The Yearling

by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

  “If I was a fish, I’d strike at this myself,” he said.

  He went to the house and spoke briefly with his wife.

  “Me and Jody is goin’ bobbin’ for bass.”

  “I thought you was give out and Jody was ailin’.”

  “That’s why we’re goin’ fishin’,” he said.

  She followed to the door and watched after them.

  “If you don’t git no bass,” she called, “ketch me a leetle bream I kin fry crisp and eat bones and all.”

  “We’ll not come back without somethin’,” he promised.

  The afternoon was warm but the way seemed short. In a way, Jody thought, fishing was better than hunting. It was not so exciting, but neither was there terror. The heart beat at a reasonable cadence. There was time to look about, and see the increase of green leaves in the live oaks and magnolias. They stopped at a familiar pond. It was shallow from too long dryness. Penny found a grasshopper and threw it into the water. There was no strike; no hungry swirl of waters.

  “I’m feered the fish has died outen here,” he said. “These leetle ol’ ponds in the middle o’ no-where has allus been a puzzlement to me. I cain’t see how the fish lives here, year on year.”

  He caught another grasshopper and hurled it without result.

  “The pore fish,” he said. “Helpless in a world o’ their own. ’Stead o’ fishin’ for ’em, I’d ought to come out here and feed ’em.”

  He lifted his bamboo rod over his shoulder.

  “Mebbe the Lord figgers the same about me,” he chuckled. “Mebbe he looks down and says, ’There’s Penny Baxter tryin’ to make out on that clearin’.’” He added, “But hit’s a good clearin’. Likely the fish is as content as me.”

  Jody said, “Look, Pa, there’s people.”

  Human beings were a stranger sight in the lonely place of live oak islands and saw-grass ponds and prairies, than the creatures. Penny shaded his eyes. A file of half a dozen men and women was entering the scrub road they had just left behind.

  “Hit’s the Minorcans,” he said. “Huntin’ gophers.”

  Jody saw now the sacks over their shoulders. The small dusty land-turtles, whose deep burrows were an indication of the poorest soil, were the last food most inhabitants of the scrub considered edible.

  “I’ve allus wondered,” Penny said, “didn’t they make a medicine mebbe outen the gophers. Don’t seem like they’d come here clear from the coast to hunt them things jest to eat.”

  “Let’s slip back clost and look at ’em,” Jody said.

  “I’d not pry on the pore things,” Penny said. “The Minorcans is a people was mighty bad put upon. My father knowed their hull history. A English feller carried ’em to New Smyrna, over by the ocean and the Indian River. He promised ’em a pure Heaven and put ’em to work. And when times got bad and the crops failed, he left ’em to nigh about starve to death. There wasn’t many left.”

  “Is they like gypsies?”

  “No, for gypsies is wild. The men is dark, like gypsies, but the women is fair when they’re young. They mind their own business and live peaceable.”

  The procession disappeared into the scrub. Jody tingled, and the hair stirred on the back of his neck. It was like seeing Spaniards. It was as though phantoms, dark and shadowy, and not men and women, had passed before him, weighted with their strange burden of gophers and injustice.

  The Dance of the Whooping Cranes (p. 88)

  Penny said, “Now the bass had ought to be thick as tadpoles in that pond right over there.”

  They were in territory a little west of the prairie’s rim where old Slewfoot had fed on fire-plant. Dry weather had sucked up much of the water and the marsh had broad areas that were now firm and dry. The ponds showed plainly. They had withdrawn from the saw-grass and only lily pads troubled the water’s surface. A Blue Peter ran across them, bright with yellow legs and painted face. A slight breath of air rippled across the marsh and the water rippled under it. The lily pads tipped, an instant, their broad shining leaves to the glint of the sun.

  “Jest enough of a riffle,” Penny said, “and the moon jest right.”

  He fastened lengths of line to the two poles and attached the deer-hair bobs.

  “Now you work your bob acrost the north end and I’ll try the south. Don’t make no fuss, walkin’.”

