Текст книги "The Pesthouse"

Автор книги: Jim Crace

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Four

Jackson had taken a liking to the modest town, with its smoke and smells and the clamor of voices, livestock and tools. Even though he had arrived at its boundary fences a little after dark, a few trading stalls were still set up, warmed and lit by braziers and lanterns, where he was greeted by dogs, his palms and tongue inspected for infection by gatekeepers, and told at once what the tariffs were – how much he’d have to pay to cross their land, the cost of food and shelter for the night, the onward ferry fee. He would be welcome as a guest if his face was free of rashes, if he wasn’t seeking charity, if he didn’t try to win the short-term favors of a local woman, and if he put any weapons – and any bad language – into their safekeeping until he traveled on. Weapons, rashes, charity, and short-term favors of any kind were “off the menu,” he was told. But otherwise, they had good beds, fresh bread, sweet water, and easy passage to the other bank “for anyone prepared to keep the peace and pay the price.” What had he to offer in return? He had only his coat to trade, he told them, and any labor that they might require of him during the few days that it would take his brother, Franklin, to recover from his exaggerated laming.

All the traders at the gates seemed interested in his piebald coat and gathered around him, admiring his mother’s stitching and marveling at the immodest pattern. But their interest was mostly an excuse to question their oversized visitor and stare at him. None would purchase the coat, no matter how little he wanted in exchange. It was too grand for them. Nobody they knew was tall or outlandish enough for such a garment, they explained, and there was little likelihood that another man of such height and in need of protection against the cold and rain would pass through their community. Nevertheless, the traders were careful and flattering in their dealings with Jackson Lopez, as strangers always were, he’d found. His height and strength earned him promises of work in exchange for lodging: there were sacks of grain to stack and store for winter in the dry lofts, and as ever, there was wood to cut and sewage to be carted out, all familiar tasks. They even promised him a single bed. For once he wouldn’t have to share his body space with Franklin.

Jackson need never sleep with his brother again. He was free to stop just one night in Ferrytown and then move on alone the next day, unencumbered. He was tempted to, or certainly he’d played out the idea as he’d come down the hill, still irritated by the unwelcome waste of time.

His brother had been a constraint even before his knee had let them down. Younger brothers often are. They’re the sneaks who tell your parents who broke the bowl or lamed the mare or stole the fruit. They’re the ones who hold you up, pleading caution, wanting home. They’re the ones who’d choose to go roundabout Robert to avoid danger rather than to smell it out and face up boldly – and unblushingly, as Jackson always would – to the argument, the snake, the bear, the cliff face, or the enemy. And older brothers have no privacy, unlike older sisters, for whom privacy is considered fundamental. No, the firstborn males are expected to share their blankets with all the younger ones, and share the work, and entertain the others in the evenings with the light of just the single candle, and travel – even migrate! – in a pack, as if no future were possible except in the others’ company. It certainly was dead right, that traditional warning to anyone with itchy feet, that there is no better way of getting to resent a friend, whether it’s a brother or a neighbor, than by traveling with him.

“You take good care of him,” his mother had instructed every time they’d left the farm buildings for a day of work, all the way through his childhood and adolescence. And those had been almost her final words to Jackson when her sons had set off toward the boats two months previously. “You take good care of him.” She still saw Franklin as a boy who needed to be tied by ropes to someone bigger and more trustworthy. She hadn’t said, “And you take good care of yourself.” Perhaps he ought to start. Walking down the hill alone, at his own pace, had been an unexpected pleasure that he might happily prolong, on this side of the water and beyond. He’d sleep on it. He’d make up his mind once he’d tested the local hospitality and found someone to trade with him. No matter what he decided – return to Franklin and that maddening laugh of his (as seemed dishearteningly inevitable) or hurry on (the thrilling fantasy) – he had to freshen his or their supplies of food.

As it happened, while Jackson was walking in past the tetherings toward the guesthouse, savoring his recent freedom and the prospect of his first good meal for many days, the boy called Nash was on his way to begin his night of caretaking with the local and passage animals. He was wheeling a smoking barrow with a cargo of glowing stove stones from the family grate bedded in earth to keep him warm. He had pushed some sheets of thin cloth up the back of his shirt as well, but he still expected to be cold, especially in the period just before sunup, and on that night, at least, he expected to be wet. He could smell the coming rain, and the bats, always trustworthy forecasters of a storm, were out unusually early in search of rain-shy insects.

