Read Online Under This Unbroken Sky by Shandi Mitchell - Free Book Online
Authors: Shandi Mitchell
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wealthy man. “This is where we begin,” he told Myron.
They clear-cut the first acre of brush and pile it in massive heaps. They coat themselves with mud and kerosene to stave off the blackflies and mosquitoes. Their hands and faces swell beyond recognition from the bites. After the first few days, they give up trying to swat away their attackers. The insects’ constant drone becomes a part of the daily sound swarming around their heads. One sweltering mid-afternoon, Teodor abruptly stops as he heaves up a root, acutely aware that he can hear nothing. He shakes his head, slaps at his ears. For a moment he thinks he has gone deaf, before realizing the bugs have been driven away by the heat.
When the trees are too large to be dug out, they are grubbed. Teodor chops and hacks through the roots around the base as Myron shimmies up twenty feet to fasten the rope around the trunk. The horse strains, its withers quivering, slathered in sweat, as Myron hollers and slaps its rump, until the tree finally groans and falls cracking to the ground. Then it is skidded to the growing woodpile.
Fuel for the woodstove is set aside to be gathered in the fall. The longest, straightest trunks are stacked for building material, and skinny poplars tagged for fence poles. Roots and branches are lit on fire. The smoke that stings their eyes and chokes their breath mercifully wards off the flies. Deep into the night, the glowing bonfires dot the horizon like so many rising suns.
They pry two tons of rocks from the ground, stack them one by one in the cart, and haul them to the property line that divides the two sections. There they unload and pile the stone to forma long, low wall. They hack, saw, rip, and curse at the roots that refuse to let go. They use picks, axes, shovels, and claw with their hands to reach the rich black soil. They clear an extra twenty feet around the entire perimeter to serve as a firebreak. And finally they plow—one agonizing foot at a time—coaxing this mistress to yield herself.
As Teodor tends the earth, he heals himself. In the field, he forgets about the past, forgets about the prison walls, and focuses only on the job at hand. His muscles grow taut and firm. He puts on weight. His chest fills out his baggy shirt and his pants stop slipping below his waist. His hands grow strong, the plow becomes lighter, his strides longer, and the land responds to his request to open. Deep furrows bloom upward, aching to be seeded.
But in those first days, he could barely lift the smallest rock. He had to carry it in both hands; his back stooped over, his knees bowed, he’d waddle to the cart where Myron was loading five stones to his one. His son would take the rock from him and toss it effortlessly to the front of the cart. Behind the plow, driving the horse, he reined the horse in hard, afraid to unleash its harnessed strength. Even holding the animal back, he was forced to run behind its lurching thrusts. The wide, leather plow strap cut into his shoulders, branding him black-and-blue. Once, he fell and was dragged through the twisted roots and jutting twigs.
Myron halted the horse, but Teodor screamed, “Keep going!” And when Myron hesitated, he shouted louder, “Go!” He struggled to his feet and slammed the full force of his remaining energy down into the wooden handles through the iron blade into the earth. He’d pushed what felt like a mile, only to find he’d made a twenty-foot run. His body dripping with sweat, his hands a bloody mash of blisters, his lungs bursting—he’d holler, Whoa!
And Myron, who was leading, rolling stones out of the way,and the horse that was just getting up to speed, would look back at him, wondering why they had stopped. Teodor would bend down on one knee, supporting his weight on an outstretched arm pressed against the ground, sucking back air, and curse his damn boots as he made a big show of retying a shoelace that he said had come undone.
Myron never says a word when he
They clear-cut the first acre of brush and pile it in massive heaps. They coat themselves with mud and kerosene to stave off the blackflies and mosquitoes. Their hands and faces swell beyond recognition from the bites. After the first few days, they give up trying to swat away their attackers. The insects’ constant drone becomes a part of the daily sound swarming around their heads. One sweltering mid-afternoon, Teodor abruptly stops as he heaves up a root, acutely aware that he can hear nothing. He shakes his head, slaps at his ears. For a moment he thinks he has gone deaf, before realizing the bugs have been driven away by the heat.
When the trees are too large to be dug out, they are grubbed. Teodor chops and hacks through the roots around the base as Myron shimmies up twenty feet to fasten the rope around the trunk. The horse strains, its withers quivering, slathered in sweat, as Myron hollers and slaps its rump, until the tree finally groans and falls cracking to the ground. Then it is skidded to the growing woodpile.
Fuel for the woodstove is set aside to be gathered in the fall. The longest, straightest trunks are stacked for building material, and skinny poplars tagged for fence poles. Roots and branches are lit on fire. The smoke that stings their eyes and chokes their breath mercifully wards off the flies. Deep into the night, the glowing bonfires dot the horizon like so many rising suns.
They pry two tons of rocks from the ground, stack them one by one in the cart, and haul them to the property line that divides the two sections. There they unload and pile the stone to forma long, low wall. They hack, saw, rip, and curse at the roots that refuse to let go. They use picks, axes, shovels, and claw with their hands to reach the rich black soil. They clear an extra twenty feet around the entire perimeter to serve as a firebreak. And finally they plow—one agonizing foot at a time—coaxing this mistress to yield herself.
As Teodor tends the earth, he heals himself. In the field, he forgets about the past, forgets about the prison walls, and focuses only on the job at hand. His muscles grow taut and firm. He puts on weight. His chest fills out his baggy shirt and his pants stop slipping below his waist. His hands grow strong, the plow becomes lighter, his strides longer, and the land responds to his request to open. Deep furrows bloom upward, aching to be seeded.
But in those first days, he could barely lift the smallest rock. He had to carry it in both hands; his back stooped over, his knees bowed, he’d waddle to the cart where Myron was loading five stones to his one. His son would take the rock from him and toss it effortlessly to the front of the cart. Behind the plow, driving the horse, he reined the horse in hard, afraid to unleash its harnessed strength. Even holding the animal back, he was forced to run behind its lurching thrusts. The wide, leather plow strap cut into his shoulders, branding him black-and-blue. Once, he fell and was dragged through the twisted roots and jutting twigs.
Myron halted the horse, but Teodor screamed, “Keep going!” And when Myron hesitated, he shouted louder, “Go!” He struggled to his feet and slammed the full force of his remaining energy down into the wooden handles through the iron blade into the earth. He’d pushed what felt like a mile, only to find he’d made a twenty-foot run. His body dripping with sweat, his hands a bloody mash of blisters, his lungs bursting—he’d holler, Whoa!
And Myron, who was leading, rolling stones out of the way,and the horse that was just getting up to speed, would look back at him, wondering why they had stopped. Teodor would bend down on one knee, supporting his weight on an outstretched arm pressed against the ground, sucking back air, and curse his damn boots as he made a big show of retying a shoelace that he said had come undone.
Myron never says a word when he
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