Fiddler's Green, Or a Wedding, a Ball, and the Singular Adventures of Sundry Moss

by Van Reid

  Melanie Ring had seen a good deal that had gone to seed, and not a little that was absolutely corrupted. She had followed her father from low rung to a lower rung and slept and lain awake in places where the breathing of strange people could be heard in the darkness; but this shack and the enveloping trees, so still in the breezeless afternoon, the birds calling and the invisible water sounding as if the hut itself spoke in a clammy voice, were worrisome in the midst of luminous pastures and rolling farmland, almost as if a degenerate force had erupted from the granite bones among the feet of trees and beyond the hands of fern and bracken.

  Having climbed down, Mr. Normell peered up at her, wondering (she thought) if she would run away. He went inside the hut and she heard low voices. Melanie half expected some wild creature to come out and peer at her father. She imagined that a bear lived in this hut, or a wolf perhaps.

  Turning to look over her shoulder, she kicked the bag at her feet. It was filled with the girls’ clothes that the Sparks had given her. She would have forgotten it when they left their seats on the train so abruptly, but Mr. Normell had snatched up the clutch and the boxes of sandwiches.

  The sound of the stream seemed to fade. The shape of a face appeared at one of the dirty windows, and she was startled when the door opened. Mr. Normell looked at her again before climbing into the driver’s seat. He considered Burne Ring for a full half minute—watching him shiver, listening to the sick man grunt whenever he drew breath. Mr. Normell took a moment to daub his own forehead with a handkerchief before he pulled a small bottle from his pocket, uncorked it with a deep-throated dunk, and reached the open end toward Burne’s lips, hovering the bottle over the gray face.

  Melanie almost reached out and pulled his hand away. “The doctor said small beer,” she said just as Mr. Normell dipped the bottle onto her father’s lips. The liquid ran out over the shivering man’s mouth and down his chin. It was a moment before the taste or the sting of the liquor took hold and Burne opened his mouth wide and took a great breath.

  Mr. Normell applied a little more of the rum and Burne lay with his eyes closed, but held his hands out like a blind man seeking alms. Mr. Normell helped him with the drink two or three more times before Burne took hold of the bottle, pushed himself up in the seat, and held it close to his chest as if it were a source of warmth. The grunting sound was coming out of him at a swifter rate, but not so loudly.

  “The doctor said small beer,” Melanie said again.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Normell. “Yes. Small beer later. This will tide him over, but small beer later.”

  Soon they were breaking out into the sun as from the depths of the earth or from under a storm cloud. Melanie thought her father looked worse in the bright light, and she turned around to look ahead of them. “Where are we going?’ she asked Mr. Normell.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  “Mr. Moss should have come with us,” she said.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said. “He will.”

  When they reached the main road again and Mr. Normell turned the horse’s head east, she looked behind them, hoping to see Mr. Moss striding over the nearest hill.

  36. Odd Enough

  Sundry and Maven crossed the China Lake outlet, stopping at the mill there to inquire about recent traffic. Curls of water from the wheel winked in the afternoon sun, fascinating Maven, who was beginning to dry out, and the lake itself shone several hundred yards and a smattering of overwatered maples in the distance. The lake was still high with recent rain, and the miller and his crew were making the most of the runoff, but heads went up when a carriage passed in those days, and they had taken note of the open chaise and the white mare. By their account, Sundry and Maven had not made much time against them, and the travelers did not linger.

  Soon they had ridden through the hamlet of North Vassalboro and picked up further news of the passing rig ahead of them. After another twenty minutes or so they breasted the northern end of Priest Hill. To their right the road followed the ridge south; to their left it diverged again a quarter of a mile away. But there was life evident in the latter direction—two men working in a field with a horse and sledge, building a stone wall. Sundry led the way past evidence of recent labor to the place where these two men had paused to rest and to watch his and Maven’s approach. It was a hot day for early June and the farmers squinted against the glare of the sky.

