gone.
It would not be long before Winslowe would arrive and Enoch settled down to wait. The mailman might be stopping at the Fisher box, just around the bend, although the Fishers, as a rule, got but little mail, mostly just the advertising sheets and other junk that was mailed out indiscriminately to the rural boxholders. Not that it mattered to the Fishers, for sometimes days went by in which they did not pick up their mail. If it were not for
Lucy, they perhaps would never get it, for it was mostly Lucy who thought to pick it up.
The Fishers were, for a fact, Enoch told himself, a truly shiftless outfit. Their house and all the buildings were ready to fall in upon themselves and they raised a grubby patch of corn that was drowned out, more often than not, by a flood rise of the river. They mowed some hay off a bottom meadow and they had a couple of raw-boned horses and a half-dozen scrawny cows and a flock of chickens. They had an old clunk of a car and a still hipen out somewhere in the river bottoms and they hunted and fished and trapped and were generally no-account. Although, when one considered it, they were not bad neighbors. They tended to their business and never bothered anyone except that periodically they went around, the whole tribe of them, distributing pamphlets and tracts through the neighborhood for some obscure fundamentalist sect that Ma Fisher had become a member of at a tent revival meeting down in Millville several years before.
Winslowe didn’t stop at the Fisher box, but came boiling around the bend in a cloud of dust. He braked the panting machine to a halt and turned off the engine.
“Let her cool a while,” he said.
The block crackled as it started giving up its heat.
“You made good time today,” said Enoch.
“Lots of people didn’t have any mail today,” said Winslowe. “Just went sailing past their boxes.”
He dipped into the pouch on the seat beside him and brought out a bundle tied together with a bit of string for Enoch-several daily papers and two journals.
“You get a lot of stuff,” said Winslowe, “but hardly ever letters.”
“There is no one left,” said Enoch, “who would want to write to me.”
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (20 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt
“But,” said Winslowe, “you got a letter this time.”
Enoch looked, unable to conceal surprise, and could see the end of an envelope peeping from between the journals.
“A personal letter,” said Winslowe, almost smacking his lips. “Not one of them advertising ones. Nor a business one.”
Enoch tucked the bundle underneath his arm, beside the rifle stock.
“Probably won’t amount to much,” he said.
“Maybe not,” said Winsl!we, a sly glitter in his eyes. He pulled a pipe and pouch from his pocket and slowly filled the pipe. The engine block continued its crackling and popping. The sun beat down out of a cloudless sky. The vegetation alongside the road was coated with dust and an acrid smell rose from it.
“Hear that ginseng fellow is back again,” said Winslowe, conversationally, but unable to keep out a conspiratorial tone. “Been gone for three, four days.”
“Maybe off to sell his sang.”
“You ask me,” the mailman said, “he ain’t hunting sang. He’s hunting something else.”
“Been at it,” Enoch said, “for a right smart time.”
“First of all,” said Winslowe, “there’s barely any market for the stuff and even if there was, there isn’t any sang. Used to be a good market years ago. Chinese used it for medicine, I guess. But now there ain’t no trade with China. I remember when I was a boy we used to go hunting it. Not easy to find, even then. But most days a man could locate a little of it.”
He leaned back in the seat, puffing serenely at his pipe.
“Funny goings on,” he said.
“I never saw the man,” said
It would not be long before Winslowe would arrive and Enoch settled down to wait. The mailman might be stopping at the Fisher box, just around the bend, although the Fishers, as a rule, got but little mail, mostly just the advertising sheets and other junk that was mailed out indiscriminately to the rural boxholders. Not that it mattered to the Fishers, for sometimes days went by in which they did not pick up their mail. If it were not for
Lucy, they perhaps would never get it, for it was mostly Lucy who thought to pick it up.
The Fishers were, for a fact, Enoch told himself, a truly shiftless outfit. Their house and all the buildings were ready to fall in upon themselves and they raised a grubby patch of corn that was drowned out, more often than not, by a flood rise of the river. They mowed some hay off a bottom meadow and they had a couple of raw-boned horses and a half-dozen scrawny cows and a flock of chickens. They had an old clunk of a car and a still hipen out somewhere in the river bottoms and they hunted and fished and trapped and were generally no-account. Although, when one considered it, they were not bad neighbors. They tended to their business and never bothered anyone except that periodically they went around, the whole tribe of them, distributing pamphlets and tracts through the neighborhood for some obscure fundamentalist sect that Ma Fisher had become a member of at a tent revival meeting down in Millville several years before.
Winslowe didn’t stop at the Fisher box, but came boiling around the bend in a cloud of dust. He braked the panting machine to a halt and turned off the engine.
“Let her cool a while,” he said.
The block crackled as it started giving up its heat.
“You made good time today,” said Enoch.
“Lots of people didn’t have any mail today,” said Winslowe. “Just went sailing past their boxes.”
He dipped into the pouch on the seat beside him and brought out a bundle tied together with a bit of string for Enoch-several daily papers and two journals.
“You get a lot of stuff,” said Winslowe, “but hardly ever letters.”
“There is no one left,” said Enoch, “who would want to write to me.”
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (20 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt
“But,” said Winslowe, “you got a letter this time.”
Enoch looked, unable to conceal surprise, and could see the end of an envelope peeping from between the journals.
“A personal letter,” said Winslowe, almost smacking his lips. “Not one of them advertising ones. Nor a business one.”
Enoch tucked the bundle underneath his arm, beside the rifle stock.
“Probably won’t amount to much,” he said.
“Maybe not,” said Winsl!we, a sly glitter in his eyes. He pulled a pipe and pouch from his pocket and slowly filled the pipe. The engine block continued its crackling and popping. The sun beat down out of a cloudless sky. The vegetation alongside the road was coated with dust and an acrid smell rose from it.
“Hear that ginseng fellow is back again,” said Winslowe, conversationally, but unable to keep out a conspiratorial tone. “Been gone for three, four days.”
“Maybe off to sell his sang.”
“You ask me,” the mailman said, “he ain’t hunting sang. He’s hunting something else.”
“Been at it,” Enoch said, “for a right smart time.”
“First of all,” said Winslowe, “there’s barely any market for the stuff and even if there was, there isn’t any sang. Used to be a good market years ago. Chinese used it for medicine, I guess. But now there ain’t no trade with China. I remember when I was a boy we used to go hunting it. Not easy to find, even then. But most days a man could locate a little of it.”
He leaned back in the seat, puffing serenely at his pipe.
“Funny goings on,” he said.
“I never saw the man,” said
Similar Books
