Thoreau at Devil's Perch Read online

  “Why, ’tis the peddler Pilgrim,” Granny said and waved to him. “Hain’t seen the feller since summer last.”

  And I had not seen him for over a decade, but I still remembered him from the time I lived with my grandparents in town. Pilgrim would frequently stop in front of our picket fence and sing out his wares—bowls and beads, clocks and calicoes, scissors and saltcellars, and dainty dolls for the little miss—but Grandmother Walker would never open her door to him, much to the disappointment of that little miss peering out the front window.

  Granny Tuttle, however, seemed on much friendlier terms with the peddler. She greeted him cordially when he reached us, and he, in turn, doffed his hat and bowed to her with the grace of a courtier, despite his back pack.

  “Take that load offen your back and rest a spell,” Granny told him. “Would you care fer some ginger beer of my own makin’?”

  “No, thankee, Mistress Tuttle,” said he. “I am a man of temperance.”

  She squinted at him skeptically. “Good fer you, Pilgrim. Care to show me yer wares?”

  He unrolled his pack, and I was disappointed that he had so little to show—a few tin cups and plates, a jackknife, a ball of twine, a spool of black thread, and a scrap of lace. Where were all the wonders I’d imagined as a child? Where were the beads and clocks and saltcellars? And where, oh where were the dainty dolls I had so longed to inspect?

  “Oh, my, ain’t that pretty?” Granny said, taking up the limp piece of yellowed lace. “I’ll sew it round the neck of your blue serge go-to-meetin’ dress, Julia. Won’t that look fine?”

  I have no such dress. Nor could I imagine Granny Tuttle taking time in her busy day to work a needle on a piece of frippery for me, of all people. Besides, the lace was torn and soiled, and I would not have had it round my neck for all the tea in China. All this took but an instant to run through my mind before I caught on and replied, “It will look very fine indeed.”

  Granny gave me a rare smile of approval and turned to the peddler. “Can I trade you fer it, Pilgrim? I have no coins upon me, but I can give you half a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a nice slab of ham.”

  The peddler accepted the trade and no wonder. The piece of lace was near worthless, whereas such a generous amount of wholesome food must be priceless to a man who looks so malnourished. I used to think him quite handsome when he sang out his wares in front of the Walker house, but since then his countenance has become gaunt and coarse. Despite this, his profile remains rather noble, the high forehead and straight nose and square jaw arranged in pleasing proportions. I was tempted to make a swift sketch of him there and then but feared it might embarrass him.

  Indeed, he looked embarrassed enough as he watched Granny wrap the food in a large napkin. He must have known as well as I did that it was charity she was giving him.

  “Have you traveled a good distance today, sir?’ I asked to put him at ease with some small talk.

  “No farther than I did yesterday,” he replied.

  Granny laughed. “Pilgrim is as close-mouthed as a rock when it come to his travel circuit, Julia. He has appeared in these here parts every summer for at least a dozen years, but whence he came or whither he goes remains a great mystery. Nor has he ever mentioned his family name or birthplace.”

  “Why, I was born and bred a Green Mountain boy and care not who knows it,” he said. “As for my birth name, I keep it to myself because I do not care to shame anyone who shares it.”

  “No one should be ashamed of his kith and kin,” Granny said.

  “And no one will have to be if the relationship remains my secret.”

  “Have it yer way, Pilgrim,” Granny said.

  “I did not wish to pry,” said I.

  “Oh, it isn’t prying to inquire about my travel circuit, miss,” the peddler told me, “for it is of no great mystery at all. My fellow trampers and I go south in the winter and return north in the summer, just like the birds do.” He looked up at the sky. “As much as I expect to see that warbler hereabouts this time of year, I expect to see a familiar tramper.” He looked back at Granny. “One I have not seen hide nor hair of this summer is a fellow called Roamer.”

  Granny gave a start. “Roamer?”

