Read Online Chaneysville Incident by David Bradley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Bradley
Ads: Link
accounta the winds come an’ the sun burns an’ the floods come an’ wash the ground away—that can happen anytime. An’ even if it don’t, havin’ that little piece a say over a piece a ground or a stretch a water is ’most like havin’ no kinda say at all. On accounta soon as you build your fences an’ plow your land an’ put in your crop, you gotta stay an’ wait for harvest. You got say over the land, but it has say over you. Same with water. An’ a man that spends his time just tryin’ to have say over them things, he ain’t much of a man. That’s how come it useta be women that put in crops, an’ women that went to get the water. So them things ain’t all that important when you get right down to it. Fire is. You see why?”
“No,” I said, feeling uneasy, because I didn’t understand.
“It gives a man say. Gives him final say. It lets him destroy. Lets him destroy anything. There ain’t nothin’ in the world that won’t burn or melt or change some way if you get it hot enough, if you got enough fire. An’ when the fire’s gone, there ain’t nothin’ left, for nobody. If a man comes to take your house, you can burn it, an’ he can’t have it. You can burn your crops. You do the same to his. You can get things right down to where they was to start with, down to ground an’ air an’ water an’ sun. Now, that ain’t much say, an’ it ain’t the best kinda say, but it’s bettern havin’ no say at all. Because a man with no say is an animal. So a man has to be able to make a fire, has to know how to make it in the wind an’ the rain an’ the dark. When he can do that, he can have some say.”
I nodded.
“We’ll start tomorrow mornin’,” he said. “We’ll start in the stove, where it’s easy. Then we’ll go on. ’Fore we’re done, you’ll know how to make a fire anyplace, anytime. Then you’ll have say.”
“Will that make me a man?” I said.
“No,” he had said. “Nothin’ makes you a man. It means you can be a man. If you decide you want to.”
The cabin had closed in around me. The darkness hung there, pushed back only a little way by the light of the lantern, and in the darkness, at the very limits of my vision, lurked the walls. I could not see them, but I knew they were there; I could hear them. They took the sounds of our past breathing—his an uneven wheezing, mine a series of short, hard inhalations and exhalations, too rapid and too shallow by half—and sent them back to merge with the sounds of our present breathing. The result was something more than an echo, something less than a clear reverberation, a dark and clotted sound that grew and grew and grew until I could not listen to it and I could not ignore it; until I could not do anything but accept it and try to keep my mind on what I was doing: making a fire.
I had made the preparations slowly and carefully, because I knew neither of us could afford to be long without heat. I had started with the stove, clearing the grate with an iron poker, then sliding the box of ashes out and carrying them outside and spreading them along the path. Then I had cut wood, chunks of hardwood for lasting heat, slabs of pine for faster burning, strips of kindling. And then I had prepared the tinder, twisting sheets of old newspaper into tight wands.
Now I laid the tinder in the firebox, keeping it an open, crisscross pattern. On top of it I built a fragile edifice of kindling and small pieces of wood. Then I went to the shelf and got the old, rusted coffee can in which he had always kept his matches. I found it there, in precisely the same spot it had always occupied, and as I pried the lid off with fingers turned to ice I wondered how many days’ worth of minutes he had saved in all the years of putting the can back, and how much longer it would make any difference. But I put the can back on the shelf before I lit my fire. The smell of phosphorus burnt my nostrils as I maneuvered the match into the stove. I
“No,” I said, feeling uneasy, because I didn’t understand.
“It gives a man say. Gives him final say. It lets him destroy. Lets him destroy anything. There ain’t nothin’ in the world that won’t burn or melt or change some way if you get it hot enough, if you got enough fire. An’ when the fire’s gone, there ain’t nothin’ left, for nobody. If a man comes to take your house, you can burn it, an’ he can’t have it. You can burn your crops. You do the same to his. You can get things right down to where they was to start with, down to ground an’ air an’ water an’ sun. Now, that ain’t much say, an’ it ain’t the best kinda say, but it’s bettern havin’ no say at all. Because a man with no say is an animal. So a man has to be able to make a fire, has to know how to make it in the wind an’ the rain an’ the dark. When he can do that, he can have some say.”
I nodded.
“We’ll start tomorrow mornin’,” he said. “We’ll start in the stove, where it’s easy. Then we’ll go on. ’Fore we’re done, you’ll know how to make a fire anyplace, anytime. Then you’ll have say.”
“Will that make me a man?” I said.
“No,” he had said. “Nothin’ makes you a man. It means you can be a man. If you decide you want to.”
The cabin had closed in around me. The darkness hung there, pushed back only a little way by the light of the lantern, and in the darkness, at the very limits of my vision, lurked the walls. I could not see them, but I knew they were there; I could hear them. They took the sounds of our past breathing—his an uneven wheezing, mine a series of short, hard inhalations and exhalations, too rapid and too shallow by half—and sent them back to merge with the sounds of our present breathing. The result was something more than an echo, something less than a clear reverberation, a dark and clotted sound that grew and grew and grew until I could not listen to it and I could not ignore it; until I could not do anything but accept it and try to keep my mind on what I was doing: making a fire.
I had made the preparations slowly and carefully, because I knew neither of us could afford to be long without heat. I had started with the stove, clearing the grate with an iron poker, then sliding the box of ashes out and carrying them outside and spreading them along the path. Then I had cut wood, chunks of hardwood for lasting heat, slabs of pine for faster burning, strips of kindling. And then I had prepared the tinder, twisting sheets of old newspaper into tight wands.
Now I laid the tinder in the firebox, keeping it an open, crisscross pattern. On top of it I built a fragile edifice of kindling and small pieces of wood. Then I went to the shelf and got the old, rusted coffee can in which he had always kept his matches. I found it there, in precisely the same spot it had always occupied, and as I pried the lid off with fingers turned to ice I wondered how many days’ worth of minutes he had saved in all the years of putting the can back, and how much longer it would make any difference. But I put the can back on the shelf before I lit my fire. The smell of phosphorus burnt my nostrils as I maneuvered the match into the stove. I
Similar Books
