Set and rest a spell, the man said.
Holme squatted, favoring his off leg. The child kept watching him.
Whose youngern? he said.
Harmon guffawed and slapped his thigh.
What happent to his eye? Holme said.
What eye.
His eye. He gestured. The one he ain't got.
I reckon he must of lost it somewheres. He still got one.
He ort to have two.
Maybe he ort to have more'n that. Some folks has two and cain't see.
Holme didn't say anything.
I reckon that tinker might know what happent to it.
What tinker?
That'n in yan tree, said Harmon, pointing with the rifle.
Hush. Don't pay him no mind mister. What did ye do to your leg there?
Nothin.
The bearded one was tunneling gouts of mud from the welt of his boot with a stick. Well, I see ye didn't have no trouble findin us.
I wasn't huntin ye.
You got here all right for somebody bound elsewhere.
I wasn't bound nowheres. I just seen the fire.
I like to keep a good fire. A man never knows what all might chance along. Does he?
No.
No. Anything's liable to warsh up. From nowheres nowhere bound.
Where are you bound? Holme said.
I ain't, the man said. By nothin. He looked up at Holme. We ain't hard to find. Oncet you've found us.
Holme looked away. His sweatblistered forehead shone in the firelight. He looked toward the tinker's cart and he looked at the child. Where's she at? he said.
Who's that?
My sister.
Ah, said the man. The one run off with that tinker.
Them's his traps yander.
The bearded one turned his head slightly and looked and turned back. Aye, he said. That'n you used to trade with.
I never give him no chap, Holme said. I just told her that.
Maybe thisn's some other chap.
It ain't nothin to me.
The bearded one raked a gobbet of clay from his stick and cast it into the fire. You know what I figure? he said.
What.
I figure you got this thing here in her belly your own self and then laid it off on that tinker.
I never laid nothin off on no tinker.
I reckon you figured he'd keep him hid for ye.
I never figured nothin.
What did ye have to give him?
I never give nobody nothin. I never had nothin.
Never figured nothin, never had nothin, never was nothin, the man said. He was looking at nothing at all. The mute one seemed to sleep, crouched at the man's right with his arms dangling between his knees like something waiting to be wakened and fed.
What are you? Holme muttered.
What?
He said it again, sullenly.
The bearded one smiled. Ah, he said. Now. We've heard that before, ain't we?
You ain't nothin to me.
But the man didn't seem to hear. He nodded as if spoken by other voices. He didn't look at Holme.
You never did say what you done with your sister.
I never done nothin with her.
Where's she at?
I don't know. She run off.
You done told that.
It ain't nothin to you.
I'll be the judge of that.
Harmon turned, his cheek against the upright rifle-barrel. He smiled dreamily.
I reckon little sister's just a little further on up the road, ain't she? the man said.
I don't know. I ain't seen her.
No.
I allowed maybe you had, Holme said. You seem to know everbody's business.
I guess it ain't nothin to me. Is that right?
Holme didn't answer.
The man wiped the stick and poked it into the fire and stretched forth his boot. Hand him here, he said.
What?
Hand him here. Yan chap.
Holme didn't move. The child had not stopped watching him.
Unless you'd rather for Harmon to.
He looked at Harmon and then he bent forward and picked up the child. It made no gesture at all. It dangled from his hands like a dressed rabbit, a gross eldritch doll with ricketsprung legs and one eye opening and closing softly like a naked owl's. He rose with it and circled the fire and held it out toward the man. The man looked at it a moment and then took it with one hand by its upper arm and placed it between his feet.
What do you want with him? Holme said.
Nothin. No more than you do.
He ain't nothin to me.
No.
Where's that tinker at if he was raisin him?
He's all raised out. He cain't raise no more.
You don't need him.
Water in the summer and fire in the winter is all the need I need. We ain't talkin about what I need. He spat across the child's head into the fire and a thin chain of sparks ascended in the graygreen smoke. That ain't what's concerned.
No.
You ain't no different from the rest. From any man borned and raised and have his own and die. They ain't one man in three got even a black suit to die in.
Holme stood with his feet together and his hands at his sides like one arraigned.
What's his name? the man said.
I don't know.
He ain't got nary'n.
No. I don't reckon. I don't know.
They say people in hell ain't got names. But they had to be called somethin to get sent there. Didn't they.
That tinker might of named him.
It wasn't his to name. Besides names dies with the namers. A dead man's dog ain't got a name. He reached and drew from his boot a slender knife.
Holme seemed to be speaking to something in the night beyond them all. My sister would take him, he said. That chap. We could find her and she'd take him.
Yes, the man said.
I been huntin her.
Harmon was watching the man. Even the mute one stirred. The man took hold of the child and lifted it up. It was watching the fire. Holme saw the blade wink in the light like a long cat's eye slant and malevolent and a dark smile erupted on the child's throat and went all broken down the front of it. The child made no sound. It hung there with its one eye glazing over like a wet stone and the black blood pumping down its naked belly. The mute one knelt forward. He was drooling and making little whimpering noises in his throat. He knelt with his hands outstretched and his nostrils rimpled delicately. The man handed him the child and he seized it up, looked once at Holme with witless eyes, and buried his moaning face in its throat.
