Grist

by Linda Little

  An old metal hoop and a stick hanging from the front eave of the shack made a sort of bell that summoned her out into the light of day. We took the look of each other, standing there in the barren patch of dirt that passed for her yard. I stood with my basket and my hesitation, she with her nettle eyes and her great black dog.

  “The new miller’s wife,” she said and turned away before I could collect myself to speak. She beckoned me through the low door of the shack and I followed her into the gloom, blinking in the murkiness. A shallow apron of space along the front of her rude home was crowded with crates and baskets and casks. The place smelled of stale bread and unwashed clothes and a privy too close. There was the sniff of malted barley and of scandal beyond that. Nothing in her “store” belonged to her. Everything was on its way somewhere else.

  “Ye’ll never lose a thing ye hand to me. I’ve done with losing. This bundle for Corrigan, is it? Come back in three days.”

  I handed over my butter and eggs and my list of supplies: a spool of blue thread, a milk crock, cheesecloth, fancy molasses, an ounce of cinnamon. In all honesty I hoped the trade would be lost or stolen or damaged and then I could rightly complain to Ewan that his plan was not only ridiculous but also unworkable.

  But true to her word, every ounce of butter, each egg, arrived at Corrigans’ fresh and intact. Henry Corrigan had attached a record of our transaction with the package he sent back up. All was in order. Goods (even cash money, Nettle assured me) flowed in and out unmolested and undiminished. Preposterous, ludicrous, ridiculous the arrangement remained, but it was possible, manageable. So while other women turned east on the road to Scotch River, I turned west to Nettle’s lair. While others smiled and chatted, compared stories of their gardens and their stock, showed off their children or their produce, I ducked into Nettle’s hovel and bore her cocked eye and sour breath.

  EWAN MOVED SEAMLESSLY FROM ONE SET OF TASKS TO ANOTHER. One July day he paused long enough over his supper plate to say, “The men come tomorrow.”

  “What is this, my dear? Which men?”

  “MacIsaac from over the river. And the papist from beyond the gulch. That papist owes me for lumber and he wants more yet. He’s strong, so he claims. He’s big anyway. He can sleep on the cot there.” Ewan bent his head to indicate the small room off the kitchen. “But if he starts clacking his beads he can go right home again.”

  He spoke as though we had been discussing the arrival of these men for weeks, but this was the first I had heard of anyone coming to stay. “What will they be doing?”

  He looked up at me in surprise and incomprehension. Then annoyance. Had he married an idiot after all, his eyes demanded. “The dam. What do you think?”

  “There is no need to use such a rough tone, Ewan. I’ve mentioned your tone of voice before.”

  “We’ve been waiting for this since the day you got here. The dam, the dam, the dam! My new mill. The river is low.”

  The river is low, he had said at yesterday’s dinner. Before we were married he had said he would begin construction of the dam when the river was low. The river is low was not idle conversation. All through the spring farm work, the making and stowing of the first cut of hay, he was waiting for the summer sun to draw down the flow of water so construction could begin. Of course he was thinking of the dam—he never ceased thinking of it.

  “Of course. They come tomorrow to help you begin the dam. Did you send for them?” But of course he had sent for them, otherwise they would not be coming. “I mean, who sent them word to come? When? I didn’t know you had arranged this.”

  “That Cunningham boy took the message. Yesterday.”

  “Ah.” If I did not pay closer attention Mrs. Cunningham would know my business before I did. “Well, we shall have company to dinner then, and a guest to stay. I must consult with the servants about preparations.”

  Ewan gaped at me, alarmed, stricken. Again I had to correct myself. Ewan, for all he understood of cogs and levers, could not understand a joke. The truth of this observation crystalized for me in this moment. His gruff manner, his uneasiness with light conversation—he was afraid of what he couldn’t understand, that was all. My annoyance slipped away. “A little fun, my dear. Don’t worry, there are no servants. These are working men, I know. I’ll make up the cot off the kitchen. Tomorrow is a big day—the day construction begins! This will be the first time I’ll be preparing meals for more than you and me. We’ll have to see how your new wife fares, won’t we?”

  Ewan nodded, uncertain.

  “I’ll get your tea,” I said.

