Who Has Seen the Wind Page 3

  “Oh,” Sean’s voice dropped to crooning level. With a magnificent effort at restraint he relaxed into his chair. “I will not argue it with you. I’m not like some that have to always be havin’ the last word.”

  “I do not!”

  “Oh, yes, you do.”

  “You have just said it yourself,” accused the grandmother.

  “The hell I did!”

  “There — you’ve done it again.”

  Sean fixed his eye upon the grandmother with a significant nod of his head, leaving her thus with the guilt of having said the last word. His face reddened in the punishing silence as he watched her calmly working over the middy upon the patient Brian. He threw restraint to the winds. “Last goddam word or no last goddam word, I wouldn’t put that — that — thing upon a dead goddam gopher!”

  Without a word the grandmother reached behind her for the cane by her chair. She left the room. Brian looked up to his Uncle’s face with plain worship in his eyes.

  “I was out on the prairie today,” he said.

  “Were you now,” said Sean.

  “Yes, and I saw a woman.”

  “On the prairie?” Sean took him upon his broad knee.

  “No. She was at the house. I’m going tomorrow. It didn’t make any gum, Uncle Sean. It swallowed.” He opened his mouth to show Sean. The uncle gave him more wheat.

  “Sort of make more spit as you chew it,” advised Sean.

  He looked down at the boy upon his knee. “Did you see the little man while you were on the prairie?”

  “No,” said Brian. “I saw a boy but he wasn’t little. Tell about the little man, Uncle Sean.”

  “Saw him just the day before yesterday,” said the uncle, laying his pipe upon the table. “Monday it was. He popped out of a gopher hole in my south forty. I’d just climbed down from the rod weeder to untangle her, and there he was, standing in front of a Roosian thistle — wearin’ two-inch overhawls and with a rabbit’s foot fob to his watch. ‘God bless this fine summer fallow and us two that’s on it,’ he sez, ‘an’ good mornin’.’

  “Well, I don’t make a hobby out of talkin’ to little men standin’ about as high as a sprig of pig weed and picking their teeth with the fine hair off a crocus nearby. I stood there without sayin’ a word for a minute, then I sez, ‘Good mornin’. You’re a stranger around here are you?’ ‘Oh, no,’ he sez, ‘I come to the districk in eighty-five — after they hung Looie Riel for startin’ that rebellion.’ ‘Not much here then,’ I sez.

  “‘No town at all,’ he sez. ‘Just the river an’ little green frogs hoppin’ up an’ down on the banks. The town came later.’

  “‘By the way it jumps on its r’s, yer voice sounds familiar,’ I sez.

  “‘Does it?’ he sez.

  “‘Yes,’ I sez. ‘You wouldn’t be a County Down little man, would you?’

  “‘I am,’ he sez.

  “Well, we talked an’ it turned out he come over third class — spent some time in Ontario, then come West to the end of the steel — the C.P.R. wasn’t finished in them days. From there he come on a three-gaited sorrel grasshopper that went lame in the Moose Mountain country. He turned him loose an’ come the rest of the way on foot.

  “‘What the hell made you pick this country?’ I asked him.

  “‘I liked the look of her in them days,’ he sez.

  “‘Look at her now,’ I sez.

  “‘You look,’ sez he, ‘she gives me the heartburn!’ An’ with that he —”

  Sean looked up as the hallway door opened and Gerald O’Connal entered. Like Sean, Gerald was one of the red O’Connals, and like Sean too he was well over six feet, but there the similarity ended. Gerald’s hair was a dark auburn; his face was clean shaven, his skin showing a faint underblush of red, his blue eyes having the lashless look about them that often goes with red hair. Whereas Sean was the possessor of a volatile temper, which had never truly subsided during the dry years of the late twenties and this heartbreaking one of the thirties, Gerald was a quiet, slow smiling and almost shy individual. There was fifteen years’ difference in their ages, a difference which gave to the rough Sean a feeling of protectiveness for his younger brother; at the same time he stood in awe of Gerald with his university education, his fine business and his fine home.

  “And how’s the baby?” said Sean letting Brian off his knee.

