Gil Marsh

by A. C. E. Bauer

  He blew his breath out, realizing for the first time how tight he felt—fear gripping him. He shook out his legs and noticed the puddle at the bottom of the boat. He had brought in water with him when he had launched from Miller’s property, but not that much. He looked behind him—there was a glistening near the putty, which formed a thin line down the boat bottom and under his bench. The various scrapes must have loosened the patching that Hervé had placed on the bottom.

  He looked at the plug. It still seemed watertight, but he wasn’t certain. Was that wetness around the rubbering? It did look slightly askew.

  Gil didn’t fear sinking, not yet. The leaks were too slow. But they were likely to get worse. He needed to dock, preferably with the hull out of the water. What were his options?

  He couldn’t return to Hervé. Not with his parents on their way. And Miller had made it clear he didn’t want him.

  Maybe Miller would have been friendlier if Gil had announced himself instead of sneaking up the way he had. He should return. Plan something to say. Get on his good side. Turn on the old charm.

  Yes. Gil could manage that. But he needed to think it through. He knew nothing about the man. Maybe if he scoped out Miller’s property quietly, he’d be able to figure out the best approach. Miller’s cabin was on the other side of the peninsula. What if Gil docked the chaloupe on this side and walked across? Miller wouldn’t expect that.

  The shore was as unwelcoming as before, but Gil was paying closer attention. One of the smaller inlets showed some promise. It had a little space between the dead trees. He maneuvered around underwater branches still attached to downed trunks, and aimed for a channel between an enormous tree skeleton and a desiccated pine. He briefly wondered what had damaged all these trees, then became tangled in branches.

  The water looked dark, but he was so close to shore, it couldn’t be too deep. Gil stood in the chaloupe and grabbed the nearby tree skeleton. It didn’t move—it felt as if it were set in cement. The part of the trunk above water was dry, gray, and speckled with moss. Gil leaned over and pushed with both hands, putting as much weight as he dared into the push. A few bubbles popped upward from the muck at the bottom—which, Gil now realized, lay only a few inches away—but the tree didn’t give.

  Emboldened, he held on to a thick vertical branch and stepped onto the tree trunk. Many more bubbles came up, but the trunk didn’t sink.

  Now that he was out of the chaloupe, it floated higher. He pushed it forward hard between the trunks, as far as it would go. The boat lurched, and the bow rose, sliding onto branches.

  Gil was pretty sure that the boat was secure, but as a precaution, he plunged one of the oars down hard into the muck behind the boat, its handle sticking out. Gil hoped it would act as a backstop, preventing the boat from moving backward. To Gil’s surprise, the oar went very deep: only a few inches stuck above the waterline. How deep was this mud? When he tried to readjust the oar, the mud grabbed it hard. Yes. This was the perfect anchor. Gil plunged the second oar next to the first. Now the boat wasn’t going anywhere.

  He grabbed his bag and crept along the log, from branch to branch. It curved upward to where the roots must have been, right by the water’s edge. There was only a foot and a half of muck between him and the tall grass. He leapt.

  His right foot landed on sand. A pain shot through his healing knee. His left foot landed in the mud. As he lifted it up, the muck nabbed his sneaker, leaving him shoeless on one side.

  Gil cursed and turned. With some effort, he pried his shoe loose—it was now covered in black slime and stank of old rot.

  Well, he had no choice. He’d have to walk around with what he had.

  But he had made it to shore. He climbed through the prickly branches of a bush to a forest jumble. Old pines with sharp branches grew next to the occasional ancient birch or maple. The trees weren’t that close together, but the ground was uneven and covered by limbs, unexpected rocks, rotting logs and holes that Gil discovered only by stepping into them. He tripped several times before he thought to use a dead branch to probe the ground.

  He tried to orient himself toward the cabin. The land dipped and rose ahead of him. As he climbed the small rise, he smelled smoke. Wood smoke. Old Man Miller’s cabin must be closer than he had realized. What direction did the smoke come from?

  He closed his eyes and pivoted around, trying to decide where the smoke smelled the strongest. There! He reopened his eyes and squinted through the trees. The forest angled down very gently, and farther off, a line of pines grew close together. They looked as if they had been planted. He headed toward the line as quietly as he could.

