And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'

18.

( Measure's Tale ) Joby was waiting, bag lunch in hand, when Cal's junker truck roared around the corner and rumbled to a halt in front of Mrs. Lindsay's inn. Joby didn't know too much about cars, but the truck's bulbous lines suggested a fifties or sixties vintage, and its once-green, flaking paint, elaborately detailed in rust, backed that estimate.

"This thing street legal?" Joby quipped, climbing in beside Hawk.

"You trashin' my truck?" Cal shot back.

"Seems a little late for that," Joby drawled.

"Better'n yours, ain't it?"

He had a point. "You coming on the hike with us?" Joby asked.

"Nope. It's a Bobber day."

"Which means?"

"Which means," Hawk grinned, "the Bobs'll be fryin' up a couple scrawny minnows and a whole lotta crow for dinner again."

"Last I heard," Cal mused, "you two wanted a ride somewhere. But now I'm thinkin' maybe I don't have time this morning."

"You're the best fisherman in Taubolt history," Hawk amended. "Okay?"

Mollified, Cal gunned the engine and lurched into the street with hardly a glance backward for traffic, not that there was ever much traffic to look for in Taubolt.

Hawk lived up Avalon Ridge, ten miles south of town. Beyond tumbling roadside fences half-buried in herbs and blackberry, wide fields of tall dry grass rippled in the wind, punctuated by isolated stands of redwood, old barns, and weathered homesteads. Ravens swooped and dove in the breeze. Grazing horses looked up as they drove by.

It took twenty-five minutes to reach Hawk's house; a piecemeal, wood-shingled structure halfway up the ridge, decked out in wind chimes, abalone shells, and odd little stained-glass windows. Cal dumped them out, honked farewell, and rumbled away.

The long flight of wood-slat stairs up to Hawk's front door swayed so badly under their combined weight that Joby feared it might collapse. But he kept his mouth shut, cautious of offending Hawk. Once inside, Hawk called for his mother, but got no answer.

The entrance hall was dimly illuminated by a red-and-blue stained-glass window beside the door. A spindly vine covered in tiny leaves cascaded from its macrame harness over an end table cluttered with mail. An oval rag rug of green and gray covered much of the hardwood floor. The walls were dark, unfinished wood, and the still air smelled like a dusty copse of trees.

"Guess she's workin'," Hawk said, leading Joby into a kitchen and breakfast bar connected by a short, wide flight of stairs to a large, sunken living room. The furnishings were worn, but things were immaculately neat, clean, and well lit by several skylights and a wall of glass on the living room's far side. Joby's attention was immediately drawn to a large painting hung over the couch, a spectacular landscape rendered in what looked like oil pastels; rich orange afternoon light and dark blue shadows draped a desert landscape beneath a vibrant blue sky dramatically washed in clouds. Its beautiful composition conveyed a sweeping sense of airy space. Not a print apparently, it was, without a doubt, the finest object in the room.

"What does your mom do?" Joby asked.

"Different things," Hawk said, pulling sandwich makings from the refrigerator. "Helps people with their records and bills sometimes, or does cleaning and stuff."

"Sounds like she works pretty hard," Joby said.

"Yup," Hawk said, crinkling his sandwich into a brown paper bag. He grabbed two small bottles of drinking water for himself and Joby from a shelf above the countertop, and said, "Okay. Let's go."

As they left, Hawk stopped to leave a note for his mom. Joby read over Hawk's shoulder as he wrote that he was out hiking with his English teacher and would be home for dinner. He paused, then added a reminder that his teacher would need a ride home.

"You did tell her about that before now, didn't you?" Joby asked.

"Sure." Hawk shrugged without meeting his eyes.

Joby could only hope it was true.

Minutes later, they were headed farther up the steep ridge along a narrow, overgrown dirt road. It was almost one o'clock before they stopped to eat their lunches on a wide, grassy hilltop. The morning's gentle breeze had died away. The smell of warming straw and wayside plants was pungent. Songbird and raven-call joined the clack, clack, clack of grasshoppers, and the lowing of distant cattle.

After lunch, as they continued up what had become only the ghost of a trail, they surprised a wild boar and stood very still as it trotted away, tail stuck up like a flagpole. When it had run some distance, it stopped to look back over its shoulder, then crashed into the underbrush and disappeared.

"They can be real mean," Hawk warned. "Gotta be careful when you see one."

"I've never seen a real boar," Joby said reverently. "You're so lucky to grow up in a place like this."

"I didn't," Hawk replied, resuming his progress ahead of Joby. "We moved here two years ago from Phoenix." He fell silent for a while, batting at the grass with his hands as they passed, then added sadly, "Wish I had grown up here, though."

"What made your folks come here?" Joby asked.

"It was my mom's idea. She wouldn't stop buggin' my dad."

"How'd she hear about a place like Taubolt clear down there in Arizona?"

