At first he was numb. The yardstick just jarred him. Although he was terrified by the unexpected assault, the first few blows did not seem to hurt. It was only after several of the sword-like slashes struck him, that the burning streaked across his skinny buttocks and the back of his thighs.
The sharp-edged stick struck again and again in quick succession. The hits sent shocks of agony up and down Brad's legs. An extra powerful wave of pain went up his back and around to his stomach when a blow struck high and seared the tender flesh on the small of his back.
The sound of his mother gasping for air reached his ear. Her breath was hot and smelled of stale coffee and tobacco as it blew across his face. She was sucking in mouthfuls of air in rhythm to the rapidly swinging arc of her arm.
Brad felt her left hand momentarily loosen from around his arm. The next time he felt the hand lose its grip, a quick twist of his upper body and he was free of her hot sweaty grasp. A last blow was already cleaving the air. The narrow side of the stick-sword caught him painfully on the top of his right shoulder. His right arm went numb and immediately swung uselessly from his shoulder as he ducked through the head-high pines that bordered the west side of the Burgess's backyard. One more long step and Brad was out of her reach and safe. Safe in his sanctuary, the forest.
With his heart threatening to burst out of his chest and a huge lump in his throat which gagged him at each breath, Brad skidded to a stop behind the security of a dense clump of young black spruce. Quickly checking his back trail he was startled to hear a loud rustling in the thick carpet of dry leaves coming from the direction of the house. The reassuring sight of his brown and white mongrel charging through the leaves toward him made him realize his mother had never left the lawn and open yard. Neither his mother, nor anyone else in the family would trespass into his dark domain of dense trees and thick brush which was full of strange squeaks, rustlings and musty smells.
When he tried to wipe away the tickling sensations his tears were making on his dirt smeared cheeks, his right arm refused to move from the shoulder. He tried again. This time by just moving the injured arm from the elbow. An excruciatingly painful jolt of electricity shot up the length of his arm. The pain spread through his neck, encircled his right ear and arced across his cheek bone. He clenched his eye lids tightly in an attempt to neutralize the pain which squeezed his right eyeball.
Afraid to stay so close to the house, Brad bit back his sobs, and with Rusty clearing the trail ahead of him, he went deeper into the forest. He knew exactly where he was going.
Moving as rapidly as his flopping right arm would allow he covered the half mile to the old sugaring road amazingly fast. He stepped out of the trees and gained the brush-free and relatively speedy passage of the road.
He stumbled up the old road with fresh tears flowing freely. Brad was forced against his will and better judgment to stop when the tears all but blinded him. He quickly wiped the tears away with the knuckles of his left hand.
Before moving on, he made an attempt to relieve the searing pain of his right arm. Even the slightest swinging motion created a surge of shocks up his arm. Brad grasped his right wrist with his left hand to immobilize it against his rib cage. As he moved on, the pain continued to shoot up his useless arm across his shoulder blades and up into his neck. He knew it wasn't doing much good to hold the arm while he kept bouncing it against his rib cage as he continued to hurry up the road toward the sugarhouse.
The majestic old sugar maple stood on the edge of the clearing like a giant sentinel. Brad could easily hide next to its six foot diameter trunk where its lowest limbs were still fifteen feet above his head. Its cracked and jagged gray bark was uncomfortable on his cheek, but he leaned motionless against the maple.
In front of him, the cabin's door stood open and the afternoon sun formed a pool of golden light on the worn floor boards just inside of the pine slab walls. From the shelter of the old tree, Brad watched the cabin's front door and windows.
He could now lift his right arm waist high and his tingling fingers rested on a forgotten galvanized iron sugaring spout protruding from the shaggy gray bark.