  Gil reached a long wall of firewood stacked neatly next to the pines, under a series of makeshift lean-tos. Gil held his breath. He had reached Miller’s cabin.

  Two paths wound down—one to the back of the cabin just below, and the other to a low brick wall embedded into a rock-and-earth mound with a metal chimney rising from its center, smoke curling up. Miller stood by the metal door in the mound and was peering in.

  Gil shrunk back. What was the man doing? Miller straightened, clanged the door shut and headed back to his cabin by another path that connected it to the mound. Gil noticed a large shed partially hidden by the mound, also sporting a chimney.

  He heard a door from the cabin open and shut. He kept still a little longer, wondering whether Miller was going to come back out, and the unmistakable odor of baking bread wafted up.

  Gil’s mouth watered. He couldn’t help it. But where was the smell coming from?

  He glanced at the mound and the shed, and curiosity took over. Slowly, carefully, he climbed down. He made no noise—he was sure of it. He reached the metal door in the mound and stopped. The door was at waist level and just big enough to fit a person’s torso if he leaned in. It looked like the opening for a pizza oven, only bigger. As if to confirm his suspicions, a wooden paddle with a long handle leaned up against the brickwork. This was where the bread was being baked!

  But now Gil was distracted by the shed next to the mound. The door, the size of a garage door, had been left open, and Gil could see inside. An open fireplace lay under a huge inverted funnel chimney that filled the back wall. An anvil stood a few feet away. One wall was lined with hammers of every size, large tongs, several bellows, some tools Gil didn’t recognize and two leather aprons. A large vise was attached to a low bench near the anvil.

  A smithy! Why had Old Man Miller built a smithy in the middle of the forest? It looked well used. The floor had been swept. The fireplace had ash and recently burned wood. A hammer lay on the bench.

  Gil’s mind raced. Had Henri Miller, the 1875 blacksmith, passed on his craft to his family?

  Gil thought he heard a creak but wasn’t sure. He needed to move out of sight. He crept around the mound to another set of lean-tos, under which were piled more cords of firewood. Miller sure burned a lot. How did he get all this wood here?

  Another clang made Gil jump. The noise came from the oven door. Old Man Miller must have returned. Gil scrambled behind one of the lean-tos that backed into the forest. He wasn’t ready to confront Miller, not yet. He hadn’t figured out what he was going to say.

  He heard a snap, like a footstep on a branch, close now. Gil slunk backward, turned to run and tripped over a rock. He landed on his right knee, causing pain to shoot through it. When he tried to stand, his leg buckled. He had reinjured himself!

  Maybe it was just the shock of the fall, he thought. If he allowed himself a minute, the stabbing pain would ease and he could get out of here. Lying on his side, he cradled his knee, wincing in agony.

  “Pretty stupid,” a deep voice said.

  Miller stood a few paces away with his rifle loose in his hands, the barrel pointing to the ground.

  Gil sat up slowly, dizzy with pain. His knee felt worse than when he had injured it the first time.

  Miller didn’t move. What was he waiting for? He had his rifle. Was he going to shoot? He didn’t look as if
he was. That gave Gil hope.

  “I’m hurt,” Gil said.

  “I can see that.”

  Gil swallowed. “Can you help me?”

  “Why should I?”

  Gil had no answer. He was a trespasser. Miller had told him to leave. Had threatened to kill him. He seemed to be tightening his grip on the rifle’s handle.

  Fear washed over Gil in a great tide. He shivered in pain. For the first time since he was a little boy, he struggled not to cry.

  Miller turned and, after a few paces, stopped. “When you get to the house, I’ll have a poultice ready.”

  He walked away. Gone.

  Gil wasn’t sure how long he sat there breathing hard, but Miller didn’t return. The man had promised help. Could Gil trust him? He could have shot him, right then and there, but he hadn’t. Gil looked round. The boat was too far away. What choice did he have? He concentrated and began a slow crawl to the cabin.