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON she entered the glade, coming down a footpath where narrow cart tracks had crushed the weeds and through the wood, half wild and haggard in her shapeless sundrained cerements, yet delicate as any fallow doe, and so into the clearing to stand cradled in a grail of jade and windy light, slender and trembling and pale with wandlike hands to speak the boneless shapes attending her.
And stepping softly with her air of blooded ruin about the glade in a frail agony of grace she trailed her rags through dust and ashes, circling the dead fire, the charred billets and chalk bones, the little calcined ribcage. She poked among the burnt remains of the tinker's traps, the blackened pans confused among the rubble, the lantern with its skewed glass, the axle and iron wheelhoops already rusting. She went among this charnel curiously. She did not know what to make of it. She waited, but no one returned.
She waited all through the blue twilight and into the dark. Bats came and went. Wind stirred the ashes and the tinker in his tree turned slowly but no one returned. Shadows grew cold across the wood and night rang down upon these lonely figures and after a while little sister was sleeping.
The tinker in his burial tree was a wonder to the birds. The vultures that came by day to nose with their hooked beaks among his buttons and pockets like outrageous pets soon left him naked of his rags a
nd flesh alike. Black mandrake sprang beneath the tree as it will where the seed of the hanged falls and in spring a new branch pierced his breast and flowered in a green boutonniere perennial beneath his yellow grin. He took the sparse winter snows upon what thatch of hair still clung to his dried skull and hunters that passed that way never chanced to see him brooding among his barren limbs. Until wind had tolled the tinker's bones and seasons loosed them one by one to the ground below and alone his bleached and weathered brisket hung in that lonesome wood like a bone birdcage.
IN LATER YEARS he used to meet a blind man, ragged and serene, who spoke him a good day out of his constant dark. He overtook him tapping through the bright noon dust with his cane, his head erect in that air of wonder the blind wear. Holme would go by but now the blind man has stopped him with his greeting.
How you, said Holme.
Well as ever, said the blind man. Have ye a smoke?
No sir. I ain't.
Nary a-tall?
I don't have the habit.
Aye, said the blind man. He unbuttoned the bib of his overalls and brought forth tobacco. Well, he said, it's good to see the sun again ain't it.
Holme looked at the cups of blue phlegm which regarded him. It is, he said.
Aye. After so long a time. He trickled tobacco into the slender trough of paper his fingers held and put away the pouch.
It is a right pretty day, Holme said.
The blind man smiled. I know ye, he said. I've spoke afore with ye.
You might of, Holme said, I don't remember.
The blind man twisted up the ends of his cigarette and took it between his lips. Yes, he said. I've passed ye on these roads afore.
They's lots of people on the roads these days, Holme said.
Yes, the blind man said. I pass em ever day. People goin up and down in the world like dogs. As if they wasn't a home nowheres. But I knowed I'd seen ye afore.
Holme spat. I got to get on, he said.
Yes, the blind man said. Is they anything you need?
Need?
Anything you need.
I don't need nothin.
I always like to ast.
What are ye sellin?
I ain't sellin nothin. I'm at the Lord's work. He don't need your money.
It's good he don't need mine. I reckon you're some kind of a preacher.
No. No preacher. What is they to preach? It's all plain enough. Word and flesh. I don't hold much with preachin.
Holme smiled. What have you got to give? Old blind man like you astin folks what they need.
I don't know. Nobody's never said.
Well how would you expect to get it.
Just pray for it.
You always get what you pray for?
Yes. I reckon. I wouldn't pray for what wasn't needful. Would you?
I ain't never prayed. Why don't ye pray back your eyes?
I believe it'd be a sin. Them old eyes can only show ye what's done there anyways. If a blind man needed eyes he'd have eyes.
Still I believe you'd like to see your way.
What needs a man to see his way when he's sent there anyhow?
I got to get on, Holme said.
The blind man leaned one hand on the cane where he had rested it against his leg. He sucked on the cigarette and two jets of blue smoke slid from his thin nostrils and faded in the air. I heard a preacher in a town one time, he said. A healin preacher wanted to cure everbody and they took me up there. They was a bunch of us there all cripple folks and one old man they did claim had thowed down his crutches and they told it he could make the blind see. And they was a feller leapt up and hollered out that nobody knowed what was wrong with. And they said it caused that preacher to go away. But they's darksome ways afoot in this world and it may be he weren't no true preacher.
I got to get on, Holme said.
I always did want to find that feller, the blind man said. And tell him. If somebody don't tell him he never will have no rest.
I'll see ye, Holme said.
Aye, said the blind man. It might be we'll meet again sometime.