Slowly he wiped the remains of his tears away with his dirty left hand while Rusty trotted across the clearing. Before Brad could call her off the brown and white mongrel leaped over the granite slab front stoop. She glowed yellow for a second when she passed through the blaze of afternoon sunlight before disappearing into the dark bowels of the rough walled interior of the cabin. In seconds, she reappeared. Her nose to the floor as she raced across the length of the cabin then across the gray stone step and back out into the clearing. Her nose still on the ground, and her tail swinging in rapture, the dog charged up the small knoll to where Brad stood and flopped down at his feet.
Satisfied by his dog's behavior that no one was in or around the cabin Brad thought out loud, "That damn Ernie probably left the door open again, he never closes it."
His passage to the cabin was marked by the distinct swish of the stalks of dried up rye grass and goldenrod on the legs of his dungarees.
The sunlight flashed off of an age distorted window pane making Brad jump and his heart race. He froze in the middle of the clearing feeling vulnerable and alone.
His dog had disappeared behind the cabin but came trotting around the left side of the building at that moment.
Seemingly unconcerned she approached the front door again, jumped onto the granite step and stopped, turning towards Brad she asked him what the holdup was. Relieved he continued toward the cabin.
Brad sat on the bare wired bottom of the old bed frame and cradled his still tingling arm in his lap. It was only a couple of minutes before he decided the wires were hurting his skinny butt too much so he moved to a large splash of sunlight on the floor next to the north wall. The sun streamed through one of the windows on the front wall and warmed the worn wooden floor with its waning heat.
The sun warmed his upper body while he leaned back against the rough pine board wall with his hurt arm resting on his belly. His dog lay beside him, her backside scooted along the wall as she tried to share his small patch of solar heat.
He slid down the wall a bit further to relieve a couple of tender spots on his butt. The sudden jabbing of pain from the motion brought him up straight. A couple of seconds and the electricity-like shocks lessened enough so that he could again relax.
Brad tugged on the rawhide lace attached to his Big Ben. The silver dollar sized watch came out of its resting place in the front right pocket of his dungarees. It was almost five o'clock; he had been in the cabin for about three hours.
He had regained the basic use of his right arm, though it felt heavier than normal. Whenever he attempted to use his arm it was not without a bit of sweat and considerable effort to overcome a residual stiffness and pain which refused to release their grip on his mistreated muscles and nerves.
Brad explored his right shoulder gingerly with his left hand. The muscles on the top were tender and sore. After some gentle probing he detected the swelling of a bruise created by the yardstick. He could make a small amount of electricity fire down his right arm by putting pressure on the largest of his shoulder muscles. Involuntarily his right hand would start to open until he released the muscle.
He couldn't prevent the grimace that he made when he finally worked up his nerve to stand up.
It feels like I slept on it too long. Brad flexed his right hand open and closed then slowly twisted his wrist and elbow in a half circle. He strode across the cabin toward the door no longer worrying about losing his arm. The vision of a white gowned, smiling doctor holding his detached arm had flashed through his mind when his fear was at its peak. This vision from his over active imagination could now pass into oblivion.
In the early dusk Brad stood next to the trees at the edge of the Burgess backyard and watched the rear of the house long enough to be sure no one was outside in the yard. Rusty lay at his feet p
anting softly and watching her young master with her knowing, soft brown eyes. Satisfied that no one was outside or watching for him from inside the house, Brad slipped over the wall into the backyard. He cut diagonally across the yard to another part of the stonewall and stood next to the three foot thick trunk of a tall white pine.
It took an effort, but by using just his left arm he swung himself up and hooked the back of his right knee over a leg-sized limb. Using his still weak right arm to help, he pulled himself into the lower branches of the tree.
He sat fifty or sixty feet above the ground for several minutes as he plotted an act of revenge against his mother. An act which as usual would never come about. He would just forgive and forget. Exactly as his tears dried up and were forgotten the slowly fading tingle in his arm would stop and be forgotten also.
