We were lucky the wind died.
Pee that out a pig.
Lost the whole lot — you want to know how?
Ah shut up.
His house is here, we'll get Stitt in.
Me in—me, boys, me.
Well then come on, hurry up.
Will you listen at that?
He's goddamn Cleopatra in his goddamn barge.
Pee it out a pig.
Come on, then, since your cock's so curly.
Shit.
Lend a hand, Furber, for christ's sake.
You really here?
We're on a fuckin' slope.
We've always been on a fuckin' slope.
I've spent my life on a fuckin' slope.
All right then, don't drag your ass, push.
You push—you push- I been a-pushing — push, for christ's sake — you been the whole way yelling push, push, push — ain't you got jaws to shut your mouth with?
How about you? You been dragging your ass the whole way. It must be sore. Still got skin on? Biggest ass in this state, too. Ugliest ass in the country. Heaviest ass in this asshole world.
You been doing a lot of examining to that ass?
Ah — ah shut up.
Is that you, Tott? you tit, you titter.
Hey — owwwww.
Come on — careful. Don't bounce him — lift.
Hear that? Furber says how's Henry.
Jeez.
Push.
Hear that? Henry.
How is he, Boylee? the Reverend wants to know.
— no stiffer than I am.
Come on, you suckers.
Cold as a snowman's dick, ain't that right, Boylee?
Wait. Hold up. Bush… Wait, goddamn, goddamit, bush, I said… Now… easy… okay.
Say Furber, lend a hand back here.
Fell out of the tree like a stone, the both of them, one after the other.
A little left.
Haul away easy, I can't see.
Couldn't tell if he hung himself up there or not.
There it is — come on — heave.
— branch broke. Dropped like a rock, the both of them. I cut my eye — bad — there's blood all over me.
There's light there — see?
I can taste it, it's salty.
That's your pee.
I hope they got a fire as big as a woods in there. Then I'm going to squat right down in them leaping flames, smack in the middle of them like a nesting hen.
You'll smother it and lay smoke.
George thinks his shit won't burn.
I know damn well my piss won't.
Know what I want? I want my hands around a cup of coffee. That's what I want. That's all I want. How we going to get past this?
Hot and steaming — I'll just wrap them right around, and then I'll lower — I'll just dip — my nose in.
Oh for christ's sake, let him walk, it ain't far.
Back — back up.
Back?
Yeah, back, everybody back.
What I want's a drink. I'd sell my soul off.
It wouldn't bring the price of piss-in-your-face.
Ah shut your shit.
I'll tell you one thing — that sonofabitch didn't get up there by himself.
My eye, Furber, I got blood in my eye still.
Back, you guys, will you back?
God damn and christ — it's lots of rocks… How's it look now, Curtis, can you see?
By god, no more for me, not another fuckin' inch.
Meng's got diarrhea of the dingus and all his strength's leaked out.
Easy… jesus. He keeps sliding over on me. Listen, I ain't staying in this thing if he keeps sliding over on me. You got to keep him from sliding over like that. Sweet christ, he's cold, I tell you, cold, sweet jesus, he is — oh god, my leg — my leg hurts.
If you can feel it, you still got it. If you've still got it, what's your bitch?
Ache your belly out and bust.
You can't go far, Boylee, with that leg of yours, I guess you'll lie there nicely where you are.
I'll tell you one thing, Jethro, he didn't get there on his own — not way up here, he didn't — not on your life… All right now, George — push.
Oww. Hey. Owwwww. You bastards. I climbed up there for you damn you dirty bastards, when none of you dirty bastards would. You're all bastards all right, all bastards.
Easy Boylee, we're almost there. Tie your tail on.
Your ass may feel easy, but I tell you the world's been shitting through mine.
He's been dragging his. It don't feel easy, either.
Say, my eye, it hurts awful, Furb, it really does… You've no gloves on. What are you doing out here without no gloves on? Hey, Furber's got no gloves on.
Faith's a furry mitten, Furber, ain't it?
You should have heard how they sang, it was so sweet, like choirs: only you can do it, Boylee, they sang; fine work, Boylee, that's the boy, Boylee, climb up that ice-cold tree in the cunt-colored dark and just let down that little hanging man.
Tott's a fine soprano.
Well we missed the road someway.
Missed it — hell, you never even shot at it. Oh shut your shit.
He came down like a rock. Branches snapped like popcorn, didn't they George?
Stitt didn't care to come down the whole way by himself.
Go to hell.
He held up a bit near the bottom.
Go to hell.
Lit on a branch like a bird.
I broke some ribs, I swear I broke some ribs, it hurts to breathe.
What did Henry break, I wonder.
He broke his prick.
Like a rock. Down. Wham pop bang. You should have heard him — thunk.
Look out for that goddamn dog. That goddamn dog — he's somewhere around. I’ll poison him with a stick.
Really — honest — thunk.
Here we are. Okay. do. Take his head, Luther. George at the middle. Out of the way, Bessie, damn it, out of the way. Ease him up. Don't bitch. Everybody knows it's cold. I'll do the bitching. Easy, easy, slow…
You bastards.
