William Rosewood's Arc

Chapter 9 of 20

The four beams held, but the gaps between them yawned open to the sky. Thatch laid straight across would sag and fall through by the first snow. William needed thin wood, long and straight, laid close to close the spans. He walked to the woodshed and looked again at the stacked firewood. Every piece was short. Every piece was split thick for the hearth. None of it would serve. He had timber for a hundred fires and none for a roof. Eddie came and stood beside him. He looked at the woodshed, then at the far edge of the yard. "The old elm," he said. "We left the top branches when we took the wall stone. They're thin. Long, too." William had forgotten them. When he dismantled the elm wall for stone, he had cut the trunk low and left the crown lying where it fell. He walked over. The fallen branches ran straight for six feet and more. Each was no thicker than his thumb. He bent one. It flexed without cracking. Green wood, still supple. "These," William said. He did not need more words. They worked the rest of the day. Tommy trimmed the side twigs with a knife while Eddie sighted each branch for straightness, the way he had sighted the beams. "That one's true," Eddie said. "This one splits. Set it aside." They cut the good branches to length and stacked them clean. By dusk they had a pile of lath. William carried the first armful up. He laid the thin branches across the beams, close together, running the other way. He tied each one down with cord soaked to hold. The lath filled the gaps. When he pushed on it, the woven wood pressed back and held. He stepped down and looked up. Where there had been open sky between the beams, now a lattice of pale elm crossed it end to end. It would carry thatch. Thatch would carry snow. The roof had a bed to rest on. Cecily came out with the pail. She looked up at the lath and said nothing for a moment. "That will hold the straw," she said. "It will," William said. Tommy stood at the wall and looked at the frame, then at the ground. "We used the last of the elm," he said. "There's nothing thin left. If a beam breaks, or the cord fails, we've no more to cut." He said it plain and stopped. William looked at the bare stack where the elm crown had lain. Tommy was right. The lath was up, but it was all he had. Now he needed the thatch itself, cut and bundled and laid thick before the snow. He had a bed for a roof. He did not yet have the roof.