Luke Baldwin's Vow Page 4

  Lying with his head on his right forepaw and his one bright eye alert while Luke kept repeating, “Tell me, tell me, I’ll understand,” he suddenly lifted his head and gave an expectant eager little bark. At that moment the indolent and sleepy old dog was bright and alive and expectant.

  “Sure, I get it, I get it,” Luke said eagerly and he put his head down in the dog’s warm soft flank. “We’ll know what goes on, won’t we?”

  Out over the lake the stars were coming out. The water was shining in the dusk. The evening breeze was rustling the window curtains. Sitting at the end of the bed from where he could look out over the lake and watch the moonrise, Luke began to feel lonely and he wondered about that dim world where his father was now. Wherever he was, could he be aware that his son was there at the window? His father had said, “I won’t be far away, Luke.” Now, of course, his father would be a spirit. But as a spirit he would have a power he had never had on the earth. There had been tales of men who encountered spirits and talked with them. If it were so, no spirit would be more anxious to talk with an earthly creature than his father would be to talk to him. But the time would have to be right, the place right, a place cool and silent, like a rendezvous in ancient times, a sacred rendezvous.

  In the woods around the sawmill and on the lake water and even out on the island, Indians had lived and died, and Dr. Baldwin had often explained to Luke that in nature the Indians had found spirits everywhere. In the woods and on the rivers there would be places where these spirits could come close to those who sought them. As he pondered over these mysteries it was as if he himself were already making a plan. For an hour he sat in a dream. Then the cool air and the night breeze from the water suddenly made him feel sleepy. He got undressed slowly. The dog, watching, hesitated fearfully, then put his paw up on the bed. When Luke did not protest he jumped up on the bed and lay there all night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Hills Were Really Blue

  In the morning Uncle Henry asked Luke to go to the mill with him and look around. As they left the house together the dog, who had been sleeping on the veranda, raised his head, came down from the veranda, and followed them diffidently for a few steps, his eye on Luke, waiting for an invitation to follow.

  Luke knew that Dan was following him and when they got to the mill he remembered that Sam Carter had known the dog was not supposed to be there. To avoid trouble he turned. “Better run back to the house, Dan,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Is Dan following us into the mill?” Uncle Henry said. “That’s funny. Dan hasn’t done that for years. He knows he shouldn’t be here.”

  “I guess he followed me, Uncle Henry.”

  “Go on, Dan. Get moving,” Uncle Henry said impatiently. “Go on. Go back to the house and go to sleep again.”

  His good eye hopefully on Luke, the dog finally turned and ambled away, although he stopped once and turned to watch them.

  “Dan’s certainly a nice dog, Uncle Henry,” Luke said quickly.

  “Yeah. The poor old fellow certainly has no bad instincts,” Uncle Henry agreed. “Of course, every dog has his day, and Dan has had his day. You see, Luke,” he began, availing himself quickly of the opportunity to show Luke that there was sound sensible thinking behind his own idle observation, “Dan used to be good for hunting, but not now. I don’t do any more hunting either. Of course, Dan used to be a good watchdog, but I have a hunch now he’d sleep through a fire. In fact, Luke, now that you call my attention to it . . .”

  “I didn’t call your attention to it, Uncle Henry.”

  “Eh. Well, no, Luke. But I mean if Dan’s no good even as a watchdog and is half blind, well, it’s just about time to get rid of him.”

  “But maybe Dan would like to be used for something.”

  “We still use him as a watchdog. Well, one of these days I’ll have to get around to dealing with Dan,” Uncle Henry said with a shrug.

  His tone and his words had frightened Luke, who tried to tell himself that Uncle Henry had been so casual he was not really concerned about Dan. A little later on, Uncle Henry might see how alive and eager the dog could be with him, Luke, and grow to admire him again.

