The Pastures of Heaven (15 page)

In the long run Takashi did not suffer from the espionage practiced on him, for, since the Auxiliaries had to watch him, they could make no important excursions without taking him along. He found himself invited everywhere, because no one would consent to be left behind to watch him.

The Boy Auxiliaries received their death blow when Takashi, who had in some way learned of their existence, applied for admittance.

“I don't see how we can let you in,” Robbie explained kindly. “You see you're a Japanese, and we hate them.”

Takashi was almost in tears. “I was born here, the same as you,” he cried. “I'm just as good American as you, ain't I?”

Robbie thought hard. He didn't want to be cruel to Takashi. Then his brow cleared. “Say, do you speak Japanese?” he demanded.

 

“Sure, pretty good.”

“Well, then you can be our interpreter and figure out secret messages.”

Takashi beamed with pleasure. “Sure I can,” he cried enthusiastically. “And if you guys want, we'll spy on my old man.”

But the thing was broken. There was no one left to fight but Mr. Kato, and Mr. Kato was too nervous with his shotgun.

Hallowe'en went past, and Thanksgiving. In that time Robbie's effect on the boys was indicated by a growth in their vocabularies, and by a positive hatred for shoes or of any kind of good clothing for that matter. Although he didn't realize it, Robbie had set a style, not new, perhaps, but more rigid than it had been. It was unmanly to wear good clothes, and even more than that, it was considered an insult to Robbie.

One Friday afternoon Robbie wrote fourteen notes, and secretly passed them to fourteen boys in the school yard. The notes were all the same. They said: “A lot of indians are going to burn the Pres. of the U. S. to the stake at my house tomorrow at ten o'clock. Sneak out and bark like a fox down by our lower field. I will come and lead you to the rescue of this poor soul.”

For several months Miss Morgan had intended to call upon Junius Maltby. The stories told of him, and her contact with his son, had raised her interest to a high point. Every now and then, in the schoolroom, one of the boys imparted a piece of astounding information. For example, one child who was really famous for his stupidity, told her that Hengest and Horsa invaded Britain. When pressed he admitted that the information came from Junius Maltby, and that in some way it was a kind of a secret. The old story of the goat amused the teacher so much that she wrote it for a magazine, but no magazine bought it. Over and over she had set a date to walk out to the Maltby farm.

She awakened on a December Saturday morning and found frost in the air and a brilliant sun shining. After breakfast she put on her corduroy skirt and her hiking boots, and left the house. In the yard she tried to persuade the ranch dogs to accompany her, but they only flopped their tails and went back to sleep in the sun.

The Maltby place lay about two miles away in the little canyon called Gato Amarillo. A stream ran beside the road, and sword ferns grew rankly under the alders. It was almost cold in the canyon, for the sun had not yet climbed over the mountain. Once during her walk Miss Morgan thought she heard footsteps and voices ahead of her, but when she hurried around the bend, no one was in sight. However, the brush beside the road crackled mysteriously.

Although she had never been there before, Miss Morgan knew the Maltby land when she came to it. Fences reclined tiredly on the ground under an overload of bramble. The fruit trees stretched bare branches clear of a forest of weeds. Wild blackberry vines clambered up the apple trees; squirrels and rabbits bolted from under her feet, and soft-voiced doves flew away with whistling wings. In a tall wild pear tree a congress of bluejays squawked a cacophonous argument. Then, beside an elm tree which wore a shaggy coat of frost-bitten morning glory, Miss Morgan saw the mossy, curled shingles of the Maltby roof. The place, in its quietness, might have been deserted for a hundred years. “How run-down and slovenly,” she thought. “How utterly lovely and slip-shod!” She let herself into the yard through a wicket gate which hung to its post by one iron band. The farm buildings were grey with weathering, and, up the sides of the walls, outlawed climbers pushed their fingers. Miss Morgan turned the corner of the house and stopped in her tracks; her mouth fell open and a chill shriveled on her spine. In the center of the yard a stout post was set up, and to it an old and ragged man was bound with many lengths of rope. Another man, younger and smaller, but even more ragged, piled brush about the feet of the captive. Miss Morgan shivered and backed around the house comer again. “Such things don't happen,” she insisted. “You're dreaming. Such things just can't happen.” And then she heard the most amiable of conversations going on between the two men.