  Gil used his arms and good leg to carry his weight, but he couldn’t keep his bad knee up for long. He stopped frequently, resting on his side or back, until the pain subsided again. Eventually he reached the stairs at the side of the cabin. They climbed to a door.

  The main part of the building had been built over cement blocks. A porch wrapped around the front and sides, and the roof sloped over it. The top half of the cabin was made of hand-hewed logs. A metal chimney pipe poked out of the roof.

  Gil sat on the bottom step and pushed his way up, one step at a time, till he reached the porch.

  “Round front,” Miller said.

  A covered wood box sat on one side of the door, and firewood was stacked on the other, all along the porch wall. Gil crawled past the wood. Miller sat on the front porch in an armchair, also made of hewed logs. Next to him was the chair’s twin, and behind that the rifle, propped under a grimy window. Gil noticed a second door beyond the window.

  Miller pointed to the empty chair. “Sit here.”

  Gil crawled over and pulled himself up with his arms. He swiveled to sit, and lowered his bad leg with a wince.

  Miller handed him a rusty coffee can. “The poultice will help.”

  The can contained a grayish-green murky substance. Gil touched it with the tip of a finger—it had the consistency of Vaseline and smelled like rotting fish, pungent and awful. He crumpled his nose.

  Miller shrugged. “It’s up to you. But you have to leave here by sundown. And it’s easier to walk than to crawl.”

  Gil glanced back down at the can, then at Miller. “I can’t roll my pants up high enough.”

  Miller grinned, showing off yellowed, crooked teeth. “I won’t jump you.”

  Embarrassed, Gil shimmied off his pants, which was tricky since he didn’t dare stand or put any weight on his bad leg. His knee was swollen and red. A black patch was starting to form where he had hit it. He straightened it slowly and tried to rotate it gently. Everything moved okay, though it hurt.

  He frowned in disgust at the tin, but took some ointment with the tips of his fingers and spread it on his knee.

  “Work it in,” Miller said.

  Gil glanced at the man. Miller was staring into the woods out front.

  Gingerly at first, then with more vigor, Gil began massaging the greasy ointment in. It started off feeling cool, almost sharp, the coolness seeping into the inflammation and dulling the pain. Then, as he massaged, the coolness warmed until it felt as if intense heat were being applied to his knee. Quickly that sensation faded, too, replaced by an odd but not unpleasant tingling. The pain had disappeared, although the knee remained swollen.

  “Wrap it in this,” Miller said. He placed a threadbare but clean rag on Gil’s armrest.

  Gil carefully wrapped the rag around his knee. He tucked the corners into the wrapping and reached for his pants.

  “Wait,” Miller said. “It needs an hour to set.”

  Gil had just wrapped the ointment in a cloth. What difference did another layer of cloth make? But he wasn’t prepared to argue with Miller, especially since the ointment seemed to be working.

  “Thank you,” Gil said.

  Miller’s only acknowledgment was a glance before he returned his gaze to the woods.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Gil simply didn’t know what to say. He was well aware of the rifle within Miller’s reach. The pain and the crawl to the cabin had exhausted him. He shut his eyes to think about what he should do next. He didn’t expect to fall asleep.

  He woke with his head leaning on his shoulder. He straightened with a jolt. Shadows swept across the property, sunlight slanting through. Several loaves of bread cooled on a bench near the front door. How long had he slept? Miller and his rifle were no longer on the porch. Gil reached down for his pants. To his surprise, not a twinge came from his knee as he dressed himself, although he did avoid placing weight on his leg.

  He had just zipped up when Miller came up the stairs. He carried two more loaves. He paused, as if to assess how trustworthy Gil might be, and placed one loaf on the porch railing. Then he sat, broke off a piece from the second loaf and handed it to Gil.

  Gil stared at the piece for a second. Miller tilted his head only slightly, but enough for Gil to understand that he should sit and eat. The bread was still warm, almost hot. It must have come out of the oven a few minutes ago. Gil devoured it.

  “Thank you,” Gil said.

  Miller nodded and gave him another large chunk, which Gil managed to eat without wolfing it down. Miller then handed over a mug that had been next to his chair.

