The Yearling

by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

  “Kin I ride back with Mill-wheel and see kin I find it?”

  “Tell your Ma I said you’re to go.”

  He sidled back to the table and sat down. His mother was pouring coffee for every one.

  He said, “Ma, Pa says I kin go bring back the fawn.”

  She held the coffee-pot in mid-air.

  “What fawn?”

  “The fawn belonged to the doe we kilt, to use the liver to draw out the pizen and save Pa.”

  She gasped.

  “Well, for pity sake——”

  “Pa say hit’d not be grateful, to leave it starve.”

  Doc Wilson said, “That’s right, Ma’am. Nothing in the world don’t ever come quite free. The boy’s right and his daddy’s right.”

  Mill-wheel said, “He kin ride back with me. I’ll he’p him find it.”

  She set down the pot helplessly.

  “Well, if you’ll give it your milk— We got nothin’ else to feed it.”

  “That’s what I aim to do. Hit’ll be no time, and it not needin’ nothin’.”

  The men rose from the table.

  Doc said, “I don’t look for nothing but progress, Ma’am, but if he takes a turn for the worse, you know where to find me.”

  She said, “Well. What do we owe you, Doc? We cain’t pay right now, but time the crops is made——”

  “Pay for what? I’ve done nothing. He was safe before I got here. I’ve had a night’s lodging and a good breakfast. Send me some syrup when your cane’s ground.”

  “You’re mighty good, Doc. We been scramblin’ so, I didn’t know folks could be so good.”

  “Hush, woman. You got a good man there. Why wouldn’t folks be good to him?”

  Buck said, “You reckon that ol’ horse o’ Penny’s kin keep ahead o’ me at the plow? I’m like to run him down.”

  Doc said, “Get as much milk down Penny as he’ll take. Then give him greens and fresh meat, if you can get it.”

  Buck said, “Me and Jody’ll tend to that.”

  Mill-wheel said, “Come on, boy. We got to git ridin’.”

  Ma Baxter asked anxiously, “You’ll not be gone long?”

  Jody said, “I’ll be back shore, before dinner.”

  “Reckon you’d not git home a-tall,” she said, “if ’twasn’t for dinner-time.”

  Doc said, “That’s man-nature, Ma’am. Three things bring a man home again—his bed, his woman, and his dinner.”

  Buck and Mill-wheel guffawed. Doc’s eye caught the cream-colored ’coonskin knapsack.

  “Now ain’t that a pretty something? Wouldn’t I like such as that to tote my medicines?”

  Jody had never before possessed a thing that was worth giving away. He took it from its nail, and put it in Doc’s hands.

  “Hit’s mine,” he said. “Take it.”

  “Why, I’d not rob you, boy.”

  “I got no use for it,” he said loftily. “I kin git me another.”

  “Now I thank you. Every trip I make, I’ll think, ’Thank you, Jody Baxter.’”

  He was proud with old Doc’s pleasure. They went outside to water the horses and feed them from the scanty stock of hay in the Baxter barn.

  Buck said to Jody, “You Baxters is makin’ out and that’s about all, ain’t it?”

  Doc said, “Baxter’s had to carry the work alone. Time the boy here gets some size to him, they’ll prosper.”

  Buck said, “Size don’t seem to mean much to a Baxter.”

  Mill-wheel mounted his horse and pulled Jody up behind him. Doc mounted and turned away in the opposite direction. Jody waved after him. His heart was light.

  He said to Mill-wheel, “You reckon the fawn’s yit there? Will you he’p me find him?”

  “We’ll find him, do he be alive. How you know it’s a he?”

  “The spots was all in a line. On a doe-fawn, Pa says the spots is ever’ which-a-way.”

  “That’s the female of it.”

  “What you mean?”

  “Why, females is on-accountable.”

  Mill-wheel slapped the horse’s flank and they broke into a trot.

  “This female business. How come you and your Pa to pitch into us, when we was fightin’ Oliver Hutto?”

  “Oliver was gittin’ the wust of it. Hit didn’t seem right, a hull passel o’ you-all whoppin’ Oliver.”

  “You right. Hit were Lem’s gal and Oliver’s gal. They should of fit it out alone.”

  “But a gal cain’t belong to two fellers at oncet.”

