Willem McArthur
by James Matthew Lee Wilson
Long into August, Willem McArthur walked
the firm, determined gait of a young man intent on beating the afternoon rain.
He’d
been down this mountain road once before, half his life ago when at the age of
ten, he’d ridden with his pa down the valley corridor to fetch his withering
Grandmother from the train station. Thereafter, young Willem had often dreamt
of a return trip to civilization; perhaps to pick up a great aunt or some other
distant kin traveling by rail to pay their last respects to Gran Jo. But a
decade later, Josephine McArthur had proven near immortal in her years, and
accordingly, the road, as well as the world beyond, had remained known yet unexplored
folds at the tapestry’s edge.
Willem wiped the oppressive heat from his
brow and tugged at his collar. Above, the sky hung an unbroken slate of blue,
unblemished in its terrible beauty save for the scorched spot through which the
white-hot brilliance of the sun poured. Somewhere down amongst the long grass
and cat-tails, an overgrown creek mocked his obdurate nature. Ignoring the
watery call to remove the wool jacket, Willem continued on without mitigating
action.
Ahead, a slanted expanse of valley land,
equal parts cultivated and wild, cut across the road from left to right in an
uneven slope of pine and limestone, all of it falling away from the
white-capped peaks at his back with the rustic grace so common to foothills of
the region.
The sudden presence of the man on the
side of the road startled Willem. Involuntary anger flushed his cheeks, and
Willem cursed himself his father’s son.
“My apologies friend,” the stranger
called from his perch atop a sandstone shelf. The man’s dark suit must have
once been a quality item, but time had faded black to grey. Beneath the jacket,
a white shirt, yellowing along the collar was complemented by a loose bowtie,
strung haphazardly below the man’s prominent Adam’s apple.
“How do,”
Willem answered, his voice level, his eye critical.
“How
goes your travels, young master?” The man called, his stubbled cheeks creasing
into a grin. His face was long, his cheekbones high. An unkempt ponytail swept
long black hair away from his brow, and under a wide-beaked nose, a thin, manicured
mustache curled.
Willem regarded the stranger warily for
he knew that a man in a suit was nothing to fear yet the context of such a man
in the high pass argued that the measured distance between them be maintained.
The man’s smile persisted, and he nodded
in acknowledgment of Willem’s silence. “I haven’t seen you down this road
before. Are you new to the area?”
“No sir, live back up yonder.”
The stranger’s grin intensified, taking
hold of his brown eyes; the pupils large and dark; the whites stark and alive.
“Why you’re John McArthur’s boy? You and
your kin live up at the rock farmhouse just west of the river.”
“Yes
sir,” Willem answered, his mother’s words returning once again to warn of the highway-men who sometimes wandered these back
roads. His father was also leery of the road but for reasons he’d never shared. “You know my daddy, sir?”
“I know your dad well although we’ve
never spoken a word.”
This
struck Willem odd, yet his father’s infamy almost surely traveled farther than
his boots so Willem found no reason to linger on it.
“You from these parts, sir?” he asked,
easing his guard.
“I
am,” the man confirmed, dismounting the stony
ledge. He landed with a nimble step and a scrape against the eroded clay. “In
fact,” he continued, “this road is as much mine as any other.”
Willem nodded, neither in agreement nor
challenge. “I’m not familiar with this road.”
The man blinked. “Then why are you on it,
young squire?”
“Heading down to the train station. Need
to catch the first rail north tomorrow.”
“As good a reason as I’ve heard,” the man
allowed and then with a deep bow. “I go by the name of Eli Carpenter.”
Rising back to his full height, a head
taller than Willem, Eli extended not his right but his left hand. Willem
fidgeted to switch his grip on his knapsack.
“Willem, sir. Please to make your
acquaintance.”
“And yours Master McArthur.”
With that, Eli motioned Willem to the
side of the road and offered him a seat on the nearest rock as if the
countryside was his and his alone.
Willem eased himself down, welcoming the
cool shade of a nearby pine. He freed his brow from the clamp of his hat and ran a hand through the tawny tangles of
his hair.
The man called Eli dusted the adjacent
surface and then joined Willem on the rock. “Now young man, what calls you
north such that you would set out on this blistering day?”
“My education, sir.”
“Education?”
“Yes
sir. I’m en route to the state capital. Been accepted into the University.
Classes start a week from today.”
The man’s eyes widened, and after a
moment, he nodded as if having both assessed and agreed upon Willem’s
situation. “And do tell Master McArthur, what knowledge does the University
hold that you desire? Agriculture I suspect…no, perhaps Animal Husbandry?”
Willem paused unsure if the stranger
mocked him. “No sir. Finance.”
“Finance?”
Eli produced a bottle, its blue glass without marking or label. He
took a long drink and then offered the bottle to Willem.
“Thank you kindly, but I don’t partake in
spirit.”
Eli’s smile widened. He took another
drink and then offered the bottle along with his assurances. “Water from yonder
brook.”
Willem accepted the ancient bottle and
after detecting no trace of corn-whiskey,
tipped the glass to his parched lips. The water splashed cold and pure. He
drank deep and desperate, gasping for breath as he passed the bottle back with
a nod of thanks.
Eli accepted the bottle and sipped. He
looked out at the day with bright eyes and a small smile as if the bend of the grass pleased him.