Howl your head off.
Henry'll keep nicely, anyway.
Who'll take care of me?
The church will, George. You're for church. The church is here. The church will care for you.
I sure hope Olus shakes a leg.
Now slide him out. Menger — the door.
Please keep the noise down, gentlemen, Furber said, that child is sick to death, remember — he can barely breathe
Sweet sweat of jesus, I forgot, Luther Hawkins said, and he stood on the porch holding Stitt by the shoulders and the head, swearing long and deeply and with love.
Furber crawled carefully into the wagon. Henry, he whispered. His stomach ached and his face and ears burned, his head felt light, his hands and feet were numb. Snow was captured in his eyes. Henry? The coat was stiff and hard as stone — soaked with melted snow and rain, then frozen. Omensetter had said he was wearing it, a gray wool with wide pockets. Furber ran his thumb on a twig and withdrew his hand with a cry. There were a number of twigs thrust through the coat like nails and the cloth was torn. Of course — they'd been driven in when he fell. Cautiously his hands felt along Be arm to the shoulder, brushing away snow. Are you in there, Henry? We can still be friends. He withdrew his hand again when it touched the belt. The cut end, how deceptively strong it was, cut halfway through and then torn the rest of the way by his weight… hence… to drop, he thought. Henry's in there, but he's in there differently. Furber placed his hands on Henry's head. Snow lay thickly in the hair. And all the while he'd had the forehead of a man who was destined to be drowned. The face was rough and icy… pale moon-shaped face. Unshaven, Furber decided, and then he wondered whether, even after death, it grew. He still had his woolly eyebrows. But cold… so cold. You've put on weight, old friend, death's diet suits. It was true that Henry was fuller in the — pecked! Furber recoiled, cracking his elbow against the side of the wagon. Of course. Birds pass. There were shapely limbs and dancing leaves. He slid the length of the wagon and lay there, shivering. He was furious with his disease and cursed it fervently. You're an old man already, Furber. You've been shaken half out of life by the effort of living in it. Ah, that would do to preach. Oh shut your shit. When he lifted his face, the snow struck it smartly, and in the light from the house he saw the flakes driven swiftly on the wind. The light was another kind of shadow, he thought, a shadow for a dry, bright soul. It spilled on the porch, running the snow-, and he noticed, looking closely, that within it the darker lights of the fire drifted. Of course no soul is simple, though if that were true, if no soul were, what of Plato's grandest argument? The elemental simples cannot decompose. And why not? Of course they cannot come to pieces, but what is simpler than the shadow of a stick? There, for instance: that tuft of weed struck through the snow like a knife, deviously edged; the soul it casts is blue and sharp, though bent a little toward compassion by a hollow in the crust — a soul like Chamlay's maybe. Is compassion's line in Chamlay anywhere? Perhaps not. But the wind puffs, the shadow mists. The weed bends a little, and the soul of Chamlay pales and widens into Olus Knox. It alters altogether, not in parts. Yet cold… so cold. The wind blew viciously and Furber turned his face toward Henry. A simple thing but complex in its cause. Rage warmed him a little. He felt a familiar pressure on his chest and he remembered standing by the river and narrowing his eyes at the sunlight that was so merciless from the water while Arthur swam for Omensetter's hat. Yesterday he should have eaten. Flack! Where was the fellow? He tugged roughly in his anger and folds of clothing parted. Heavenly Father, You may call our soul our best, but this, our body, is our love. He lifted one of Henry's legs and let it fall like wood. How simply is our fondness for it guaranteed: we can't live outside of it, not as we are, not as we wish. So this is someone else's body now. He banged a shoe against the bottom of the wagon. Who? The snow softened the sound. Asleep? No. He was no longer living the life of sleep. It was the snow that was slumbering, coasting through these dreams. What power have You, if You can't continue us, and what cruel nature have You to refuse? The moist soul hangs about the body, too heavy to rise. How cleverly, Henry, you avoided that. Henry, listen, Omensetter was nothing, only another man. Now he is given to despair beyond any of yours. Well there you are — we all despair. Were you listening? Nothing but despair. They are in despair, and you're the one in luck. Say, you should listen. Furber shook the body. Observe how we build our cemeteries by you and shape our bodies like yours. We wish to be so like the dead, we living. But we shiver from the cold in spite of ourselves, and we hate your liberty of lying like a stone enough to envy the birds who pecked your eyes. Most of all, we envy you — that you should open them unfeeling to their bills. My god! my eyes are every minute pained by what they see. I should take strength from being blind, if I were you. Vision is no kindly injury. Furber touched Henry's hands they're cold as mine — then the ridges of his ears. Well no human speech can reach you now. I envy that too. Furber dangled his feet over the end of the wagon. He thought of Maggie Scanlon, whose legs always hung like cracked sticks, and he swung them to and fro. Why have You made us the saddest animal? He pushed himself off and felt the jar in his bones. He cannot do it, Henry, that is why. He can't continue us. All He can do is try to make us happy that we die. Really, He's a pretty good fellow.