  Sundry leaned over Lillie’s head and stroked her neck. He was fond of wall-building himself and could admire the work before him. Halfway between the horse drawn sledge and the growing wall there were several large rocks and one object that might have come under the heading of “a pretty good-sized boulder.” The massive brown horse looked content and lazy, standing in the sun and swishing flies with his tail, shifting his heavy feet with dull thumps. He looked over his shoulder at the mare, and they nickered at each other.

  “A good day for it,” said Sundry while Maven bumped up beside him.

  “The breeze died about an hour ago,” said the older man, “and we got blackflies instead, but otherwise it’s not too bad.” Both men were horse people, for they came round the end of their work and considered the dark mare and the dappled gelding almost with as much curiosity and regard as they did Sundry and Maven. The younger fellow, who was perhaps thirty—a broad-shouldered son of the earth with a sunburned face and a perpetual smile—reached up and patted Lillie’s nose, and she blew out a polite greeting.

  Sundry took a moment to glance up the length of wall; he did admire how such irregular objects could be formed into so handsome and regular a composition. “That’s a pretty wall,” he said.

  The older man let out a guffaw. “They’re just rocks. Hard and gray and lumpy. But ... put in order, they do treat the eye. The Lord knows there’s no scarcity of them.”

  “My father once met a geologist,” said Sundry. “He told Dad a glacier dragged all those rocks into the state. Dad wondered when another one might come by and take them back again.”

  The farmer nodded. “There isn’t one due, is there?” he asked dryly. “I would despise to go to all this work for nothing.”

  There were similar walls in every direction, only hidden at varying distances by the rolling hills they ranged. Maven seemed to think the two farmers were responsible for it all; he gazed about and whistled. “You sure have done a terrific lot of work!” he said admiringly. “Hod will hardly believe it.” His cowlick had recovered from the dunking, and it afforded a focus of some interest for the farmers. Sensing that Maven had relinquished control of him, Topper walked some yards off to a clump of dandelion.

  Sundry faltered between hurrying after the Rings and an innate sense that taking your time will get you there faster. “Could you use a hand with that piece over there?” he asked, indicating the boulder with a nod.

  The older man looked at the rock. “Feeling your oats?”

  Sundry didn’t know that he was, although the first wave of hunger had passed him by. The day was warm for June, and if he was bearing down on his prime, he hadn’t exactly put his shoulder to hard labor for more than a year now. Nonetheless, he wrapped Lillie’s reins over a maple sapling and left her to pull grass while he went with the two men to confront the boulder.

  “My goodness,” Maven was saying. “That’s a terrific lot of work!” Topper had wandered off for another grove of dandelion, and Maven with him.

  The two farmers and Sundry each took up one of several stout poles lying by the sledge and in concert tottered and muscled the boulder toward its place. They were moving it slightly uphill, and they had to pivot it at the last minute; but one might have thought the huge stone had been cultivated for that spot alone, once it was couched and settled.

  Sundry had put his back into the business and felt good about it. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed such a straightforward problem as a big rock, a place to put it, and a means to put it there. There were several smaller stones—only a little bigger than his head—lying nearby, and h
e lifted one of these and laid it between the boulder and the existing wall where it set like the piece of a puzzle. With a nod, the farmer acknowledged Sundry’s eye and asked him if he could stand a drink.

  There was a covered bucket of water on the sledge, and Sundry took a long draft from it with a ladle. Smacking his lips, he said, “Sundry Moss. And this is Maven Flyce.”

  The older fellow shook Sundry’s hand, saying, “Abner Cook and my boy, Abijah.”

  Abijah was less of a boy than Sundry, but he did not flinch at the description. He took his turn shaking hands with Sundry and gestured to Maven. The younger farmer was a big, bluff fellow—not made smaller by his labor—with a wide, open face and an unruly shock of blond hair.

  “We’ve come up from Portland with some folks,” said Sundry, “and lost track of them somewhere between here and Vassalboro.”

  “There hasn’t been many pass by today,” said Mr. Cook. “We did hear someone ... oh, an hour or so ago, when we were down the meadow pulling up likely stones.” He pointed a little east where the land dipped down. “anyoneb could only see the tops of them go by. Did you see anyone, Ab?”

