Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 17 of 20

Thomas stood by the long table and watched steam rise off the bowls. The food was hot now. It would not stay hot. He had hauled the whole feast down the dark slope, and the pavilion sat empty. His guests waited up at the cottage, miles of shadow between them and the meal. He had no time to climb back and lead them one by one. He pressed a hand to the nearest pan. Still warm, but cooling. He thought of the cast-iron warming pan he had packed under the towels. He pulled it out, set it beside the dishes, and loaded it with hot coals he had carried in a covered bucket. The heat pooled over the pans. It would buy him minutes. Not more. He needed to call everyone at once. Shouting up the slope would do nothing. His voice would die in the wind off the water. He turned in a slow circle, looking for anything that could carry. Then he saw it, hanging from a post on the pavilion rail. A brass dinner bell, left there from some past gathering. The metal caught the lantern light. He lifted it by the handle. It was heavier than it looked, weighted at the clapper. He carried the bell to the edge of the pavilion, where the land rose toward his cottage. He planted his feet. He swung. The first ring broke the quiet. The second rolled up the slope and spread across the water. Thomas swung harder. Clang. Clang. Clang. The sound climbed the hill in waves. He did not stop. His arm burned, but he kept the rhythm steady, the way a church bell calls people in. He listened between swings. At first, nothing. Just the water and his own breath. He rang again, louder, leaning his whole body into it. Then a light bloomed at the top of the slope. One lantern, then two. Voices drifted down, faint and glad. Shapes moved along the dark path, following the bell toward the sound. Thomas kept ringing until the first guests reached the pavilion steps. They poured in, dozens of them, faces warm in the lantern glow. They found the long table set and steaming. Thomas set the bell down and gripped the rail to steady himself. His arm shook. The feast was hot, and the people had come. Guests crowded the benches and reached for the bowls. Laughter filled the open-air roof. Thomas looked down the table and counted heads, the old habit catching him fast. More faces than chairs. More hands than plates. The crowd was larger than last night's, and still more lanterns bobbed down the hill. He had called them all at once. Now they were all here at once. And he looked at the pans, at the bowls, at the single table, and knew the food that had seemed like plenty would have to stretch across more mouths than he had planned to feed.