"Some friend of hers told her about it a long time ago. I think she thought my dad would get better if she got him out of Phoenix, but he's a prick no matter where he lives." He took a particularly vicious whack at some weeds leaning into their path. "Guess she knows that now."

They hiked uphill in silence after that, through a dense thicket of stunted conifers in which their path nearly vanished. Then, all at once, the trees opened into an abandoned apple orchard full of gnarled old trees. It was surprisingly warm out in the light. Something buzzed, cicada-like, from the shrubs around them.

Hawk stopped abruptly and motioned for Joby to be quiet, pointing to the field's far side. At first, Joby saw nothing but tall grass. Then several dun-colored shapes resolved into the backs of browsing deer, heads down, foraging in the tall straw.

Oddly, Hawk began to hum very quietly. Joby could barely make out the pretty if repetitive melody until Hawk began to hum a little louder, and first the doe, then her fawns, raised their heads to stare at him. As Hawk added soft, flowing nonsense sounds to his tune, the deer twitched their tails, but made no move to flee. Still singing, Hawk reached slowly into his pocket and pulled something out inside his fist, then began to take slow, casual steps forward, one or two at a time, until he was halfway to the deer. There he sat down very slowly, singing all the while, and stretched his hand out, revealing two sugar cubes.

Joby watched in fascination as minutes passed. Neither Hawk's arm nor his tune wavered. Finally, the doe took a hesitant step forward, then several more while Hawk sang on. Within reach of his hand, the animal stretched its neck to sniff the sugar, then nibbled it quickly from Hawk's palm. Only then did Hawk's tune fall silent, and his hand drop slowly into his lap. When the doe had finished eating, she and Hawk gazed at each other while Joby held his breath in pure amazement. All at once, to Joby's even greater wonder, the deer sang back to Hawk. It was just a few atonal trumpeting sounds, but Joby had never known deer made any sounds at all. When her brief song was done, the doe turned to nuzzle her fawns toward the orchard's far side and through the thicket.

Hawk watched them go without moving, while Joby watched Hawk in envious wonder. "How did you do that?" he asked at last.

Hawk turned to grin proudly at him. "They're suckers for sugar." He shrugged, as if that explained everything.

"What were you singing?"

"Just made it up," Hawk said. "Doesn't really matter what you sing, long as it's quiet, and you don't stop. No animal sounds like that when it's attacking, and if you believe they're not afraid of you, they can tell, and they're not afraid either. That's all."

"But it talked to you!" Joby said, still unable to believe it was all so simple.

"Deer can talk." Hawk smiled. "They just don't want to most of the time."

As they talked, one thought had drowned all others in Joby's mind: How could any man have left a boy like this? "Where on earth did you learn all this?" Joby asked.

"All the kids around here know this stuff. But that's not the best thing. Come on! I'll show you something really neat! It's why I brought you."

"Something can top what I just saw?" Joby asked skeptically.

"Back there," Hawk said, pointing toward the orchard's far boundary of brush and trees, "there's a haunted house! It's been empty so long, no one remembers who lived there. The windows are all smashed out, and half the floors have fallen into the rooms below them." His voice grew quieter as they crossed the orchard, as if he thought someone might hear him. "I even heard people say there's a body stuffed in the chimney, but I don't think it's true. You can tell it's haunted though. It feels like something's watching you, or about to talk in the next room, even in the daytime. Nobody goes there at night."

Hawk's excitement was palpable as they pushed stealthily through the thicket toward his house of horrors. But as they broke from cover, he stopped abruptly, crouching down to hide, and frantically motioning Joby to do the same.

"What's wrong?" Joby whispered.

"Someone's there!" Hawk moaned quietly. "They've ruined it!"

Joby crawled forward, coming shoulder to shoulder with Hawk, and looked out between the branches at an attractive, freshly painted, two-story, wooden house. The lush green lawn around it was neatly mown, and wind chimes tinkled on a porch that wrapped around two sides of the structure.

"Looks like they even pulled that body out of the chimney," Joby said, glancing up at the smoke drifting cheerfully from the chimney. "Too bad. But don't worry, this hike's been plenty-" He fell silent as a man walked into view from behind the house, carrying a garden spade. A man he recognized. With a smile, Joby got up and began to press through the remaining bushes.

"What are you doing?" Hawk whispered in alarm.

"It's okay," Joby said. "I know this guy." Then he called out, "Solomon?"

"Joby!" Solomon said, clearly startled, then, more calmly, "What an unexpected pleasure." The old man set down his spade and came to meet him.

Hawk followed Joby out of hiding and stood staring from one man to the other.

"Hawk," Joby said, "this is Solomon. Solomon, this is my friend Hawk."

"Pleased to meet you, Hawk." Solomon grinned.

"How come I never saw you before?" Hawk asked cautiously.

"Like Joby, I'm new to Taubolt, and I tend to guard my privacy rather closely."

"I hope we're not intruding," Joby said. "We were out for a hike, and Hawk thought this was an abandoned house."