  THE PAPIST’S NAME WAS MICHAEL FLANNERY ALTHOUGH EWAN didn’t use the name—didn’t seem to call him anything at all from what I could see. Michael was a pleasant enough fellow and a good worker, if a little rude in his habits. Even Ewan grudgingly admitted he had no complaints with him. Michael worked like an ox then fell into bed after dark with barely the energy to wash his hands and face. But he was up again before the sun, porridge eaten, and down the hill to the dam alongside Ewan. Duncan MacIsaac was the older of the two though not yet thirty. He had a wife and baby and a small stony place of his own not two miles along, across the river. He arrived after breakfast each day to join the work.

  Once I finished with my milking and my pies and my butter in the morning, I set about preparing and packing up the dinner. At noon I arrived and laid out their picnic on the bank. Michael was always happy to see the lunch basket and gave me the sunniest of smiles. “Ah, Missus, I could eat a sheep and a goat,” he’d say. The men pulled off their sodden boots to let the summer sun get at their feet. Ewan chewed his meat and slurped his tea, never taking his eyes off the dam, as though their morning’s work might run off if left unguarded. He returned to work still chewing the last bite of his pie and the hired men had no choice but to follow.

  I lingered on the bank a few minutes each day to watch their progress. My husband was bending a river. With silence, strength and sweat they erected the dam before my eyes. They began with a short wall which I thought impressive enough, but this was just the start. It was tied with cross logs into the higher fore-wall several yards downstream—making what seemed more a box than a wall. As they progressed they hoisted each massive log higher, rolling them up skids. I watched Ewan chop swift, clean notches and dovetail each log in place. As the walls grew they dumped tons of stone in behind them, sometimes two or three of them wrestling stones the size of bushel baskets. Their backs and arms strained as men’s backs and arms had strained since the beginning of time. Building.

  One day I stared at the gorge trying to visualize the future that Ewan saw. I guessed at the new water levels, trying to identify which trees would be flooded, where the edges of the new millpond would come. For a fleeting moment I felt I had grasped it all but then it flew off again, not finding a steady enough perch in my mind. He holds it all in his head, I realized. To him it’s as easy and natural as breath. Here, at work, Ewan was perfect. Here the power and grace of his body melded in harmony with his intellect and his spirit and he attained a beauty almost painful to behold. I packed up my dinner basket trying to settle the quiver in my body.

  THAT NIGHT, I WATCHED HIM IN THE MIRROR AS I SAT AT MY dressing table brushing out my hair. I waited until he rose from his childlike prayers before I spoke.

  “You look so impressive working there in the river. Strong as horses. I never knew before how handsome a dam could be—such a beautiful crisscross rhythm to it. Is it going up well, do you think?”

  Ewan frowned. “That MacIsaac is a sorry tool. He wanders in with the morning half gone and he’s the first one to the lunch basket. Eats like a Mohawk and whines to go home at seven o’clock with the sun still blazing full.”

  “Oh now, Ewan, you know he has work of his own waiting at home.”

  “I don’t pay him for that. I won’t pay him a full day’s wages for less than a day.”

  “Already it seems as though the dam were always meant to be there. Does it look as you t
hought it would?”

  “Aye. How could it be otherwise when I do the thinking and the building both?”

  “Not everything turns out just as we imagine it, surely?”

  “The Lord gives us the strength to see His will and do His work. Diverging from the Lord’s perfect path is a sin.”

  In the years to come I would often remember this pronouncement. That night, however, I was too tired for puzzles. I set down my hairbrush and joined my husband under the summer quilt.

  FINALLY THE DAM WAS COMPLETED. MacIsaac pocketed his earnings and escaped home, relieved to be out from under Ewan’s critical eye, I’m sure. Michael, the popish boy, stayed to help Ewan prepare the foundation and put everything in place for the frolic.

  It was painful to watch Ewan suffer from the idea of the frolic, his brow furrowed so deeply I was sure his head ached. People everywhere! I imagined he felt them like lice on his skin and in his hair, itchy and dirty. But there was no other way, with the massive sills and posts and beams to be erected and all the mill workings waiting for the building that would house them. His lumber, his doors and windows, staircases, kiln tiles, hinges and hardware were collected and organized. Sheathing board was piled at the site in a stack the size of a cabin. Ewan would have to see his own way to the inevitable—the date must be set.