  “You jest don’t know gals.”

  “I hate Twink Weatherby.”

  “I’d not look at her, neither. I got a widder-woman at Fort Gates, knows how to be faithful.”

  The matter was too complicated. Jody gave himself over to thoughts of the fawn. They passed the abandoned clearing.

  He said, “Cut to the north, Mill-wheel. Hit were up here Pa got snake-bit and kilt the doe and I seed the fawn.”

  “What was you and your daddy doin’ up this road?”

  Jody hesitated.

  “We was huntin’ our hogs.”

  “Oh— Huntin’ your hogs, eh? Well, don’t fret about them hogs. I jest got a idee they’ll be home by sundown.”

  “Ma and Pa’ll shore be proud to see ’em come in.”

  “I had no idee, you-all was runnin’ so tight.”

  “We ain’t runnin’ tight. We’re all right.”

  “You Baxters has got guts, I’ll say that.”

  “You reckon Pa’ll not die?”

  “Not him. His chitlin’s is made o’ iron.”

  Jody said, “Tell me about Fodder-wing. Is he shore enough ailin’? Or didn’t Lem want I should see him?”

  “He’s purely ailin’. He ain’t like the rest of us. He ain’t like nobody. Seems like he drinks air ’stead o’ water, and feeds on what the wild creeturs feeds on, ’stead o’ bacon.”

  “He sees things ain’t so, don’t he? Spaniards and sich.”

  “He do, but dogged if they ain’t times he’ll make you think he do see ’em.”

  “You reckon Lem’ll leave me come see him?”

  “I’d not risk it yit. I’ll git word to you one day when mebbe Lem’s gone off, see?”

  “I shore crave to see Fodder-wing.”

  “You’ll see him. Now whereabouts you want to go, huntin’ that fawn? Hit’s gittin’ right thick up this trail.”

  Suddenly Jody was unwilling to have Mill-wheel with him. If the fawn was dead, or could not be found, he could not have his disappointment seen. And if the fawn was there, the meeting would be so lovely and so secret that he could not endure to share it.

  He said, “Hit’s not fur now, but hit’s powerful thick for a horse. I kin make it a-foot.”

  “But I’m daresome to leave you, boy. Suppose you was to git lost, or snake-bit, too?”

  “I’ll take keer. Hit’ll take me likely a long time to find the fawn, if he’s wandered. Leave me off right here.”

  “All right, but you go mighty easy now, pokin’ in them palmeeters. This is rattlesnake Heaven in these parts. You know north here, and east?”

  “There, and there. That fur tall pine makes a bearin’.”

  “That’s right. Now do things go wrong again, you or Buck, one, ride back for me. So long.”

  “So long, Mill-wheel. I’m shore obliged.”

  He waved after him. He waited for the sound of the hooves to end, then cut to the right. The scrub was still. Only his own crackling of twigs sounded across the silence. He was eager almost past caution, but he broke a bough and pushed in ahead of him where the growth was thick and the ground invisible. Rattlers got out of the way when they had a chance. Penny had gone farther into the oak thicket than he remembered. He wondered for an instant if he had mistaken his direction. Then a buzzard rose in front of him and flapped into the air. He came into the clearing under the oaks. Buzzards sat in a circle around the carcass of the doe. They turned their heads on their long scrawny necks an
d hissed at him. He threw his bough at them and they flew into an adjacent tree. Their wings creaked and whistled like rusty pump-handles. The sand showed large cat-prints, he could not tell whether of wild-cat or of panther. But the big cats killed fresh, and they had left the doe to the carrion birds. He asked himself whether the sweeter meat of the fawn had scented the air for the curled nostrils.

  He skirted the carcass and parted the grass at the place where he had seen the fawn. It did not seem possible that it was only yesterday. The fawn was not there. He circled the clearing. There was no sound, no sign. The buzzards clacked their wings, impatient to return to their business. He returned to the spot where the fawn had emerged and dropped to all fours, studying the sand for the small hoof-prints. The night’s rain had washed away all tracks except those of cat and buzzards. But the cat-sign had not been made in this direction. Under a scrub palmetto he was able to make out a track, pointed and dainty as the mark of a ground-dove. He crawled past the palmetto.