So when the immense man in the surprising coat asked him to point out the roof of the guesthouse and where the clothing broker lived, an opportunity was spotted and a deal was soon struck. Jackson parted with the coat, and Nash set aside his wheelbarrow and hurried briefly to his family yard to provide the dried fruit, the pork, the leather water bag, and the apple juice that he had traded with this astounding visitor, who seemed less astounding, shorter even, as soon as he pulled off his outerwear, kissed it farewell as if it were a friend, and draped it around the boy’s narrow shoulders. Nash set off for the tetherings again, but slowly. The coat, twice too long, was a greater hindrance even than the heavy wheelbarrow full of earth and stones. Nevertheless, these were joyful moments for a ten-year-old – except that he felt anxious. He’d been overeager to win the good opinion of the giant and exchanged too many useful things for something inexplicable. Inexplicable to his parents and neighbors, at least. He’d been selfish, too. A coat serves only its owner (although in this rare instance, four small boys and their dogs could easily find shelter under it). Nash would have to spend the night perfecting his excuses. But for the moment he was glad of the opportunity, as the final strangers of the day passed by, to parade his new encumbrance.

Jackson felt the evening chill at once, but he was liberated, lighter in himself. He’d left his ma behind at last and distanced himself a little from his brother. The coat had been her manhood gift to him. In richer times. They’d feasted on four sibling goats with all the other families and she had scraped and tanned the hides to make his gift, which she said – too frequently – would last him a lifetime. It would outlast him. Jackson was certain that if she were to imagine him now and wonder how he and Franklin might have fared, the coat would be a sure part of it. Now he was beyond imagining, and glad of that.

The meal that night was not as grand as he had hoped, although the usual country protocols were followed closely before the food was served, raising expectations. Those eating had to wash their hands at the canteen door in water that, after passing through two hundred hands dirtied by the journey, smelled of horsehair, sweat, and rope and looked as brown as tea. And for at least the second time that day (for news of Margaret’s illness had made the Ferrytowners vigilant and fussy) they were all inspected for rashes or livid spots before they were allowed to take their places. The women had the best benches, on the wall side of the tables. The men sat in the central gangway, with nothing to support their backs. Their children and any adolescent boy too young to grow a beard gathered on their haunches, on mats to the side of the fires, and were forbidden to move or speak above a whisper. No dogs. Hats off. And sleeves rolled up, in optimistic readiness.

Jackson was given a low stool at the head of the shorter table so that he could stretch his legs and use his elbows without fear of braining a neighbor. It suited him to take this mostly practical and cautious placement as a mark of respect not only for his size but also for his bearing, which he considered dignified. The candlelight made all the faces seem rudely healthy and animated, and soon new friends were being introduced and stories told. Jackson, though, stayed mostly silent, partly because he had no direct eye contact across the table, partly because his immediate neighbors were too old and tired to draw his attention, but largely because he was taciturn by nature, prepared to express a short opinion but not eager or even able to prattle. Besides, his head was full of awkward possibilities.

When the food was served, it was clear that the hosts had gone to no expense. It was hog and hominy with corn bread, they said (though it was later claimed by one of the travelers – possibly a joke – that he’d pulled a yellowish raccoon hair from between his teeth. “I’ve never seen a ring-tailed hog before!”). Hardly anybody failed to clear his plate, however. Anything was better than the travel pantry that had provided yesterday’s meals.

The meat was followed by oatmeal and molasses, offered without the benefit of silverware, so eating it by hand was a noisy, self-conscious business. The adults felt obliged to extend their little fingers respectfully as they ate, using their fores and indexes as spoons and reserving the pinkie for dipping into the dishes of salt and for scooping pine-nut mash onto their molasses. Such good manners seemed excessive for that quality of food but necessary in the company and under the scrutiny of strangers.

Nobody was truly satisfied. This was not the meal that they’d been dreaming of on the journey, when they’d been making do, at best, with brushjack stew and feasting on the skeletal corpses of pack horses and mules, or on carrion. A chicken’s egg, some milk, some recent, cultivated fruit, true bread and mutton, would have served them better.

