by Max Brand
“I never would kill a man,” said Paul.
“You’re a Torridon, ain’t you?” asked John Brett.
Paul began to cry.
“Why are you whimpering?” asked John Brett curiously. “Have I hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul. “I can’t help crying. You . . . you make me tremble inside.”
John Brett went away.
Afterward Torridon was told that he was to be taken over the mountains to his kin, but two days after this he was ill with scarlet fever.
The summer went before he was strong enough to walk. In the spring of his tenth year a cow broke his leg with a kick. And another summer passed during which he was incapable of traveling. Bad luck dogged him. When he was twelve, pneumonia reduced him to a mere trembling wisp of a body. At thirteen he had not recovered. He was so weak that even Aunt Ellen Brett, that cruel and keen old woman who managed the household, forbade him to be given outdoor work. He was employed in the kitchen to scrub pans and light fires and carry in wood from the shed; in the long evenings he was set to work helping the women spin.
Now in the fourteenth year of his life, two great events happened. One affected the entire clan. One had to do with Paul Torridon alone.
The first thing was the foaling of the black colt, and the reason it was of such importance was that John Brett had been hoping for twenty years to produce a colt of that color. For in the old days he had owned a great black stallion, Nineveh, still famous through all the country—a sort of legendary flyer. People said of a horse that it was “as fast as Nineveh,” “as strong as Nineveh,” just as they might say that a man was as strong as Hercules. All the horses that the Bretts rode were descended directly from that famous stallion, but there was never his like again and, strange to say, in all his get there appeared the pure black strain only twice, and these were mares and of little note.
Now, however, after twenty years of waiting, a black colt was foaled. The whole clan swept from the house—man, woman, child—and stood in the pasture in a large open circle.
The mother was an undistinguished creature, with a backbone thrusting up like a mountain ridge and a vast prominence of hips. Ewe-necked, lump-headed, she was like an ugly spot in the fine race that had descended from Nineveh. But her foal was another matter.
He was black as coal. There was not a hair of white on any of his stockings. There was not a hair of white about his muzzle, or on his forehead, nor in his tail. He was one entire carving from jet.
He looked to Paul Torridon like any other foal, except that he appeared a good bit on the clumsy, heavy side, but John Brett’s face was working with delight. There was nothing about the colt that did not please him. He pointed out the slope of the shoulders, the depth at the heart, the huge bone.
“I gotta have a name for him,” said John Brett.
“Nineveh Second,” suggested Charles.
“He ain’t a second Nineveh. He’s gonna be better than that!” cried John Brett in great excitement.
No one dared to question the head of the clan, but at this speech heads were turned and covert smiles exchanged.
“What’s a name like Nineveh?” cried John Brett. “Nineveh was a town, wasn’t it?”
“It was a town in the Bible,” answered another.
“Who knows something about it?” asked John Brett.
He swept the circle with a stern glance. “Where’s the book-learning in this family? Where’s the women that had ought to know about Bibles and books and things? Do the men have to stay home and waste their time? Is that what’s come of it?”
The women looked gloomily upon one another. They might have pointed out that, if the men were busy with hunting and farming, the women were still busier with mending, sewing, spinning, weaving, milking, cooking, housecleaning, but no one, not even Aunt Ellen, dared to lift a voice when the master of the clan was in temper.
“Nobody!” cried John Brett, his gray beard quivering with wrath. “Nobody! Nobody knows nothing!”
A voice had been rising in Paul Torridon. It had been a great, bold voice when it started at his heart. It was the faintest of squeaking whispers when it came to his lips.
“I do,” he said.
He was not heard, except by Aunt Ellen, who was near him.
She caught him by the shoulder and shook him violently.
“You do?” she asked. “D’you know something about it? Hey, John Brett, here’s one that can talk about it.”
She thrust the boy out from the circle. For the first time in his life all eyes were upon him and not in scorn. Instead there was wonder, interest, hushed attention. Even John Brett was stirred.
“You know sump’n about Nineveh?” he asked, making his voice gentler than usual.
“Yes,” said Paul, but the words made no sound upon his lips.
“Speak out, Paul,” said the big man, still more quietly.
“I . . . I’ll try,” said Paul, his eyes almost straining from his head.
“Go on, then. Was Nineveh a town?”
“It was,” said Paul.
“What kind of a town?”
“A great city,” said Paul.
“Like Louisville?”
“It was much larger.”
“Hey? Like Philadelphia, then?”
“It was larger,” said Paul.
“Like New York?”
“Yes,” said Paul.
John Brett was filled with admiration.
“Now, that’s a dog-gone’ queer thing,” he remarked. “There’s a town as big as New York that’s disappeared so complete that if it didn’t have its name tucked away into the Bible, we’d never’ve had a horse named after it. Now, Paul, I want a name that’s got something to do with this here city. Gimme one, can you?”
The mind of Paul Torridon went around and around.
“Say something, you little putty-faced fool,” said Aunt Ellen in a savage whisper.
John Brett raised his brows and turned his frown upon her. She shrank back in silence.
“It was in Assyria,” said Paul.
