Chapter 3

Saturday next, dinner had been eaten and cleaned away. Mark had asked if Eirik could help him with homework, and now the two of them were sitting at the table, and Lucas at his smaller desk going over his books. Now and then he'd steal a glance at the pair, heads bent low over the book, Eirik trying to explain some problem with hands and feet and as many words, and Mark ruffling his hair.

"Ah, I need something to write. Mark, let's finish this tomorrow when there's light and we can use the yard floor for drawing. I'd be wasting paper if I keep this up."

"Can we, Pa? I finished the writing and reading, and most of the arithmetic stuff."

"He's truly almost got it, sir, only if I can paint a picture or three for him it will stick."

The young man had bright spots on his cheeks, same as Mark. The boy's eyes were pleading, the young man's shone with a mixture of frustration and humour.

"All right. But remember that when you nag me about playing a little bit longer with your friends after church."

"Yes Pa." Mark jumped up and moved his books away.

Eirik stood, about to leave, but Lucas closed his book with a bang, too, and offered: "What about a game of scrabble?"

The young man's shy smile was gratifying.

While Mark carried the board to the table, Eirik scanned room, his expression thoughtful. Lucas noticed the way the green eyes caught on the mouth organ lying half-forgotten on the cupboard.

"Go on, play, if you're any good."

"Don't know, haven't tried it in ages." But as if by themselves, the long, slender fingers reached out and touched the little instrument gently. He brought it to his lips, and self-consciously began to play.

After the first notes it became clear that "any good" was in no way adequate to describe the farmhand's proficiency. With rising confidence Eirik coaxed melody after melody out of the nondescript little box of metal, closing his eyes finally and giving in to the pull of the music.

Wide-eyed, Mark crept towards his father and nestled into his arms, Lucas himself had trouble swallowing suddenly, so heartfelt was the impulse behind the haunting notes.

Finally, the young man segued into an old love-song, and Lucas felt his shirt get wet where his son's cheek rested. So he cleared his throat at the end, startling Eirik out of his reverie and meeting overflowing green eyes.

"Good Lord, I am so sorry, Mr. McCain. Mark, I… I guess I got carried away." The deep voice was rough.

"It seemed that way." Lucas made an effort to hit that sarcastic note that would break the melancholy. "Next time give fair warning. I don't think Mark has heard music like this before."

The boy sniffed unceremoniously, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Pa, when I was little…"

"Aye, son." Lucas interrupted gently.

Eirik placed the harmonica on the board and headed for the door. "Again, I am so sorry. Good Night." He'd left before Lucas could utter a word.

"What was with him?" Mark enquired bemusedly.

"What were you going to say before? When you were little?"

"I'm not certain. Just that when he played that last song, it was like I was dreaming."

"Describe the dream to me, Mark."

"It smelled of home – not like it does here, but different, like at Miss Hattie's and here mixed together. Gentler. And I was being lulled to sleep by her-"

He broke off, staring at his father with wide, scared eyes. "I remembered Mum, didn't I?"

Lucas had to rub his hand over his eyes, gathering his son to him for a moment. "I think so, Mark. She liked music, was always humming. She loved dancing, too…"

"I know, you told me. Did you get homesick for her, too?"

"A little." He couldn't lie to his boy.

"It was like a tide inside me, when he played. Like I couldn't hold on to anything and was being swept along. Like when I fell into the river that one time." Mark had his enthusiasm back. "Wonder if he can teach me how to play like that. He did teach me a little about carving. You think playing the harmonica is harder than carving?"

"I think you might have an easier time of the harmonica than of the carving. You've got an ear for melodies." He'd noticed that before, the boy sang along in church clear as a bird.

"But why did he leave like that?"

"My guess would be that that tide that grabbed you pulled him along too, only worse, because it started within him."

"Was it bad that I started crying?"

"No, son. That's music, and your mother's voice in your memories."

"You don't think Eirik was embarrassed?"

"Mark, had you looked closely at him, you'd have seen that his eyes were as full as yours. He left because he didn't want to embarrass us."

He'd seen young men like Donnelly during his time in the army. The sensitive ones, who hardened the hard way, who's eyes shone with childlike terror. He'd seen some break, and some make it, some become twisted. This young man would have been almost of an age to be drafted when the war ended. There was an otherworldly quality to Eirik, eyes that saw too far ahead, had seen too much. But not been broken by it, even gained strength from the stones in his path. He'd like to know more about the young man.

….

"Join us for church, Eirik?"

"Nah, Mr. McCain. Church's not for me, today at least."

"What will you do then?" Mark's voice held jealousy.

The young man hesitated, laughter in his eyes. He pushed the scarf at his throat higher over his face. "I'll go rob somebody."

Lucas laughed, Mark laughed, and the duo rode off in their best Sunday gear. When Lucas looked back once, the young farmhand was still standing there, looking after them.

…..

It was early afternoon when they returned. Letting the horses go free, Lucas looked into the barn. "Eirik?"

"Aye, Sir, here."

The young man was kneeling behind the building, a fresh animal skin spread before him, a small earthen pot steaming with a pungent mixture beside him. A small block of what could only be beeswax rested in his hand as he now looked up. A tiny fire burned lazily beside him.