Despite the quality of food, however, Jackson could have eaten twice as much again. At least his stomach was half full for once, and sweet. And eating in the company of so many other emigrants had been a kind of nourishment as well, even though he had not spoken yet. But when the elderly woman to his right offered him her unfinished oatmeal and some untouched quarters of bread, he felt required, once he had cleared his board, to set aside his dignity, provide his name, and say a word or two about his journey east. He had listened to the travel tales of his fellow diners with little interest. So much disaster and regret should be not be spoken of when it was over, Jackson thought. What was done was dust, as far as he was concerned. Such rapes and robberies and injuries and deaths, so many bolting horses, snapped axles, wagon fires, and sudden floods, did not fit his experience. His account would tell of uneventful days marked out by boredom and hardship and livened only when the weather or the landscape played its trick of exposing travelers to mud or drought or, when the route had not been notched or blazed on tree trunks by preceding travelers, luring them into valleys that had no exit at their farthest ends. He told his story in a sentence, one that did not mention his brother.

“We could use a pair of shoulders like yours,” an old man said, nodding at his wife for her approval. “Our cart’s too heavy and we’ve lost a horse. We’re moving out tomorrow, if you’d appreciate the ride. Pay your fare with your muscles, when the going’s poor.”

Jackson nodded. Yes, he’d sleep on it and let them know. He’d be sleeping on a lot of things that night. His single bed would be crowded with temptations.

In fact, it was not at first easy for anyone to sleep that night. What they’d eaten crept around inside their guts, foraging with its nocturnal snout. And then the storm arrived, beating against the rest-house walls, keeping them all awake to wonder what state the route ahead would be in and whether they should rest up in the town for another day, allowing the mud some time to crust. The men called out in the deafening darkness from their shared beds, exchanging advice and providing their versions of the likely route ahead. No two versions were the same. The liars and the teasers could exaggerate as much as they wanted to. The worriers could share their greatest fears without shaming themselves. They were only faceless voices in the night. And they could safely list their various adversities – the beatings and the robberies, the time that they were stoned by bears, the five nights drifting on a lake, the treachery of so-called friends, the toil and drudgery, the hunger and the thirst, the murderous temperatures that they’d survived – from between warm coverings and underneath a decent roof.

The optimists among them believed that once the river had been crossed, something of the old America would be discovered, the country their grandpas and grandmas had talked about, a land of profusion, safe from human predators, snake-free, and welcoming beyond the hog and hominy of this raw place; a country described by so many of their grandparents in words they’d learned from theirgrandparents, where the encouragements held out to strangers were a good climate, fertile soil, wholesome air and water, plenty of provisions, good pay for labor, kind neighbors, good laws, a free government, and a hearty welcome. A plain and simple ambition, surely.

Here were men who’d come from places with flat and functional names like Half-Day Bridge, Boundary Wood, Center Island, and, yes, Ferrytown, but within a day or two they expected to travel on the Dreaming Highway, which led, so they believed, through Give-Your-Word Valley to Achievement Hill and a prospect of the Last Farewell, with its long views from the far shore of America. On the journey the country would be flat, they’d heard, with surfaced tracks as hard as fired clay. “Not flat,” someone corrected them, “but downhill all the way, sloping to the sea. The wheels do all the work. That’s why it’s called the Dreaming Highway. The country lets you sleep.” The journey to the boats, he said, would be an easy and a speedy one. “A hog could roll there in a sack.”

But there were doubters in the darkness, too, men who’d heard less comforting reports. Rivers too wide and wild to cross. Forests so impenetrable and gloomy that nothing grew at ground level except funguses and little moved except wood ants and blind lizards, both as white as snow, and rats that hunted for their prey by smell alone and so had noses longer than their tails. Great, dusty, waterless plains. Ridges sharper than a knife, that tore your clothes. Others spoke of brackish swamps that could be crossed – in twenty days, if you were strong and lucky – only by travelers who dared to leave their horses and their carts behind and drag themselves across the mire on wooden rafts.

And were there any people, beyond the river crossing? A multitude, yes. Everyone who’d ever headed east to catch the boats. There were no boats. Or else it was a land where no one lived and there’d be not a soul to provide, once in a while, a good dry bed or any hog and hominy. “You’d be glad to dine on raccoon then.” Or otherwise the people were all unwelcoming, or they were naked cannibals, or they were dwarfs “smaller than a prairie dog, but uglier.”

“But furrier!”

“And very tasty on a slice of bread!”