“Ah-ha!” cried John Brett. “That’s pretty good. It was in Assyria. How would Assyria do for a name for that colt?”
“It ain’t got sound enough to it,” suggested someone.
“No. It ain’t got enough sound to it,” agreed John Brett. “Now that Assyria, it would have a king, wouldn’t it, Paul?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Paul, who was recovering some of his self-control.
The entire circle was waiting breathlessly upon him and his answers.
“It would have a king, he says,” proceeded John Brett in the same half-anxious, half-soothing tone. “Now, look how we’re getting along. Now, Paul, that there colt is gonna be a king. He’s gonna be a big, black king among hosses. Look at him. Don’t be afraid. He’s just makin’ up to you Paul.”
The black foal approached the boy with sharply pricked ear and began to nibble at his sleeve.
Paul dared not stir.
“Now, Paul,” went on John Brett, “might you be able to tell me something like the name of a king of Assyria?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “They had some very long names.”
“You even know their names?” said Brett curiously.
And a stir of wonder ran rapidly around the circle.
“Some of them,” said Paul. “There was Sennacherib, for instance, and . . .”
“Sennacherib! That’s a longish name, and hard to get a tongue around. Now, Paul, could you think of some of the other names?”
“Yes,” said the boy, “there was Merodach-baladan, and Shalmaneser, and Tiglath Pileser and . . .”
“Hold on, will you?” gasped John Brett. “Them names . . . I never heard nothing like them. But who was the biggest and the greatest king that they had, if you know, Paul?”
“Ashur-bani-pal was the greatest king,” said Paul.
“Ashur-bani-pal,” repeated John Brett slowly. “We don’t seem to get along very well, do we?�
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The mare, anxious about her foal, came up behind the boy and sniffed at his neck; her breath sent a shudder through all his body.
“Steady,” said John Brett. “Steady, my boy. She ain’t gonna hurt you a mite. Only . . . I don’t see how names could be that long, even in a Bible country like Assyria.”
“The names really have several words in them,” said Paul, wanting to run from the mare but not daring to move.
“Like what?”
“Ashur-bani-pal means ‘Ashur creates a son.’”
“And who was Ashur?”
“Ashur was the chief god. He was the war god.”
“And here’s the chief boss, and a war hoss,” said John Brett, “and there’s the name for him. Ashur it is! And you, Paul, how’d you come to know all this rigmarole about Assyria, and what not?”
II
The answers that young Torridon had made to the questions of John Brett had been attended by the rest of the clan with a most hushed interest, but to no answer did they give stricter heed than to the present one, when Paul said simply: “I’ve been sick a great deal, you know. And I had nothing to do but lie in bed and read.”
“Well,” said John Brett, “then I think I’ll put some of the other children to bed for a while.”
This brought a laugh, and in the laughter Paul was able to slip away. But he was vastly pleased. Never before had he been looked on with respect by the others. Certainly he never had been such a center of attention.
This was not the end of the incident; it was the beginning of a new phase in the life of Paul. From that moment he was someone in the community of the Bretts. Even old Aunt Ellen, regarding him with her over-bright eyes, said afterward: “He’s got a brain behind those eyes of his.”
He repeated that saying over and over again to himself for days and days afterward. He had a brain. The others had their great, strong bodies, their great, strong hands; he had a brain. The first spark of pride fell on his soul, and the fire was beginning to burn.
It burned exceedingly small, however, at first. There was need of much tinder of the most delicate sort to feed the flame, and only gradually he came to realize that his position in the household was altered. He had to do the same things as before. But there was a touch of respect on all hands. The Bretts valued in man little other than force of hand and courage of heart, but Paul Torridon they began to accept as an oddity with a sort of strength as great as his weakness.
In the early autumn John Brett summoned the boy one evening and told him to bring in all the books that he had read.
They made several loads. He heaped them on the table. Books were an accident in the Brett household, but there was an arithmetic, and an algebra of vast antiquity, a good old-fashioned grammar, a history of the ancient world, a thick tome from which the cover was entirely missing and the title page gone as well. This, together with a Bible and a PILGRIM’S PROGRESS, constituted the backbone of the reading of young Paul. The rest consisted of a miscellaneous assortment, from almanacs to novels. Not one of those books had been bought intentionally by the Bretts, but all had been taken in gathering in the effects of a bankrupt neighbor who could pay his debts in no way except through his goods. They had lain in an attic unnoticed for years, while the rats ate through many of them. There Paul Torridon had found them, and through the long months and months of his illnesses, he had worked over them with the patience of despair. Even the problems in the arithmetic and the algebra were a delight, and when the last of them was solved he had fallen into a profound gloom.
Now he stood by the table and saw John Brett, with thick and unaccustomed fingers, turning the frail leaves of the books. Delicately and carefully he handled them, as though in fear lest they rend like spider’s silk under his touch.
He remarked finally: “There’s thirty-five books here.”
“Yes,” said Paul.
“You’ve read them all?”
“Yes. Several times over.”
The big man lifted his brows. He rested his chin on the hard palm of his hand and stared.
“Several times? You mean that?”
“This one a great many times,” said the boy, and touched the ponderous ancient history.
“How come that?”