“It's nearly ten,” said the torturer.

The captive replied, “Yes, and you be careful how you put fire to that brush. You be sure to see them coming before you light it.”

Miss Morgan nearly screamed with relief. She walked a little unsteadily toward the stake. The free man turned and saw her. For a second he seemed surprised, but immediately recovering, he bowed. Coming from a man with torn overalls and a matted beard, the bow was ridiculous and charming.

“I'm the teacher,” Miss Morgan explained breathlessly. “I was just out for a walk, and I saw this house. For a moment I thought this auto-da-fe was serious.”

Junius smiled. “But it is serious. It's more serious than you think. For a moment I thought you were the rescue. The relief is due at ten o'clock, you know.”

A savage barking of foxes broke out below the house among the willows. “That will be the relief,” Junius continued. “Pardon me, Miss Morgan, isn't it? I am Junius Maltby and this gentleman on ordinary days is Jakob Stutz. Today, though, he is President of the United States being burned by Indians. For a time we thought he'd be Guinevere, but even without the full figure, he makes a better President than a Guinevere, don't you think? Besides he refused to wear a skirt.”

 

“Damn foolishness,” said the President complacently.

Miss Morgan laughed. “May I watch the rescue, Mr. Maltby?”

“I'm not Mr. Maltby, I'm three hundred Indians.”

The barking of foxes broke out again. “Over by the steps,” said the three hundred Indians. “You won't be taken for a redskin and massacred over there.” He gazed toward the stream. A willow branch was shaking wildly. Junius scratched a match on his trousers and set fire to the brush at the foot of the stake. As the flame leaped up, the willow trees seemed to burst into pieces and each piece became a shrieking joy. The mass charged forward, armed as haphazardly and as terribly as the French people were when they stormed the Bastille. Even as the fire licked toward the President, it was kicked violently aside. The rescuers unwound the ropes with fervent hands, and Jakob Stutz stood free and happy. Nor was the following ceremony less impressive than the rescue. As the boys stood at salute, the President marched down the line and to each overall bib pinned a leaden slug on which the word HERO was deeply scratched. The game was over.

 

 

“Next Saturday we hang the guilty villains who have attempted this dastardly plot,” Robbie announced.

“Why not now? Let's hang 'em now!” the troop screamed.

 

“No, my men. There are lots of things to do. We have to make a gallows.” He turned to his father. “I guess we'll have to hang both of you,” he said. For a moment he looked covetously at Miss Morgan, and then reluctantly gave her up.

That afternoon was one of the most pleasant Miss Morgan had ever spent. Although she was given a seat of honor on the sycamore limb, the boys had ceased to regard her as the teacher.

“It's nicer if you take off your shoes,” Robbie invited her, and it was nicer she found, when her boots were off and her feet dangled in the water.

That afternoon Junius talked of cannibal societies among the Aleutian Indians. He told how the mercenaries turned against Carthage. He described the Lacedaemonians combing their hair before they died at Thermopylae. He explained the origin of macaroni, and told of the discovery of copper as though he had been there. Finally when the dour Jakob opposed his idea of the eviction from the Garden of Eden, a mild quarrel broke out, and the boys started for home. Miss Morgan allowed them to distance her, for she wanted to think quietly about the strange gentleman.

The day when the school board visited was looked forward to with terror by both the teacher and her pupils. It was a day of tense ceremony. Lessons were recited nervously and the misspelling of a word seemed a capital crime. There was no day on which the children made more blunders, nor on which the teacher's nerves were thinner worn.

