The Run for the Elbertas (13 page)

The afternoon of the second day she told us, “I'm going down-creek a spell. Keep the baby company and don't set foot outside.” Taking Father's gun she latched the door behind her.

We watched through cracks and saw her enter the garden and strip the scarecrow; we saw her march toward the mouth of the creek, gun in hand, garments balled under an arm. She returned presently, silent and empty-handed, and she sat idle until she saw Father coming.

Father arrived wearing new shoes and chuckling. I ran to meet him, the tail of my fur cap flying, and he had to chortle a while before he could go another step. He chirruped, “Stay out of trees, mister boy, or you may be shot for a squirrel.” But it wasn't my cap that had set him laughing. Upon seeing Mother he drew his jaws straight. He wore a dry countenance though his eyes were bright.

Mother gazed at Father's shoes. “What word of the Grassy people?” she asked coolly.

“They're in health,” Father replied, hard put to master his lips. He had to keep talking to manage it. “And from them I got answers to a couple of long-hanging questions. I learned the nearest schoolhouse; I know who kindled our fireplace.”

Dan, hiding behind Mother, thrust his head into sight. Holly let her dolls rest, listening.

“Kilgore has the closest school,” Father said. “A mite
farther than I'd counted on. As for the fire, why, the Grassy fellow made it to welcome us the day he expected us to move here. But he's not the Mischief who planted tracks and pitched burned sticks under the house. Nor the one who waylaid me at the mouth of the hollow while ago.”

Mother cast down her eyes.

Father went on, struggling against merriment. “A good thing I made a deal with Cass Tullock to haul our plunder back to the camp. Aye, a piece of luck he advanced money for shoes and I had proper footgear to run in when I blundered into the ambush.” He began to chuckle.

Mother lowered her head.

Swallowing, trying to contain his joy, Father said, “Coming into the hollow I spied a gun barrel pointing across a log at me—a gun plime-blank like my own. Behind was a bush of a somebody rigged in my old coat and plug hat. Gee-o, I traveled!” His tongue balled, cutting short his revelations. His face tore up.

Mother raised her chin. Her eyes were damp, yet she was smiling. “If you'd stop carrying on,” she said, “you could tell us how soon to expect Cass.”

A gale of laughter broke in Father's throat. He threshed the air. He fought for breath. “I can't,” he gasped. “You've tickled me.”

School Butter

I
F Surrey Creek ever reared a witty,” Pap used to tell me, “your Uncle Jolly Middleton is the scamp. Always pranking and teasing. Forever going the roads on a fool horse, hunting mischief. Nearly thirty years old and he has yet to shake hands properly with an ax haft or a plow handle. Why, he'll pull a trick did it cost him his ears, and nobody on earth can stop him laughing.”

But Uncle Jolly didn't need to work. He could pick money out of the air. He could fetch down anything he wanted by just reaching. And he would whoop and holler. Folk claimed he could rook the horns off of Old Scratch, and go free. Yet he didn't get by the day he plagued the Surrey Creek School, and for once he couldn't laugh. He bears a scar the length of his nose to mark the occasion. Duncil Burke taught at Surrey the year Uncle Jolly halloed “school butter” at the scholars. A fellow might as lief hang red on a bull's horns as yell that taunt passing a schoolhouse in those days. An old-time prank. If caught they were bound to fare rough.

I attended the whole five-month session, and I was a top scholar. I could spell down all in my grade except Mittie Hyden. And I could read and calculate quicker than anybody save Mittie. But she kept her face turned from me. Mostly I saw the rear of her head, the biscuit of her hair.

The free textbooks I learned by heart, quarreling at the torn and missing pages. My reader left William Tell's son standing with an apple on his head; Rip Van Winkle never woke. I prodded Duncil, “My opinion, if you'll let the
superintendent know he'll furnish new texts. Pap says Fight Creek and Slick Branch teachers brought in a load for their schools.”

A sixth-grader said, “Ours have done all they come here to do.”

“Surrey allus was the tail,” Mittie said. She didn't fear to speak her mind. “Had my way, I'd drop these rags into the deepest hole ever was.”

Ard Finch, my bench mate, snorted. He could hoot and get by, for he was so runty he had to sit on a chalk box. He could climb the gilly trees beyond the play yard and not be shouted down. He could have mounted to the top of the knob and Duncil not said button. And he was water-boy and could go outside at will. Ard wouldn't have cared if books wore down to a single page.