Taking in the scene, Lucas could not help but notice the large, elegant bow and staff lying to one side. "Got lucky?"

The boy grimaced. "I never meant to hunt him. He crossed my path and wanted my bounty. But Sir, I wanted to ask you something." He got up in one fluid motion.

Momentarily distracted, the tall man frowned. "What is it?"

"I wondered if I might give Mark a small gift."

Lucas felt his brows climb. "That's mighty generous of you. What were you thinking of?"

"Last night, when we were doing his calculations, the thought came to me. Paper is expensive, but there is another way." His face a picture of studied manliness, pride and uncertainty, Eirik produced a slim wooden tablet.

Looking it over carefully, understanding bloomed in the rifleman's head. It was a tablet, all right, but one side, within a narrow frame, held half an inch of pure beeswax. "A wax tablet?" It was expertly crafted, too, the narrow frame decorated with the whole alphabet, numbers and a few funny figures. He'd seen few like it.

"So he can try and draw and scribble, and clean it all up in one move."

"But these are mighty expensive, I know Miss Hattie had one for show once. There's no need to spend this much on the boy, he'll get along fine…"

Eirik took a breath to reply, only to be interrupted by the subject of their discussion.

"Pa, Pa, look!" Marc held a large glass jar with a clear, dark, viscous liquid in it. "Honey! Somebody left us a jar of honey on the kitchen table!"

A slow grin of surprise spread over Lucas' face. "That's who you went to rob? Bees?"

"You? Eirik, you brought the honey? Oh, what's that? Did you go hunting? Are you curing the fur? Can I watch? Pa?"

"Mark…"

Eirik caught Lucas' eye with a slight wink and said. "I need to finish this now before the skin turns stiff. You can watch, if your dad agrees, but afterwards we'll do your homework."

The boy's face did not twitch. "Pa?"

Lucas was still considering the tablet in his hand. "You made this yourself?"

Eirik nodded, his gaze direct, while his hands already busied themselves with the skin.

"Good work, young man. We can talk later." Hefting the little board in his hands, he returned to the house, while Mark settled down to watch, questions never running out.

…..

"Pa, the pump is broken again." Mark turned from the sink.

Lucas suppressed an oath. "Can you finish the washing outside, son? I'll have a look."

While the boy carried the dishes into the yard, Lucas grabbed his tools.

That's how the farmhand found him, lying under the cupboard.

"What's the matter, ? Mark said the pump's broken?"

"Aye, I might have to send you to town for a new connecting rod." Lucas held up a thin rod of metal, a little bent at one end.

"I think the problem might not be the rod, might be the well casing."

"Oh?" Lucas narrowed his eyes.

"See how the rod is bent here where it broke – seems the bucket piston is somewhat loose inside the casing. Too much leeway for the movement puts too much strain on the rod – makes it break that much quicker."

For a second the tall man stared in surprise. Eirik's words were matter-of-fact and thoughtless.

"How many pumps have you assembled and dissembled?"

That brought the expressive eyes upwards from the steel rod with a jolt. "A few."

Don't let the young man think too much. "What would you suggest?"

"Can't say much without looking at the whole thing. Could also be a weak part in the plunger or the pump flange. But since the broken bit is this long, I'll stick with my first assessment."

Lucas grunted, coming to a decision. "I haven't heard you put so many words together yet. You take over the pump. Tell me if you need anything from the smith's."

Lucas pushed the pliers he still held into the slender hands and straightened his shoulders. He was too big to be crouched under the sink for long anyway.

An hour later he was joined at the henhouse by the farmhand.

"Mr. McCain, got a minute?" Eirik carried the wet piston before him.

The tall man straightened, hefting the hammer in one hand. "Aye."

"I can get the pump working for the moment, but it will keep breaking. The whole contraption from inlet valve to flange is badly adjusted."

"Oh?"

"The casing is sound, handle, pump stand and spout, too. Were they made by a different smith?"

"The lower part is the same as the pump in the yard. The handle is newer." Lucas rubbed his neck bemusedly. It was true, the smith then had moved away shortly after.

"If you want peace from the thing…" the young man trailed off, embarrassment on his features.

"No, go on." God, this was going to be expensive.

"I… have a proposition."

Lucas suppressed a smile. Eirik falling into formal speech was funny.

"Propose away."

The young man blushed this time, but grinned in acknowledgment. "I would ask Swenson for use of his equipment, and widen the sunk bit – the old piston and the valve casing – the material is sound. It's just that the dimensions don't fit. Shouldn't cost too much money. I can even fix the old rod."

"And if you break it?"

"You can take it out of my next payment."

Lucas felt his brows climb. The young man was that certain of himself? "Well, then, go talk to Swenson." He considered the delighted smile pulling at the expressive mouth. "Eirik, if this works, you better check the old pump out here in the yard, too."

"Sure, Mr. McCain. Second time is always easier. Do we need anything else from town?"

"Bring some of those sweets for Mark, if you would. He's due a small surprise."

Lucas watched the young man gather the pump parts together in a roll of burlap and swing onto the stallion's back. Eirik glanced back once, and when he found the rifleman watching, he lifted a hand. Lucas gave a nod and turned back to his work, thoughts sorting through their conversation. First the wax tablet, now the pump? This farmhand proved more resourceful than he had anticipated from such a lanky youth.