“Finance,” Eli repeated.
Willem nodded. “I figure it as good a
trade as any.”
“It is,” Eli agreed. He turned to Willem
and with a knowing look, added. “I suspect you wish to be the company man
sitting on the opposite side of the desk from your father each fall when he
brings harvest to market.”
Willem felt his back go stiff. That very
thought, articulated to the word, had powered his exodus from the farm this
morning.
“There’s no shame in wanting more than
your father,” Eli mused, looking back out at the road, the small smile
returning to his lips.
A moment of silence passed between them
as the pines, stirred by a cool western breeze, whispered to one another.
“What did your daddy do for a trade?”
Willem finally asked.
Eli raised an eyebrow. “Not so long ago,
a man had his given name and his trade.”
Willem’s brow furrowed, but a moment
later his mind unraveled the riddled words.
“Well sir, I’d say your daddy was a
carpenter.”
“Yes,” Eli nodded, the gesture
pronounced. “My father worked with wood and fashioned all sorts of items for
the rich and poor alike.”
“What’s your trade, if you don’t mind me
asking, Mr. Carpenter?”
Eli took another nip from the bottle and
then set it at his feet. He turned his head to the left and to the right, each
motion joined by the opposite hand which swept phantom dust from the fabric
resting on his shoulders. When done he clasped the lapels of his jacket and
straightened them with flair.
“I am a tailor.”
“A tailor?”
“A tailor,” Eli confirmed, his smile not
so wide, his demeanor clouding.
Willem averted his eyes, seeking refuge
in the road. He felt Eli’s hard stare upon him for a moment longer, and then it
was gone.
“Yes
Master McArthur,” Eli sighed, his voice once again casual and without care. “A
tailor am I.”
“I meant no offense, sir.”
“And I take none,” Eli finished and after
a thoughtful breath, added. “Some advice
Willem: understand that what a man sets out to become and what the world sets
aside for him are two very different things.”
Willem nodded and turned his eyes up
toward the blue sky. Back up the road, clouds, dark with moisture, gathered
over the western spine of peaks. “I reckon I might catch rain.”
“You purchase your ticket yet?” Eli
asked, turning to judge the color of the horizon for himself.
“No sir.”
“Then stay the night. No reason to go
tramping off into town covered in mud.”
“That’s kind of you, but I have to catch
the train in the morning.”
“Nonsense,” Eli stood and stepped out
onto the road before pivoting back. “You can wait out the storm at my place,
have a bit of supper, and sleep with a roof over your head. In the morning you
can set out for the station and catch the afternoon whistle. Only take you a
day to get north with ample time to find your seat before classes commence.”
Willem joined Eli out on the road. Away
from the pines, he could see the gathering clouds more clearly, their bases
spilling down in grey uneven veils to sweep the landscape clean of its color.
“Guess it might not hurt to delay a bit. Your place near about?”
Eli raised an arm in the general
direction of where they’d been sitting. “I have a cabin back in the woods. Half
hour march, no more.”
Willem stood, hat in hand, the weight of
his knapsack once again on his shoulders. The breeze blew cool again from the
west, smelling of wet earth, tugging at the unkempt strands of his hair.
Eli nodded as if understanding some deep
truth about Willem. “You are your father’s son Master McArthur. If it makes the
decision more palatable, you can chop some firewood. We’ll call that fair trade
for a single night’s room and board.”
Willem’s hesitation waned.
“Perhaps,” Eli interjected, “tonight we
can listen to some music, and I can show you how to pull a needle and thread. A
good skill for a young man living on his own at the University.”
Willem weighed this and then nodded his
agreement. He returned his hat to the perch of his brow, and then followed Eli
off the road.
“You got a radio, mister?” Willem asked
as they tramped through the underbrush.
Eli turned back, puzzled.
“You mentioned music,” Willem clarified.
“I just reckoned you had yourself a radio-box.”
“No radio, Master McArthur. But I do have
an old phonograph.”
Not twenty yards in, they reached a path
cut down into the underbrush by way of old broken cobblestone.
Leaving the pine-needles and dirt, Eli
strode out onto the path. But Willem stopped and glanced back over his
shoulder, eyeing the road.
“You coming
Master McArthur?”
Willem regarded the man in the suit
standing upon the strange stone path.
“I’m sorry Mr. Carpenter, but I think
I’ll just chance the rain.”
Grinning,
Eli brushed the apology aside. “Now don’t be ridiculous. No reason to risk a
storm when shelter is nearby.”
Willem turned sideways, half-facing Eli,
half-facing the road. “I thank you kindly, but I’m just going to keep on. I
appreciate the words and the water.”
Eli said nothing. Instead, he bowed low, his left hand sweeping out to his
side. As if it had always been there, a top-hat appeared, clasped in his left
hand. The gesture of pomp complete, Eli straightened to his full height, placed
the tall, dark hat atop his head, and then continued on down the path.
Willem watched until Eli Carpenter
disappeared into the swaying pines. Then he returned to the road, walking with
pace, pulling the wool collar of his jacket high about his neck, readying
himself for the wind, for the grit, for the rain.
END
James Matthew Lee Wilson is an aspiring writer who pursues words and phrases down dusty dirt roads and dark starlit highways. He currently lives in Indiana with his wife and son.