  In the mill Luke caught a whiff of the fine rich sweet smell of fresh wood, which was like an exotic perfume brought out of the depth of the forest. The workmen were all coming in, each one saying respectfully, “Good morning, Mr. Baldwin,” with Uncle Henry answering crisply, “Good morning, Joe.” “Good morning, Mr. Baldwin.” “Good morning, Steven.” “Good morning, Mr. Baldwin.” “Good morning, Willie.” Even Sam Carter said softly, “Good morning, Mr. Baldwin,” and Uncle Henry answered cheerfully, “Morning, Sam.” Old Sam Carter’s greeting seemed to come from way back in the depths of his being. It was a powerful effort at a show of grace. But his eyes were truly respectful.

  Uncle Henry liked all his men to greet him cheerfully in the morning and they all knew it. If any man had greeted him with a sullen face, he would have resented it, his big neck would have reddened, he would have been disappointed, and he would have decided that such a workman was not completely happy in the mill and therefore his usefulness was impaired; he would have fired him quickly. No man who brooded could go on working for Uncle Henry.

  The first thing Luke learned was that men who worked for Uncle Henry had an extraordinary respect for him and treated him as a very impressive man who was there to make up their minds for them because nothing that happened around the mill could truly baffle him.

  The saws had started to whirl, and inside the mill the shriek was a more frenzied sound than any Luke had ever heard. “You just look around, Luke. Get the picture in your mind,” Uncle Henry said. “I’ll explain all this another time,” and giving Luke a friendly slap on the back, he went into the office.

  As he wandered around, Luke knew he would love the sawmill; it was so fresh, clean and exciting. A great log was being ripped to pieces by the saws, and as he watched, the saws seemed to hypnotize him; it was the horror of imagining what would happen to him if he were ever caught on one of the logs and drawn toward the spinning saw. He could hardly turn away to watch the slow-moving belt on which were various kinds of wood. A man in blue overalls stood lifting off the pieces of wood, separating them as he recognized them by the grain and smell. Another belt, slow-moving like an escalator, drew up the heavy logs into the path of the saw. Luke hung around the mill until lunchtime and then after lunch he and Uncle Henry drove into town to buy the things Luke needed for school. It was a bright sunny afternoon and on the way to town Luke watched the blue mountains rising beyond the town, for the road seemed to be running straight and true into those mountains which were as blue as the bay, and bluer, for the bay’s blueness was broken with whitecaps raised by a wind from the north, these whitecaps running diagonally to the road and sparkling in the sun.

  They passed the railroad tracks, the little bridge over the creek, and then over to the right was the station and behind the station the shipyard and the harbor. They passed a fine brick house with wide green lawns which was owed by J.C. Highbottom, the town’s wealthiest man, who was a wholesale grocer, then the Catholic church, and then on to the wide, clean, brick-paved main street.

  And then Luke began to learn something else about Uncle Henry. He was not stingy. It was not that he was exactly generous; he simply did not believe that in the long run it was profitable to be stingy. When they went into Alvin Slater’s gents’ furnishing store, Alvin Slater knew Uncle Henry was not the kind of man who looked for bargains. Uncle Henry wanted a pair of shoes for Luke. “Show me something substantial, Alvin,” he said. “Leather. Not paper. This boy will want to get around a little and I don’t want him going around on his uppers.”

  After Mr. Slater had fitted a shoe on Luke and had asked him to walk up and down Uncle Henry kept repeating, “Is that a first-class shoe for a boy, Alvin? I want the most serviceable pair of shoes you’ve got. If they don’t stand up, I’ll be in here breathing down your neck
.”

  Alvin Slater, who wore glasses and had a shiny bald head, was deeply concerned. “I recommend that shoe, Mr. Baldwin,” he said pompously. “I know what you want and I stand behind it. Now w hat else did you have in mind for the lad?”

  “I want pants, heavy serviceable stuff, and a sweater or two, and a windbreaker.” Turning to Luke he explained carefully, “Don’t ever buy shoddy stuff, Luke. You might as well keep your money in your pocket. You’ve got to learn to recognize a real value. Never mind what it looks like at the first glance. Don’t ever be taken in by appearances, my boy.”

  “I get the idea, Uncle Henry,” Luke said importantly.

