Of cloven-hoofed beasts there were four cows in calf that spring, and six ewes ready to lamb. The hogs rooted in the blood-red mud, searching out mushrooms, the occasional nut, and other treasures, after having tasted nothing but dry grain for so many months. One of the sows had birthed at the beginning of the month, and her sucklings fought for dominance and who should be first to feast and fatten from her milk. The hens sat their eggs patiently in the musty gloom of a coop that still retained its winter heat and darkness.
Caleum and Magnus toured each district of the larger farm, glad to see the bright green shoots in the pasturelands as the grasses bloomed again; debating how soon to let the animals out to graze, or wait for the higher pastures to open. When they saw stalks of the same grass in the rice and tobacco fields, though, they were made anxious, and discussed the best method of weeding it out so that it would not reappear. It was the same conversation they had this time every year, and it never failed to soothe both of them, no matter what their other worries — to know spring had arrived and the certainty and rhythm of life at Stonehouses was reached anew.
Libbie was with child again as well, but Caleum did not wish to dwell on the subject — it would turn out for good or ill, and there was nothing he could do — so he stayed focused on what he had some sway over: when the crops went in the ground and the animals were let out to pasture — though not how much that planting or shepherding would increase and yield.
When they finished their tour, Magnus, who had not been into Berkeley since the fall markets, suggested they go to Content’s place for a pint, as the sun was not yet set and there would be light out for still another two hours.
As they took the road into town, Caleum gave his horse a loose rein, letting the animal exercise its powerful legs on the open expanse of road after being confined all winter. Magnus had never been one for flashy riding, but the perfume of the air and the vigor of the new season inspired him to let his animal open up as well. The beast he sat was the mare Annabel, and he knew her stride as well as he did his own and trusted her as much to carry him where he wished to go. As she gathered speed, though, he felt a violent jerk in his arms and thought she had lost her footing in the mud. He looked for a place to jump clear in case she went down, but soon after the initial pain he realized the hot sensation he felt was not the mare losing her hold on the ground but his own arm losing hold of the horse. His entire right side clenched up then and froze against him, and no matter how he tried he could not move. As both the animal and his own body flew away from his control he knew something grave was the matter.
Caleum was still within calling distance, but even in this state Magnus would have felt foolish to call for help, so suffered his agony alone as Caleum moved farther away and Annabel stormed on under her own guidance. Slowly the pain that moved through his arm began to identify itself to him, and he realized what was wrong. When he did he was glad indeed he had not called out. His arm had frozen not from paralysis or stroke but from age and the same rheumatic condition his father had suffered. As it thawed, and he was able to resume a light hold on the reins with that arm, he cursed his body for betraying him so but was satisfied he had not lost dignity in front of his nephew. Still, he felt frail and small, as he could scarcely remember feeling before, and was swept by a wave of self-sorrow that he could be so exposed. How long, he thought, with a different kind of anguish, before his body did fail him in some serious way he could not prevent or control?
He remembered his father, Jasper, during those long last years of his life — when he had asked himself what went on in the man’s head when his body would no longer obey him, and his weakness was laid bare for any who cared to behold it.
Well, it is as it will be, he thought, but if I am to be made a fool I will not aid in it. He pulled at the reins with his other hand and Annabel slowed her gait, turning to look at him in the saddle. “You sensed something different and wanted to know what it was, didn’t you, girl?” he asked the mare, stroking the gray fur at the base of her neck. If he were another type of man he would claim she had gazed on him with sympathy, but he was not one to attribute to animals what belonged only to humans. Still, he was pleased he had chosen that particular mount to carry him that day.
By the time Magnus made it to the tavern, Caleum had already fastened his horse to a post and was standing in the road waiting. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ride like that,” Caleum said, thinking he had been inconsiderate of Magnus for going at such a pace.
“No,” Magnus answered, “I shouldn’t ride like that, but like a man my own age.”
Caleum saw then that his uncle was in pain, and hastened to take the reins of his horse as he dismounted. Magnus did not object as he normally would have, but accepted this kindness and came out of the last stirrup with a little cringe. When he saw this, Caluem grew afraid. He had never known Magnus to be sick his entire life and grew worried it was more serious than the other man let on.
“I am fine,” Magnus said, seeing Caleum’s face, and trying at first to hide his frailty. “It is only arthritis,” he explained, “such as might plague you one day.” Caleum’s face registered relief as they walked into Content’s together, and Magnus was glad he had told him. Still, it ached like the devil.
Once inside they claimed a table near the window, and John Barnaby, Content’s son-in-law, came and waited on them. “What brings you round today, Magnus Merian?” John asked, surprised to see him there before the summer season, as he usually only came during the productive months.
“It was good weather today, and Caleum here thought we’d do well to breathe a little air.”
“Well, I’m always happy to see you,” John said warmly, for the two families were still familiar with each other, even if they did not see one another so often. Magnus was pleased to have come out and asked John after his business and family, and they traded news until he had to return to work.
Caleum and Magnus then sat silently nursing their drinks, until a man neither of them knew sat at their table, begging excuse as he did so.
“Help yourself,” Caleum said to him, though there were many places free in the rest of the tavern.
“You see I have lost my way,” the man said, in a matter-of-fact tone, after he had sat.
“I beg your pardon?” Magnus asked.
“I used to be a teacher in Great Philadelphia, but I lost my way. Now I support myself with this,” the man explained.
“What is it you do?”
“I’m a pamphleteer,” the man answered, opening a leather folder. “For a shilling I will sell you a pamphlet on any subject you like. How about fertilizers and the care of the soil for my country friends?”
“No.” Caleum cut him off. “Thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” the man answered, not taking offense. “But you should take better care. You see there is a fissure happening, and much will likely be lost.”
“Pardon?”
“It says so right here in one of my pamphlets.”
Caleum smiled. At first he had though the man simple. It dawned on him then, though, that there were certain men, like his own father, who were sentenced — he would not go so far as condemned — to wander the earth. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a coin, which he slid across the table to the man. The pamphleteer gave him in return a small tract called “On Civil Government,” and reached into his own pocket to make change. He gave Caleum at the end of that transaction two coins of silver mint, both of which had eyes embossed on their nether sides, encompassing the entire surface of the metal. When he saw it, Caleum thought he recognized the design as similar to Purchase’s in style, although it was a different motif than the ones his father had minted. Still, he had spent long hours studying them, and they were very reminiscent.