lights of the village the stars burned
fiercely. Longford hadn’t noticed when Wykeham withdrew
the package from his coat.
“You see I have brought your books,” Wykeham internipted
him. It seemed such an artless and generous gesture, so
meant to please that for the moment Longford let the abrogation
die on his lips. He could afford to wait. The horse stepped
lightly ahead of them. But as the young man chatted on about
boats and his schooling, the right moment seemed continually pushed beyond reach. It was not until the cart had actually stopped before the porch of the great house and they were
helping each other down with the boxes, that Longford, with
the return of resolve, placed his fatherly hand on Wykeham’s
shoulder.
“About tomorrow,” he said firmly.
It was dark under the eaves. Hedges that had not been
trimmed for years grew up over the sagging porch railings. In
the daylight Longford had seen the work that was needed
here, like the Lord’s work, a never-ending task of pruning
and rebuilding, a labor before which, unless refreshed in
Christ, even a man of persevering conscience must despair.
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WINTERKING
"One day in seven,” Longford said. “Not in His honor
only but because of the spirit of man. .
Wykeham walked away from him. Out of the shadow of
the house, Wykeham turned abruptly. Longford saw the tears
streaming down his face.
“I am sorry,” Wykeham whispered. “There was a man of
my acquaintance. . . . He died this evening on the train.”
Slowly he straightened himself. Longford came down beside
him.
“No,” Wykeham said softly, rejecting his arm. “You go on
home. I shall be fine.”
“I hardly. .
Longford protested.
“No, honestly. I am sure to manage.”
Nevertheless Longford lingered on for a quarter hour,
ready if anything were needed. Under the circumstances he
was not so ill mannered as to mention the Sabbath.
The doctor puzzled over the corpse. He had pulled back
the sheet to examine its eyes and was surprised again at their
helpless wonder. He had gone to his house and, without
waking his wife, had returned through the quiet streets with
his camera. His own dark eyes screwed up at the corners as
he focused the lens. He had a theory that the eyes of dead
men held, even some hours after death, the slowly fading
image of whatever last they looked on. It was a phenomenon
he suspected without the least sliver of proof. He arranged
the lamps to throw a greater flood of light against the pale,
almost spectral head. The irises were a brownish green,
roughly the color of the earth at the edge of the wood near
the fine gambrel-roofed house in Cambridge where he had
been born.
The undertaker already knew all he wanted to know
about corpses. “You’ll lock up, Oliver?” he wondered.
“Yes— yes,” Dr. Holmes said defensively. “I shouldn’t be
but a few minutes.” He repositioned the lamp, for it seemed
to him that the wide dead eyes kept on drinking the light. He
hesitated, then pushed the lamp nearer.
2.
In the same darkness, on a hill overlooking the river, old
Okanuck knocked out his pipe. A few strings of tobacco
curled with a moment’s redness but, unsustained by his
breath, they blackened on the ground. Only the fierce stars
and the hearts of the Pequods, with equal fierceness, kept
their brightness.
Outwardly he was nearly invisible, his wings held perfectly still, guarded and immune to the wind. It was the best sort of vanishing trick: turning the darkness within him inside
out. Not even the owls had seen a movement or sensed a
presence. And yet there were mornings in the world, the
blackness running inward back through his veins, when he
would have seemed as clear as a shaft of sunshine
slanting
down through the trees. In neither case would a man have
seen him. But Okanuck was old and skilled. The boy was only
a boy and he was gone.
In the towns along the river the English slept; the lights
of their houses that earlier had been gorged with light were
darkened now, the warmth gone without a fading spark or a
memory. Walking on, he followed the path where the English
road had been. But it was not the road he was following. The
hilltop regions where the English first took hold were the
first to lose them. The roots of trees overgrasped the pasture
walls; the cleared meadows closed with shade. Now to either
side the big cellar holes of the once great houses were filled
with elderberry and cedar. The scratches left on the rotting
wood were made by thorns. Watching and remembering,
Okanuck climbed among the moss-backed stones. ‘‘Oohoomau-
auke,” he whispered, giving back to the place the name it
had never lost.
4 7
4 8
WINTERKING
From across the river valley a glint of firelight caught his
eye. Despite his uneasiness, Okanuck smiled. John Chance is
awake, he thought. Even among the English there were a
few very old men who, seeing all too clearly the rest that
awaited them, neglected sleep. Okanuck went down to the
bottom of the wood where the track became an English road
again. If, as he feared, the boy had set out in anger to begin
his own grim war against the English, Chance more than any
other would have heard of it. Though in these last years he
seldom went from the falling-down steps of his cottage in
Black Wood, the young men of the towns still tramped out to
talk with him. The young, not yet content to sit in their shops
and houses, knew far better than their elders the back lanes
and abandoned barns, the remote discarded edges of the
towns where among the rusted implements and broken machinery of his enemy the boy might go to brood and plan their further ruin.
Okanuck skirted Paper Birch Farm though for a moment
he had been tempted to peer in at the bedroom window of
the old widow Birch and the three hounds which she now
slept with and had since the night sixty years ago when after