By now the laughter in the room was louder than the rain. Indeed, the rain had relented somewhat, as had their indigestion. Now they could fall asleep more easily, apprehensive but amused. “Watch out,” one of the men whispered, wanting to be the final voice, after all his companions had fallen quiet. “There’s folk out there, one day ahead of Ferrytown, who are as handy with their toes as with their fingers. They can wipe their butts, scratch their noses, poke your eyes out, and pick your pockets, all at the one time.”

But still another man was simmering to speak. “From what I’ve heard tonight,” said Jackson from his single bed at the far end of the hall, too softly to be heard by many of his fellows, “there’s at least a hundred different lands beyond the river. And none of them strike me as likely. Maybe all of us should only wait and see what we’ll find when we’ve planted our feet on the actual earth ahead of us.” He wanted to say out loud what he was hoping for within – that if he advanced his shoulders to the couple with the heavy cart and left his brother to take care of himself, then he could square it with his conscience only if the way ahead for Franklin would prove to be an easy and a kindly one. He fell silent for a little time, judging his words and wondering, too, whether he could ignore the pressure in his bladder from the flagon of apple juice he had traded and drunk, before adding, “I’ll tell you something. For free. This afternoon, I walked down the very same hill as all of you and I looked ahead and used my eyes. I saw the view. Nobody missed the view, I’m sure. And what I saw ahead of me was land and sky just like the land and sky we’ve always known. Tomorrow you can see it for yourselves.” Tomorrow, he was thinking as he fell asleep, will be like yesterday.

Five

The dawn seemed tired and hesitant at first, hardly capable of shaking off the clouds and pushing out into the day. The sun, rising for its daily journey to the west, was veiled by that night’s retreating storm, which, like everything else, including the slight wind, was – typically for this season of migration and withdrawal – resolute in going east, unlike the light. The last stars lingered on, just happy to be visible beyond their time. But once the breeze stood up, the storm was cleared entirely. No cloud at all, and only gray-white mist and yesterday’s smoke in the hollows of the valley, hiding Ferrytown.

When Franklin, drenched and stiffer than a log, finally emerged from underneath his bedding and dragged the tarps into the clearing where they would drain and dry, it was unusually warm and bright on Butter Hill. The undergrowth was steaming, and the air was fragrant with pine and earth, and faintly sulfurous. A henhouse smell. He stood for a while in the sunshine, hoping to recover quickly, and indeed, he soon felt well enough to walk around a little. The rest had benefited his leg, but not sufficiently to pledge a day of walking. He washed in standing water and cleaned his teeth with a snapped branch, which smelled of nuts but left his gums bleeding. He would be sensible and put his feet up for one more day, he thought, flexing his knee. Less swelling, yes, though no less pain when he put any pressure on it. He would not be surprised if his brother returned that afternoon with food or some transport. But actually the prospect of another day free from Jackson’s nagging temper was not unwelcome.

Part of Franklin was uneasy and just a touch alarmed. He sensed that there was death about. He’d felt it in his bones the moment that he’d tried to stand. He recognized it in the fragile colors of the morning. On days such as this the sky is so thinly blue and hollowed out that death’s great hand can at any time reach through to harvest anyone it wants, to pick off lives like berries from a bush. And he could smell it on the air, beyond the pine, that faintly eggy smell, the chemicals of hell, the madman’s belch. Was this the smell of pestilence? He hardly wanted to check. He did not want to exchange the memory of the young woman alive in candlelight with the reality of her perished in the night, borne off on death’s enormous wing.

Franklin chose a good stick for support and made his way across the clearing to the Pesthouse, hoping not to waken her or frighten her, if she was still alive, but also ready to defend himself if there were any devils at her bed. But looking through the Pesthouse cracks and the smoke-heavy fume of the little chamber, he found her well, still breathing in her house of turfs and boulders, still palely beautiful. He was far too thankful now, too teetering, to wonder or to care whose death he’d heard during that long night of rain and sleeplessness in the forest-frowning, eastward-looking hills.

It would be a pity not to be of service to the woman in the Pesthouse, he decided, straining to see her face and shaven head more clearly, hoping to see more – a naked leg flung out of bed, perhaps, a breast. He wanted an excuse to help her, rescue her. Not just to enjoy the true heat of her wood fire or to share her provisions. Not just to do his duty for the sick, either, obeying what his people called the Golden Obligation. He simply wanted her close company. If he was careful and wrapped his face, he would be protected from infectious air; then surely he could dare to sit beside her in the hut, not too near, but near enough to see her fully and to study her more easily. Oh, don’t let Jackson ruin it by coming back too soon.