“After pneumonia, you remember it was weeks and weeks before I could leave my bed, and I had only this book in the room.”
“And you read that?”
“Four times through, carefully.”
“Didn’t you get tired of it?”
“No, because I never was able to remember everything in it.”
“Why didn’t you send for some of the other books?”
“I did ask for them. Nobody wanted to go.”
The glance of Brett sharpened again. Then he looked suddenly aside. That small remark evidently had meant something to him. He sent the boy off to bed, but a week later, when the first frost began, he conversed with Paul again.
“You’re fifteen, Paul?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve been here eight years?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you willin’ to work?”
“I’m willing to do what I can.”
“Education is pretty good,” observed John Brett. “I’m gonna make a school, with you for the teacher, and every man and boy up to twenty in the whole tribe is gonna come and study under you, and all the girls up to fifteen. Can you teach ’em?”
Paul Torridon was aghast, but he dared not refuse.
He lay awake that night, staring at the darkness. He tried to think of himself imposing tasks upon Charlie Brett, for instance. The thought was unthinkable.
However, the plan went forward. Whatever John Brett determined upon, he put through with suddenness and with effect. The three clans of the Bretts lived at equal distances from one another. They were like the three points of a triangle. Almost in the center was a crossroads. There John Brett called a meeting of the heads of the families, and there he struck his heel into the ground and declared that the schoolhouse must be posted.
The others agreed. They dared not dispute with him, any more than soldiers would have dared to dispute with a general. They lived in a sea of dangers, and they knew the value of the leadership of this rough, rude man. The schoolhouse was built in two weeks. A stove was installed in the center of it. Paul Torridon was told to meet his first class.
Pale from a sleepless night, he walked out over the frosty, white road, stumbling in the ruts uncertainly. The boots that the Brett shoemaker turned out were only roughly shaped to the foot. And these which Torridon wore were cast-offs of Charlie Brett. His feet slipped about in them awkwardly. And three shanks as large as his could have fitted into the tops. His coat, too, was a discard. Much scrubbing with soap had faded and worn the tough homespun but had not dimmed the splendor of the grease spots with which it was checkered. It was rubbed through at either elbow, and was so big that he wrapped it around him and pinned one edge of it above his right hip. His hat was a battered, green-faded thing that lay without shape on his head, the brim falling down over his eyes.
There was so little strength in Torridon that he was wearied without being warmed by the walk. Neither can the weak enjoy the beauty of a winter scene, and he looked about him in despair at the naked trees, their limbs outlined with broken pipings of white frost. He saw no living thing except, on a bare bough, a row of little birds, with their feathers all ruffed out and their heads drawn in until they seemed little, round, headless balls.
He yearned with all his heart to be back in the kitchen at the house of John Brett, or even amid the sour smells of the creamery. Everything that was familiar was cheering to him. Everything that was strange was a load upon his mind.
When he came in sight of the schoolhouse, he halted. His legs were powerless to carry him forward. It was not until the chill thrust through his very vitals that he spurred forward and with slow steps approached the door.
He opened it with a desperate thrust of his ha
nd and stepped quickly inside. His greeting was the tumbling of a bucket of water that had been propped above the door by a practical jester. He was drenched to the skin and stood shivering in a wild outburst of laughter.
In that roar of mirth were the voices of twenty-year-old youths, brutalized by heavy labor and exposure all the days of their lives. There was the shouting of girls almost as brown and strong as their brothers, and the shrill piping of children.
In the midst of that dreadful mockery, Paul Torridon shuddered and turned blue with the cold of the water. He went to the stove, wrung the water from his coat, and then spread his hands close to the heated iron.
He looked around him, his head jerking with nervousness. Seventeen grinning faces looked back at him, expectant, scornful, contemptuous. Only one looked neither at him nor at her companions, but down at her folded hands. That was Nancy Brett.
III
He could not make himself warm. He could only thaw the outer layers of the cold, as it were. Then he went to his desk. It was raised on a little platform at the end of the room. It consisted of a table with two drawers on either side. A subdued murmuring was sweeping from one side of the room to the other; the grinning faces watched him, brightly, as mischievous dogs watch a cat they are about to pounce on. Nancy Brett had raised her head and watched him, also, but gravely, with a veil over her eyes, so to speak.
He was more conscious of her quiet scorn than of all the unmasked grins of the rest.
“We’d better start,” said Paul hoarsely, “with writing down our names. You all have slates and slate pencils. Please write down your names.”
He sat down and waited. There was only one who stirred to obey, and that was Nancy Brett.
For five minutes he waited. Then he rose from his chair. His face was icy cold, and he knew that it must be deadly white. Directly opposite his desk was big Jack Brett, a burly six-footer, twenty years old, dark as an Indian, and as savage. He sat with arms folded, waiting, sneering.
Paul started for him, met that sneer, and hesitated. He looked wildly about him. In the farther corner he saw Charlie Brett drop his head and turn crimson, and he knew that Charlie was blushing with hot shame to think that one who had lived under the same roof with him should be such a helpless coward. But most of all, Paul saw Nancy, whose eyes were averted toward the window and whose face was pale, also.