  Jody stood a moment to watch his father make an expert cast across the pond. He marveled at the skill of the knotted hands. The bob lay at the edge of a cluster of lily pads. Penny began to jerk it slowly across the water. It dipped and bobbed with the irregular rhythm of a live insect. There was no strike and Penny drew in his line and cast again in the same place. He called to invisible fish, lurking near the weedy bottom.

  “Now Grandpappy, I kin see you settin’ there on your stoop.” He jerked the bob more slowly. “You better lay down your pipe and come git your dinner.”

  Jody tore himself from the fascination of his father’s performance and moved to his end of the pond. He cast badly for a time, tangling his line and laying his bob in the most unlikely places; over-reaching the narrow pond and enmeshing the hook in the tough saw-grass. Then something of harmony came to him. He felt his arm swing in a satisfying arc. His wrist flexed at the proper moment. He laid the bob exactly where he had meant to, at the edge of a patch of switch-grass.

  Penny called, “Mighty nice, son. Leave it lay jest a minute. Then git ready the first second you jerk it.”

  He had not known his father was watching. He was tense. He jerked his pole cautiously and the bob flipped across the water. There was a swirl, a silver form shot half clear of the water, an open mouth as big as a cook-pot enveloped the bob. A weight like a millstone dropped at the end of his line, fought like a wild-cat, and pulled him off-balance. He braced himself against the frenzy to which he was irrevocably attached.

  Penny called, “Take it easy. Don’t let him git under them bonnets. Keep the tip o’ your pole up. Don’t give him no slack.”

  Penny left him to the struggle. His arms ached from the strain. He was afraid to tug too hard for fear of breaking the line. He dared not yield an inch for fear a sudden slackness would tell of the loss of the giant. He longed for magic words from his father, indicating some miracle by which he might land his fish and be done with the torment. The bass was sulking. It made a dash for the grasses, where it might tangle the line around their stems and so rip free. It came to Jody that if he walked around the edge of the pond, keeping a taut line, he might lead the bass into shallow water and flounder him at the edge. He worked cautiously. He was tempted to drop the pole and clutch the line itself and come to grips with his adversary. He began to walk away from the pond. He gave his pole a heave and landed the bass, flouncing, in the grass. He dropped the pole and ran, to move the catch to a final safety. The bass would weigh ten pounds. Penny came to him.

  “Boy, I’m proud of you. Nobody couldn’t of handled him better.”

  Jody stood panting. Penny thumped him on the back, as excited as he. He looked down, unbelieving, at the stout form and the great maw.

  “I feel as good as if ’twas ol’ Slewfoot,” he said, and they grinned together and pummeled each other’s backs.

  “Now I got to go beat you,” Penny said.

  They took separate ponds. Penny called that he was licked and beaten. He began fishing for Ma Baxter’s bream with a hand-line and bonnet worms. Jody cast and cast again, but there was never the mad swirl of waters, the great leap, the live and struggling weight. He caught a small bass and held it up to show his father.

  “Throw him back,” Penny called. “We don’t need him for eatin’. Leave him to grow up big as t’other one. Then we’ll come back agin and ketch him.”

  Jody put the small fish back reluctantly and watched it swim away. His father was stern about not taking more of anything, fish or game, than could be eaten or kept. Hope of another monster dwindled as the sun finished its spring arc of the daylight sky. He cast leisurely, taking
his pleasure in his increasing dexterity of arm and wrist. The moon was now wrong. It was no longer feed-time. The fish were not striking. Suddenly he heard his father whistle like a quail. It was the signal they used together in squirrel hunting. Jody laid down his pole and looked back to make sure he could identify the tuft of grass where he had covered his bass from the rays of the sun. He walked cautiously to where his father beckoned.

  Penny whispered, “Foller me. We’ll ease up clost as we dare.”

  He pointed. “The whoopin’ cranes is dancin’.”

  Jody saw the great white birds in the distance. His father’s eye, he thought, was like an eagle’s. They crouched on all fours and crept forward slowly. Now and then Penny dropped flat on his stomach and Jody dropped behind him. They reached a clump of high saw-grass and Penny motioned for concealment behind it. The birds were so close that it seemed to Jody he might touch them with his long fishing pole. Penny squatted on his haunches and Jody followed. His eyes were wide. He made a count of the whooping cranes. There were sixteen.