  “Not so good,” said Brian’s father. “Svarich was around to see him yesterday. God — I — hope he pulls through it all right!”

  “He will,” boomed Sean. He stood up. One broad, freckled hand with gold-red hairs on its back, gripped his brother’s shoulder. “I — if there’s anything I can — Gerald.”

  “Thanks, Sean.”

  “One hell of a good toot? I’ve got a crock out in the car.”

  “What’s a toot, Uncle Sean?”

  “No thanks, Sean.”

  “He’ll be all right. Isn’t going to do any good to get yer britchin’ all tangled up. He’ll be all right.”

  “I hope so. Will you stay for supper?”

  “No,” said Sean. “And there’s reasons fer that. The old — Mrs. MacMurray ain’t — I’ll be gettin’ out to the farm.”

  “How’s it going?” asked Gerald, taking a cigar from his vest pocket.

  The concern that had been in Sean’s eyes was replaced for a moment by a sudden and intense light as his mind went back to the afternoon when he had stood on the edge of his south forty acres of wheat burnt brown before its time, rolling in long shallow waves as the hot wind passed through it. In the course of the drought years Sean had changed from a bewildered man watching dry winds lick up the top soil from his land to a man with a message. He was the keeper of the Lord’s Vineyard, literally.

  And now, as he often did, he launched into one of his evangelistic denunciations.

  “Awful! She’s plum awful, Gerald! Stupid!” he cried. “They never heard a strip farmin’ an’ they don’t wanta hear! Plant yer crops, I tell ’em, in strips acrosst the prevailin’ winds — fight the wind an’ fight the driftin’ — stop clawin’ her plumb back fer wheat or oats or barley or flax! Farm her with yer hearts an’ brains, you stubble-jumpin’ sons of a hunyacks! Git off yer black prats an’ raise some pigs an’ cattle too! Fergit yer goddam little red tractors an’ yer goddam yella wheeled cars an’ yer trips to Washington an’ California an’ Oregon!

  “Jist look at her — creased an’ pocked an’ cracked — no grass to hold the top soil down! That’s what happens when you crop her out an’ away fer the winter — then back agin in the spring to scratch at her agin — on agin — off agin an’ away agin! You wanta travel an’ so does she! I seen her travellin’ on a first class ticket by air — she’s bin to the coast with you — a thousand million sections of her — black clouds a dust blacker than all yer greedy souls — lifted up an’ travellin’ — travellin’ clear to Jesus!”

  Brian stared open-mouthed at his Uncle.

  “Brian!”

  The grandmother stood grim in the doorway. “Come here now! Yer bread and milk’s ready!”

  Still under the hypnotic influence of his Uncle’s voice, Brian moved slowly towards the doorway.

  * * *

  The day after his visit to the prairie, Brian stood upon a chair in the breakfast-room. His grandmother was going to be bossy again, he supposed. He looked down at the porridge cooking upon the stove. When he had come home late the day before, she had said nothing to him; and although she had not looked directly at him, he had seen that her mouth, combed with creases above and below, was tightly drawn across her face. She had not asked him to wash his hands; she had simply set a plate of bread and milk before him.

  When porridge cooked, it went bup bup, very slowly at first, then faster; there were old men’s mouths opening and closing as it boiled.

  Brian heard the door open; he looked up to see his father enter. He stood a moment just inside the room without seeming to be aware of Brian’s presence.

&
nbsp; “See the little old men, Dad,” said Brian.

  His father looked over to him and upon his face was a strained and worried look. “Not this morning, Spalpeen.” He hurried out of the back door, with his hat in his hand.

  The baby was not better, decided Brian. It had been very sick when he had got home last night; he knew that because no one had come to tuck him in.

  For a long time he had lain listening to the night noises that stole out of the dark to him. Distant he had heard the sound of grown-up voices casual in the silence, welling up almost to spilling over, then subsiding. The cuckoo clock had poked the stillness nine times; the house cracked its knuckles, and the night wind stirring through the leaves of the poplar just outside his room on the third floor strengthened in its intensity until it was wild at his screen.

