Enoch.
“Sneaking through the woods,” said Winslowe. “Digging up different kinds of plants. Got the idea myself he maybe is a sort of magic-man.
Getting stuff to make up charms and such. Spends a lot of his time yarning with the Fisher tribe and drinking up their likker. You don’t hear much of it these days, but I still hold with magic. Lots of things science can’t explain. You take that Fisher girl, the dummy, she can charm off warts.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Enoch.
And more than that, he thought. She can fix a butterfly.
Winslowe hunched forward in his seat.
“Almost forgot,” he said. “I have something else for you.”
He lifted a brown paper parcel from the floor and handed it to Enoch.
“This ain’t mail,” he said. “It’s something that I made for you.”
“Why, thank you,” Enoch said, taking it from him.
“Go ahead,” Winslowe said, “and open it up.” Enoch hesitated.
“Ah, hell,” said Winslowe, “don’t be bashful.”
Enoch tore off the paper and there it was, a full-figure wood carving of himself. It was in a blond, honey-colored wood and some twelve inches tall. It shone like golden crystal in the sun. He was walking, with his rifle tucked beneath his arm and a wind was blowing, for he was leaning slightly into it and there were wind-flutter ripples on his jacket and his trousers.
Enoch gasped, then stood staring at it.
“Wins,” he said, “that’s the most beautiful piece of work I have ever seen.”
“Did it,” said the mailman, “out of that piece of wood you gave me last winter. Best piece of whittling stuff I ever ran across. Hard and without hardly any grain. No danger of splitting or of nicking or of shreping. When you make a cut, you make it where you want to and it stays the way you cut it. And it takes polish as you cut. Just rub it up a little is all you need to do.”
“You don’t know,” said Enoch, “how much this means to me.”
“Over the years,” the mailman told him, “you’ve given me an awful lot of wood. Different kinds of wood no one’s ever seen before. All of it top-grade stuff and beautiful. It was time I was carving something for you.”
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“And you,” said Enoch, “have done a lot for me. Lugging things from town.”
“Enoch,” Winslowe said, “I like you. I don’t know what you are and I
ain’t about to ask, but anyhow I like you.”
“I wish that I could tell you what I am,” said Enoch. “Well,” said
Winslowe, moving over to plant himself behind the wheel, “it don’t matter much what any of us are, just so we get along with one another. If some of the nations would only take a lesson from some small neighborhood like ours-a lesson in how to get along-the world would be a whole lot better.”
Enoch noped gravely. “It doesn’t look too good, does it?”
“It sure don’t,” said the mailman, starting up the car.
Enoch stood and watched the car move off, down the bill, building up its cloud of dust as it moved along.
Then he looked again at the wooden statuette of himself.
It was as if the wooden figure were walking on a hilltop, naked to the full force of the wind and bent against the gale.
Why? He wondered. What was it the mailman had seen in him to portray him as walking in the wind?
9
He laid the rifle and the mail upon a patch of dusty grass and carefully rewrapped the statuette in the piece of paper. He’d put it, he decided, either on the mantelpiece or, perhaps better yet, on the coffee table that stood beside his favorite chair in the corner by the desk. He wanted it, he admitted to himself, with some quiet embarrassment, where it was close at hand, where he could look at it or pick it up any time he wished. And he wondered at the deep, heart-warming, soul-satisfying pleasure that he got from the
“Sneaking through the woods,” said Winslowe. “Digging up different kinds of plants. Got the idea myself he maybe is a sort of magic-man.
Getting stuff to make up charms and such. Spends a lot of his time yarning with the Fisher tribe and drinking up their likker. You don’t hear much of it these days, but I still hold with magic. Lots of things science can’t explain. You take that Fisher girl, the dummy, she can charm off warts.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Enoch.
And more than that, he thought. She can fix a butterfly.
Winslowe hunched forward in his seat.
“Almost forgot,” he said. “I have something else for you.”
He lifted a brown paper parcel from the floor and handed it to Enoch.
“This ain’t mail,” he said. “It’s something that I made for you.”
“Why, thank you,” Enoch said, taking it from him.
“Go ahead,” Winslowe said, “and open it up.” Enoch hesitated.
“Ah, hell,” said Winslowe, “don’t be bashful.”
Enoch tore off the paper and there it was, a full-figure wood carving of himself. It was in a blond, honey-colored wood and some twelve inches tall. It shone like golden crystal in the sun. He was walking, with his rifle tucked beneath his arm and a wind was blowing, for he was leaning slightly into it and there were wind-flutter ripples on his jacket and his trousers.
Enoch gasped, then stood staring at it.
“Wins,” he said, “that’s the most beautiful piece of work I have ever seen.”
“Did it,” said the mailman, “out of that piece of wood you gave me last winter. Best piece of whittling stuff I ever ran across. Hard and without hardly any grain. No danger of splitting or of nicking or of shreping. When you make a cut, you make it where you want to and it stays the way you cut it. And it takes polish as you cut. Just rub it up a little is all you need to do.”
“You don’t know,” said Enoch, “how much this means to me.”
“Over the years,” the mailman told him, “you’ve given me an awful lot of wood. Different kinds of wood no one’s ever seen before. All of it top-grade stuff and beautiful. It was time I was carving something for you.”
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (21 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt
“And you,” said Enoch, “have done a lot for me. Lugging things from town.”
“Enoch,” Winslowe said, “I like you. I don’t know what you are and I
ain’t about to ask, but anyhow I like you.”
“I wish that I could tell you what I am,” said Enoch. “Well,” said
Winslowe, moving over to plant himself behind the wheel, “it don’t matter much what any of us are, just so we get along with one another. If some of the nations would only take a lesson from some small neighborhood like ours-a lesson in how to get along-the world would be a whole lot better.”
Enoch noped gravely. “It doesn’t look too good, does it?”
“It sure don’t,” said the mailman, starting up the car.
Enoch stood and watched the car move off, down the bill, building up its cloud of dust as it moved along.
Then he looked again at the wooden statuette of himself.
It was as if the wooden figure were walking on a hilltop, naked to the full force of the wind and bent against the gale.
Why? He wondered. What was it the mailman had seen in him to portray him as walking in the wind?
9
He laid the rifle and the mail upon a patch of dusty grass and carefully rewrapped the statuette in the piece of paper. He’d put it, he decided, either on the mantelpiece or, perhaps better yet, on the coffee table that stood beside his favorite chair in the corner by the desk. He wanted it, he admitted to himself, with some quiet embarrassment, where it was close at hand, where he could look at it or pick it up any time he wished. And he wondered at the deep, heart-warming, soul-satisfying pleasure that he got from the
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