The Wind Through the Keyhole (The Dark Tower 4.5)

I like Destry well enough, he thought, but I'd never in life be a farmer. Not with the Endless Forest so close, and so much of the world to see.

Nell lay a wall away, with her own uncomfortable thoughts. Mostly she wondered what their lives would be like if she refused Kells's offer and they were turned out on the land, away from the only place they'd ever known. What their lives would be like if the Barony Covenanter rode up on his tall black horse and they had nothing to give him.

The next day was even hotter, but Big Kells came wearing the same broadcloth coat. His face was red and shining. Nell told herself she didn't smell graf on his breath, and if she did, what of it? 'Twas only hard cider, and any man might take a drink or two before going to hear a woman's decision. Besides, her mind was made up. Or almost.

Before he could ask his question, she spoke boldly. As boldly as she was able, anyhap. "My boy reminds me that a rope slipped in church can't be unslipped."

Big Kells frowned, although whether it was the mention of the boy or the marriage-loop that fashed him, she could not tell. "Aye, and what of that?"

"Only will you be good to Tim and me?"

"Aye, good as I can be." His frown deepened. She couldn't tell if it was anger or puzzlement. She hoped for puzzlement. Men who could cut and chop and dare beasts in the deep wood often found themselves lost in affairs like this, she knew, and at the thought of Big Kells lost, her heart opened to him.

"Set your word on it?" she asked.

The frown eased. White flashed in his neatly trimmed black beard as he smiled. "Aye, by watch and by warrant."

"Then I say yes."

And so they were wed. That is where many stories end; it's where this one--sad to say--really begins.

There was graf at the wedding reception, and for a man who no longer drank spirits, Big Kells tossed a goodly amount down his gullet. Tim viewed this with unease, but his mother appeared not to notice. Another thing that made Tim uneasy was how few of the other woodsmen showed up, although it was Ethday. If he had been a girl instead of a boy, he might have noticed something else. Several of the women whom Nell counted among her friends were looking at her with expressions of guarded pity.

That night, long after midnight, he was awakened by a thump and a cry that might have been part of a dream, but it seemed to come through the wall from the room his mother now shared (true, but not yet possible to believe) with Big Kells. Tim lay listening, and had almost dropped off to sleep again when he heard quiet weeping. This was followed by the voice of his new steppa, low and gruff: "Shut it, can't you? You ain't a bit hurt, there's no blood, and I have to be up with the birdies."

The sounds of crying stopped. Tim listened, but there was no more talk. Shortly after Big Kells's snores began, he fell asleep. The next morning, while she was at the stove frying eggs, Tim saw a bruise on his mother's arm above the inside of her elbow.

"It's nothing," Nell said when she saw him looking. "I had to get up in the night to do the necessary, and bumped it on the bedpost. I'll have to get used to finding my way in the dark again, now that I'm not alone."

Tim thought, Yar--that's what I'm afraid of.

When the second Ethday of his married life came round, Big Kells took Tim with him to the house that now belonged to Baldy Anderson, Tree's other big farmer. They went in Kells's wood-wagon. The mules stepped lightly with no rounds or strakes of ironwood to haul; today there were only a few little piles of sawdust in the back of the wagon. And that lingering sweet-sour smell, of course, the smell of the deep woods. Kells's old place looked sad and abandoned with its shutters closed and the tall, unscythed grass growing up to the splintery porch slats.

"Once I get my gunna out'n it, let Baldy take it all for kindling, do it please 'im," Kells grunted. "Fine wi' me."

As it turned out, there were only two things he wanted from the house--a dirty old footrest and a large leather trunk with straps and a brass lock. This was in the bedroom, and Kells stroked it as if it were a pet. "Can't leave this," he said. "Never this. 'Twas my father's."

Tim helped him get it outside, but Kells had to do most of the work. The trunk was very heavy. When it was in the wagonbed, Big Kells leaned over with his hands on the knees of his newly (and neatly) mended trousers. At last, when the purple patches began to fade from his cheeks, he stroked the trunk again, and with a gentleness Tim had as yet not seen applied to his mother. "All I own stowed in one trunk. As for the house, did Baldy pay the price I should have had?" He looked at Tim challengingly, as if expecting an argument on this subject.

"I don't know," Tim said cautiously. "Folk say sai Anderson's close."

Kells laughed harshly. "Close? Close? Tight as a virgin's cootchie is what he is. Nar, nar, I got crumbs instead of a slice, for he knew I couldn't afford to wait. Help me tie up this tailboard, boy, and be not sluggardly."

Tim was not sluggardly. He had his side of the tailboard roped tight before Kells had finished tying his in a sloppy ollie-knot that would have made his father laugh. When he was finally done, Big Kells gave his trunk another of those queerly affectionate caresses.

"All in here now, all I have. Baldy knew I had to have silver before Wide Earth, didn't he? Old You Know Who is coming, and he'll have his hand out." He spat between his old scuffed boots. "This is all your ma's fault."

"Ma's fault? Why? Didn't you want to marry her?"

"Watch your mouth, boy." Kells looked down, seemed surprised to see a fist where his hand had been, and opened his fingers. "You're too young to understand. When you're older, you'll find out how women can get the good of a man. Let's go on back."

Halfway to the driving seat, he stopped and looked across the stowed trunk at the boy. "I love yer ma, and that's enough for you to be going on with."

And as the mules trotted up the village high s

treet, Big Kells sighed and added, "I loved yer da', too, and how I miss 'im. 'Tain't the same wi'out him beside me in the woods, or seein Misty and Bitsy up the trail ahead of me."

At this Tim's heart opened a little to the big, slump-shouldered man with the reins in his hands--in spite of himself, really--but before the feeling had any chance to grow, Big Kells spoke again.

"Ye've had enough of books and numbers and that weirdy Smack woman. She with her veils and shakes--how she manages to wipe her arse after she shits is more than I'll ever know."

Tim's heart seemed to clap shut in his chest. He loved learning things, and he loved the Widow Smack--veil, shakes, and all. It dismayed him to hear her spoken of with such crude cruelty. "What would I do, then? Go into the woods with you?" He could see himself on Da's wagon, behind Misty and Bitsy. That would not be so bad. No, not so bad at all.

Kells barked a laugh. "You? In the woods? And not yet twelve?"

"I'll be twelve next m--"

"You won't be big enough to lumber on the Ironwood Trail at twice that age, for'ee take after yer ma's side of things, and will be Sma' Ross all yer life." That bark of laughter again. Tim felt his face grow hot at the sound of it. "No, lad, I've spoke a place for'ee at the sawmill. You ain't too sma' to stack boards. Ye'll start after harvest's done, and before first snow."

"What does Mama say?" Tim tried to keep the dismay out of his voice and failed.

"She don't get aye, no, or maybe in the matter. I'm her husband, and that makes me the one to decide." He snapped the reins across the backs of the plodding mules. "Hup!"

Tim went down to Tree Sawmill three days later, with one of the Destry boys--Straw Willem, so called for his nearly colorless hair. Both were hired on to stack, but they would not be needed for yet awhile, and only part-time, at least to begin with. Tim had brought his father's mules, which needed the exercise, and the boys rode back side by side.

"Thought you said your new step-poppa didn't drink," Willem said, as they passed Gitty's--which at midday was shuttered tight, its barrelhouse piano silent.