  The cranes were dancing a cotillion as surely as it was danced at Volusia. Two stood apart, erect and white, making a strange music that was part cry and part singing. The rhythm was irregular, like the dance. The other birds were in a circle. In the heart of the circle, several moved counter-clock-wise. The musicians made their music. The dancers raised their wings and lifted their feet, first one and then the other. They sank their heads deep in their snowy breasts, lifted them and sank them again. They moved soundlessly, part awkwardness, part grace. The dance was solemn. Wings fluttered, rising and falling like out-stretched arms. The outer circle shuffled around and around. The group in the center attained a slow frenzy.

  Suddenly all motion ceased. Jody thought the dance was over, or that the intruders had been discovered. Then the two musicians joined the circle. Two others took their places. There was a pause. The dance was resumed. The birds were reflected in the clear marsh water. Sixteen white shadows reflected the motions. The evening breeze moved across the saw-grass. It bowed and fluttered. The water rippled. The setting sun lay rosy on the white bodies. Magic birds were dancing in a mystic marsh. The grass swayed with them, and the shallow waters, and the earth fluttered under them. The earth was dancing with the cranes, and the low sun, and the wind and sky.

  Jody found his own arms lifting and falling with his breath, as the cranes’ wings lifted. The sun was sinking into the saw-grass. The marsh was golden. The whooping cranes were washed with gold. The far hammocks were black. Darkness came to the lily pads, and the water blackened. The cranes were whiter than any clouds, or any white bloom of oleander or of lily. Without warning, they took flight. Whether the hour-long dance was, simply, done, or whether the long nose of an alligator had lifted above the water to alarm them, Jody could not tell, but they were gone. They made a great circle against the sunset, whooping their strange rusty cry that sounded only in their flight. Then they flew in a long line into the west, and vanished.

  Penny and Jody straightened and stood up. They were cramped from the long crouching. Dusk lay over the sawgrass, so that the ponds were scarcely visible. The world was shadow, melting into shadow. They turned to the north. Jody found his bass. They cut to the east, to leave the marsh behind them, then north again. The trail was dim in the growing darkness. It joined the scrub road and they turned once more east, continuing now in a certainty, for the dense growth of the scrub bordered the road like walls. The scrub was black and the road was a dark gray strip of carpet, sandy and soundless. Small creatures darted across in front of them and scurried in the bushes. In the distance, a panther screamed. Bull-bats shot low over their heads. They walked in silence.

  At the house, bread was baked and waiting, and hot fat was in the iron skillet. Penny lighted a fat-wood torch and went to the lot to do his chores. Jody scaled and dressed the fish at the back stoop, where a ray of light glimmered from the fire on the hearth. Ma Baxter dipped the pieces in meal and fried them crisp and golden. The family ate without speaking.

  She said, “What ails you fellers?”

  They did not answer. They had no thought for what they ate nor for the woman. They were no more than conscious that she spoke to them. They had seen a thing that was unearthly. They were in a trance from the strong spell of its beauty.

  Chapter XI

  THE fawns were being born. Jody saw through the scrub the delicate tracery of their small pointed hooves. Wherever he went, to the sink-hole, for wood into the black-jacks south of the lot, to the traps Penny was obliged to keep about for varmints, he walked with eyes on the ground, watching for signs of their comings and their goings. The larger hoof-marks of the does usually preceded them. But the does were wary. Often the doe-sign was in one place, where the mother had fed alone, and the wavering fawn-sign was some distance away, where the infant had been left in the greater safety of heavy cover. Often there were twin fawns. When Jody found the double set of tracks he could scarcely contain himself.

  He thought always then, “I could leave one for the mammy and take one for myself.”

  He broached the matter to his mother one evening.

  “Ma, we got milk a-plenty. Cain’t I git me a leetle ol’ fawn for a pet for me? A spotted fawn, Ma. Cain’t I?”

  “I should jest say not. What you mean, milk a-plenty? They ain’t a extry drop left from sun to sun.”

  “It could have my milk.”

