The Choiring of the Trees - Donald Harington [110]
It was while he was playing the last tune that Ernest interrupted him: “Hey, Nail! What’s that there mouth organ made out of?”
Nail stopped playing. “Made out of?”
“Yeah. Aint it got some metal in her?”
Nail studied the Hohner. “Why, yes, matter of fact, she’s nearly all metal, except for the board.”
“Any plates of metal in her?”
“Yeah, she’s got a couple plates.”
“I got a idee,” Ernest said. “Couldn’t ye tear her apart and make ye a knife out of one of them plates?”
Nail reflected. “Hell, I could make two knifes with her, but I aint about to. Wouldn’t be no use as a mouth organ anymore.”
“Which’d ye ruther, yore life or yore music?”
“Ernest, you’ve mistook the idee. If I had me a knife, I couldn’t save myself, I’d jist kill a good few of the others before they threw the switch on me.”
“That’s better’n nothin, aint it?”
“I used to think so. I aint so sure anymore.”
But before he could fall asleep that night, Nail spent a good bit of time holding the Hohner in one hand, fingering it and thinking. He’d sure hate to tear it up, but it wasn’t going to be any use to him anyway in three more days. Was that enough time to take one of the metal plates and sharpen it along the cement floor? Even if it was, the resulting weapon wouldn’t be as firm or as dangerous as the knife he’d had before.
The next morning after breakfast, while Ernest was doing his drawing, Nail asked, “What are ye makin a pitcher of this mornin?”
“Ole Sparky,” Ernest said.
“I didn’t know you’d ever seen it,” Nail said.
“I aint. I’m jist imaginin what it looks lak. But I may need yore help. Remember how you told me afore, when I tried to draw it with chalk on the floor? What are ye readin this mornin?”
“I aint readin,” Nail declared. “I’m a-takin my harmonica apart.”
All day and all night while they talked, Nail sharpened one of the metal plates against the cement floor. He was impatient and did not do it quietly, but their voices covered the sound of the scraping. “Tell me what’s it lak raisin sheep,” Ernest requested, and Nail instructed the boy on the art and science of sheep-raising. He began with the land itself: it was necessary to have well-drained pastures, because sheep cannot bear damp. Old, permanent meadows were better than artificial meadows because if Nature is left alone, She’ll give you a greater variety of grasses. The best pastures face south but have a border of trees to shade the sheep during the hottest part of the day. The shade should be green, or purple-green, dark and dry and cool.
The next day, which by his reckoning was April 18th (he didn’t have a calendar now, just a good sense of time), he had the dagger-like shape pretty well defined, and began honing the edge of it on the sole of his shoe as he told the boy about breeding sheep: the proper selection of the ram, picking him out not because he’s biggest or heaviest but because he has good fleece and a good shape; the bringing together of the ram and the ewe; the proper time and place for the mating.
Ernest asked questions. “How big a peter does a ram have on him?”
Nail laughed. “Didn’t you never see any sheep up around Timbo?”
“They don’t raise ’em up thataway, that I ever heared tell. Is a ram’s peter much bigger than a man’s?”
“Not bigger’n yours,” Nail assured him.
“Do tell?” Ernest became thoughtful and silent, but at length he lowered his voice and asked, “Did ye ever hanker to mount a yo?”
It was Nail’s turn to be silent before he said, “Wal, shore. I reckon any feller would.”
“But didje ever do it?