The warm, stifling day finally gave way, beginning to slant toward sunset. The road running alongside the town cemetery, covered in reddish dust, still steamed from the day's heat, while over the Mississippi the first, thin, spiderweb-like tendrils of evening fog were already creeping. The air smelled of dust, hot wood, and the distant thunderstorm that both people and animals were waiting for, but which still would not come.
Archie McCallum trudged home along the road, tired and broken after a wearying day at school and the talk with the teacher by the river, when by the leaning cemetery fence he caught up with a familiar, stooped figure. It was Johnny Tucker, the church bell-ringer. But today he was nothing like his usual self. None of the habitual swaying from ditch to ditch, none of the drunken muttering escalating into wild shouts depending on circumstance. Today he walked steadily, but somehow wearily, scuffing his soles in the dust, and on his face lay not his usual boisterous merriment, but a deep, concentrated sorrow.
Seeing Archie, he grunted and waved a hand in greeting.
"Well now, young master from Fox Creek," he began without preamble, "seems my last song's been rung out. They're chasing me off, like an old blind dog from the yard."
Archie flinched and quickly brushed the treacherous moisture from his cheek, left over from the tears by the riverbank.
"Why are they driving you out?" he asked, not understanding, as he fell into step with the bell-ringer.
Johnny spat lustily into the roadside weeds and waved his hand:
"Why, why… Because the pastor's pupils, the sons of local rich folk, lost their toy. Their raft, rotten, seems it went to the bottom on its own, and they're looking for someone to blame. Well, they didn't search long — pinned it on me, the old fool."
He gave a crooked grin, and there was more bitterness than anger in that grin.
"I'd sooner drown that cook Louise, whose testimony got me accused, in the river than mess with their rotten logs!"
Archie scurried alongside, trying to match Johnny's long stride, and couldn't believe his ears.
"But… they were saying at school… they thought it was Tommy Savage!"
"Think they thought," the bell-ringer grumbled. "Changed their minds. The pastor, seems he believed the boy had nothing to do with it. And then our Louise, that creeping snake, did her bit: swears she saw me by the river that evening. And so the accusations flew."
They turned onto a side road where the air was thicker and sweeter — smelling of hearth smoke, baked cornbread, and cut grass. Twilight began to gather quickly.
"And the pastor… didn't he believe you?" Archie asked cautiously.
"The pastor, maybe he would've believed me," Johnny sighed, and weariness sounded in his voice for the first time. "But our official thunder-bringer, Whitaker, got in his way. Strutting around the pastor, puffed up like a turkey, and bellows for the whole county: 'It's Tucker! Who else! He's always drunk, he breaks everything!' And off it went."
"But why would he do that?" Archie frowned, feeling the familiar, bitter sense of injustice rising in his throat again.
Johnny paused, squinted his one good eye, and gave the boy a long look.
"You're too young yet, master, to understand such twists. Grow up — you'll figure it all out yourself."
After a silence, he lowered his voice, though there was no one around but crickets.
"Certain rumors are going around… I've become inconvenient for our principal. Too loose-lipped. Said once, you see, that our esteemed Mr. Whitaker and Will Fry's father have some shady dealings going on. And that if Will's looking for his father, he should look closer to Whitaker. But the truth, brother, even in the holy book, isn't loved."
He gave a bitter smirk and spat forcefully into the dust, as if wanting to spit out all that bitterness.
They walked in silence for a long time, with only the crickets' chirping and the distant croaking of frogs disturbing the quiet.
Suddenly Johnny spoke again, and his voice sounded uncharacteristically quiet and serious:
"Understand, boy… I could've lied to them, of course. Said: yes, it was me, I sank your raft because it didn't suit my drunken fancy. They might've believed it. But… why? I told the truth. And here's the payment for truth."
From the anger that washed over him, he clenched his fist so hard the knuckles on his tough, calloused hand turned white.
"In this world, brother, truth is loved about as much as flies in winter. It gets in everyone's way, pokes its nose where it's not wanted."
Then he waved his hand as if brushing away a bothersome thought.
"If they'd only asked me, I'd have told them honest I never laid a finger on that raft! They could've sheathed it in gold leaf for all I care! They should be glad it sank — less worry. Those young masters lark about on it on the river every day; it's a wonder one of them hasn't fallen in and drowned yet. And they — 'villainy!', 'find the guilty one!' — as if it wasn't some rotten logs that sank, but the whole Cathedral of St. Peter went to the bottom!"
Archie listened to Tucker's bitter words, and his heart tightened ever more, becoming a small, cold, heavy stone in his chest. How could it be — to pin blame on a man just because he's a convenient target? Because he's alone, poor, and everyone's tired of him? How can you look someone you're deceiving in the eye and not blink? His fists in the pockets of his worn trousers clenched so hard his nails dug into his palms.
"And you know what they say in Kentucky when such injustice is done?" Johnny asked, glancing at him sideways. "They say: 'You can't drown the truth in a river — it'll float up like a cork from a good bottle of whiskey.'"
He gave a hoarse laugh, but there was no mirth in that laugh.
"Let them drag me, old sinner that I am, to that dock right now and say they'll execute me — my last words will still be: I did not sink your damned raft! And that's that!"
They fell silent and walked on, each lost in their own cheerless thoughts. The air filled with the sharp smell of smoke from chimneys and the sweetish aroma of cut clover. Somewhere across the river, on the far bank, a dog howled, and others answered it at once.
And Archie suddenly felt a strange change in himself. As if this heavy, unjust story, like sandpaper, had worn away the last soft, childish layer from his soul. Something harder was left, but also more fragile at the same time.
