Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Barn Burning

Barn Burning



THE STORE in which the Justice of the Peaces salute was sit-
ting smelled of cheese. The boy, crouched on his nail keg at
the back down of the crowded room, knew he smelled cheese, and
more: from where he sat he could see the ranked shelves
close-packed with the solid, squat, dynamic shapes of tin
cans whose labels his endure read, not from the lettering
which meant nothing to his mind but from the red-faced devils
arid the silver curve of fish this, the cheese which he knew
he smelled and the hermetic meat which his intestines be-
lived he smelled coming in intermittent gusts momentary
and brief between the other invariable one, the smell and sense
just a little of worry because mostly of despair and grief, the
old fierce pull of blood. He could not see the table where the
Justice sat and in advance which his father and his fathers enemy
(our enemy he thought in that despair; ours! mine and his
both! Hes my father!} stood, but he could hear them, the
two of them that is, because his father had said no article yet:

But what proof have you, Mr. Harris?

I told you. The grunter got into my corn. It is a thief I told you I told you. I caught it up and
sent it back to him. He had no fence that would compel it. I told
him so, warned him. The next time I dumbfound the blabber in my pen.

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When he came to get it I gave him enough fit aside to patch
up his pen. The next time I put the betrayer up and kept it. I rode
down to his sept and saw the wire I gave him still rolled on



to the spool in his yard. I told him he could have the hog
when he paid me a dollar pound fee. That eve a nigger
came with the dollar and got the hog. He was a exotic
nigger. He said, He say to tell you wood and hay blood-related burn.
I said, What? That what he say to tell you, the nigger
said. Wood and hay kin burn. That night my barn burned.
I got the stock out but I lost the barn.

Where is the nigger? Have you got him?

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