  Movement directly in front of him startled him so that he tumbled backward. The fawn lifted its face to his. It turned its head with a wide, wondering motion and shook him through with the stare of its liquid eyes. It was quivering. It made no effort to rise or run. Jody could not trust himself to move.

  He whispered, “It’s me.”

  The fawn lifted its nose, scenting him. He reached out one hand and laid it on the soft neck. The touch made him delirious. He moved forward on all fours until he was close beside it. He put his arms around its body. A light convulsion passed over it but it did not stir. He stroked its sides as gently as though the fawn were a china deer and he might break it. Its skin was softer than the white ’coonskin knapsack. It was sleek and clean and had a sweet scent of grass. He rose slowly and lifted the fawn from the ground. It was no heavier than old Julia. Its legs hung limply. They were surprisingly long and he had to hoist the fawn as high as possible under his arm.

  He was afraid that it might kick and bleat at sight and smell of its mother. He skirted the clearing and pushed his way into the thicket. It was difficult to fight through with his burden. The fawn’s legs caught in the bushes and he could not lift his own with freedom. He tried to shield its face from prickling vines. Its head bobbed with his stride. His heart thumped with the marvel of its acceptance of him. He reached the trail and walked as fast as he could until he came to the intersection with the road home. He stopped to rest and set the fawn down on its dangling legs. It wavered on them. It looked at him and bleated.

  He said, enchanted, “I’ll tote you time I git my breath.”

  He remembered his father’s saying that a fawn would follow that had been first carried. He started away slowly. The fawn stared after him. He came back to it and stroked it and walked away again. It took a few wobbling steps toward him and cried piteously. It was willing to follow him. It belonged to him. It was his own. He was light-headed with his joy. He wanted to fondle it, to run and romp with it, to call to it to come to him. He dared not alarm it. He picked it up and carried it in front of him over his two arms. It seemed to him that he walked without effort. He had the strength of a Forrester.

  His arms began to ache and he was forced to stop again. When he walked on, the fawn followed him at once. He allowed it to walk a little distance, then picked it up again. The distance home was nothing. He could have walked all day and into the night, carrying it and watching it follow. He was wet with sweat but a light breeze blew through the June morning, cooling him. The sky was as clear as spring water in a blue china cup. He came to the clearing. It was fresh and green after the night’s rain. He could see Buck Forrester following old Cæsar at the plow in the cornfield. He thought he heard him curse the horse’s slowness. He fumbled with the gate latch and was finally obliged to set down the fawn to manage it. It came to him that he would walk into the house, into Penny’s bedroom, with the fawn walking behind him. But at the steps, the fawn balked and refused to climb them. He picked it up and went to his father. Penny lay with closed eyes.

  Jody called, “Pa! Lookit!”

  Penny turned his head. Jody stood beside him, the fawn clutched hard against him. It seemed to Penny that the boy’s eyes were as bright as the fawn’s. His face lightened, seeing them together.

  He said, “I’m proud you found him.”

  “Pa, he wa’n’t skeert o’ me. He were layin’ up right where his mammy had made his bed.”

  “The does learns ’em that, time they’re borned. You kin step on a fawn, times, they lay so still.”

  “Pa, I toted him, and when I set him down, right off he follered me. Like a dog, Pa.”

  “Ain’t that fine? Let’s see him better.”

  Jody lifted the fawn high. Penny reached out a hand and touched its nose. It bleated and reached hopefully for his fingers.

  He said, “Well, leetle feller. I’m sorry I had to take away your mammy.”

  “You reckon he misses her?”

  “No. He misses his rations and he knows that. He misses somethin’ else but he don’t know jest what.”

  Ma Baxter came into the room.

  “Look, Ma, I found him.”

  “I see.”

  “Ain’t he purty, Ma? Lookit them spots all in rows. Lookit them big eyes. Ain’t he purty?”

  “He’s powerful young. Hit’ll take milk for him a long whiles. I don’t know as I’d of give my consent, if I’d knowed he was so young.”

  Penny said, “Ory, I got one thing to say, and I’m sayin’ it now, and then I’ll have no more talk of it. The leetle fawn’s as welcome in this house as Jody. It’s hissen. We’ll raise it without grudgment o’ milk or meal. You got me to answer to, do I ever hear you quarrelin’ about it. This is Jody’s fawn jest like Julia’s my dog.”