  “So he’s called. Earns his way by fixing clocks. Has a real way with them. Or used to anyway, before his hands got too shaky. Short, stocky fellow, with smarmed down hair and—”

  “Oh, I know who Roamer was, all right,” Granny interrupted. “I’m mighty sorry to be the one to tell you, Pilgrim, but he is dead.”

  “Ah.” The peddler looked more resigned than surprised. “ ’Tis a rough life we vagabonds lead. Did the elements do poor Roamer in or was it devil drink?”

  “He was hanged,” Granny stated flatly. “For the murder of Mrs. Upson, the reverend’s wife.”

  “No!” Pilgrim’s long legs buckled under him, and he sat down hard on the ground.

  “The sentence was harsh but just,” Granny told him. “Roamer broke the poor lady’s neck in her very parlor. Makes me shudder to think how many other wimmen who let him in to mend their clocks he could have kilt. Made the jury shudder too, I shouldn’t wonder. They deliberated less than an hour, for the evidence was conclusive. The reverend himself, poor man, saw Roamer running from his house right before he found his wife dead. Are you ill, Peddler? You look pale as ashes.”

  “I would greatly appreciate that beer you so kindly offered me before, Mistress Tuttle.”

  “And you shall have it.” She uncorked a brown bottle and handed it to him. He drank down the entire contents in one long guzzle as Granny looked at him with pity. “Better now, Pilgrim?”

  He nodded and stood up shakily. I helped him arrange his pack on his back, and Granny handed him the bundle of food. Ever the gent, he gave her his heartfelt thanks and bid us Good Day. We watched him amble off, stumbling occasionally as he made his way back down the pasture and off through the newly mown fields.

  “Drink has been that poor man’s ruin,” Granny said. “That and changin’ times. Before Daggett opened his store, Pilgrim used to do a right good business selling his wares. And fine they were in those days.” After a few clucks of her tongue and shakes of her head, Granny left off watching the peddler and beamed her sharp little eyes at me. “Well, missy,” she said. “Let’s talk turkey.”

  She took hold of my elbow and steered me a good three rods away from the two sleeping men under the oak tree. Turkey talk apparently required the utmost privacy. I stared out at the apple orchard and waited for her to begin. Granny Tuttle and I were never on easy chitchat terms. She did not like me much from the beginning of our acquaintance because of my city-bred ways and sharp tongue. She liked me less and less the more time Adam spent in town with me and away from Tuttle Farm. And when we ran away together she blamed me for it, as I suppose she should have.

  “I know you come back here to help out the old doc, and that’s to your credit,” she finally said. “But how soon do you plan on leaving?” Her tone implied the sooner the better.

  “When Grandfather is well enough to do without my assistance, I shall return to New York.”

  Granny regarded me with that squint of hers. “How do you manage there on your own?”

  “At present I board with a respectable family and earn my keep by instructing young ladies to draw. But I have greater ambitions.”

  “Well, sure as a gun you can’t pursue ’em in this little town. No, Plumford ain’t the place fer the likes of you, Julia Bell. Best you go off and live your life elsewhere. You and Adam are better off apart.”

  “Our grandfather has already convinced me of that,” I told her. “And I do not care to hear again the tragic tales regarding Walker cousins who marry. So if that was what you were intending to recount to me, ma’am, you may save your breath to cool your porridge.”

  “Do not be so pert with me, missy,” she said. “I had no sich intention as that. The Walkers’ dire family history ain’t none of my business. But my gran
dson’s happiness is. And I know for a certainty that Adam would be most happy settled right here on the farm where he belongs. Tuttles have always been farmers. They cleared this land over two hundred years ago.”

  “But Adam has Walker blood too,” I said.“He has inherited his Grandfather Walker’s doctoring skills, has he not?”

  “He is a Tuttle through and through!” Granny stubbornly insisted. “But I got nothin’ against his being a doctor. Why, I would sign over the land to him right off if he decided to keep on doctorin’ in Plumford instead of Boston. He could manage both the farm and his practice if he has the right helpmate.”