In the rapidly gathering night Brad watched his fat sister waddle out onto the driveway from the front of the house. A while before, she had hollered for him several times from the front steps before going back into the house. Now she was back. Brad continued to ignore her while he looked down into Their world. He felt independent and very brave up in the tree. He was concealed among its great limbs and a multitude of soft, clean-smelling needles. He felt above her and her kind, the people of the clan. People who were nothing without each other to brag to, lean on and lie to, but the worst of all, to use. Like now his mother was using his stupid sister. The old Lady never had the guts to face him whenever she lost control. Even her maternal instincts weren't strong enough to make her admit she had screwed up and hurt her child. Nor was it strong enough to make her run to him, hug him to her breast and say she was sorry.
"Brad! Brad! I know you're here! Your stupid, dirty dog is here! Come on, you brat! Supper is almost ready!"
Greta looked around nervously when she was through bellowing her dire threats like a dying cow. She didn't like being out in the rapidly fading light of early evening with Brad sneaking around. His sense of humor made her uneasy because she couldn't understand him. She knew he could come out of the deepening shadows at any time and scare her half to death. Her thoughts made her voice lose its force and the superior tones she affected whenever she was forced to deal with her younger sibling.
"Come on, Brad, you're going to get in trouble if you don't come in right now!"
Her voice was starting to break on the high notes from the stress of her predicament. She couldn't decide who she was more scared of: her mother who demanded she not come in until she found her brother: or of Brad, who she was sure hated her.
Brad smiled slightly when he felt the power he held over her.
He was thinking about how Greta looked like an overweight crab when she suddenly turned, and scuttled back around the house in the deepening shadows of night. He also knew she was going to squeal on him again.
She's going to get me in trouble.
Silently, he slipped down out of the tree. His sneakers whispered on the gray broken slabs of granite which made up the stonewall. He took a long bound onto the night blackened grass and started for the back door with a smile on his lips.
"Ma! Brad won't answer me!" Her heavy, clomping walk stopped abruptly. She glared at Brad with hate in her eyes.
He never looked up. He just kept smearing the homemade butter onto his boiled potatoes while out of the corners of his eyes he watched his sister's face turn bright red.
SIX
The wet sticky remains of last winter's snow drifts were still over his knees making it hard work just to walk up the old road and he could feel the sweat from his exertions trickling down between his prominent adolescent shoulder blades.
Behind him, Brad's new blue dungarees had marked his passage with watery blue streaks in the slushy snow.
The naked upper branches of the sentinel sugar maple were visible above the smaller trees. With his good eyesight and vivid imagination, Brad was sure he could see its buds were starting to swell.
It's almost April, the buds should be getting bigger.
Behind a screen of young birches and maples, the slab-sided cabin was not yet in sight when Brad forced his way through the last of the wet corn snow. He stepped out onto the snow flattened brown grasses and leaves on the roadbed.
With a buckskin clad hand he brushed away a trace of sweat that had found its way from beneath his red wool cap and was tickling an eyebrow. A small, pleased smile came to Brad's face when he looked at the buckskin gloves for the thousandth time and remembered their softness on his cheek and the warmth of his fingers. The gloves had been a 14th birthday present from Charlie Carr in January. They were definitely the best present Brad received that year. They were even better than the carton of .22 shells George and Muriel had given him for Christmas.
With a deep sigh of pleasure Brad strode off towards the sugarhouse with the spring sun continuing to warm him. As usual, his little .22 hung from his right hand and swung with each stride as he hurried along on his errand.
When he heard his brown and white mongrel's heavy panting and crashing passage through the brush followed by a sudden sharp yip. Brad threw his rifle up to his shoulder.
The dirty white snowshoe hare had stayed hidden under the brush pile for as long as it had dared. The mutt charging over its hiding place proved more than it could take. For the first twenty feet of the chase Rusty was right on its heels. But after those first two jumps the dog had lost her race. She was far outclassed by the big-footed hare.