  Jody had never heard his father speak to her so sternly. The tone must hold familiarity for his mother, however, for she opened and shut her mouth and blinked her eyes.

  She said, “I only said it was young.”

  “All right. So it is.”

  He closed his eyes.

  He said, “If ever’body’s satisfied now, I’d thank you to leave me rest. Hit puts my heart to jerkin’, to talk.”

  Jody said, “I’ll fix its milk, Ma. No need you should bother.”

  She was silent. He went to the kitchen. The fawn wobbled after him. A pan of morning’s milk stood in the kitchen safe. The cream had risen on it. He skimmed the cream into a jug and used his shirt sleeve to wipe up the few drops he could not keep from spilling. If he could keep the fawn from being any trouble to his mother, she would mind it less. He poured milk into a small gourd. He held it out to the fawn. It butted it suddenly, smelling the milk. He saved it precariously from spilling over the floor. He led the fawn outside to the yard and began again. It could make nothing of the milk in the gourd.

  He dipped his fingers in the milk and thrust them into the fawn’s soft wet mouth. It sucked greedily. When he withdrew them, it bleated frantically and butted him. He dipped his fingers again and as the fawn sucked, he lowered them slowly into the milk. The fawn blew and sucked and snorted. It stamped its small hooves impatiently. As long as he held his fingers below the level of the milk, the fawn was content. It closed its eyes dreamily. It was ecstasy to feel its tongue against his hand. Its small tail flicked back and forth. The last of the milk vanished in a swirl of foam and gurgling. The fawn bleated and butted but its frenzy was appeased. Jody was tempted to go for more milk, but even with his father’s backing he was afraid to press his advantage too far. A doe’s bag was as small as a yearling heifer’s. Surely the fawn had had as much as its mother could have given it. It lay down suddenly, exhausted and replete.

  He gave his attention to a bed for it. It would be too much to ask, to bring it into the house. He went to the shed behind the house and cleaned out a corner down to the sand. He went to the live oaks at the north end of the yard and pulled down armfuls of Spanish moss. He made a thick bed in the shed. A hen was on a nest close by. Her bright
beady eyes watched him dubiously. She finished her laying and flew through the door, cackling. The nest was a new one, with six eggs in it. Jody gathered them carefully and took them to his mother in the kitchen.

  He said, “You’ll be proud to git these, Ma. Extry eggs.”

  “Hit’s a good thing they’s somethin’ extry around to eat.’

  He ignored the comment.

  He said, “The new nest is right next to where I fixed the fawn’s bed. In the shed, where it’ll not bother nobody.”

  She did not answer and he went outside where the fawn lay under a mulberry tree. He gathered it up and carried it to its bed in the dark shed.

  “Now you belong to do whatever I tell you,” he said. “Like as if I was your mammy. I tell you to lay here ’til I come git you agin.”

  The fawn blinked its eyelids. It groaned comfortably and dropped its head. He tiptoed from the shed. No dog, he thought, could be more biddable. He went to the wood-pile and shaved fine splinters of fatwood for kindling. He arranged the pile neatly. He gathered an armful of black-jack oak and took it to his mother’s wood-box in the kitchen.

  He said, “Was it all right, Ma, the way I skimmed the cream?”

  “Hit was all right.”

  He said, “Fodder-wing’s ailin’.”

  “Is?”

  “Lem wouldn’t leave me see him. Lem’s the only one is mad at us, Ma. On account of Oliver’s gal.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mill-wheel said he’d leave me know and I could slip in some time and see Fodder-wing when Lem ain’t around.”

  She laughed.

  “You’re talkified as a old woman today.”

  She passed him on her way to the hearth and touched his head lightly.

  She said, “I feel right good, myself. I never figgered your Pa’d see daylight today.”

  The kitchen was filled with peace. There was a clanking of harness. Buck passed through the gate from the field and crossed the road to the lot to put up old Cæsar for the noon hour.

  Jody said, “I best go he’p him.”

  But it was the fawn that drew him from the contentment of the house. He slipped into the shed to marvel at its existence and his possession. When he returned with Buck from the lot, chattering of the fawn, he beckoned him to follow.