osc.am1.seventhson-第2部分

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　　Little　Peggy　ran　for　the　cabin　door　and　then　stopped　and　turned。　〃Oldpappy；　you're　the　nicest　grown…up　in　the　whole　world。〃
　　〃Your　papa　has　a　different　view　of　me；　but　that's　all　tied　up　with　another　hazel　rod　that　I　laid　hand　on　much　too　often。　Now　run　along。〃
　　She　stopped　again　right　before　she　closed　the　door。　〃You're　the　only　nice　grown…up！〃　She　shouted　it　real　loud；　halfway　hoping　that　they　could　hear　it　clear　inside　the　house。　Then　she　was　gone；　right　across　the　garden；　out　past　the　cow　pasture；　up　the　hill　into　the　woods；　and　along　the　path　to　the　spring　house。
　　
　　
　　Chapter　Two　　Wagon　People
　　
　　They　had　one　good　wagon；　these　folks　did；　and　two　good　horses　pulling　it。　One　might　even　suppose　they　was　prosperous；　considering　they　had　six　big　boys；　from　mansize　on　down　to　twins　that　had　wrestled　each　other　into　being　a　good　deal　stronger　than　their　dozen　years。　Not　to　mention　one　big　daughter　and　a　whole　passel　of　little　girls。　A　big　family。　Right　prosperous　if　you　didn't　know　that　not　even　a　year　ago　they　had　owned　a　mill　and　lived　in　a　big　house　on　a　streambank　in　west　New　Hampshire。　e　down　far　in　the　world；　they　had；　and　this　wagon　was　all　they　had　left　of　everything。　But　they　were　hopeful；　trekking　west　along　the　roads　that　crossed　the　Hio；　heading　for　open　land　that　was　free　for　the　taking。　If　you　were　a　family　with　plenty　of　strong　backs　and　clever　hands；　it'd　be　good　land；　too；　as　long　as　the　weather　was　with　them　and　the　Reds　didn't　raid　them　and　all　the　lawyers　and　bankers　stayed　in　New　England。
　　The　father　was　a　big　man；　a　little　run　to　fat；　which　was　no　surprise　since　millers　mostly　stood　around　all　day。　That　softness　in　the　belly　wouldn't　last　a　year　on　a　deepwoods　homestead。　He　didn't　care　much　about　that；　anyway　　he　had　no　fear　of　hard　work。　What　worried　him　today　was　his　wife；　Faith。　It　was　her　time　for　that　baby；　he　knew　it。　Not　that　she'd　ever　talk　about　it　direct。　Women　just　don't　speak　about　things　like　that　with　men。　But　he　knew　how　big　she　was　and　how　many　months　it　had　been。　Besides；　at　the　noon　stop　she　murmured　to　him；　〃Alvin　Miller；　if　there's　a　road　house　along　this　way；　or　even　a　little　broken…down　cabin；　I　reckon　I　could　use　a　bit　of　rest。〃　A　man　didn't　have　to　be　a　philosopher　to　understand　her。　And　after　six　sons　and　six　daughters；　he'd　have　to　have　the　brains　of　a　brick　not　to　get　the　drift　of　how　things　stood　with　her。　
　　So　he　sent　off　the　oldest　boy；　Vigor；　to　run　ahead　on　the　road　and　see　the　lay　of　the　land。
　　You　could　tell　they　were　from　New　England；　cause　the　boy　didn't　take　no　gun。　If　there'd　been　a　bushwhacker　the　young　man　never　would've　made　it　back；　and　the　fact　he　came　back　with　all　his　hair　was　proof　no　Red　had　spotted　him　　the　French　up　Detroit　way　were　paying　for　English　scalps　with　liquor　and　if　a　Red　saw　a　White　man　alone　in　the　woods　with　no　musket　he'd　own　that　White　man's　scalp。　So　maybe　a　man　could　think　that　luck　was　with　the　family　at　last。　But　since　these　Yankees　had　no　notion　that　the　road　wasn't　safe；　Alvin　Miller　didn't　think　for　a　minute　of　his　good　luck。
