Franz sank his razor-sharp ax in the raw stump of a new-cut birch and
used both hands to close his jacket against an icy wind that whistled
down from the heights. He looked up at the cloud-stabbing peak of Little
Sister and smiled. Yesterday, the snow line had been exactly even with a
pile of tumbled boulders that, according to some of the more imaginative
residents of Dornblatt, resembled an old man with a pipe in his mouth.
Today, it was a full fifty yards farther down the mountain.
Caesar, who never cared how cold it was, sat on his haunches and,
disdaining even to curl his tail around his paws, faced the wind
without blinking. Franz ruffled the big dog's ears with an affectionate
hand and Caesar beamed his delight. Franz spoke to him.
"Winter soon, Caesar, and it is by far the very finest time of all the
year. Let the children and old people enjoy their spring and summer.
Winter in the Alps is for the strong who can face it, and for them it is
wonderful indeed."
Caesar offered a canine grin, wagged his tail and flattened his ears, as
though he understood every word, and Franz was by no means certain that
he did not. The dog understood almost everything else.
Franz wrenched his ax from the birch stump, and, dangling it from one
hand so that the blade pointed away from his foot, he went on. As his
father had said, nobody in Dornblatt could hope to live by cutting wood
and that alone. Every household must have a supply, for wood was the
only fuel, but since every able-bodied householder cut his own, it
naturally followed that they cared to buy none.
Franz was still unable to remember when he had enjoyed himself more
completely. Other men of Dornblatt regarded the annual wood cutting as
an irksome chore, and life in the forest the loneliest existence
imaginable. As long as he could be in the forest, it never occurred to
Franz that he was alone.
There was always Caesar, the finest of companions. There were the mice,
the hares, the foxes, the various birds, and only yesterday Franz had
seen thirty-one chamois on their way from the heights, that would soon
be blanketed beneath thirty to forty feet of snow, to seek winter
pasturage in the lowlands. There had been two magnificent bucks, plus a
half a dozen smaller ones, but Franz had not mentioned the herd because
there were a number of eager chamois hunters in Dornblatt. Should they
learn of the chamois and succeed in overtaking them, they might well
slaughter the entire herd. Chamois, Franz thought, were better alive
than dead--and it was not as though there was a lack of food in
Dornblatt. It had been a good year.
As he walked on, Franz pondered his expulsion from Professor Luttman's
school. The sting was gone, much of the shame had faded, and there were
no regrets whatever. Franz knew now that he simply did not belong in
school, for his was not the world of books. If, on occasion, he met a
former classmate, and the other asked him how he was getting on, he
merely smiled and said well enough.
Franz remained more than a little troubled about Professor Luttman,
though. He was a good and kind man who seldom had any thoughts that did
not concern helping his pupils. Franz felt that somehow he had failed
Professor Luttman.
The heavy ax hung almost lightly from his hand, as though somehow it was
a part of his arm. Franz had always regarded his ax as a beautiful and
wonderful tool. He could strike any tree exactly where he wished, fell
it exactly where he wanted it to fall and leave a smoother stump than
Erich Erlich, who owned the finest saw in Dornblatt.
Always choosing one that was rotten, deformed, or that had been
partially uprooted by some fierce wind and was sure to topple anyhow,
Franz had spent his time felling trees. Then he had trimmed their
branches. With a great bundle of faggots on his own back and a greater
one on Caesar's, he had hauled them to his father's house. Finally, he
had cut the trunks into suitable lengths, and such portions as he was
unable to carry, he and Caesar had dragged in.
His father had finally ordered him to stop. Wood was piled about the
Halle house in every place where it was usually stored and many where it
was not. There was enough to last the family through this winter and
most of next. If any more were brought in, the Halles would have to move
out.
Franz had continued to cut wood for those who were either unable to
gather their own or who, at the best, would find wood cutting
difficult. There was Grandpa Eissman, once a noted mountaineer, who had
conquered many peaks but lost his battle with time. Old and stooped,
able to walk only with the aid of his cane, Grandpa Eissman's house
would be cold indeed this winter if he and he alone must gather wood to
heat it. Then there was Jean Greb, who'd lost his right hand in an
accident on Little Sister. There was also--
Franz knew a rising worry as he made his way toward a tree he had marked
for cutting. There were not so many unable to gather their own wood that
he could keep busy throughout the winter, and what then? Wood cutting
was the only duty with which his father would trust him.
He thought suddenly and wistfully of the Hospice of St. Bernard. More
than eight thousand feet up in the mountains, the Hospice must have been
snowbound long since. There were few days throughout the entire year
when snow did not fall there and, when it was deep enough, the monks and
_maronniers_--Father Paul's strange term for lay workers--must get about
on skis. Franz felt confident of his ability to keep up with them, for
he had learned to ski almost as soon as he'd learned to walk. Surely the
Hospice must be one of the world's finest places, but Franz seemed no
nearer to going there than he had been last summer.
Father Paul had talked with him about it once more, and Franz had
broached a very troublesome problem. If he were accepted as a
_maronnier_, might Caesar go with him?
He would see, Father Paul promised, and he had gone to see. He returned
with no positive answer and Franz dared not press the issue. Surely the
great Prior of St. Bernard Hospice had problems far more important than
whether to accept so insignificant a person as Franz Halle as a lay
worker.
Franz reached the tree he had already selected, felled it with clean
strokes of his ax and trimmed the branches. Cutting them into suitable
lengths, he shouldered a bundle, tied another bundle on Caesar's strong
back and took them to Jean Greb's house. Jean greeted him pleasantly. He
was a youngish man with wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes.
"It is very kind of you to provide me with wood, Franz, when I find it
so very difficult to provide my own."
"It is my privilege," Franz said. "If I did not go out to cut wood, I
would have to languish in idleness."
Jean, who appeared to have some troublesome thought on his mind, seemed
not to have heard.
"Will you come in and have some bread and cheese?" he invited.