The danger stilled his mind. Danger only started with the felling. Then ran on the bright edge of the axe as he walked the downed tree, limbing. Then the log itself, in motion or containing motion all the way to the pit and then by hand up the skidway. Motion to crush a foot, a leg, a whole man. Then the axe again, rising and falling, quartering the rounds; the axe oddtimes glancing, and always throwing the chunks up to fall about him. And danger in the repetition: letting himself drift to the chickadee working the sawdust chips in the spruce boughs, the snort or thick plash of urine from the geldings, the bay of a hound over the ridge. His right arm pushed outward a small ache during the splitting from the old sabre wound, the ache serving to tether his attention to the bright slice of the axe.

Some afternoons the sledge was loaded and he knew by the lightfall he was early. As February spread evenly before and after, the cold held but the sun climbed and on this south slope he could pause, warm with work and the false cheer of the sun on his face and sit up on the timbers of the sawpit, his long legs dangling, his trouser cuffs filled with sawdust riding up to the top of his laced boots and there with the danger not so much gone as back up in the woods waiting for the next day his thought would idle and drift. Beyond what was at hand. Sometimes to the house below and sometimes beyond that. Oft to the hope of the child and as many times to his own shortcomings as a man. He felt as if his father was nearby. Just beyond sight in the rump of spruce running uphill one side of the sawpit.

“Father was proud of you, Norman.” His mother’s final words to him before she clamped a hand on the shoulder of the boy driving the rented democrat wagon and told him, “You’re not paid to sit here daydreaming.” The wagon then went clattering smoothly from the dooryard down the track, the back loaded with the chests and sets of drawers and cartons of clothing and personal items of Cora Pelham and daughter Constance, his mother refusing from pride or bitterness or both to allow Norman the same job done for free. As if in her desire to not upset his new life she found the one final way to make clear how badly she wanted to do so. Connie turning to wave at Norman, the boy driving wedged between the two women. Norman raised his hand to his sister and stood the brief moment until the wagon crested the rise of land and dropped from sight. And stood there still with his mother’s benediction or condemnation or both still fresh and seared into him for all time. As if that was what she wanted. One final spring of doubt passed on with final authority from beyond the grave. Who better to know than she. Who better to choose the careful clipped neutral tone that left room for all meaning to fly in and settle on the sear, like crows onto a sown field. So he stood there until he heard Leah come from the house and then he started up and went away from her to the barns, wanting still to be alone. Without blame for her remaining inside while his mother departed but not willing yet to grant that lack by waiting for what words she might add. Went and milked the cows and swore that by the week out they’d be gone save the one fresh heifer for their own use. October home from the war.