  I ventured a guess as to whom she had in mind. “Would that be Harriet?”

  Granny’s face softened. “She is as dear to me as Adam is. And like the Bible says, I have trained her up in the way she should go. Unlike you, Julia, she would be content to be a wife and mother and wish for nothing more. She has no fancy notions sich as you do.” A smile suddenly tilted up her thin lips as she looked over my shoulder.

  I turned and saw Adam and Harriet approaching, each grasping the handle of the bucket between them. I imagined instead that they were grasping the hands of a child. A perfect, healthy child.

  ADAM’S JOURNAL

  Friday, August 14th

  What has just transpired between Julia and myself leaves me most unsettled. Perhaps I should not have sought her out so late in the evening, but I missed her company. After we returned from Tuttle Farm this afternoon, she retired to her chamber and did not even come down for supper. I suppose this was understandable, considering the mountain of edibles Gran had supplied for our picknick, but neither did she sit with me in the parlor after tucking in the old doc. So when I heard her moving about her makeshift studio, I went there and told her I was at her disposal if she still wished to make a plaster cast of my undeserving countenance. Much to my surprise, she put me off, which rather irked me. Had she not requested to make a life-mask of me more than once? I confess I became rather insistent, informing her that it was now or perhaps never. In truth, I craved her attention, which she has withdrawn from me of late.

  She finally relented, sat me down in a straight-backed chair, and went about her preparations, stirring a large bowl of plaster mixture until she thought it a perfect consistency to form a mold. She added bluing to it, and, when I asked why, she explained that coloring the mold plaster would distinguish it from the white plaster she would later pour into it to form the cast, thus enabling her to see one from the other when the time came to chisel the two apart. She said very little after that. She seemed preoccupied, hardly responding to my attempts at conversation, but I did not mind. I am that way myself when caught up in the preparations of my profession.

  She asked me to remove my coat and vest and spread open my collar. She then draped an apron over me. When she tied the back strings her fingers brushed again my bared neck and a shudder ran down my spine. “Gran would say a rabbit just ran over my grave,” I said with a laugh.

  She did not laugh with me. Instead, she silently raked her fingernails through my hair like a comb, pushing it back from my forehead and making my scalp tingle. She proceeded to spread a soapy paste along my hairline.

  “Good thing I do not sport a mustache,” said I.

  She made no response. I am not accustomed to her being so reserved with me and did not like it. Still, I found the manner in which she rubbed a thin layer of linseed oil over the surface of my face most pleasing. Her touch seemed quite affectionate, and she gazed down into my eyes so steadily and for so long that she seemed about to speak something of serious import. All she told me, however, was to breathe shallowly when she applied the plaster so as not to draw it up too far into my nostrils. She then directed me to shut my eyes and keep them shut, along with my mouth, and cease facial movement altogether.

  I complied, and she began to apply the plaster with a blunt palette knife from the hairline downward, lightly coating even the outer area of my ears but taking care not to fill the auditory canals. After telling me it would take about ten minutes for the plaster to set, she fell silent again. Without the sound of her voice or her touch I suddenly felt rudderless in the stifling, all-encompassing darkness. I flexed my fingers, signaling her to take hold of my hand.

  She did so, and I was content for a few moments. But soon I grew restive. I often admonish my patients to remain immobile during certain medical procedures, but I now understand how difficult that can be. I began shifting my legs about, and one of them brushed against hers. She moved slightly so that our lower limbs were no longer in contact.

  “Pray still yourself, Adam,” she said softly.

  But I could not. I fidgeted with the restlessness of a colt until she began to stroke my hand. That quieted me. Indeed, it produced within me the blissful sensation that she and I were floating in eternity, free from all the cares in this world. Free of all its inhibitions too. Impulsively I grabbed her by the waist with my free hand and pulled her into my lap. She did not try to right herself. Perhaps she feared any sort of struggle might cause me to breathe so deeply I would inhale the plaster. For whatever reason, she stayed seated upon my knee, light and still as a fawn, as the minutes ticked by and my heart pounded in my eardrums. I longed to be free of my inhibiting mask and was at the point of ripping it off when, to my great relief, she gently tugged it away from my face.