  “Always remember that in the long run you pay for what you get. That’s life. Anything of real value costs something in this world. You’ll soon find out.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Uncle Henry.”

  “Will the lad try these trousers on, Mr. Baldwin?”

  “Are they big enough to fit him next year?”

  “I’ve allowed for that, Mr. Baldwin.”

  “Go into that back room and try them on, Luke, and you might was well leave them on, eh?”

  They were a pair of brown corduroy trousers and were too big, but when pulled up high above the waist they looked all right. Uncle Henry said they had a substantial quality.

  Then walking along the sunlit street, walking in the shade, keeping in step with Uncle Henry, who was carrying the parcels, Luke felt proud; he understood that every storekeeper displayed his best merchandise when Uncle Henry came into his store.

  “Now there’s one other thing,” Uncle Henry said with a little smile. “Come on, my boy.”

  On they went past the flour and feed store, the Josephson undertaking parlor, the bright new grocery store of J. C. High-bottom, a little dry goods store run by an old lady named Mary Coling, an ice cream parlor which was surprisingly large, and on to the bicycle store where Uncle Henry said with a grin, “Go on in, Luke.”

  The little, bald, spectacled proprietor shook hands effusively with Uncle Henry; but it was an embarrassing kind of politeness; it was as if the man were a little too eager to have Uncle Henry’s good opinion of him.

  In the shop were many secondhand bicycles, and some cheap new ones too. “I want a serviceable bicycle for the boy, Mr. Skidmore,” Uncle Henry said. “One that will stand up. One you can guarantee. Luke, here, will have to ride that bike every day. A piece of junk would be a waste of money. I don’t propose to waste my money, Mr. Skidmore.”

  Without any haggling he bought a fine expensive heavy bicycle and paid with money from his wallet. It was a handsome deerskin wallet. Into this wallet he tucked the written guarantee of the bicycle’s serviceability. Then he told Luke to take the bicycle out to the street and ride up and down for a few minutes and try it out. And while Uncle Henry and the proprietor stood at the door in the late sunlight, blinking their eyes, Luke, in his new heavy brown corduroy pants, circled slowly around the street with a new pride of ownership. But even while he was steering carefully and smiling happily, it struck him that Uncle Henry wasn’t trying to be generous with him. The bicycle and the clothes were things that were needed. A thing that was needed had to be obtained. A thing that was no longer needed had to be tossed aside.

  Uncle Henry had left the storekeeper and was sauntering along the street, still watching Luke. At the corner he called, “How would you like to ride it home and get used to it, Luke?”

  “Oh, that would be swell,” Luke said, as he dismounted at the curb. “Thanks, Uncle Henry.”

  “I’m counting on you looking after that bike, Luke.”

  “I’ll ride all over this town,” he said enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, and for one thing, Uncle Henry,” he went on, pointing along the road that cut through the town and ran for miles beyond to the blue mountains, “someday I’ll ride up to those blue mountains.”

  “Why up there, Luke?”

  “I like the look of them, Uncle Henry. I like knowing they’re there.”

  “Oh,” his uncle said, looking puzzled, “and why do you like having them there?”

  “I like blue mountains. Well, those mountains are very blue,” he said with satisfaction. “It would be nice to get close to them, wouldn’t it, Uncle Henry?” he asked.

  “Yes, and the first thing you’ll discover when you get close to them is that they’re not blue,” Uncle Henry said, chuckling a little.

  “Well, they’re blue from here, Uncle Henry.”

  “Yes. The fact is they’re not blue, and you’ve got sense enough to know it, my boy.”

  “I don’t know that they’re not blue.”

  “It’s an illusion, Luke. Simply an optical illusion.”

  “Don’t you like them for being so blue, Uncle Henry?”

  “But the fact is they’re not blue. It’s a nice colorful effect, of course, which comes from sunlight and shadow and distance. The fact is that up there it’s all farmland and woods and valleys just as it is down here.” Then he chuckled again. “Luke, what would you say about a man who went on believing all his life those mountains were really blue? Would you say he was an idiot?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, look at them, Uncle Henry.”

