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Authors: The Machineries of Joy (v2.1)
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their faces
with sudden passing coolness.
'Time to go," someone said.
They loaded the wicker basket onto the rail
car. The woman tied her large bonnet securely in place with its yellow ribbon,
they set the boy's pail of shells on the floorboards, then the husband put on
his tie, his vest, his coat, his hat, and they all sat on the benches of the
car looking out at the sea where the bottled note was far out, blinking, on the
horizon.
"Is asking enough?" said the boy.
"Does wishing work?"
"Sometimes .,. too well."
"It depends on what you ask for."
The boy nodded, his eyes far away.
They looked back at where they had come from,
and then ahead to where they were going.
"Goodbye, place," said the boy, and
waved.
The car rolled down the rusty rails. The sound
of it dwindled, faded. The man, the woman, the boy dwindled with it in distance,
among the hills.
After they were gone, the rail trembled
faintly for two minutes, and ceased. A flake of rust fell. A flower nodded.
The sea was very loud.
THE DRUMMER
BOY OF SHILOH
In the April night, more than once, blossoms fell
from the orchard trees and lit with rustling taps on the drumskin. At midnight
a peach stone left miraculously on a branch through winter, flicked by a bird,
fell swift and unseen, struck once, like panic, which jerked the boy upright.
In silence he listened to his own heart ruffle away, away, at last gone from
his ears and back in his chest again.
After that, he turned the drum on its side,
where its great limar face peered at him whenever he opened his eyes.
His face, alert or at rest, was solemn. It was
indeed a solemn time and a solemn night for a boy just turned fourteen in the
peach field near the Owl Creek not far from the church at Shiloh.
"... thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three
..."
Unable to see, he stopped counting.
Beyond the thirty-three familiar shadows,
forty thousand men, exhausted by nervous expectation, unable to sleep for
romantic dreams of battles yet unfought, lay crazily askew in their uniforms. A
mile yet farther on, another army was strewn helter-skelter, turning slow,
basting themselves with the thought of what they would do when the time came: a
leap, a yell, a blind plunge their strategy, raw youth their protection and
benediction.
Now and again the boy heard a vast wind come
up, that gently stirred the air. But he knew what it was, the army here, the
army there, whispering to itself in the dark. Some men talking to others,
others murmuring to themselves, and all so quiet it was like a natural element
arisen from south or north with the motion of the earth toward dawn.
What the men whispered the boy could only
guess, and he guessed that it was: Me, I'm the one, I'm the one of all the rest
won't die. I'll live through it. I'll go home. The band will play. And I'll be
there to hear it
Yes, thought the boy, that's all very well for
them, they can give as good as they get I
For with the careless bones of the young men
harvested by night and bundled around campfires were the similarly strewn steel
bones of their rifles, with bayonets fixed like eternal lightning lost in the
orchard grass.
Me, thought the boy, I got only a drum, two
sticks to beat it, and no shield.
There wasn't a man-boy on this ground tonight
did not have a shield he cast, riveted or carved
with sudden passing coolness.
'Time to go," someone said.
They loaded the wicker basket onto the rail
car. The woman tied her large bonnet securely in place with its yellow ribbon,
they set the boy's pail of shells on the floorboards, then the husband put on
his tie, his vest, his coat, his hat, and they all sat on the benches of the
car looking out at the sea where the bottled note was far out, blinking, on the
horizon.
"Is asking enough?" said the boy.
"Does wishing work?"
"Sometimes .,. too well."
"It depends on what you ask for."
The boy nodded, his eyes far away.
They looked back at where they had come from,
and then ahead to where they were going.
"Goodbye, place," said the boy, and
waved.
The car rolled down the rusty rails. The sound
of it dwindled, faded. The man, the woman, the boy dwindled with it in distance,
among the hills.
After they were gone, the rail trembled
faintly for two minutes, and ceased. A flake of rust fell. A flower nodded.
The sea was very loud.
THE DRUMMER
BOY OF SHILOH
In the April night, more than once, blossoms fell
from the orchard trees and lit with rustling taps on the drumskin. At midnight
a peach stone left miraculously on a branch through winter, flicked by a bird,
fell swift and unseen, struck once, like panic, which jerked the boy upright.
In silence he listened to his own heart ruffle away, away, at last gone from
his ears and back in his chest again.
After that, he turned the drum on its side,
where its great limar face peered at him whenever he opened his eyes.
His face, alert or at rest, was solemn. It was
indeed a solemn time and a solemn night for a boy just turned fourteen in the
peach field near the Owl Creek not far from the church at Shiloh.
"... thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three
..."
Unable to see, he stopped counting.
Beyond the thirty-three familiar shadows,
forty thousand men, exhausted by nervous expectation, unable to sleep for
romantic dreams of battles yet unfought, lay crazily askew in their uniforms. A
mile yet farther on, another army was strewn helter-skelter, turning slow,
basting themselves with the thought of what they would do when the time came: a
leap, a yell, a blind plunge their strategy, raw youth their protection and
benediction.
Now and again the boy heard a vast wind come
up, that gently stirred the air. But he knew what it was, the army here, the
army there, whispering to itself in the dark. Some men talking to others,
others murmuring to themselves, and all so quiet it was like a natural element
arisen from south or north with the motion of the earth toward dawn.
What the men whispered the boy could only
guess, and he guessed that it was: Me, I'm the one, I'm the one of all the rest
won't die. I'll live through it. I'll go home. The band will play. And I'll be
there to hear it
Yes, thought the boy, that's all very well for
them, they can give as good as they get I
For with the careless bones of the young men
harvested by night and bundled around campfires were the similarly strewn steel
bones of their rifles, with bayonets fixed like eternal lightning lost in the
orchard grass.
Me, thought the boy, I got only a drum, two
sticks to beat it, and no shield.
There wasn't a man-boy on this ground tonight
did not have a shield he cast, riveted or carved
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