When they finally approached the farm, it was fully dark. The whole yard was shrouded in the bluish smoke from a fire where dry weeds and corn stalks were being burned. In the corner, by the shed, geese honked anxiously, and from the stable came the discontented snorting of old mare Molly, who refused to settle down for the night.
The women emerged slowly from the barn, having just finished the evening milking. Among them was Mary, a strapping girl with a face always flushed from stove heat, carrying a heavy pail of fragrant, fresh milk. Seeing Johnny, she was so astonished she nearly stumbled on the barn threshold and dropped her pail.
Hearing the talk that the town bell-ringer was being chased from his place, she even paled — or rather, her usual rosy color turned a grayish hue. The fact was, Mary had a soft spot for Johnny. Not exactly true love, but once, in a fit of drunken magnanimity, he'd promised everyone he'd marry her. Since then, images of a wedding, shared household, and a whole brood of children had taken firm root in her head.
Johnny noticed her confusion and, of course, couldn't resist — his old habit of topping circumstances with a joke took over.
"Whoa, look at that, Mary! Herself — like a sack of prime potatoes, yet still angling to be a bell-ringer's bride!"
Mary was dumbfounded for a second but quickly recovered, setting the pail down with such a clatter she almost spilled the freshly drawn milk.
"Who needs you, you one-eyed devil! They should stuff you in a bell and tie a rope to the clapper — so you'd drink less!"
"Whoa, listen to her!" Johnny snorted, but a spark of combative glee flashed in his eyes. "And you think I take a wife to fatten her up like a pig for slaughter? A wife should feed me! If you sit with your hands folded — go behind the stove and eat clay, like a yard cockroach."
Then from around the corner of the barn appeared Matt, the farmhand and Archie's old friend. Lanky and unhurried, he leaned on a pitchfork and smirked as if he'd been watching the scene from start to finish.
"Right you are, Johnny," he drawled lazily. "But mind you: if your Mary starts eating clay, that'll be the last thing left whole in your house. The walls, I reckon, are made of clay too."
"Ha!" the bell-ringer perked up. "As if there aren't other stoves and walls in the world besides clay ones! I'll build myself an iron house!"
"Our Mary," Matt countered impassively, "would eat your iron stove and house together. She just wants to be near you."
But despite all this banter, Mary's face suddenly shone. Because in the stream of jokes, she'd caught the key word — "wife." And that, in her understanding, was almost a proposal! Even if expressed in such an exclusively jocular style. She straightened up, brushed off her skirt, and declared challengingly:
"Don't you worry, I won't be cooking porridge for you until you quit drinking whiskey yourself. And once we set up housekeeping — we'll see who feeds whom!"
"You bet!" Johnny grinned. "I'll put a ring in your nose, Mary, like the meekest mare, and hoist you up the bell tower — you'll be ringing the bell from dawn till dusk instead of me!"
Everyone, including Mrs. McCallum who had come out onto the porch, burst out laughing. She, however, quickly collected herself and, hiding a smile in the folds of her apron, asked with businesslike concern:
"Alright, jokes aside… but who will ring the church bell now?"
"Why, the cook Louise, who else!" Johnny grumbled. "She'll haul her stewpot to the very top, set it on the coals, and cook and ring — two jobs at once."
"Well then, watch out, good parishioners," said Matt, "lest she boils us all together with the Sunday preacher in that pot."
Amid general, friendly laughter, everyone headed into the house for supper. Johnny settled on the bench by the stove and, like one of the family, started tossing chips into the fire and cracking jokes. And Mary made sure not to stray far from him, her cheeks burning with such a blush they seemed about to catch fire.
Later, when supper was eaten, the hens had quieted on their roost, and only crimson, crackling coals remained in the stove, Archie lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling where shadows from the night lamp crawled. The room smelled of hay, dust, and warm wood. In the corner, a mouse scrabbled, and outside the window, on the old apple tree, a crow cawed — a bad omen, as Granny used to say, but Archie no longer believed in omens.
He kept thinking. His thoughts darted about like a fly caught in a jar. Johnny. Mary. Laughter, hurt, injustice. But most of all, his thoughts were about the raft. That damned raft, which had become a millstone around the necks of two people.
Who sank it?
Definitely not Johnny. He'd have lit his pipe, watching it go down, and called the whole town to come and have a look. And he wouldn't have denied it. Johnny, even dead drunk, can't lie — the truth just spills out of him, often awkward and thorny.
No, not Johnny.
Then…
Archie suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, as if stung. His heart pounded so hard he could hear its thump in his ears.
"Savage…" he whispered into the darkness.
And suddenly everything fell into place with a dull, ominous click. His request to lie. His gloomy, detached face on Saturday. His inability to look you straight in the eye. And strength… Yes, damn it, strength! If anyone could single-handedly manage a heavy, moored raft — it was Tommy Savage. Strong as a young bull, and stubborn as that very bull.
Archie fell back on his pillow, but sleep now fled from him like from a leper. His head burned, thoughts raced and collided. What to do? Go and tell everything? But that would mean betraying a friend who'd asked him to cover for him. Or stay silent, knowing that innocent Johnny would be driven out because of it?
He felt like a boat without oars in thick fog in the middle of the Mississippi. No shore in sight, no channel, and the current carries you who knows where.
Far past midnight, when a milky, cold mist already lay over the river and even the mosquitoes had quieted, Archie still lay with his eyes wide open, staring at one spot in the dark. Then, at last, sleep, quiet and treacherous as a thief, crept up and carried him away — to a place where there were no rafts, no lies, no heavy toll of a bell calling to an unjust trial.