  He had thought again of the strange boy on the prairie and felt, as he did, a stirring of excitement within himself, a feeling of intimacy elusive as the pale perfume of a violet. The wind cried long at the eavestroughing outside and was suddenly sibilant at the screen; remembrance of the boy went glimmering away as a reflection in water disappears when wind ruffles the surface. The voice of the wind rose higher, a frightening, lonely sound fading into nothingness. He threw back the covers. He got out of bed. When it came again, he wouldn’t be there.

  He crossed the hall in front of his grandmother’s room, then descended the stairs to the second floor. Their light was on. The brightness had leaked out under their door. He pushed it open slightly to peek in. He could see his father’s broad back with suspenders running over the shoulders. His mother, dark and small, stood by the crib with the blanket tent over it, and on the hot plate a steaming kettle. His mother was holding the baby with one small arm out-flung and hanging limp.

  “I’d better get Svarich,” his father was saying.

  His mother continued to look into the baby’s face.

  “If we could only do something . . . !” Brian’s father said.

  Then, although he couldn’t see his father after he had moved out of line with the crack in the door, he heard him say jerkily, “I’ll cut out through the back — no — better phone — get him to drink something!”

  “He can’t keep it down.”

  Brian had started back through the darkness to his bed where the wind waited for him. He fell asleep thinking of the boy on the prairie.

  * * *

  “Get down from that chair!”

  She was going to be bossy again today. Several times, as she put wood in the stove, as she poured the cream off the milk and dished out his porridge, she told him to be still.

  The first mouthful of oatmeal was hot; he reached for the cooling milk. He made a gutter with his spoon, deep to the bottom of his plate. When God ate His porridge He had a dish as big as the prairie. He squirted milk onto it from a long hose; if it was hot he turned a cooling wind on it. He waded through His oatmeal. He had rubber boots for that, white rubber boots for wading through His prairie of oatmeal porridge. He didn’t let the sheep pups get their feet milky; like God’s, their feet were quite dry. They would all be sorry when he got back from God’s House. He began to eat his porridge.

  “Are ye not through yet?” She was back again.

  “I’m nearly.” She would squeal out loud when God got a hold of her.

  “Outside with ye, boy.”

  “The baby’s still keeping on being ill, I suppose.”

  The lines on his grandmother’s face softened. “Poor wee thing,” she said. “It looks as though his time has come.”

  “He’s going to Heaven?”

  “Aye. Away with ye now. Ye must not come to the house till noon. Yer squealin’ —”

  “I don’t squeal!”

  His grandmother picked up the empty dish before him.

  * * *

  Brian had to knock twice at the brown house by the church before anyone came to the door. A man opened it, and Brian’s eyes went immediately to the pince-nez glasses with their black cord looping down his vest.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m visiting God today.”

  “Oh,” the man said and smiled a slow smile that made round muscle curves of his cheeks. “I’m at breakfast right now, but I think we could make it after another piece of toast. Whose boy are you?”

  “My dad’s. I’m Brian.”

  “Brian who?”

  “Brian Sean MacMurray O’Connal. What’s your name?”

  “John Hewlett Hislop,” said the minister, “B.A., B.D.”

  “She wouldn’t let me look at the little old men.”

  “Wouldn’t she now?”

  “No, she wouldn’t. God better kill her.”

  “I don’t think He’s very likely to do that.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Toast? Four — ordinary days,” Mr. Hislop said. “Five — Sundays.” He placed his hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Come inside.”

  Mrs. Hislop was sitting at the kitchen table. Brian waited impatiently while the minister ate another piece of toast. He ate it noisily as Brian’s father always did; he dribbled marmalade on his black pants. His wife took it off with a knife that turned out to be the butter knife so that she had succeeded in buttering his leg. Hr. Hislop rubbed it in with a damp cloth. He got up. “Where are the keys, Dear?”

  “Hanging behind the front door — or on the hall table,” she said. “Look in the top drawer of the sewing-machine — I can’t — they might be on the mantel. I don’t remember exactly where I put them after Mrs. Abercrombie borrowed them for Auxiliary.”