  “I just saw the fellow’s hat, I guess,” said the son.

  “They’re in an open carriage, I was told,” said Sundry. “Do you know anyone by the name of Normell round here?”

  For the first time since greeting Sundry, the older man appeared reserved, and the smile left Abijah’s face. Abner Cook let in a bit of air and lifted his head in a reverse nod. “There are Normells in China,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Sundry. “He did mention China.”

  “Up on Dutten Pond, just this side of the Albion line,” said Abijah.

  “You look surprised,” said the older man. He had not turned unfriendly, but there was a sense of caution about him.

  Sundry was, because it was just where Mr. Normell had said he would be.

  “You following them or chasing them?” asked Abner Cook, after he explained to Sundry how to reach the Normell acres.

  “I’m not sure anymore,” said Sundry with a smile. “There are a couple of people with him, and I was supposed to be traveling with them.”

  Maven was doing his best to hear this conversation, leaning farther and farther from his saddle as Topper foraged farther and farther away till the man’s cowlick was almost horizontal and a good bump would have unhorsed him. The farmers might have been more on their guard if not for the absolute innocence of Maven Flyce’s demeanor, not to mention the easy manner and unhurried way in which Sundry had climbed down from his horse and helped with the big stone.

  From the shadowy side of the wall, Ab took up a sack and fished in it till he found what he wanted and pulled out a hard-boiled egg. He was peeling this when he glanced back at Sundry and said, “Care for some?”

  Maven’s eyes were at least as good as his ears, and he began to cluck at the gelding and to wobble his knees against the animal’s sides.

  “I wouldn’t want to take a man’s dinner away from him.”

  “Just something to bide an afternoon’s labor,” said the father. “Help yourself.”

  Sundry reached in among most of a dozen eggs and took two. They insisted that he and Maven each take three or four and also gave them half a loaf of bread. Sundry was very much obliged, and he said so. Maven made gracious noises as he wolfed his portion down.

  Abner Cook looked from Maven to Sundry with something on his mind. “Watch your step, over Dutten way,” he said finally. “Those Nor-mells are well named, in a contrary manner, if you understand me.”

  “How so?” asked Sundry.

  Mr. Cook looked abashed. “Oh, I don’t know. I shouldn’t speak of people I haven’t had truck with, but they’re a clannish bunch. They stick to themselves mostly, and folk over that way aren’t sorry for it, I guess. People seem to think there’s reason enough to keep their distance.”

  Sundry gathered up Lillie’s reins and swung up onto her. “Is that a warning?” he asked bluntly.

  Mr. Cook looked up sharply, but his face softened when he saw Sundry’s broad smile. “Not all of it, I guess. There’s another family, the Droones, over the other side of the line, and they’re about as normal as the Normells and just as tight. There’s some sort of disputation between the two—people hardly know what about—but we catch the name Droone or Normell round here, and our ears perk up. Small-town affairs, you know.”

  Sundry nodded. “I come from a small town myself.”

  “Do you? I thought you said Portland.”

  “I’ve lived there the past year or so; but I hail from Edgecomb, and I sort of yearn for knowing what the neighbors are up to.”

  That made the farmer smile again. They thanked one another for help and food respectively, and Sundry herded Maven and Topper in before trotting Lillie off. “I wondered how those stones got there,” said Maven. When Sundry looked over his shoulder, the farmers were still watching them go. Father and oversized son waved.

  Sundry wasn’t sure whether they needed to hurry or not if he really did know where Mr. Normell and the Rings were going. He had the oddest feeling about the events of the day, though, to be fair, they were odd enough. Riding beside him, Maven found too much out of his customary realm of experience to be astonished about anything in particular. He simply gaped in general and let out a gasp every eighth of a mile or so.

  “It is a beautiful day,” said Sundry.

  “I am amazed!” said Maven.

  What Sundry really would have liked to do was spend the rest of the afternoon with the Cooks and help them build that stone wall.

