Read Online Outer Dark by Cormac McCarthy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cormac McCarthy
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Romance, Family Life, Domestic Fiction, Brothers and sisters, incest, Abandoned children, Tennessee, Brothers and sisters—Fiction, Abandoned children—Fiction, Tennessee - Fiction, Incest - Fiction
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the edge of the wagon bed he stopped and then came on more slowly, limping.
Where you been? the woman said.
I’d as soon not hear, said the old crone.
I ain’t been nowheres.
You about missed dinner.
Shoot, he said.
It was late afternoon when they set forth again, out from the town, the wheels rasping in the sand, back down the yellow road. Night fell upon them dark and starblown and the wagon grew swollen near mute with dew. On their chairs in such black immobility these travelers could have been stone figures quarried from the architecture of an older time.
HE HAD BEEN listening to his own feet in the road for a long time now when the man spoke. The man said: What do ye say buddy.
Howdy, Holme said, stopping.
The man was leaning against a small walnut tree, his feet sprawled in the grass before him, one eye squinted in a kind of baleful good humor and a piece of dockweed sprouting from the corner of his mouth. He spared a wincing smile to this traveler. Set a spell and rest, he said, removing the weed and pointing at the ground with it.
I guess I better not.
Just for a minute and I’ll go up the road with ye.
Well.
Sure.
He came slowly through the dusty grass toward the shade and sat a little way from the man.
Hot ain’t it?
He allowed that it was. The man bore a faint reek of whiskey. He did not look at Holme but stared out at the road, smiling a little to himself.
Where ye goin? he said.
Just up the road.
That right? That’s where I’m a-goin. Just up the road. He tapped absently at his knee with the weed, smiling. Just up the road, he said again. He turned his head as if to see were anyone looking, then reached beneath his coat where it lay on the ground alongside him and brought forth a bottle blown from purple glass, holding it up in his two hands and shaking it. He looked at Holme. Care for a little drink?
Might take just a sup.
The man handed him the bottle. Get ye a good drink, he said.
Holme twisted loose the stopper and held the bottle to his nose for a moment and then drank. His eyes shifted focus and he sat very erect. He wiped his mouth and plugged the bottle and handed it back.
I thank ye, he said.
Good ain’t it?
It is.
You welcome.
He scooped the sweat from his forehead with one finger. The man sat watching the road, the weedstem twirling in his mouth and the threadthin shadow of it going long and short upon his face like a sundial’s hand beneath a sun berserk. After a moment he turned to Holme again. How will ye trade boots? he said.
Holme recoiled. He looked at the boots and he looked at the boots the man wore. I don’t believe we could work up no trade hardly, he said. I just come by these.
They look to be stout’ns, the man said. What did ye have to give for em?
I don’t know. I traded work for em.
I guess a man’d have to put in a few days to come by such boots as them, wouldn’t he?
A few.
The man smiled again. These old shoes of mine is about give out, he said.
Holme looked at him but he had fallen to watching the road again with a kind of dreamy indolence.
You live hereabouts? Holme said.
The man’s eyes swung on him. I live over at Walker’s Mill, he said. Other side of Cheatham. And I’d best be getting there. He took the weed from his mouth and spat. You ready? he said.
Holme stood. The man reached and got his coat and put the bottle in one pocket. He swung it loosely over his shoulder and rose and Holme followed him into the road where the afternoon sun fell upon them brightly. Holme watched the dust bloom from under the man’s bootsoles. The leather was dried and broken and the backseam of one was split and mended with bailing wire at the top. When he stepped the gash opened and closed rhythmically and his calf winked from the rent in time to the dull thump of the bottle against his back.
How far is it to where you’re goin? Holme said.
Three or four mile. Tain’t far.
What brings you up thisaway?
I come over to hive a swarm of
Where you been? the woman said.
I’d as soon not hear, said the old crone.
I ain’t been nowheres.
You about missed dinner.
Shoot, he said.
It was late afternoon when they set forth again, out from the town, the wheels rasping in the sand, back down the yellow road. Night fell upon them dark and starblown and the wagon grew swollen near mute with dew. On their chairs in such black immobility these travelers could have been stone figures quarried from the architecture of an older time.
HE HAD BEEN listening to his own feet in the road for a long time now when the man spoke. The man said: What do ye say buddy.
Howdy, Holme said, stopping.
The man was leaning against a small walnut tree, his feet sprawled in the grass before him, one eye squinted in a kind of baleful good humor and a piece of dockweed sprouting from the corner of his mouth. He spared a wincing smile to this traveler. Set a spell and rest, he said, removing the weed and pointing at the ground with it.
I guess I better not.
Just for a minute and I’ll go up the road with ye.
Well.
Sure.
He came slowly through the dusty grass toward the shade and sat a little way from the man.
Hot ain’t it?
He allowed that it was. The man bore a faint reek of whiskey. He did not look at Holme but stared out at the road, smiling a little to himself.
Where ye goin? he said.
Just up the road.
That right? That’s where I’m a-goin. Just up the road. He tapped absently at his knee with the weed, smiling. Just up the road, he said again. He turned his head as if to see were anyone looking, then reached beneath his coat where it lay on the ground alongside him and brought forth a bottle blown from purple glass, holding it up in his two hands and shaking it. He looked at Holme. Care for a little drink?
Might take just a sup.
The man handed him the bottle. Get ye a good drink, he said.
Holme twisted loose the stopper and held the bottle to his nose for a moment and then drank. His eyes shifted focus and he sat very erect. He wiped his mouth and plugged the bottle and handed it back.
I thank ye, he said.
Good ain’t it?
It is.
You welcome.
He scooped the sweat from his forehead with one finger. The man sat watching the road, the weedstem twirling in his mouth and the threadthin shadow of it going long and short upon his face like a sundial’s hand beneath a sun berserk. After a moment he turned to Holme again. How will ye trade boots? he said.
Holme recoiled. He looked at the boots and he looked at the boots the man wore. I don’t believe we could work up no trade hardly, he said. I just come by these.
They look to be stout’ns, the man said. What did ye have to give for em?
I don’t know. I traded work for em.
I guess a man’d have to put in a few days to come by such boots as them, wouldn’t he?
A few.
The man smiled again. These old shoes of mine is about give out, he said.
Holme looked at him but he had fallen to watching the road again with a kind of dreamy indolence.
You live hereabouts? Holme said.
The man’s eyes swung on him. I live over at Walker’s Mill, he said. Other side of Cheatham. And I’d best be getting there. He took the weed from his mouth and spat. You ready? he said.
Holme stood. The man reached and got his coat and put the bottle in one pocket. He swung it loosely over his shoulder and rose and Holme followed him into the road where the afternoon sun fell upon them brightly. Holme watched the dust bloom from under the man’s bootsoles. The leather was dried and broken and the backseam of one was split and mended with bailing wire at the top. When he stepped the gash opened and closed rhythmically and his calf winked from the rent in time to the dull thump of the bottle against his back.
How far is it to where you’re goin? Holme said.
Three or four mile. Tain’t far.
What brings you up thisaway?
I come over to hive a swarm of
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