Woodsburner by John Pipkin Read Free Book Online Page B

the cataclysm. He waits to be smashed, swallowed, pulverized. He waits for his bones to be ripped from his flesh and stacked before him. He waits to feel the grip of God's vengeful hand, waits for his heart to burst under the pressure. He waits for proof, confirmation in the form of condemnation. But nothing happens. Caleb opens his eyes and exhales. The women are still there, and now they do not seem like witches or devils any more than did any of the old women he regularly met on the steps of his former church. He starts to say something but is interrupted by the astonished cries of recognition from the members of the congregation. They point to the woods, and their astonishment mingles with disappointment. The light is not a benediction, not a miracle of the Holy Ghost at all, but something even more unthinkable. The woods are on fire.
    Caleb hears the old women mutter sadly behind him.
    “Strasny. Strasny.”
    He looks at the smoke curling above the treetops, hoping that he might still find some sign, something to acknowledge his trespass, but what he sees forming in the rising smoke is nothing so encouraging as that. What he sees staring down at him is the same terrified visage that has been plaguing his waking dreams for years.

5

Henry David

    David Henry (now Henry David) runs as fast as his lungs allow. He stumbles over roots extruded like fat gray knuckles, swats the low branches scratching his face. They wasted no time discussing it. Edward took the boat, paddling downriver toward the center of town, and Henry set off on foot, running through the untouched woods, the fire crawling behind him, taking its time, taunting him. Whoever arrives first will rouse the citizens of Concord. The unthinkable loss of the woods will surely spur their fellow Concordians to action, Henry believes. At the very least, he feels confident that the venerable name of Edward's father will wield authority enough to summon volunteers. Aided by the current, Edward's route will likely be faster, but they hope that Henry will encounter someone along the way who might help hold back the flames until Edward can return with more men.
    After running a quarter of a mile, Henry is already gasping for breath, but he does not stop. Desperation pursues him, driving him over uneven terrain thickly cluttered with moldering leaves and twigs and fallen branches, the composts of seasons past. And as Henry runs, chest heaving and arms flailing, the effort reminds him of another moment of instruction, not a childhood punishment, this, but a penalty incurred by his own misjudgment. His third year at Harvard—a place where he stood out in his old green jacket while all others wore the required black that he could notafford—lonely for the company of his family, he left Cambridge and set out for Concord on foot. The way was long, and before he was halfway home his feet were swollen and blistered so badly that he removed his shoes and continued the remaining miles in tattered stockings. He arrived with feet torn and bloodied. He limped for weeks afterward. Yet this did not diminish his affinity for walking, did not at all lessen his ardor for life in the wilderness. If there was a lesson to be learned from his blistered feet, it was only that punishment could exist independently of guilt, in which case it was simply misfortune. But the lesson of misfortune is a portion of knowledge like any other, likewise awakened by experience and etched upon the tabula rasa, which is not quite so blank as many have thought.
    What lesson then, Henry asks himself, is his current experience awakening? He knew when he struck the match that there had been no rain for weeks. He knew the wind was strong, the grass dry, the woods asleep. These are not bits of innate wisdom; these are not universal truths that transcend experience; these are the lessons that one pieces together from living. To not know them is not to be guilty or reprehensible, only ignorant. But at what point does