  37 Laughing Water

  Robin Oig was not accustomed to navigating on his legs. (Truth to tell, he was a simple sailor and not accustomed to navigating at all but only to following the commands of his superiors aboard ship and of no one onshore.) A sailor did some standing about, keeping watch and the like, but rarely exchanged feet as much as he had that day. A ship held its course as a general rule, too; he knew that at least. Set your course in fair enough weather, and there were minor adjustments now and then—a degree or two on the helm—but he had forgotten just how fickle landsmen’s roads were in the way of direction. A vessel did its best to describe the shortest distance between two points, but land paths always seemed to be following the unmotivated wanderings of a dutiless cow—or an inebriated sailor.

  Sometimes the road almost doubled back on itself, and he would stop and look behind him as if he might eyeball it into straightening out. The oar, too, was not unburdensome, and he might have shifted it from one side to the other if he had not got it into his head that it belonged on his right shoulder. He marched on, not reveling in but only marveling at the thousand shades of green and the hundred shades of yellow and gold and several of red and orange among the fields and rock walls. It was all a little too fecund somehow and, like mushrooms rising around the trunk of a great tree, looked ready to take hold of anything that paused long in its midst.

  Robin thought he must be an hour or more behind Mr. Moss. It had taken him that long to get back to Vassalboro Station from Winslow and Hayden Corner, and it would have taken him a good deal longer if he hadn’t been offered a ride from a young fellow with a battered buckboard who seemed to be training his horse for a race. The driver hadn’t shown the least curiosity about Robin’s oar, but the man at Vassalboro Station had frowned at the device and sent the sailor across to the livery, and the man at the livery had frowned at the device, scratched his head, and pointed the sailor up the road to Winslow.

  “Winslow?” said Robin. That did seem circuitous. He’d just been there.

  “The fellow with the sick man and the little boy said they were heading for Winslow,” explained the liveryman. “And the next two fellows who came along went after them.”

  Robin didn’t know about two fellows, but there had been someone standing with Mr. Moss when he saw him on the platform at Hayden Corner.

  “Are there any more of you?” asked the liveryman. He
looked past the sailor as if he expected a whole line of folk to be bringing up the rear.

  Robin turned and looked himself. “Where?” he asked.

  “What?” said the liveryman.

  Robin thought the fellow was peculiar. “Winslow,” he said. He might have saved himself some shoe leather, but then again, certain mysterious processes, such as finding Fiddler’s Green, required roundabout methods. When he stopped to think about it, he was encouraged.

  “That’s some stick of wood,” said the liveryman.

  “Do you think so?” asked Robin, the light of suspicion brightening his eye.

  “Never seen an oar like it.”

  “Oh.”

  Up the road, the doctor’s wife seemed daunted by the man and his oar, but she reported a man of Mr. Moss’s description who had inquired about some people in front of him and also a fellow with an exceptional cowlick.

  The woman sewing in front of her house hardly looked up when he asked if anyone had come that way. “Goodness’ sakes!” she said. “There must be some goings-on up the road!” She did point him east and looked up when he was a distance off. She took off her glasses and put them back on again several times, squinting after him to see what he was carrying over his shoulder.

  It was while passing an ancient cellar that Robin first heard laughter from over the hill to the north. He stopped by one corner of the old structure. Trees as thick as his arm grew out of the hole and blooms waved in the crevices of rock. Robin watched the top of the hill and listened. A stream ran the length of the next crease in the land, wetting the road in its passage, marshing the field, and shading the immediate way with a nest of willows. Robin intended to have a drink.

  He had recommenced his long stride when he heard laughter again, and curiosity took hold of him so strongly that he almost laid the oar down before climbing the short slope to his left. When he did make the top of the hill, he was greeted with simply more of the same: rolling fields of green, dotted with wildflowers and broken occasionally by a stand of birches or a single oak or maple or chestnut. Stone walls crisscrossed the land, and a small herd of cows grazed, a field or two beyond. A bird banked the sky.