　　Vigor's　word　was　of　a　road　house　three　miles　on。　That　was　good　news；　except　that　between　them　and　that　road　house　was　a　river。　Kind　of　a　scrawny　river；　and　the　ford　was　shallow；　but　Alvin　Miller　had　learned　never　to　trust　water。　No　matter　how　peaceful　it　looks；　it'll　reach　and　try　to　take　you。　He　was　halfway　minded　to　tell　Faith　that　they'd　spend　the　night　this　side　of　the　river；　but　she　gave　just　the　tiniest　groan　and　at　that　moment　he　knew　that　there　was　no　chance　of　that。　Faith　had　borne　him　a　dozen　living　children；　but　it　was　four　years　since　the　last　one　and　a　lot　of　women　took　it　bad；　having　a　baby　so　late。　A　lot　of　women　died。　A　good　road　house　meant　women　to　help　with　the　birthing；　so　they'd　have　to　chance　the　river。
　　And　Vigor　did　say　the　river　wasn't　much。
　　
　　
　　Chapter　Three　　Spring　House
　　
　　The　air　in　the　spring　house　was　cool　and　heavy；　dark　and　wet。　Sometimes　when　little　Peggy　caught　a　nap　here；　she　woke　up　gasping　like　as　if　the　whole　place　was　under　water。　She　had　dreams　of　water　even　when　she　wasn't　here　that　was　one　of　the　things　that　made　some　folks　say　she　was　a　seeper　instead　of　a　torch。　But　when　she　dreamed　outside；　she　always　knew　she　was　dreaming。　Here　the　water　was　real。
　　Real　in　the　drips　that　formed　like　sweat　on　the　milkjars　setting　in　the　stream。　Real　in　the　cold　damp　clay　of　the　spring　house　floor。　Real　in　the　swallowing　sound　of　the　stream　as　it　hurried　through　the　middle　of　the　house。
　　Keeping　it　cool　all　summer　long；　cold　water　spilling　right　out　of　the　hill　and　into　this　place；　shaded　all　the　way　by　trees　so　old　the　moon　made　a　point　of　passing　through　their　branches　just　to　hear　some　good　old　tales。　That　was　what　little　Peggy　always　came　here　for；　even　when　Papa　didn't　hate　her。　Not　the　wetness　of　the　air；　she　could　do　just　fine　without　that。　It　was　the　way　the　fire　went　right　out　of　her　and　she　didn't　have　to　be　a　torch。　Didn't　have　to　see　into　all　the　dark　places　where　folks　hid　theirselfs。
　　From　her　they　hid　theirselfs　as　if　it　would　do　some　good。　Whatever　they　didn't　like　most　about　theirself　they　tried　to　tuck　away　in　some　dark　corner　but　they　didn't　know　how　all　them　dark　places　burned　in　little　Peggy's　eyes。　Even　when　she　was　so　little　that　she　spit　out　her　corn　mash　cause　she　was　still　hoping　for　a　suck；　she　knew　all　the　stories　that　the　folks　around　her　kept　all　hid。　She　saw　the　bits　of　their　past　that　they　most　wished　they　could　bury；　and　she　saw　the　bits　of　their　future　that　they　most　feared。
　　And　that　was　why　she　took　to　ing　up　here　to　the　spring　house。　Here　she　didn't　have　to　see　those　things。　Not　even　the　lady　in　Papa's　memory。　There　was　nothing　here　but　the　heavy　wet　dark　cool　air　to　quench　the　fire　and　dim　the　light　so　she　could　be　　just　for　a　few　minutes　in　the　day　　a　little　five…year…old　girl　with　a　straw　poppet　named　Bugy　and　not　even　have　to　think　about　any　of　them　grown…up　secrets。
　　I'm　not　wicked；　she　told　herself。　Again　and　again；　but　it　didn't　work　because　she　knew　she　was。
　　All　right　then；　she　said　to　herself；　I　am　wicked。　But　I　won't　be　wicked　anymore。　I'll　tell　the　truth　like　Papa　says；　or　I'll　say　nothing　at　all。
　　Even　at　five　years　old；　little　Peggy　knew　that　if　she　kept　that　vow；　she'd　be　better　off　saying　nothing。
　　So　she　said　nothing；　not　even　to　herself；　just　lay　there　on　a　mossy　damp　table　with　Bugy　clenched　tight　enough　to　strangle　in　her　fist。
　　Ching　ching　ching。
　　Little　Peggy　woke　up　and　got　mad　for　just　a　minute。
　　Ching　ching　ching。
