Joe was so weary of body and brain that the things he saw shimmered
behind a haze that was born of no weather, but in his own mind. He was
detached from almost everything, a lone being in a lone world, and the
only thread that connected him with anything else was the smooth handle
of the ax which he carried in his hand. The ax was real as it could be
real only to one who had just spent eleven hours using it. At the same
time, and while he reeled with fatigue, Joe counted his blessings.
Now the oats were high and the young corn in tassel. The family
vegetable garden was thriving, the hay was not yet ripe enough for the
scythe, and there were many more trees to cut on Joe's sixteen acres of
timber. Clearing all sixteen acres was a major task and one that Joe
didn't even hope to complete for several years because he could work in
the timber only when there was nothing else to do. However, he intended
to chop and trim many more trees.
He was exhausted, but the restlessness that had possessed him a month
earlier was now gone, and for the present he was contented. Preparing
the land to grow crops and planting them had been hard work. But now it
was finished and when the crops were harvested he would be able to feed
his family and livestock through the winter. All the surplus must be
sold to satisfy Elias Dorrance. Yet, for the moment Joe harbored no
special resentment against him. Bankers were necessary, and Elias had
helped Joe when he needed help.
Carefully, as a man who loves good tools will, Joe hung the ax on its
wooden pegs in the tool shed, and then took it down again to test both
bits with his thumb. An ax had to be razor-sharp, actually capable of
shaving, if a man was to do good work with it, and whoever put a tool
away in good shape would find it in the same shape when he needed it
again. Joe found the ax so sharp that he must have honed it after
felling the last tree. He grinned; he was more tired than he'd thought
because he couldn't remember sharpening the ax.
He leaned against the tool shed's wall, giving himself to the luxury of
doing nothing at all. He watched Barbara, serene and lovely, going
toward the pig pen with a pail of swill and he knew a moment's sheer
pleasure. He gave no thought to the incongruity of the scene, that
anyone should be able to look graceful while feeding pigs, but felt only
delight because he saw something lithe and beautiful.
Joe yawned. He had been very wakeful last night. Lying beside Emma, he
had watched the moon wane and the first faint streaks of dawn creep like
stealthy thieves out of the sky. Only then had he gone to sleep, and
soon afterward it had been time to get up and go to work again.
He went to the well, drew a bucket of water, and washed his face and
hands. Instead of going to the store tonight he would go to bed after
the evening meal. The empty swill pail in hand, Barbara came to stand
beside him and her slim figure was bent slightly backward, as though by
a mysterious wind created by her own spirit.