  In the meantime I prepared myself. This would be no ordinary frolic. I discovered that before Ewan had arrived on the Gunn Brook people had had to truck their grain fifteen miles to a mill and even then they returned with an inferior product. There was great rejoicing when Ewan set the current millstones into Merton’s old sawmill. The news that this basic jury-rigged facility was to be supplanted with a new, scientifically designed mill that would be the envy of the district had the air crackling with anticipation. Everyone would want to claim their part in building the structure that would house the fancy new mill. Abby warned me that the miller’s new wife and her new house would also be up for inspection. I was like a child given the starring role in the school play: thrilled by the prospect of the adventure but terrified I would not meet the challenge. Even before the date was set I began to marshal my resources. Abby promised me all her help and made sure I knew to get a jug of rum from Nettle. Abby spoke to Irene Sutherland, who had a wonderful ice house and loved to be in charge of making the ice cream. I learned the names of the fiddlers who must be asked. Mrs. Cunningham called by to give me strict instructions about trestle tables and how to avoid burning the edges of my pie crust (information she seemed certain that I needed) and to tell me she was prepared to sell us—at a price more generous than anyone else would consider offering—a young pig to roast.

  Finally, when there was nowhere to march but forward, Ewan spoke. Out of the blue, as I was collecting the supper dishes he said, “The twentieth.”

  “Ah. For the frolic, of course.” I could not hide my pride. See how quickly I had learned to anticipate and understand my husband’s awkward speech?

  “Hum.” He ducked his head in half a nod.

  “Wonderful. I’ll have young Donny Cunningham deliver the message down around the road and beyond the schoolhouse, shall I? And I’ll tell Abby to pass the news, and that fellow who cants for you at your old mill—what’s his name? I understand he’s a sociable fellow. Shall I have them spread the word?”

  “Yes. They better not stay all night, carrying on.”

  “Oh, but they will, my dearest. And they will have a grand time. It’s essential for your business that they do. Why would they come to work if they have no spree at the end of it? In fact, the better fed and watered and entertained everyone is, the less likely they are to notice you at all. No one will be looking for you once the music starts. The day will come and go and you’ll be no worse for it. And think of the mill!”

  Ewan grunted.

  I spoke to Michael. He and the one-armed carpenter from Randal’s Crossing would do what they could to direct the work and try to keep Ewan from the worst effects of social interaction and the assembled men from the worst effects of Ewan. Then all my concerns were directed at my own preparations.

  THE MILLER’S FROLIC WAS THE LARGEST AND GRANDEST THAT could be remembered in the district. No less than seventy men crawled over the mill site. The huge joists and beams, a foot in breadth and depth and more than thirty feet long, were set in place while joiners pounded pegs. They cut in braces at every corner to bolster the structure against the constant strain of the mill’s motion. Boys fetched and carried. Hammers rang with a din that could be heard up and down the gorge, a concert of drumming. Saws chewed through hemlock boards wide as a man. No sooner was a board laid on the decking than it was nailed into place. The planking, sawn at the old mill, closed in the floors and walls, capturing the smell of the woods, the warm tawny air that mixed with the smell of sweat. The rafters were hauled into place and the roof sheathed. Boys nailed row after row of shingles onto the exterior walls. Men fitted the windows and doors and laid the cast-iron floor tiles for the oat kiln.

  The builders hollered and laughed. They shouted teasing insults at each other recalling every triumph or mishap from previous frolics. Lads on the threshold of manhood surreptitiously sized up the abilities of their contemporaries and weighed them against their own: how many swings they took to sink a nail, how many planks they carried at once, how quickly and snugly they fit boards into place.