　　Made　her　mad　because　nobody　said　to　her；　Little　Peggy；　you　don't　mind　if　we　talk　this　young　blacksmith　feller　into　settling　down　here；　do　you？　Not　at　all；　Papa；　she　would've　said　if　they'd　asked。　She　knew　what　it　meant　to　have　a　smithy。　It　meant　your　village　would　thrive；　and　folks　from　other　places　would　e；　and　when　they　came　there'd　be　trade；　and　where　there　was　trade　then　her　father's　big　house　could　be　a　forest　inn；　and　where　there　was　a　forest　inn　then　all　the　roads　would　kind　of　bend　a　little　just　to　pass　the　place；　if　it　wasn't　too　far　out　of　the　way　　little　Peggy　knew　all　that；　as　sure　as　the　children　of　farmers　knew　the　rhythms　of　the　farm。　A　road　house　by　a　smithy　was　a　road　house　that　would　prosper。　So　she　would've　said；　Sure　enough；　let　him　stay；　deed　him　land；　brick　his　chimney；　feed　him　free；　let　him　have　my　bed　so　I　have　to　double　up　with　Cousin　Peter　who　keeps　trying　to　peek　under　my　nightgown；　I'll　put　up　with　all　that　　just　as　long　as　you　don't　put　him　near　the　spring　house　so　that　all　the　time；　even　when　I　want　to　be　alone　with　the　water；　there's　that　whack　thump　hiss　roar；　noise　all　the　time；　and　a　fire　burning　up　the　sky　to　turn　it　black；　and　the　smell　of　charcoal　burning。　It　was　enough　to　make　a　body　wish　to　follow　the　stream　right　back　into　the　mountain　just　to　get　some　peace。
　　Of　course　the　stream　was　the　smart　place　to　put　the　blacksmith。　Except　for　water；　he　could've　put　his　smithy　anywheres　at　all。　The　iron　came　to　him　in　the　shipper's　wagon　clear　from　New　Netherland；　and　the　charcoal　　well；　there　was　plenty　of　farmers　willing　to　trade　charcoal　for　a　good　shoe。　But　water；　that's　what　the　smith　needed　that　nobody'd　bring　him；　so　of　course　they　put　him　right　down　the　hill　from　the　spring　house　where　his　ching　ching　ching　could　wake　her　up　and　put　the　fire　back　into　her　in　the　one　place　where　she　had　used　to　be　able　to　let　it　burn　low　and　go　almost　to　cold　wet　ash。
　　A　roar　of　thunder。
　　She　was　at　the　door　in　a　second。　Had　to　see　the　lightning。　Caught　just　the　last　shadow　of　the　light　but　she　knew　that　there'd　be　more。　It　wasn't　much　after　noon；　surely；　or　had　she　slept　all　day？　What　with　all　these　blackbelly　clouds　she　couldn't　tell　　it　might　as　well　be　the　last　minutes　of　dusk。　The　air　was　all　a…prickle　with　lightning　just　waiting　to　flash。　She　knew　that　feeling；　knew　that　it　meant　the　lightning'd　hit　close。
　　She　looked　down　to　see　if　the　blacksmith's　stable　was　still　full　of　horses。　It　was。　The　shoeing　wasn't　done；　the　road　would　turn　to　muck；　and　so　the　farmer　with　his　two　sons　from　out　West　Fork　way　was　stuck　here。　Not　a　chance　they'd　head　home　in　this；　with　lightning　ready　to　put　a　fire　in　the　woods；　or　knock　a　tree　down　on　them；　or　maybe　just　smack　them　a　good　one　and　lay　them　all　out　dead　in　a　circle　like　them　five　Quakers　they　still　was　talking　about　and　here　it　happened　back　in　'90　when　the　first　white　folks　came　to　settle　here。　People　talked　still　about　the　Circle　of　Five　and　all　that；　some　people　wondering　if　God　up　and　smashed　them　flat　so　as　to　shut　the　Quakers　up；　seeing　how　nothing　else　ever　could；　while　other　people　was　wondering　if　God　took　them　up　into　heaven　like　the　first　Lord　Protector　Oliver　Cromwell　who　was　smote　by　lightning　at　the　age　of　ninety…seven　and　just　disappeared。
　　No；　that　farmer　and　his　big　old　boys'd　stay　another　night。　Little　Peggy　was　an　innkeeper's　daughter；　wasn't　she？　Papooses　learnt　to　hunt；　pickaninnies　learnt　to　tote；　farmer　children　learnt　the　weather；　and　an　innkeeper's　daughter　learnt　which　folks　would　stay　the　night；　even　before　they　knew　it　right　theirselfs。
　　Their　horses　were　champing　in　the　stable；　snorting　and　war