When the cunning man finished his meal, using his hands and the spoon from his budget, he looked at Bynum Hardy again. Mostly the fellow held his palms out to the fire, but occasionally he turned his hands to warm the backs. His body appeared solid as a living man’s, but the cold internal glow defined parts which should have been in shadow.
Old Nathan took another swig from his water bottle. The last bite of ash cake hed like t’ stuck in his throat. . . .
He got up and stepped to the hearth, carrying the slab of poplar bark he’d cut for a plate. Bynum Hardy moved aside in a mannerly fashion, making room for the living man. His figure had no temperature Old Nathan could feel, neither as warm as life, nor cold like a corpse buried three months in the wet clay.
The fire had sunk to a few sawteeth of flame and coals reflecting back from white ash. The cunning man tossed the bark in and watched it flare into bright popping yellow. Bynum Hardy folded his arms, but he did not back away.
“If ye like,” Old Nathan said, “I’d throw another stick er two on the fire fer ye.”
No response. “Er you kin fix it the way ye choose, I reckon.”
The bark burned away to a twisted black scrap. The room seemed darker than before the quick flames had lighted it.
Bynum Hardy turned and said, “Thankee, but I reckon this’ll do me. You jist go about yer business.”
Old Nathan met the dead man’s eyes. “Myse’f,” he said, “I figger I’ll turn in. Hit’s been a long day.”
He opened his blanket roll, took off his boots, and settled down against a sidewall, away from both the fire and the rotten scraps of Bynum Hardy’s bed.
He didn’t guess he’d be able to sleep. Bedding down was the best way to keep from showing the fear that would otherwise consume him.
But sleep the cunning man did, looking back toward the settling fire and the crisply illuminated figure standing in front of it.
* * *
Old Nathan awoke.
It was nigh about midnight from the fire’s state. The hearth cast a patch of warmth into the air, but only the faintest glow suggested coals were still alive.
Bynum Hardy was walking toward the door, and his boots made no sound.
“Howdy,” the cunning man said.
The ghost image turned and looked at him. “Reckon I’ll go off, now,” he said in hollow tones. “Thankee fer the fire. I been mighty cold the past while.”
Hardy took another step toward the open door.
“I thought there was maybe a message ye wanted t’ speak,” Old Nathan said, supporting his torso with one arm. “Fer yer brother, it might be.”
Bynum Hardy turned again. “Not here,” he said. “You foller me t’ home, then I’ll give you a word t’ take t’ Bascom.”
“I understood this t’ be yer cabin,” Old Nathan said. He fetched his left boot forward in the dark and began to draw it onto his foot.
“Hain’t mine now,” said Bynum Hardy. “You foller me, and ye’ll git the word ye come fer.”
He went out the door. The cunning man hopped after him, pulling on his right boot.
It wasn’t a surprise, not really, to see Bynum Hardy disappear back into the well.
Old Nathan paused at the curb. He gripped the well rope, wishing he were younger; wishing—
No. He was where he chose to be, and he was the man he chose to be. He wouldn’t have it otherwise.
Hand over hand, Old Nathan climbed down into darkness.
* * *
Old Nathan’s head dropped below the level of the well curb. The world above him became a handful of gray blotches cast on greater blackness: patches where shingles missing from the shelter roof showed the sky. Some hint of light must remain to the heavens, though there had been no sign of it when the cunning man looked up before grasping the well rope.
He waited for the splash that meant Bynum Hardy had reached the surface of the water. He heard nothing but his own breath wheezing in the square stone confines of the well shaft.