The school board of the Pastures of Heaven visited on the afternoon of December 15. Immediately after lunch they filed in, looking somber and funereal and a little ashamed. First came John Whiteside, the clerk, old and white-haired, with an easy attitude toward education which was sometimes criticized in the valley. Pat Humbert came after him. Pat was elected because he wanted to be. He was a lonely man who had no initiative in meeting people, and who took every possible means to be thrown into their contact. His clothes were as uncompromising, as unhappy as the bronze suit on the seated statue of Lincoln in Washington. T. B. Allen followed, dumpily rolling up the aisle. Since he was the only merchant in the valley, his seat on the board belonged to him by right. Behind him strode Raymond Banks, big and jolly and very red of hands and face. Last in the line was Bert Munroe, the newly elected member. Since it was his first visit to the school, Bert seemed a little sheepish as he followed the other members to their seats at the front of the room.

 

 

When the board was seated magisterially, their wives came in and found seats at the back of the room, behind the children. The pupils squirmed uneasily. They felt that they were surrounded, that escape, should they need to escape, was cut off. When they twisted in their seats, they saw that the women were smiling benevolently on them. They caught sight of a large paper bundle which Mrs. Munroe held on her lap.

School opened. Miss Morgan, with a strained smile on her face, welcomed the school board. “We will do nothing out of the ordinary, gentlemen,” she said. “I think it will be more interesting to you in your official capacities, to see the school as it operates every day.” Very little later, she wished she hadn't said that. Never within her recollection, had she seen such stupid children. Those who did manage to force words past their frozen palates, made the most hideous mistakes. Their spelling was abominable. Their reading sounded like the jibbering of the insane. The board tried to be dignified, but they could not help smiling a little from embarrassment for the children. A light perspiration formed on Miss Morgan's forehead. She had visions of being dismissed from her position by an outraged board. The wives in the rear smiled on, nervously, and time dripped by. When the arithmetic had been muddled and travestied, John Whiteside arose from his chair.

 

“Thank you, Miss Morgan,” he said. “If you'll allow it, I'll just say a few words to the children, and then you can dismiss them. They ought to have some payment for having us here.”

 

The teacher sighed with relief. “Then you do understand they weren't doing as well as usual? I'm glad you know that.”

 

John Whiteside smiled. He had seen so many nervous young teachers on school board days. “If I thought they were doing their best, I'd close the school,” he said. Then he spoke to the children for five minutes—told them they should study hard and love their teacher. It was the short and painless little speech he had used for years. The older pupils had heard it often. When it was done, he asked the teacher to dismiss the school. The pupils filed quietly out, but, once in the air, their relief was too much for them. With howls and shrieks they did their best to kill each other by disembowelment and decapitation.

John Whiteside shook hands with Miss Morgan. “We've never had a teacher who kept better order,” he said kindly. “I think if you knew how much the children like you, you'd be embarrassed.”

“But they're good children,” she insisted loyally. “They're awfully good children.”

“Of course,” John Whiteside agreed. “By the way, how is the little Maltby boy getting along?”

“Why, he's a bright youngster, a curious child. I think he has almost a brilliant mind.”

“We've been talking about him in board meeting, Miss Morgan. You know, of course, that his home life isn't all that it ought to be. I noticed him this afternoon especially. The poor child's hardly clothed.”

“Well, it's a strange home.” Miss Morgan felt that she had to defend Junius. “It's not the usual kind of home, but it isn't bad.”

“Don't mistake me, Miss Morgan. We aren't going to interfere. We just thought we ought to give him a few things. His father's very poor, you know.”

“I know,” she said gently.

“Mrs. Munroe bought him a few clothes. If you'll call him in, we'll give them to him.”

“Oh. No, I wouldn't—” she began.

“Why not? We only have a few little shirts and a pair of overalls and some shoes.”

“But Mr. Whiteside, it might embarrass him. He's quite a proud little chap.”

“Embarrass him to have decent clothes? Nonsense! I should think it would embarrass him more not to have them. But aside from that, it's too cold for him to go barefoot at this time of year. There's been frost on the ground every morning for a week.”