  By the time the keys were found, Brian could hardly contain himself. He ran down the house steps and up those of the church. As he looked through the keys on the ring, Mr. Hislop said, “I can’t seem to go so fast on four slices.”

  “Eat porridge,” Brian told him, “and hurry, please.”

  They crossed a short hallway and entered the church.

  Through the stained glass window the morning sunshine streamed, a fluted bar of light shearing the church dusk. Drifting motes travelled from outer darkness, across the light, and into nothingness again. Flies which had been giving the silence a vibrant edge, flew into the light, had bright life, and lost it.

  Their footsteps stopped echoing through the empty church. Brian looked up to the window’s blue and ruby glow.

  “How do you like it?” Mr. Hislop’s voice seemed to bounce off the quiet.

  “I don’t see any sheep — or sheep pups.”

  “They only come here once a week,” said the minister.

  “Is God busy right now?”

  “Yes. He’s busy. Just what did you have in mind?”

  “Where — where is He? That’s just His picture — all grapes and bloody.”

  “Lemon coloured too,” pointed out Mr. Hislop. “Why do you want to see —”

  “What are those — with things to their backs — wings?”

  “Angels,” said Mr. Hislop.

  “And wherever they go they fly there — all the time up in the sky, and there’s sunshine, and it’s blue, and Heaven’s where God is. He’s in Heaven — that’s just like a picture of Him — isn’t it?”

  The minister nodded.

  “He has lots of fun.” Brian turned. “He has lots of fun up there.”

  “He looks after things.”

  “Does He? What things?”

  “Flowers — birds — people — things. He makes meadow larks sing. If an ant climbs a grass blade — a — a grasshopper spits tobacco juice — that’s God.”

  “Spiders and buffalo beans?”

  “When a butterfly winks his wings — that’s God too,” said Hislop. “Lady bugs, kittens, pups, gophers, they’re all —”

  “Trees — trees — does He do trees?”

  “He makes leaves from buds — men from boys. He hands out the colours and the sounds and tastes and feels. He makes hungry — loving — sleeping — waking —”

  “Stomach-aches?”

  “—
birth — death — towns — prairies and tumbleweeds.”

  “Everything?”

  Mr. Hislop nodded.

  “Roosters — carrots — Joe Pivott’s horses — the little old men — the — the boy on the prairie?”

  The minister looked puzzled. “The boy on the prairie?”

  “He’s on the prairie — that’s where he is — he’s bare feet.”

  “Yes — I — God made him.”

  “He doesn’t live in a house — I’m not going to live in any house any more — I don’t have to if I don’t want to. The boy has — I wish I had prairie hair. He has wind on him all the time — it gets in his hair.” Brian was silent a moment while he stared up at the window. “They’ll get their feet smudged. You — could He fix it for me to have wings?”

  “Why — I —”

  “What are their wings made of?”

  “Feathers,” said the minister, “I think.”

  “Their nests are white too. They lay very white eggs. I don’t suppose there are any little boy angels like I am?”

  “There are some. When a little boy dies, he becomes a boy angel.”

  “Oh,” said Brian.

  Outside, the sunlight was bright in Brian’s eyes; he stood on the church steps a moment, thanked Mr. Hislop, then with the sunlight not so bright, he started home.

  Mr. Hislop, herder of God’s Presbyterian sheep, watched Brian as far as the corner; he turned to the house, then through to the back where the lawn-mower waited. As he pushed it ahead of him over the back lawn, he thought of the boy. Something had been proved, he supposed. He bent down to extricate a piece of twine that had wound itself up in one of the mower wheels. He straightened up. Digby wouldn’t agree. He stared down at the lawn-mower. Too bad Digby wasn’t here; be rather nice to squat down in the poplar’s shade and talk. Digby might even push the lawn mower a couple of rounds.

  He sat down in the grass and stared out over the untidy yard. No two ways about it; it was messy with its litter of papers, its grass growing rank along the edges, with its old bones that visiting dogs had left. It had offended Mrs. Abercrombie to the point of her mentioning it to his wife as she left church last Sunday. The old girl had her knife into him all right.