Holme raised a hand in inane farewell and set off down the road again. The blind man's cane softly tapping faded behind him. He went on, soundless with his naked feet, shambling, gracelorn, down out of the peaceful mazy fields, his toed tracks soft in the dust among the cratered shapes of horse and mule hoofs and before him under the high afternoon sun his shadow be-wandered in a dark parody of his progress. The road went on through a shadeless burn and for miles there were only the charred shapes of trees in a dead land where nothing moved save windy rifts of ash that rose dolorous and died again down the blackened corridors.
Late in the day the road brought him into a swamp. And that was all. Before him stretched a spectral waste out of which reared only the naked trees in attitudes of agony and dimly hominoid like figures in a landscape of the damned. A faintly smoking garden of the dead that tended away to the earth's curve. He tried his foot in the mire before him and it rose in a vulvate welt claggy and sucking. He stepped back. A stale wind blew from this desolation and the marsh reeds and black ferns among which he stood clashed softly like things chained. He wondered why a road should come to such a place.
Going back the way by which he came he met again the blind man tapping through the dusk. He waited very still by the side of the road, but the blind man passing turned his head and smiled upon him his blind smile. Holme watched him out of sight. He wondered where the blind man was going and did he know how the road ended. Someone should tell a blind man before setting him out that way.
Cormac McCarthy is the author of eleven novels. Among his honors are the National Book Award, the Pulitzer Prize, and the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Books by Cormac McCarthy
The Road
The Sunset Limited (a novel in dramatic form)
No Country for Old Men
Cities of the Plain
The Crossing
All the Pretty Horses
The Stonemason (a play)
The Gardener's Son (a screenplay)
Blood Meridian
Suttree
Child of God
Outer Dark
The Orchard Keeper
BOOKS BY CORMAC MCCARTHY
"McCarthy puts most other American writers to shame."
--The New York Times Book Review
THE ORCHARD KEEPER
Set in a small, remote community in rural Tennessee between the two world wars, this novel tells of John Wesley Rattner, a young boy, and Marion Sylder, an outlaw and bootlegger who, unbeknownst to either of them, has killed the boy's father. Together with Rattner's Uncle Ather, they enact a drama that seems born of the land itself.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72872-6 (trade)
978-0-307-76250-4 (eBook)
OUTER DARK
Outer Dark is a novel at once fabular and starkly evocative, set in an unspecified place in Appalachia around the turn of the century. A woman bears her brother's child, a boy, whom he leaves in the woods and tells her the baby died of natural causes. Discovering her brother's lie, she sets forth alone to find her son.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72873-3 (trade)
978-0-30776249-8 (eBook)
CHILD OF GOD
Child of God is a taut, chilling novel that plumbs the depths of human degradation. Falsely accused of rape, Lester Ballard--a violent, dispossessed man who haunts the hill country of East Tennessee--is released from jail and allowed to roam at will, preying on the population with his strange lusts.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72874-0 (trade)
978-0-307-76248-1 (eBook)
SUTTREE
This is the story of Cornelius Suttree, who has forsaken a life of privilege to live in a houseboat on the Tennessee River. Remaining on the margins of the outcast community--a brilliantly imagined collection of eccentrics, criminals, and squatters--he rises above the physical and human squalor with detachment, humor, and dignity
.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-73632-5 (trade)
978-0-307-76247-4 (eBook)
THE STONEMASON
The setting is Louisville, Kentucky, in the 1970s. The Telfairs are stonemasons and have been for generations. Ben Telfair has given up his education to apprentice himself to his grandfather, Papaw. Out of the love that binds these two men and the gulf that separates them from the Telfairs who have forsaken--or dishonored--the family trade, McCarthy has crafted a drama that bears all the hallmarks of his great fiction.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-76280-5
BLOOD MERIDIAN
This is an epic novel of the violence and depravity that attended America's westward expansion. Based on historical events that took place on the Texas-Mexico border in the 1850s, it traces the fortunes of the Kid, a fourteen-year-old Tennesseean who stumbles into a nightmarish world where Indians are being murdered and the market for their scalps is thriving.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-72875-7 (trade)
978-0-307-76252-8 (eBook)
ALL THE PRETTY HORSES
All the Pretty Horses tells of young John Grady Cole, the last of a long line of Texas ranchers. Across the border, Mexico beckons--beautiful and desolate, rugged and cruelly civilized. With two companions, he sets off on an idyllic, sometimes comic adventure, to a place where dreams are paid for in blood.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-74439-9 (trade)
978-0-307-48130-6 (eBook)
THE CROSSING
In the late 1930s, sixteen-year-old Billy Parham captures a she-wolf that has been marauding his family's ranch. Instead of killing it, he takes it back to the mountains of Mexico. With that crossing, he begins an arduous and dreamlike journey into a country where men meet like ghosts and violence strikes as suddenly as heat-lightning.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-76084-9 (trade)
978-0-307-76246-7 (eBook)
CITIES OF THE PLAIN
It is 1952 and John Grady Cole and Billy Parham are working as ranch hands in New Mexico. Their life is made up of trail drives and horse auctions and stories told by campfire light, a life they value because they know it is about to change forever.
Fiction/Literature/978-0-679-74719-2 (trade)