Old Nathan rubbed his thumb across the lichen, eliminating the character. The sky reverted to the bright afternoon normalcy from which the cunning man’s art had dragged it briefly.
“Thet’s t’day and t’morry,” Old Nathan said. “Don’t reckon we need fear a storm fer thet while.”
“You know what you know, Nathan,” the old woman said. She shivered again. Her hand rested on the rock as she gazed out over the valley.
Old Nathan settled his broad-brimmed hat. “Waal . . .” he said.
Sarah looked at him sharply. “Ye needn’t t’ go, Nathan Ridgeway,” she said. “I jest cloomb up t’ look from a high place. Hit’s a thing I do . . . but I don’t see you here, ez a rule.”
The cunning man shrugged. The cardinals had resumed their feeding, commenting in griping tones on the quality of the late pokeberries. The humans had shown themselves to be no threat, and therefore of no interest. . . .
“Sometimes,” Old Nathan said in the direction of the far horizon, “I think I might move on west. No pertikaler cause. Don’t reckon I’ll iver do it.”
“Thet girl you had back along b’fore ye went off t’ the war,” Sarah said, also facing the western end of the valley. “Slowly, her name was. Ye think on her, iver?”
“Mebbe,” said Old Nathan. “Sometimes, I reckon. But thet’s over and done long since.”
The sun was still near zenith, but its rays had little warmth now in late fall. When Old Nathan left the shelter of the outcrop to walk back to his cabin—he hadn’t saddled the mule, hadn’t wanted the beast’s company or any company—the trail would be chilly.
Darkness would not be long in coming.
“My datter-in-law, Ellie . . .” Sarah Ransden said. She glanced at Old Nathan. “I b’lieve ye’ve met her?”
Old Nathan nodded toward the horizon. “I hev.”
“Ellie reminds me a powerful lot uv Slowly,” Sarah continued. Her tones were flat.
She turned her head away. “I don’t see Ellie much.” Bitterness tinged her voice. “Nor my son neither, not since he moved out. He allus figgered I should uv left Chance Ransden myse’f, ‘stid uv waitin’ till Cullen druv him out with an axe handle an’ him jest a boy. Cull don’t understand what hit is fer a woman married to a feller like Chance Ransden—”
She turned to meet Old Nathan’s eyes, for the cunning man had turned also. “—and it could be thet I did do wrong, fer Cull and myse’f both. The good Lord knows I hain’t been lucky with men, Nathan Ridgeway.”
Old Nathan snorted. “I hain’t been lucky with people, Sary,” he said. “But I reckon the most of thet’s my own doing.”
His thumb had rubbed a patch of limestone free of lichen. He wanted to leave, but that would mean moving past the woman and he didn’t much care to do that either. In the forest above, a squirrel berated a crow for startling him, and the crow offered to shit in the squirrel’s mouth if the critter didn’t shut it. Life went on.
“Chance warn’t a bad man,” Sarah Ransden said in a tone that reminded Old Nathan of the days when they had been children together. “Only thar was a divil in him. I thought I was blest ez an angel that he picked me, him so handsome and a sight younger. But the divil rode Chance Ransden, harder an’ harder iver’ day till the last time he tried t’ take a strap t’ Cull . . .”
She stiffened. In a flat, age-cracked voice she concluded, “Thet war the last I saw Chance Ransden, ten year since. Figgered he run off t’ the Neills, he were thick ez thieves with thim. But I niver heard word one uv him agin. Nowadays, I don’t reckon I will.”
“I reckon I’ll be movin’ on now,” Old Nathan said. He paused to clear his throat. “Good t’ see you agin, Sary.”
He stepped toward the woman. Instead of edging back to let him by, she put a hand on Old Nathan’s arm. Her fingers, tanned and sinewy, stood out against his faded homespun shirt like tree roots crawling over gray rock.