William Rosewood's Arc

Chapter 19 of 20

The thaw came early. William woke to water dripping off the roof and mud where the frost had been. He stepped outside and saw the pigs loose in the corner field. Ralph and the others had pushed through the empty posts in the night. Their snouts churned the wet dirt into a broad, glossy wallow. They rooted deep, tossing clods, hunting frozen roots. This was the ground he must sow come spring. If the pigs tore it bare, no seed would take. Eddie came to the door, blinking at the light. He saw the pigs and said nothing for a moment. Then, plainly, "They'll ruin the whole field by week's end." "I know," William said. He had no fence to put back. He had burned it to keep them all alive. The rails were ash in the hearth. He stood with his hands empty and no plan again. Tommy came out behind his brother. He looked at the wallow, then at the pig sty near the yard. The old sty stood with its low slanted roof and rough timber rails. "Put them in the sty," he said. "Rope the gap. Feed them there till you can build a real fence." William looked at the sty. It was small. It would crowd them. But it had four sides and a roof, and it would hold. "It won't hold them long," he said. "Long enough," Tommy said. He did not add more. They went to work. William waded into the wallow after Ralph. The pig was heavy and slick with mud. William got an arm around its neck and turned it toward the sty. Eddie drove the others from behind, arms wide, herding them across the mud. One broke past him. Eddie did not chase it far. He cut the angle and turned it back, patient the way he weeded a row. The pig gave up and trotted for the sty. By midday all four pigs stood penned inside the timber rails. William lashed a cross-rail over the gap where the gate had rotted, weaving cord through the way Cecily wove her thread. He tested it with his shoulder. It held. He carried acorns and the last of the ground feed to the trough inside. Eddie stood at the churned field. The wallow had spread wide across the corner. "They tore it up bad," he said. "They did," William said. He knelt and pushed his hand into the mud. It was soft and dark, turned deep by the rooting. He had meant to break this ground himself. The pigs had done half the work. The pigs were penned. The field was safe from them now. But William looked at the torn corner and knew the truth. He had no seed corn to sow it. He had ground it all to feed the herd. The field was ready, and he had nothing to plant in it.