William Rosewood's Arc

Chapter 4 of 20

William dropped his tools at the gate and went straight to the sty. The sick pig lay on its side in the mud. Its breath came fast and shallow. Ralph stood over it, nosing at its flank, refusing to move away. The other pigs crowded the far corner. William knelt and pressed his hand to the sick one's belly. Hot. Too hot. "How long has it been down?" he asked. "Since midday," Eddie said. He stood at the fence, hands tight on the rail. "I gave it water. It wouldn't drink. I didn't know what else to do." William turned the pig's head. Its eyes were dull, crusted at the corners. He ran his fingers along the snout and found the trough beside it. He smelled the water. Then he looked past the pigs to the feed. Old scraps sat rotting in the corner, gone slick and dark. He picked up a handful and knew. "Spoiled feed," he said. "Not a fever that spreads pig to pig. It ate rot." He dropped the scraps. "But if the others eat it, they'll go down too." Tommy came around the sty. He carried the empty water pail. He had heard from the rows. "Then we take the bad feed out," he said. "All of it. Before morning." William nodded once. The plan was simple. Pull every scrap of rotten feed. Scrub the trough. Move the sick pig apart so it wouldn't foul the clean water. Keep the herd on grain and greens until it passed. They worked in the dark. Eddie carried the spoiled feed out by the armful and buried it past the fence. Tommy hauled clean water, trip after trip, small arms shaking by the end. William lifted the sick pig himself and set it in a dry corner alone. He laid straw under it. Ralph tried to follow. William blocked him with his knee. "Not you," he told the pig. "You stay clean." By the time the trough ran clear, the sky had gone grey at the edge. The sick pig still breathed hard. But it lifted its head when Tommy set water near its mouth. It drank. A little. Enough. William sat back on his heels. His hands were black with mud and rot. He looked at his two sons, filthy and swaying on their feet. "You saw it before it spread," he said to Eddie. "You kept it alive till I came." Eddie looked at him. He waited, the way he always waited, for the next word. William did not have the one Eddie wanted. But he put his hand on the boy's shoulder and left it there. Then he stood. The herd was saved. But the buried feed meant a leaner store for winter. And he had lost a full day's work at the mill, a day he could not get back. The stone walls of his house still stood half-finished, and the cold was still coming.