I just despise a snake don’t you?
Yes mam.
I’m like my granny that way. She always said what she despised worst in the world was snakes hounds and sorry women.
Yes mam.
I won’t have a hound on the place.
No mam.
The old woman drew up the wings of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and sneezed forth a spray of mucous and wiped her fingers on the overalls she wore.
Earl’s daddy used to keep half a holler full of old beat-up hounds. He had to keep Earl’s too. I won’t have one on the place. Wantin to lay out half the night runnin in the woods with a bunch of dogs like somethin crazy. Ain’t a bit of use in the world somebody puttin up with such as that. I run his daddy off too. Told him he’d run with hounds so hard and long he’d took on the look of one let alone the smell. And him a squire. They wasn’t no common people but I declare if they didn’t have some common habits among em. He’s a squire ye know. Course that never kept his daughter from runnin off with a no-account that sent her back big in the belly and thin in the shanks and nary word from him ever from that day to this. Or doomsday if ye wanted to wait. How far are ye goin?
Just up the road. I’m travelin.
Where to?
Well. I mean I’m not goin to just one place in particular.
The old woman cocked her elf’s face and peered at her with eyes gone near colorless with years. The thin and ropy hands with which she clutched the handle of the hoe opened and closed. Maybe you’re goin to several places in particular then, she said.
No mam. Not no special places. I’m a-huntin somebody.
Who’s that?
Just somebody. This feller.
The old woman’s eyes went to her belly and back again.
She straightened herself and tucked the bundle of clothes beneath one arm.
Feller, the old woman said. Where’s he got to?
I wisht I knowed.
The old woman nodded. It’s a goodly sizeable world to set out huntin somebody in.
That’s God’s truth.
I hope ye luck anyways.
I thank ye.
The old woman nodded again and tapped the ground with her hoe.
Well I guess I’d best be gettin on.
Needn’t to be in no hurry. Come up to the house.
Well.
I got fresh cornbread from yesterday evenin and a pot of greens and fatmeat if you’re hungry a-tall. Give ye a glass of cool buttermilk anyway.
Well. If you don’t care.
Shoo. Come along.
She followed the old woman up a trench of a path toward the house, the old woman poking at the knobby-roots reared out of the red earth as if testing for hostile life. When they entered the house it was into nigh total dark, past ricks of wood stacked to the low ceiling and little more than a cat’s passage between them, down another corridor walled in by the sawn dowel ends of sticks and split logs until they came to the kitchen, likewise crammed with wood in every available space.
Get ye a chair, the woman said.
Thank ye.
She was at the stove, turning fire up out of the dead gray ashes. Are ye not married? she said.
No mam.
She added wood. She lifted the lid from a pot crusted with blackened orts and tilted it for inspection. Her voice hollow and chambered: Where’s your youngern.
What?
I said where’s your youngern.
I’ve not got nary.
The babe, the babe, the old woman crooned.
They ain’t nary’n.
Hah, said the old woman. Bagged for the river trade I’d judge. Yon sow there might make ye a travelin mate that’s downed her hoggets save one.
She sat very straight in the chair. Cradled among stove-wood against the wall was a sleeping hog she had not seen. The old woman turned, a small bent androgyne gesturing with a black spoon, waiting.
That’s a lie what you said, the girl whispered hoarsely. I never. He was took from me. A chap. I’m a-huntin him.
Your hand to God, the old woman said.
She raised her hand slightly from the table. Yes, she said.
Aye. Where’s he at now?
This here tinker has got him.
Tinker.
Yes mam. He come to the house while I was confinin. We’d been there four months or more and they’d not been nary tinker a-tall come round.
Ah. And stoled him away. I always heard they was bad about it.
She stirred uneasily in her chair. No mam, she said. My brother give it to him. Or sold it one. He tried to let on like it died but I caught him in that lie and he owned up what he done.
Your brother?
Yes mam.
And where’s he at?
I don’t know.
You’ve not lawed him?
No mam.
You ort to’ve.
Well. He’s family.
The old woman shook her head. When was it all? she said.
Just March or April. I forgot. She looked up. The old woman was looking past her, weighing the spoon in her hand.
I think most likely it was in March.
And you was a-nursin him.