  There was not a woman for miles who could resist the chance to explore my house for herself. Precious few people had seen inside. And who knows what tales and idle notions had swirled around the new wife—an unknown entity entirely, with no relatives in the area. Throughout the day women arrived with stews and pies and loaves of bread and baskets of sweets. So many introduced themselves I could not begin to keep them straight. Some smiled as warm as could be: “What a smart kitchen and look what you’ve done with it.” Others tighter about the mouth: “Haven’t you done well for yourself with house and mill and all.” Some jolly with optimism: “Think of the smart modern mill we’ll have next fall.” Others sly with their compliments: “I understand he’s ordered a French buhrstone, only the finest, yet isn’t it shocking the things some people say about him?” Abby sorted out the women, setting some to tasks and encouraging others out to the yard. On occasions when a stranger seemed particularly pointed, Abby invariably appeared by my side, and I knew I was being protected. I was happy to keep my mind on my duties, greeting, thanking, flattering, managing food, ever aware of the many eyes upon me.

  Outside, clumps of women, safely out of earshot, bent their heads towards each other in conference. Children chased each other around the yard, the older ones pointing to the stable and whispering to the wide-eyed younger ones until rumours of ice cream pushed all else aside. Once the men began straggling up the hill from the mill, food was set out on long trestle tables beside the house. Heaping plates were ferried around the yard by an army of children. Mothers called incessantly to their oldest daughters as young men winked from the cool patches of shade beneath the maples. Pots of tea were boiled, tobacco smoke mingled with the perfume of a summer evening, laughter bloomed everywhere. From a clutch of folks by the corner of the stable a lone fiddle sent out a jaunty reel. Like tossing a crust to a barnyard chicken, the bait brought a flock of fiddlers, seemingly from nowhere, into the circle. Someone hauled a squeezebox from under a wagon seat. A piper joined in and the dancing began.

  As daylight began to fade and the music swelled I packed a basket from the feast tables and slipped off in search of Ewan. At the top of the hill I stood in wonder gazing down at the three-storey building that had risen from the foundation that day, whole and complete and waiting for the shafts and gears that would transform it into a mill. It had all the balance and grace I would have expected of my husband’s design.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said aloud to the endless sky, and I hugged the supper basket to me, rocking myself gently back and forth. I caught a movement in the upstairs window and waved. Ewan showed himself then, his face b
ehind the pane. For a moment I simply stood and looked, then I stepped forward, to the new building with my husband’s supper.

  NOT LONG AFTER THE FROLIC THE HARVEST BEGAN TRICKLING IN. This would be the last harvest ground in the old mill and everyone commented upon this as they brought in their first sacks of barley and oats, then wheat and corn. By next fall the new mill would be operational. We had three fields of our own to reap and stook and gather in, so through the beginning of the season Ewan ran from the reaper in the field to the mill trying to manage both operations. Donny Cunningham and I followed the reaper building stooks. Then we followed the wagon, pitching and stacking. There were no pies and no raisin puddings on these days—it was all I could do to keep stew in the pot and bread on the table. Load by load we filled the granary.

  By the time the threshers came through Ewan was at the millstones all day. He took his meals in the Old Nag and when custom was particularly heavy he lit the lamps and worked into the night until all the day’s grist was ground and bagged. Whenever rain forced a pause in harvesting, and his grinding was caught up, Ewan stole a few lamplight hours for his new mill. His workshop bulged with parts and pieces for his power train. Load by load he carted the makings of the mill’s machinery down to its new home. I could see that he felt the elements of power there, hovering like souls waiting to be born. Imagined lines would be transformed into shafts, tangents into belts; Platonic circles would come to life in pulleys and gears.

  AS WINTER CLOSED IN EWAN SET HIS ICE AXE BY THE DOOR AT the Old Nag. Darkness swallowed up both ends of the day leaving only a few squinty hours of sunlight. He ground in the old mill when he had to, worked on the new mill when he could. On Christmas Day he raised the giant spur wheel into place. By New Year’s all four stone nuts were mounted and the spindles set with their hackle screws ready to accept their millstones. He installed the cup elevators he had made according to the most modern design. Automatically they would carry wheat and oats and fodder from one stage of processing to the next. On the top floor he installed a winch for a rope hoist and cut trap doors in the main floor and upstairs floor, one immediately above the other, to allow sacks to be hauled up the entire height of the mill. All his hoppers and garners and chutes delivered grist directly to the required stones or shifters or shakers. So elegantly designed was the mill that one man could easily manage the entire operation on his own.