This Side of Jordan (44 page)

The farm boy took the knife out of the wooden box and rolled it over in his fingers. “Ain't you ascared no more?”

“Of course I am,” replied the dwarf, “but when there's no peril in the fight, there's no glory in the triumph. Fear is bravery's stepchild. Hiding under the floorboards of my bedroom last spring, I'd resigned myself to the sorry prospect of scavenging and disrepute because I was ignorant of the steadfastness of hope. Auntie always imagined me incapable of sorting out my own affairs and too weak of heart to seek my way in the world without her constant guidance. She mistook my natural hesitancy for cowardice, and perhaps her stingy opinion informed my own ridiculous behavior these past few years. Well, no matter, because, you see, what I've learned since crawling out from under that tacky old house is that we needn't be children to fix our sights past tomorrow, or the day afterward, and be brave enough to call that our rightful place.”

A dark flock of sparrows sailed over the meadow toward the morning woods as the farm boy thought about Hadleyville and how big the sky looked west of the Mississippi. “We seen a lot.”

The dwarf grinned. “Oh, but there's so much more.”

Up on the road, the pipes of the gilded calliope shrieked and steam rose into the hazy morning sky. Flanked by a few last scrambling roustabouts loading on, the painted circus caravan had begun moving.

“You won't change your mind?”

The farm boy shook his head. “There ain't much sense in it.”

He squeezed the knife handle tightly, kicked harder at the clump of grass. What's done was done. Somebody rang an iron ship's bell mounted atop one of the circus wagons. The clanging echo shot out across the autumn meadow.

“My friend, you've been a wonderful traveling companion. Perhaps one day we'll find each other in another circumstance more fitting our best ambitions. You know, Uncle Augustus always told me the journey provides its own possibilities.”

“I hope so.”

The dwarf reached into his back pocket and took out a small shiny-black arrowhead. “This is a token of my own admiration. I dug it out of a beaver dam on the Belle Fourche River on my first excursion out West and have held it for luck ever since. I want you to have it.” He handed the arrowhead to the farm boy. “Thou art now the favorite of fortune.”

Alvin smiled, deeply touched by both gifts. “Thanks.”

“Well, good-bye, my friend.”

“Good-bye.”

They shook hands, the farm boy and the dwarf, then parted as the autumn wind swept out of the east, chasing fallen leaves across the meadow.

Alvin Pendergast watched Rascal hurry away through the damp switchgrass, watched until the dwarf joined the long caravan of rolling circus wagons heading to another horizon.

Then he, too, started for home.

T
HE AUTHOR WOULD LIKE TO THANK THOSE WHO WALKED WITH HIM, THESE MANY YEARS.

 

S
TEVEN
A
LLABACK
, M
ATTHEW
J. B
RUCCOLI
, W
YLENE
D
UNBAR
, K
AREN
F
ORD
, B
ILL
H
OTCHKISS
, S
TERLING
L
ORD
, S
HELLY
L
OWENKOPF
, D
ENNIS
L
YNDS
, G
ARDNER
M
EIN
, D
AVID
M
ICHAELIS
, S
TUART
M
ILLER
, J
ODY
M
ILLWARD
, J
ANE
S
T
. C
LAIR
, P
HILIP
S
PITZER
, D
AVID
S
TANFORD
, S
ID
S
TEBEL
, G
INGER
S
WANSON
, G
EETS
V
INCENT
, B
ARBARA
Z
ITWER
.

 

A
ND
G
ARY
G
ROTH, WHO SAW IN MY WORK WHAT I HAD HOPED WAS THERE ALL ALONG.

 

L
ASTLY, MY WIFE AND FAMILY, IN WHOM THE MEANING OF THIS BOOK IS FOUND.