  “I don’t care what they look like,” Uncle Henry said irritably. “I’ve just told you.”

  “But they’re blue, aren’t they?”

  “But the fact is, the fact, Luke . . .” Uncle Henry began patiently. With a sigh he shrugged and looked at the boy with a dubious expression. “You’re a wee bit stubborn, Luke. Never mind. You follow me home.” And he walked along the street to his car.

  And following the car down the road through the town Luke, still imagining he was arguing with his uncle, kept repeating doggedly, “If a man painted those hills, he’d have to paint what he saw, wouldn’t he? And if he didn’t paint them blue it would be a lie. Because there they are – wonderfully blue – so what are you talking about?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Sacred Grove

  On the way to school Luke had company, for Dan automatically trotted behind the bicycle, and Luke, grinning to himself, let the dog follow him for a quarter of a mile down the main road. What was so splendid about it was that he hadn’t even whistled to Dan; he hadn’t even looked back; he pedaled along slowly, grinning happily, knowing Dan was trailing him.

  Of course, he couldn’t let the dog follow him all the way to school. When they came to the big elm he got off the bike. “Dan, old boy,” he said, “I leave you here. Don’t worry, I’ll be back about four o’clock. You hang around. Now stay here or go back. Go on, Dan.”

  No one could know how much he was getting to like that old dog. He liked the way Dan would lie down, flopping heavily, like a chair falling over. He liked the way he stretched, pushing out his forepaw, then leaning all his weight well back, then coming up slowly. And the way he came when called – the head down, the tail wagging, his body in a mincing motion as if he had the shakes.

  When he had pedaled on about a hundred feet he looked around and Dan was standing in the middle of the road.

  But the day at school did not go very well. Luke was a stranger, a kid from the city, a new kid; at noontime and at recess he stood around by himself looking self-possessed and aloof, to guard his shyness and to give the air of being contented and indifferent while waiting warily for someone to make friendly gestures. Some of the kids said, “Aw, he’s a city kid, and look how stuck-up he is,” because Luke, thinking of himself as a boy who was very wise about people and knew how to handle them, believed that if he appeared to be aloof and indifferent they would all be anxious to be friendly.

  At three-thirty when they all rushed out of school and broke up into groups he rushed out too, but there was no group for him to join. While he was standing on the steps feeling lonely, Elmer Highbottom, who was two inches taller, lurched against him and cried, “Get out of the way, kid, or do you want something?” But wh
en Luke raised his fists and awaited grimly, Elmer, seeing that Luke would fight, laughed derisively and left him alone. Luke sauntered toward his bicycle, wanting suddenly to get back to the mill.

  On the road he found himself thinking again of the days when his father had hunted in the woods across the river from the mill. Even now, pedaling down the road, was it possible, he wondered, that his father could be watching him?

  He was coming to the place by the side of the road where he had left Dan in the morning and when he made the little turn there was Dan lying down in the shade of an elm tree. “Hi, Dan,” he yelled eagerly. Stretching, then shaking himself thoroughly, Dan came trotting out to the road to greet him.

  Three times during the day the dog had returned to the spot. At noontime when he had been sleeping on the veranda he had suddenly stirred, wondering and testing the force of his instinct to go, and then he had trotted down to the road and had waited, moving around doubtfully. The dog was uneasy about not being able to pick out the right time. Returning to the house he had slept again. Two hours later he had looked up quickly as if feeling a curious prompting; then he had gone trotting quietly back to the elm tree.

  “Say, Dan, I think you were asleep there. How did you know it was me coming down the road?” Luke asked. But the dog only circled cheerfully around the bike. He seemed to understand Luke’s surprise and pleasure.

  From that time on the dog would go that far along the road with him in the morning, and he would be there at that hour each day when he came home.

  At the house after Luke had let his aunt know he was home, he came out and stood on the riverbank looking across the river at the woods. He turned away, then turned again slowly. Frowning, he wondered why he could not go away.