“New texts will be furnished in due season,” Duncil said. He believed in using a thing to the last smidgin. He set us to work. I was put studying a dictionary, and I boasted to Ard Finch, “I'll master every word there be. I'll conquer some jaw breakers.” But I got stuck in the
a'
s. I slacked off and read “Blue Beard.” Short as it was I had to borrow four readers to splice it together.

The next visit Uncle Jolly made to our house I told of Surrey's textbooks. I said, “Duncil's too big a scrimper to swap them in. A misery to study, hopping and a-jumping.” And I spoke of another grievance. “Reader-book yarns are too bob-tailed anyhow to suit my notion. Wish I had a story a thousand miles long.”

Uncle Jolly cocked his head in puzzlement. He couldn't understand a boy reading without being driven. He peered at me, trying to figure if I owned my share of brains. He tapped my head, and listened. He said he couldn't hear any.

Uncle Jolly rode past Surrey School on an August afternoon when heat-boogers danced the dry creek-bed and willows hung limp with thirst. I sat carving my name on a
bench with a knife borrowed from Ard Finch. I knicked and gouged, keeping an eye sharp on Duncil, listening to the primer class blab: “See the fat fox? Can the fox see the dog? Run, fox, run.” A third-grader poked his head out of the window, drew in and reported, “Yonder comes Jolly Middleton.” There came Uncle Jolly riding barebones, his mare wearing a bonnet over her ears and a shawl about her neck.

“Hit's the De'il,” a little one breathed, and the primer children huddled together.

A cry of glee rose at sight of a horse dressed like people and scholars would have rushed to the windows had Duncil not swept the air with a pointer. Only Mittie Hyden kept calm. She looked on coldly, her chin thrown.

I crowed to Ard, “I'd bet buckeyes he's going to my house.”

Ard's small eyes dulled. He was envious. Being dwarfish he yearned to stand high. He said, “My opinion, he's going to Bryson's mill to have bread ground.”

“Now, no,” said I. “He's not packing corn.”

“Did I have my bow and spike,” Ard breathed, “they'd make the finest bull's-eye ever was.”

Uncle Jolly circled the schoolhouse. He made the beast rattle her hoofs and prance. He had her trained pretty. Then he halted and got to his feet. He stood on her back and stretched an arm into the air; he reached and pulled down a book. Opening it he made to read though he didn't know the letter his mare's track made.

Mittie Hyden sniffed, “The first'un he ever cracked.”

Duncil tried to teach despite the pranking in the yard. He whistled the pointer, threatening to tap noggins should we leave our seats. He started the primer class again: “See the fat fox? Can the fox see the dog?” But they couldn't hold their eyes on the page. Scholars chuckled and edged toward the windows. And Ard smiled grudgingly. He would have given the ball of the world to be Uncle Jolly putting on a show. He grabbed the water-bucket and ran to the well.

Mittie said, “We're being made a laughingstock.”

We quieted a grain, thinking what Fight Creek and Slick Branch children might say.

Uncle Jolly put the book into his shirt and spun the horse on her heels. He pinched her withers and she cranked her neck and flared her lips and nickered. He laughed. he outlaughed his critter. Then he dug heels against her sides and fled up-creek.

“Surrey will be called dog for this,” Mittie warned. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind. “It's become the worst school in Baldridge County. Textbooks worn to a frazzle, teacher won't ask for new. Not strange we've drawed a witty.”

Duncil's face reddened. He was stumped.

“Uncle Jolly is smart as ants,” I defended, “and his mare is clever as people.”

Mittie darted a glance at me. She closed her teeth and would say no more.

Hands raised the room over, begging leave to talk. Scholars spoke unbidden:

“I seed a bench-legged dog once, trained to raise and walk on her hind legs. Upon my word and honor, she had a peck o' brains.”

“One day my mom passed Jolly Middleton and he was all hey-o and how-are-ye. He tipped his hat, and out flew a bird.”

“Biggest fun box ever was,” my pap claims.

Rue Thomas began, “Once on a time there was a deputy sheriff aimed to arrest Jolly Middleton—”

Duncil found his tongue. “I grant there's a nag with more gumption than her master. Now, hush.”

Ard fetched in a bucket of water. He whispered to me, “Tomorry I'm bringing my bow and spike for shore.”

