quiet as she passed. She stepped off a hundred paces up the hill and counted a little more to pass the pond. Another count took her beyond her ’shrooming patch. Except for her, the forest was still.
She didn’t need light for the walk. Light was needed for the work. Down the cellar, in the dark of the cellar, the root cellar, was where light was wanted.
The oak plank door lay across the hole in the hillock. A Civil War lock hung cold against the boards and hasp. Covered with leaves, it was, and near invisible, days, part of the world at night.
The lock snapped open. As she raised the door the earth smell from below breathed over her. Earth and more. She descended the four steps. The light led her, then came the noise. Iron against rock. The clatter cut the silence, a body moaned and rattled his iron bonds against his rock, his earthbound rock.
She hadn’t known him, just a huntsman as came walking through the woods. Lost. Asking. She offered a drink of whiskey and pointed a way. He came back, still lost. She said she’d lead, then asked his help, A little thing, please. So good to be a help. God gave to those who helped. Some more whiskey and he was in chains. Like that!
Those chains and more held him now to that rock below the world in her cellar.
No man she knew. Her light caught him, now. He was white like a grub. And naked. She’d left him blankets, but no clothes to wear. He hung naked, hugging his rock. He looked up. He cried.
Why, yes, oh Lord. Yes. He did live underground like one of them things as wiggled under the rotted logs that fed her morels. She had to chuckle.
His head was long and thin. Not much face to him, narrow hook nose, a thin yellow beard she hardly could see in the yellow of her lantern. His head was flat on top. His teeth were busted, crooked. He cried and tried to stand. He stood and dangled. She laughed again. Up top on the world, he wouldn’t have cried.
But she had things to do. She rolled the whiskey jar to him then sat to watch. It took a time. He yelled. He cried. He made to throw the jar at her head.
She laughed. Sweetly. Cordelia had a pretty laugh. Funny face, but a pretty laugh.
The man blubbered. He shouted, “Why...?” Other things, but the heart of it was, “Why?”
“Drink,” she said, “an’ it won’t hurt.”
By and by, he drank. Long pulls, tears coming between gulps and runny-nosed blubbers.
In less than an hour the screams were only hoarse bubbles. She clipped three fingers and some hand meat from him; a couple toes from his left foot. He screamed and bled. She caught the blood in a Mason jar and capped it. She wrapped his hand and foot with sphagnum and left more rags.
She almost left, then returned and scissored off a rasher of fat from his gut, the flabby place. He screamed and bubbled but by then it was over. Leave the man-oysters for later , she figured. Take them now, he’ll lose spirit. Men, so silly and so sweet , she thought, believe in their hearts—way down—their lives, their God Spirit comes from there, down the root and sack between their legs.
She left a few more rags and the bottle.
The blood smelled rich. The thick warmth pillowed the earthy scent of the cellar. She hoped he’d be all right. She liked the blood-aroma of this one.
Later that night the cries came all the way to her cabin. Sobs and curses. She heard even as the pot came boiling, even later, so much later, the screams. Long far’way echoes, as from a mountain across a valley, all the world’s trees between.
Must hurt , she thought, stirring soup. Aww, hurt don’t last. She knew that.
Night was over and light was through the trees, God peeking white through black, He touched His ground with His Mighty Eye.
The pot had bubbled night-long. The perfect heat she’d made had concentrated the liquor of the soup; thin soup was now thick soup, rich soup, winter soup, dark and earthy. Smelled so pretty now.
Cordelia took another swipe with her spoon. Dark broth
She didn’t need light for the walk. Light was needed for the work. Down the cellar, in the dark of the cellar, the root cellar, was where light was wanted.
The oak plank door lay across the hole in the hillock. A Civil War lock hung cold against the boards and hasp. Covered with leaves, it was, and near invisible, days, part of the world at night.
The lock snapped open. As she raised the door the earth smell from below breathed over her. Earth and more. She descended the four steps. The light led her, then came the noise. Iron against rock. The clatter cut the silence, a body moaned and rattled his iron bonds against his rock, his earthbound rock.
She hadn’t known him, just a huntsman as came walking through the woods. Lost. Asking. She offered a drink of whiskey and pointed a way. He came back, still lost. She said she’d lead, then asked his help, A little thing, please. So good to be a help. God gave to those who helped. Some more whiskey and he was in chains. Like that!
Those chains and more held him now to that rock below the world in her cellar.
No man she knew. Her light caught him, now. He was white like a grub. And naked. She’d left him blankets, but no clothes to wear. He hung naked, hugging his rock. He looked up. He cried.
Why, yes, oh Lord. Yes. He did live underground like one of them things as wiggled under the rotted logs that fed her morels. She had to chuckle.
His head was long and thin. Not much face to him, narrow hook nose, a thin yellow beard she hardly could see in the yellow of her lantern. His head was flat on top. His teeth were busted, crooked. He cried and tried to stand. He stood and dangled. She laughed again. Up top on the world, he wouldn’t have cried.
But she had things to do. She rolled the whiskey jar to him then sat to watch. It took a time. He yelled. He cried. He made to throw the jar at her head.
She laughed. Sweetly. Cordelia had a pretty laugh. Funny face, but a pretty laugh.
The man blubbered. He shouted, “Why...?” Other things, but the heart of it was, “Why?”
“Drink,” she said, “an’ it won’t hurt.”
By and by, he drank. Long pulls, tears coming between gulps and runny-nosed blubbers.
In less than an hour the screams were only hoarse bubbles. She clipped three fingers and some hand meat from him; a couple toes from his left foot. He screamed and bled. She caught the blood in a Mason jar and capped it. She wrapped his hand and foot with sphagnum and left more rags.
She almost left, then returned and scissored off a rasher of fat from his gut, the flabby place. He screamed and bubbled but by then it was over. Leave the man-oysters for later , she figured. Take them now, he’ll lose spirit. Men, so silly and so sweet , she thought, believe in their hearts—way down—their lives, their God Spirit comes from there, down the root and sack between their legs.
She left a few more rags and the bottle.
The blood smelled rich. The thick warmth pillowed the earthy scent of the cellar. She hoped he’d be all right. She liked the blood-aroma of this one.
Later that night the cries came all the way to her cabin. Sobs and curses. She heard even as the pot came boiling, even later, so much later, the screams. Long far’way echoes, as from a mountain across a valley, all the world’s trees between.
Must hurt , she thought, stirring soup. Aww, hurt don’t last. She knew that.
Night was over and light was through the trees, God peeking white through black, He touched His ground with His Mighty Eye.
The pot had bubbled night-long. The perfect heat she’d made had concentrated the liquor of the soup; thin soup was now thick soup, rich soup, winter soup, dark and earthy. Smelled so pretty now.
Cordelia took another swipe with her spoon. Dark broth
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