  When I opened my eyes I was so overcome by the sight of her dear face that I cupped it in my hands and pressed my lips to hers. I shall never forget how thrilling it was to kiss her on the mouth. Even more exciting was that she returned my kiss full measure.Yet as extraordinary and new as the sensation was, it was also remarkably familiar. How long our mouths and bodies melded I know not, but before my arousal made me forget prudence altogether, she drew away from me. I released her, and she rose to her feet. She stared down at me, her eyes wide and the pupils dilated. I must have looked quite a comical sight, my face mottled with bits of blue plaster and slick with oil, but she did not so much as smile. Instead, she began to weep.

  Dismayed by her sudden melancholy, I stood up so quickly the chair fell over. I tried to take her back in my arms to comfort her, but she vehemently turned away from me, clutching the crushed mask to her breast.

  “We have ruined it!” she said.

  “I will gladly sit through the process again,” I offered in a soothing tone, “and you can make another mask of me.”

  “I am not crying over the ruined mask, but over our ruined friendship, Adam. We can never trust ourselves to be alone together again.”

  And with that she left the room. I did not follow, for I did not know how to proceed with her. I still do not know. Just recalling her ardent response to my kiss makes me long to repeat the experience.Yet I know we should not indulge in such passion. No good can come of it.

  JULIA’S NOTEBOOK

  Saturday, 15 August

  I have only myself to fault for what occurred last evening. Is it not always the woman’s fault when passion overcomes prudence? Men are expected to have an ardent, impetuous nature, thus Adam was only acting in accordance with his sex. But what excuse have I? If I had immediately pulled away from him, we might have made light of his lapse in good judgment and carried forth from there. Instead, I lingered in his warm embrace, aroused by sensations far too pleasing to resist. I cannot allow such dangerous intimacy between us again! Indeed, I shall do my best to avoid being alone with Adam henceforward.

  So far this forenoon I have managed to steer clear of him. I did get a brief glimpse of him, however, as he drove past me in the gig, presumably off to see a patient. He was accompanied by a stranger on horseback. And I, at the time, was accompanied by Mr. Upson. If Adam saw us walking on the Green path, he gave no sign of it.

  Wherever I go in the village it seems Mr. Upson goes too. This morn he came upon me just as I was leaving Daggett’s store and insisted on carrying my basket of provisions home for me. Apparently he has forgiven me for not attending his ser
mon Sunday last. When we stopped at the front gate he even offered to give me the latest religious tract he has written.

  “I do not have a copy of it on my person,” he said, “but I would be most happy to come by and read it aloud to you some evening, Miss Bell. It concerns the Doctrine of Total Depravity.”

  My heart sank. ’Twas the last thing I wanted to hear about. And I thought it best to be frank with him. “I would be a very poor audience, Mr. Upson,” I told him, “for I do not hold to the doctrine that we are all born depraved. It simply does not ring true in my heart.”

  “The heart of a woman often misleads her,” he responded. “Do not forget that it was a woman who caused the fall of mankind into sin.”

  “Ah, yes, let us blame poor Eve for every wicked deed done on earth, past, present, and future.” I smiled and reached for my basket.

  He kept fast hold of it. “Original Sin is nothing to smile about, Miss Bell. Because of the transgression Eve instigated in the Garden of Eden, most humans are damned to the eternal torments of hell. Only a select few have been foreordained to heaven instead. God decided who was to be saved long ago. Eons before we were born.”

  “But surely God takes our behavior here on earth into consideration.”

  “It matters not what deeds, good or bad, any of us do in this earthly realm, my dear. We are either God’s chosen or we are not. And those He has chosen are His instruments, part of His unchangeable plan.”

  “What about our own free will?”

  “For women, free will is nothing more than willfulness.”

  “You do not think very highly of my sex, do you, Mr. Upson?”