  “Coffee,” he said.

  The liquid was black, but Gil didn’t dare ask for milk or sugar. He took a sip. It tasted lukewarm, bitter and very strong. He drank it all.

  “Thank you,” he said again.

  Miller waved it away. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, for a jeune.”

  Gil stared at the empty coffee mug. “What’s a ‘juhn’?”

  Miller snorted. “A kid.”

  Gil straightened, stung. Hervé had called him a man.

  “You’re American, too.”

  Gil nodded. Miller settled back, tore another hunk of bread from the loaf and began chewing it.

  “How …” Gil paused, wondering whether Miller would answer his question. But the man just kept chewing, eyes forward. If he didn’t want questions, he’d tell Gil. “How did you know I’m from the U.S.?”

  “Your accent.”

  His accent? Gil didn’t have an accent! If anyone had an accent, Miller did.

  But Miller hadn’t finished. “Your shoes. The way you hold yourself, as if you owned the bloody world. Your clothes that belong in a city. Your hair. Your face.”

  Miller took another bite and chewed.

  “But Canadians …?”

  “Would know enough French to get by.”

  Gil had no answer to that.

  Miller leaned forward. “So. What’s a jeune américain doing here, looking for Old Man Miller?”

  Gil stared at the cup again. What was he doing here? “I thought …” He hesitated. “I thought you might be able to help me.”

  The man showed no surprise. “Was that Durocher’s idea?”

  Gil started. How did Miller know about Hervé? Miller’s face remained impassive as he waited for Gil’s answer.

  “He said … he said he might introduce us.”

  “But you were too impatient to wait.” He bit into his bread.

  Gil stared at his hands. This was not going well. But Miller seemed more amused than angry. When the old man finished chewing, he paused. Gil realized that he had an opening now.

  “Are you a blacksmith?”

  Miller shrugged. “Used to be. Not much call for it now.”

  “Was your father one, too?” Miller scowled, and Gil realized his mistake. “I mean, I’ve been trying to find out about blacksmiths from about a hundred years ago, and there was a Miller listed as one around these parts back then.…”

  Miller sighed. “I see.” Then his eyes
focused away. His face lost all expression. His jaw relaxed into complete stillness. He sat, immobile, as seconds ticked to a minute. Gil was too afraid to say a word.

  Slowly, like a tortoise Gil had once seen at the zoo, Miller swung his head around. His gray eyes focused on Gil. Trapped in Miller’s gaze, Gil held his breath. It felt as if Miller were reading him, probing him. Gil was frightened, but he didn’t look away. Gil needed answers. He hadn’t come all this way to back down.

  Gil almost missed Miller’s soft answer. “I know about blacksmiths.”

  Gil allowed himself to breathe. Miller kept staring.

  “Did any—” Gil groped for the right words. “Did any make jewelry?”

  That made Miller’s eyebrows rise. “One or two.”

  “I have—” Gil began. Then he corrected himself. “I had a ring.” A lump formed in his throat, but he ignored it. Miller nodded, expecting more. “It had a garnet in it, dark red, almost black, faceted, perfectly round but flattened, about half the size of a dime.” Miller’s fixed attention was unnerving. But Gil pressed on. “It was set in silver with six prongs. Someone told me it had been made about one hundred years ago, probably by a blacksmith in this area.”

  “One hundred and twenty.”

  Gil didn’t understand the response. “One hundred and twenty?”

  “Henri Miller set that stone one hundred and twenty years ago.”

  “How …? How …?” Gil couldn’t come up with the words. How did he know which stone? Which ring? Which date?

  Miller looked away, releasing Gil from his gaze. Gil stood, out of breath, and leaned on the railing, facing out. He breathed in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, and let his heartbeat slow. He felt as if he had run up and down Overhang Rock at full speed.

  “How,” he said to the trees before him, “how do you know about the ring?”

  Miller didn’t answer. He picked up the loaf next to Gil, placed it on the bench with the others and went inside. Gil waited. A few minutes later Miller reappeared. He stood before Gil and showed him a cupped hand. Dwarfed by the callused dark brown palm sat the ring—Enko’s ring!