Franklin pulled aside the wooden door of the Pesthouse to let in fresh air. A corridor of sunlight fell across her bed and hands. “Pish, pish,” he whispered, a gentle call that he had learned from Ma, a greeting that had allowed him many times to walk up to a horse or among cattle without distressing them.

Margaret did not wake, even when Franklin stooped into the Pesthouse. She was dreaming of her father, as she was bound to in that place. She was dreaming of a death like his. She could not forget how red his eyes had been, his sneezing and his hoarseness, or the black and livid spots across his face, and how his body, especially his neck and thighs and arms, had erupted overnight with boils as solid and large as goose eggs.

Margaret twisted on her bed, beset by recollections that she had learned to push away when she was conscious but that in sleep she could not shift – how, early on, he had bled from the nose and laughed it off as “picking it too hard”; how then his tongue and throat had swollen so that he could barely speak; how later, in his delirium, he had tried, and failed, to stand; how they had carried him, as weightless and boneless as a discarded coat, to his cot, where he’d convulsed with hickeye, dry-heaving into his bedclothes and producing nothing but thick and ropy sputum, that harbinger of death; how finally, once he had dropped into a daze, the further end of sleep, they’d sent him up Butter Hill to the Pesthouse on the same horse as they had Margaret, stenching and insensible, with no farewells from anyone, no touch of lips, no vinegar.

Franklin pulled his coat and collar up around his mouth, stepped farther into the Pesthouse, and – his first touch – pressed his hand on her forehead, her exposed arm, and then – he dared, but not without blushing – he felt her shoulders. She was warm and damp, but nevertheless she should stay wrapped, he judged, or she would take a chill on top of everything. Yet when he pulled the coverlet over her, she soon pushed it off again, still unwilling to bear the weight of cloth, even in her sleep. Her scalp, though, was cold. He imagined he could feel the first growth of her hair under his palm, more like the underbelly of a pup than like a peach skin. He turned the fire, banked the ashes, added fresh wood, and held his hands above the smoke in case his touch had picked up her infection. It seemed too like a fairy tale: the sleeping woman, troubled evidently by her dreams, unaware that she was visited, unconscious of the stranger who would come to save her with his…friendliness. What could he do to help her now? What magic could he summon that would drive her fever out and take away the rashes and the heat? What must he do, so that he could touch her without fear?

Encouraged by a day of sun and by the full sling of nuts that he had foraged as a gift, Franklin found the courage in the afternoon to go back to the Pesthouse. Margaret was still barely awake and could manage only a faint “Yes?” to let him in when he pish-pished.

“Are you well?” he asked, the common greeting between strangers but heavily appropriate on this occasion.

“I’m tired,” she said. But not dead, apparently. Instinctively she felt her armpits to check for any goose eggs. She could hardly check for buboes in her groin with Franklin watching her. She took comfort from the fading of the blotches on her arms and from the absence of any dried blood around her nose or mouth and, indeed, of what would have been a certain sign of approaching death, three pock-shaped black marks on her hands, or, worse, the clot of blood – a present from the Devil – that corpses were said to clutch in their palms to pay their entrance fee to Hell. Perhaps she would not die after all. Perhaps she’d have the good luck denied to Pa, as her mother had promised. Margaret even chanced a smile toward the stranger at the door. “What color are my eyes?” she asked the man.

“I haven’t seen your eyes,” he said. “It’s dark in here.” He blushed, of course.

“Not red, not bloody red?”

“I’ll see. Can I come close?” Her eyes looked clear enough. “No blood,” he said.

“No blood is good.” She closed her eyes again.

“You ought to eat.” He showed her the heavy sling of cloth and chose the plumpest nut for her.

“Can’t chew.” Her jaw and throat felt stiff and timbery.

“Maybe I could make a soup…from…the woods are full of things.” From leaves, from nuts, from roots, from birds. From mushrooms, possibly.

“Nothing, no.”

“What can I do for you?”

She shook her head. There’s nothing to be done, she thought, except to sleep and hope for the best. The last thing that she needed in her state was a mouthful of dry nuts or a stomachload of soup from the woods. She felt both half awake and dreaming. Deeply conscious, in a way, but inebriated, too, by the toxins that accumulate when hunger, fever, and exhaustion are confederates. “What color are my eyes?” she asked again, almost sleeping now.

“Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?” asked Franklin, not wishing to bully her with questions but worried that she might be slipping into unconsciousness rather than slumber.

She raised her head just high enough to see him for an instant. A silhouette. No expression on her face. It didn’t matter who he was. “I don’t know you.” But she managed to lift her head again and study him for a moment longer. “What do they want?”

“Who do you mean when you say they? Your family? Are theythe people in the town?”

“I don’t know who they are.”

He had to let her sleep again. He left her to it and went out into the clearing to check the hill for any sign of Jackson and to bring his two dried tarps and his possessions into the Pesthouse. He had persuaded himself – too readily – that he would be safer, drier, warmer with the feverish woman than he would be outside for another night. More useful, too. The Pesthouse smoke would protect him from her contagion. He sat down at the far end of her bed, his back warmed by the fire, looking out through the open door across the clearing as the light lifted and receded once again and the cold returned. The last few of that day’s travelers led their carts and horses to the lip of the hill and disappeared from sight, leaving just their voices and their bells to briefly dent the quiet.

That evening, emboldened by the darkness and keen to wake her lest she slip too far, Franklin sat and spoke about himself, as strangers should. Occasionally he could tell by her breathing or by some note of interest or sympathy that she was listening in between her bouts of sleep. He gave his name, his age; he told her about his father’s death, the family farm, their animals, the mocking sets of storms and droughts that had destroyed their crops and fields, the famine and lawlessness, the day that he and Jackson had begun their journey to the ships and how his mother had busied herself indoors rather than witness their first steps of departure. He described their hardships on the road, the damage to his knee, how Jackson had volunteered to go down the hill to Ferrytown to replenish their supplies.

Her voice at last, less small than it had been. “They’ll take good care of him,” she said, glad to hear the mention of her home.

And then he told her what they hoped to find on ship: “those tiny rooms, just made of wood,” and great white birds among the sails, to show the way. He could not imagine exactly what awaited them when they set foot abroad, what type of people they might be, what language they might speak. But he was sure that life would be more prosperous. How could it not be better there? Safer, too. With opportunity, a word he’d come to love.

“And when we’re there,” he said, hoping to restore her with his optimism, “they say that there is land enough for everyone, and buildings made of decorated stone, and palaces and courts and gardens planted for their beauty, not for food. Because there is abundance in those places. Their harvests never fail. Three crops a year! Three meals a day!”

“They’ll all be fat.”

“They areall fat. Like barn hogs.”

That night he slept beside her bed, his feet below her head kept warm by the fire and his head by the Pesthouse door, where he could be on guard against any animals or visitors and breathe the colder but untainted air. Margaret was restless, though she seemed to sleep. She turned around in her bed, gasping for breath, disturbed by nightmares, troubled by the sore skin on her torso, legs, and arms. Not one of her bones seemed in its normal place.

Franklin did not remember how it happened, but when he woke in the early light, he found that Margaret was sleeping on her back and that she had shot her legs out of her bed coverings and that he had been sleeping holding a foot between his two hands, restraining it, perhaps, or keeping it warm. He knew at once, shivering, how risky that had been. Diseases depart from the body through the soles of the feet. That’s why, when pigeons were so plentiful and decent meat was served at every meal, the people of his parents’ generation had strapped a living pigeon to a sick child’s feet. He’d experienced this remedy himself. When he’d been eight or nine years old, he’d caught a tick disease that had paralyzed his body for a day or two, until his brother had been sent out with nets to trap a bird and his aunt had tied it to his feet, pinioning its wings and back against his insteps. “Stay there, don’t move until the illness passes into the pigeon,” she had instructed. She had remained with him, making sure he kept still, helping him to urinate and defecate into an earth jar, feeding him by spoon, until, after two more days of feeling its warm and beating heart against his insteps, the pigeon stopped protesting and went cold and silent. It had done the trick as well. His illness had passed, and he had been able to walk up with his father to the bone-yard and bury the bird and his disease under a stone. He could see that stone still in his mind’s eye, a gray, dismaying slab that had haunted him ever since. When the harder times had come and pigeon meat, even at feasts, was often all they had to eat, Franklin had preferred to go without. The flesh was tainted in his view: the bird was hazardous. Jackson always ate his share.