Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [15]
Chamberlain raised his free hand, waved it about, a grand sweeping turn, said, “I love it. I love hunting. The woods, all of this. I don’t need to shoot, it’s more than that . . . it’s just being here.”
The boy let his gun drop into one hand, rested the butt in the snow. “I reckon I understand that, Lawrence. There’s something out here, something in these hills that makes everything else seem . . . all right, somehow.”
Chamberlain looked at the boy, surprised. “It’s good you see that. You may need this someday. You may need to get away from . . . something. I hope you always have . . . all of this.”
“Get away? What you getting away from, Lawrence? My God, you’ve got everything a man could want. You’re a teacher, a big-time college professor. You make good money, I bet. You got a wife . . . a real beauty too, and that baby, Lawrence, I swear . . . I only hope I can have what you have.”
Chamberlain looked at the boy, saw red cheeks and wide eyes, saw a young piece of himself. “You’re only eighteen,” he said. “You’ve got plenty of time to make your own life. Just don’t forget about this place. No matter where you end up, and you may move very far away someday . . . come back here when you can. Climb up here, and listen to the silence.”
Tom frowned, did not understand, saw something, a dark mood in his older brother he had not often seen. “Lawrence, you telling me you’re unhappy? I can’t hardly believe that.”
“No, no, certainly not. Let’s go, those clouds are getting a bit darker.”
They walked together, did not speak, followed their own tracks back through the soft snow, over the crest, began to move down, into the chilling shade of the taller trees, and Chamberlain suddenly felt a brief flash of depression—he was going back down, back to the real world.
He knew that Tom was right, that there was much to be thankful for. He had been named to the prestigious Chair, vacated by the famous Calvin Stowe, with the title of Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory. It was a stunning accomplishment for a man in his mid-twenties, and the prestige focused even more attention on this brilliant young man with the certain future. He thought, Yes, I have so much . . . Fannie is so happy. And he thought of the baby, the precious little girl, and the tiny face gave way to images of classrooms and the pages of black writing, the lectures he had already prepared for next week.
He kicked his boots through the snow and saw the dark hallways of Bowdoin, endless tunnels in gray buildings, and he felt something, a small twist in his stomach, and he did not understand: What is wrong with me?
As he moved down the long hill, the trees became thicker, darker, and the walking was easier, the snow harder and thinner under the great pines. His brother moved ahead of him, darting between the trees along the familiar trail. Chamberlain watched him slide over the small slick patches, the glazed areas of ice, hardened by many footsteps. He began to pay more attention to his own feet, the treacherous footing, and he marveled at his brother’s recklessness, slipping, nearly falling, then upright again. Chamberlain moved carefully, feeling his way over the glassy ground, and soon Tom was gone, farther down the hill, and Chamberlain could hear him, faint whoops as he ran and slid, closer to the house of their parents. He’ll make it without a bruise, Chamberlain thought, and I’ll move slow and easy, and break my leg.
He leaned against a thick fir tree, held on to low, stiff branches, steadied himself, listened, knew Tom was at the house by now, and he caught a faint smell, smoke, from the chimney. He looked back up the hill, through the dark trees, saw heavy clouds, there would be snow tonight, and he released the branches, slid a few inches, took a step down, tested the firmness, then thought, No, I’m not ready to leave, not yet. He turned, looked out through the trees, carefully took a long step up, out of the trail, climbed up to softer snow, began to move away from the trail, from tree to tree, felt better footing now, the snow not hardened by