Rue Thomas tried again, “Once the Law undertook to corner Jolly Middleton—”

“Hush!” Duncil ordered. He lifted his chin, rummaging his mind for a way to sober us. He noted the hour—thirty minutes until breaking. He said presently, “We'll have a sea
son of story-telling to finish the day. Accounts of honor and valor.” He nodded at Mittie. “Young lady, take the floor and lead with the history of the Trojan horse in days of yore.”

Mittie stood and went forward without urging. I harkened although I opened the dictionary and pretended to study. She told of the Greeks building a mighty wooden nag, hollow as a gourd, and with a door in its belly; of the critter getting drawn into Troy-town for a sight to see, and warriors climbing forth at night and sticking spears through everybody. We listened, still as moss eating rocks.

When school let out I ran the whole way home. Pap sat on the porch and the rocker of his chair was scotched by a book. Before I could quit chuffing he announced, “That scamp of an uncle has been here again. And he has confounded creation by doing a worthy deed. He's talked the superintendent into promising new texts for Surrey, and you're to notify Duncil Burke.”

I stared at the book, too winded to speak.

Pap bent to free the rocker. Raising the volume he added, “And Jolly says for you to read this till your head rattles.”

I seized the book. A giant strode the cover, drawing ships by ropes and the title read, “Gulliver's Voyage to Lilliput.” I opened the lid, eyes hasting: “My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire; I was the third of five sons….”

I wore it like a garment. Under my pillow it rested at night, clutched in my hand it traveled to school of a day. I turned stingy. I wouldn't loan it, declaring, “I'll be the only feller fixed to tell about Lemuel Gulliver and what he done. I'm bound it will cap any old wooden horse yarn.”

Ard said, “Rather to see a person cutting up jake on a horse than hear a lie-tale. I'd give a peck o' books would Jolly Middleton come along right now. My bow and spike's waiting under the floor.”

I said, “Uncle Jolly could brush off arrow-spikes, the same as Gulliver did.”

“Aye gonnies,” Ard swore, “I'd make a dint.”

But nine days passed before Uncle Jolly returned, and before I had a chance to relate Gulliver's voyage. By then our textbooks were shedding leaves to match frostbitten maples. Come the slightest draft pages flew. Scholars bundled their books and tied them with string, or weighted them with pencil boxes and rulers. Pless Fowley's child stored her primer in a poke.

When I reported Uncle Jolly's message to Duncil he twitted, “Any news that rogue puts out has a sticker in it. Not an earnest bone in his body, to my judgment.”

Mittie tossed her head, agreeing. Yet she mumbled, “I wish a whirly-wind would blow our books to nowhere. Then somebody would be bound to do something.”

“The ones on hand will endure a spell longer,” Duncil said flatly.

A fourth-grader blurted, “A trustee took notice of my ragtag speller and asked, 'What kind of a pauper place are we supporting at Surrey?'”

“Fight Creek and Slick Branch are making light of us,” another said.

“They're calling Surrey a rat's nest.”

“Naming us the hind tit.”

Duncil's ire raised. He lifted his pointer. “Bridle your tongues,” he said, “else you'll taste hickory.”

A fifth-grader asked unheeding, “If Jolly comes, what are we aiming to do?” And Rue Thomas opened his mouth to tell of a happening but didn't get two words spoken before Duncil's pointer whistled and struck a bench and broke.

Still when Uncle Jolly passed on a Tuesday morning with corn for Bryson's mill, Duncil gave over teaching. Uncle Jolly rode feet high and legs crossed, and he came singing, “Meet Little Susie on the Mountain Green.” A sack petticoat draped the mare's hindquarters, a bow of ribbon graced her headstall, and her face was powdered white.

Pless Fowley's child moaned, “Hit's the De'il, hit is.” She
gathered her primer into a poke. Scholars watched, mouths sagged in wonder. Ard breathed to me, “I'm seeing my pure pick of a bull's-eye.”

Uncle Jolly rode into the school yard and bowed, and the mare bent a knee and dipped her head. He set her sidestepping, hoof over hoof, shaking her hips, flapping the skirt. She ended in a spin, whirling like a flying-jenny. Then, pinching her withers, he cried, “Fool stutter!” The mare nickered, and Uncle Jolly laughed. He laughed fit to fall. And away they scampered, and while still in view the critter lost her petticoat.