  “Yes, and fatten the blasted fawn and you grow up puny. Much as we all got to do, what on earth do you want with one o’ them things, blayting around here day and night?”

  “I want one. I want a ’coon, but I know a ’coon gits mischievous. I’d love a bear cub, but I know they’re liable to be mean. I jest want something—” he puckered his face so that his freckles ran together—“I jest want something all my own. Something to foller me and be mine.” He struggled for words. “I want something with dependence to it.”

  His mother snorted.

  “Well, you’ll not find that no-where. Not in the animal world nor in the world o’ man. Now Jody, I’ll not have you pesterin’ me. You say another word, ’fawn’ or ’ ’coon’ or ’bear cub,’ and I’ll take a bresh to you.”

  Penny listened quietly from his corner.

  In the morning he said, “We’ll go hunt us a buck today, Jody. Likely we’ll find a fawn beddin’. Hit’s near about as much pleasure seein’ ’em wild, as havin’ ’em tame.”

  “Will we take both dogs?”

  “Nobody but old Julia. She ain’t had a work-out since she was hurt. A slow hunt’ll do her good.”

  Ma Baxter said, “That last venison didn’t last no time. But we did jerk right smart of it, come to think of it. Git a few hams in the smoke-house and hit’ll look natural agin.”

  Her good nature rose and fell with the food supply.

  Penny said, “Jody, looks like you’ve fell heir to the old muzzle-loader. But don’t git too put out now, do it fail you like it failed me.”

  He could not imagine being impatient about it. It was enough to have the use of it for himself. His mother had sewed the cream-colored ’coonskin into a knapsack for him. He filled it with shot and caps and wadding and filled the powder horn.

  Penny said, “Ma, I been studyin’. I jest about got to go to Volusia to git me shell cases. Lem only th’owed in a few shells with the gun. And I’d love some rale coffee. I’ve had a bait o’ them wild coffee beans.”

  “Me, too,” she agreed. “And I need me some thread and a paper o’ needles.”

  “Now the bucks,” he said, “seems to be feedin’ toward the river. I been seein’ a perfect shower o’ tracks headin’ that-away. I believe me and Jody kin hunt on in that direction, and do we git us a buck or two, we kin trade the saddles and haunches to Volusia for what we need. Then we kin say ’Howdy’ to Grandma Hutto.”

  She frowned.

  “You’ll git to visitin’ with that sassy old woman and like as not you’ll be gone a couple o’ days. I think
you’d ought to leave Jody with me.”

  Jody squirmed and looked at his father.

  Penny said, “We’ll be back tomorrer. How’s Jody to learn to hunt and be a man if his daddy don’t carry him along and learn him?”

  “Hit’s a good excuse,” she said. “Hit’s jest men-folks likin’ to prowl off together.”

  “Then you come make the hunt with me, sweetheart, and leave Jody here.”

  Jody laughed out. The picture of his mother’s great frame pushing through the bay-heads made him shout in spite of himself.

  “Oh, go on,” she said, and laughed. “Git it over and done with.”

  “You know you enjoy gittin’ shut of us now and agin,” Penny told her.

  “Hit’s my only rest,” she admitted. “Leave me Grandpa’s gun loaded.”

  The ancient Long Tom, Jody thought, was more of a menace to her than to any intruders. She was an inaccurate and incompetent shot, and the gun was as fallible as Penny’s muzzle-loader, but he could understand the comfort to her of its presence. He brought it from the shed for his father to load, grateful that she had not demanded his own newly acquired piece.

  Penny whistled to old Julia and the man and boy and hound set out eastward in mid-morning. The May day was warm and close. The sun beat down through the scrub. The small hard leaves of the scrub oaks were flat pans to hold the heat. The sand burned Jody’s feet through his cowhide shoes. In spite of the heat, Penny walked at a fast gait. It was all Jody could do to follow him. Julia loped ahead. There was as yet no scent. Penny stopped once and stared about the horizon.

  Jody asked, “What you see, Pa?”

  “Nothin’, son, and very leetle o’ that.”

  A mile east of the clearing, he changed his direction. There were suddenly deer tracks in a great plenty. Penny studied them, for size and sex and freshness.