Brad was sure the snowshoe was doing about forty miles an hour when it crossed the road in front of him. His right hand came up to pull back the stubborn hammer on the little rifle. The boy watched the brown and white hare streak between the patches of snow while he was still trying to cock the hammer of the .22. The hammer finally locked back with a loud CLICK. In the same instant the snowshoe disappeared over the small knoll on Brad's left. He squeezed the trigger anyway as the rifle sights crossed a twelve inch beech tree.
The mongrel never even flinched when the little .22 bullet snapped over her head on its way into the tree.
Brad shrugged and dropped another Winchester Super X hollow point into the rifle. He closed the short bolt before hollering at his dog. "Rusty! Come here, Jerk! Rabbit season is closed anyway."
The fresh image of the two-toned hare in his head made Brad chuckle to himself as he reached down to scratch his mongrel's ears. He thought the hare's coloring was really weird though he knew it was normal for a Varying Hare to shed its white winter coat for a fresh brown summer jacket.
It is another definite sign of spring, he thought to himself as he slapped the dog on her butt and ordered her away. "Get going, dog! And stay out of the sugarhouse!"
Instead of going straight to the cabin like usual, Brad turned right. He went over the top of a little knoll and down toward the creek bottom into a thick stand of mixed white pine and hemlock. Here and there, the dying and half rotten remains of an ancient sugar maple stood amongst the younger evergreens.
Brad realized a lot of people visited the cabin, but few (of these visitors) knew that the purpose of the cabin was to house the sugarhouse workers. Fewer of these same visitors realized the sugarhouse stood in the creek bottom below it.
Soon he heard the small spring fed creek burbling out from under a rock seventy yards or so up the hill from the hundred year old sugarhouse. The creek was less than two feet wide in most places and ran only two or three inches deep. Brad knew from many trips in the heat of the summer and in the dead of winter that it usually ran the same size year round. It was never any smaller and seldom larger. Even at the end of a heavy snow melt and the hard spring rains which followed, it grew very little.
The water was so cold it hurt his teeth anytime he stuck his face into it and sucked a mouth full of the crystal clear liquid. Brad liked its flavor and smell of the granite and quartz it boiled out of.
He pulled off his new buckskin gloves then tucked t
hem into the waistband of his pants before he braced a bare hand on each side of the creek and carefully lowered himself onto his knees. The wet cold from the damp soil penetrated to his right knee cap and his snow wet dungarees trickled ice cold water into the tops of his calf high rubber boots.
He puckered his lips and noisily sucked some of the cold water into his mouth. The shock brought a grimace to his face and made him gasp. While still breathless, Brad sucked his lips against his front teeth and probed them with his tongue to relieve the pain of the cold shock. Brad stood as the pain subsided and still a little breathless turned downstream to where the little creek disappeared through the sugarhouse's brick foundation.
Ever since he had discovered it three years before, the sugarhouse and its history had fascinated him. When he first saw it, the frame building had seemed immense even though the rough board exterior was dwarfed by the huge old trees that surrounded it. The diagonal pattern of the weathered board front was interrupted by two openings. A window was to the east, on the left. On the right was a larger opening, large enough for a horse to enter. The double doors which had hung on it were now lying on the ground in a bed of rotting maple leaves and hemlock needles.
Each spring the clear, slightly sticky sap collected from the numerous sugar maples on the ridge was brought to the sugarhouse to be evaporated and transformed into sweet, golden maple syrup. Some of the syrup was evaporated even further, and turned into pure maple sugar.
Barely visible from where he stood, running almost the full length of the sheet iron roof, was a wooden louvered cupola. This was where all of the steam from the huge evaporating pans escaped the building.
A pickup truck sized galvanized iron tank stood outside on the west side of the sugarhouse. This side of the building had a granite foundation which was set into the side of the knoll. The remains of an old sledge trail ran through the trees above the tank. Brad knew ox and/or horse drawn sledges brought the maple sap from the lower ridge to the west and dumped it into the iron tank. It stayed in this tank until the sap already in the shallow evaporators was boiled down into syrup and had been transferred to tin cans.