"No bother at all," Solomon assured them. "I'm delighted to have your company. Care to come inside? I have some lemonade in the kitchen if either of you is thirsty. Gotten rather warm all of a sudden, hasn't it?"

Joby looked to Hawk, who shrugged uncertainly. "Sure," Joby said. "Thanks."

"It's amazing you could fix it up like this," Hawk said suspiciously as they headed for Solomon's back porch. "I thought it was way too ruined."

"It was work," Solomon conceded. "And expensive. Almost irretrievable when I found it. Such a fine house should never have been allowed to go to ruin like that."

"Did you have to clean out the chimney?" Hawk asked.

"Oh yes." Solomon grinned. "Completely blocked, when I came."

"By what?" Hawk asked with poorly concealed urgency.

"Leaves," Solomon said. "Sticks and birds' nests. Even a beehive! Everything that collects in chimneys over the ages. Such a moldy mess. To be honest, there might have been anything decaying in all that muck. . . . Anything at all." He winked at Hawk, then grinned at Joby.

Solomon's back door opened into a kitchen, neatly tricked out in white enameled furnishings, a red-checkered tablecloth, lace curtains, and blue willow-pattern china plates hanging up near the ceiling. An old cast-iron stove seemed all there was for cooking, and a hand pump over the sink was the only fixture. Solomon looked on, amused, as Hawk went over to give it a few skeptical pumps. When it gurgled and coughed up its first small stream of clear water, Hawk stepped back and said, "Cool!"

From there, Solomon led them into what he called "the parlor," warmly furnished in comfortable old chairs and a thickly upholstered Victorian couch. There was a large wooden rocker facing the fire, but what seized Joby's attention was an aged spinning wheel in front of the lace-curtained window.

"My grandfather had one of these!" Joby said, walking over to place a hand lightly on the wheel, resisting the impulse to spin it as he had in childhood.

"Did he?" Solomon asked quietly.

"Yes. It belonged to my gramma. She died before I was born. But Grampa kept it in their living room." He shook his head. "He died when I was five. But I remember, whenever we went to his house I'd stand there spinning and spinning it 'til my mother made me stop."

"A lovely thing," Solomon said sadly, "from a time when there was still room for beauty as well as function." He turned and headed back toward the kitchen, saying a bit roughly, "I'll get that lemonade."

He was back a moment later, carrying a tray with three tall glasses of lemonade garnished with sprigs of fresh mint. "The real thing-not concentrate," he announced, any trace of melancholy banished.

Hawk thanked Solomon, took an eager gulp, and smiled.

"What do you do, Solomon?" Joby asked. "For a living, I mean."

"I'm a storyteller of sorts." He handed a glass to Joby. "Retired now, or nearly so. I've come here to settle my affairs, and move on to the next chapter of my life."

"How do you make a living telling stories?" Hawk asked.

Solomon's brows rose in surprise. "You've never read a book or seen a film?"

"Oh!" Hawk replied. "You're a writer? Why didn't you just say that?"

"You make it sound so pedestrian," Solomon said with a playful scowl. "But I've told my tales in many ways, as actor, poet, musician, soldier, merchant, politician. There are more ways to tell a story than you'll have guessed, young Hawk, and since the world is always hungry for another, there is never lack of work for one who tells them well. I've been rich and poor, famous and obscure, but never unemployed." Solomon smiled and winked at Hawk.

"Sounds like a cool job," Hawk said. "Could you tell us one now?"

"Hmm," Solomon mused. "Well . . . I don't see why not. Let me think."

Hawk and Joby waited expectantly.

"Once, long ago," Solomon began, gazing intently at Hawk, "there came a dark and bitter winter that would not give way to spring. At the height of summer's lawful reign, trees that should have been green and heavy with fruit, cracked under burdens of ice instead and toppled in the cold. Families huddled fearfully around their dwindling fires, their houses buried in snow, and still the days grew shorter, until it seemed even the memory of light might be extinguished. In that dark world haunted by dread and gnawed by need, greedy men of vicious cunning and brute, ugly force wriggled up into the failing light like maggots out of rotting meat, to oppress and devour a people grown all but ignorant of goodness, courage, or love."

Solomon spoke in dark, musical rhythms that struggled to rise, and fell again, making palpable the hopeless weight of that doomed world's slow collapse.

"Into this hopeless winter, a child named Measure was born, in whose heart the seeds of summer's resurrection were hidden, though no one near him knew it, least of all himself. Only the imperiled winter sensed the truth, for even the smallest flame cannot go long unnoticed by the darkness around it. Thus, the brightness hidden in Measure's heart drew torments from the darkness as a rubbed cat draws sparks, and Measure was no little god to lightly shrug off such assaults. He was just a very human child."

As Solomon went on to unravel the tale of Measure's desperate struggle, the villainous winter transcended mere season to become a person, malevolent and cold. Such was the old man's skill, that Joby saw, and felt, and was, somehow, whatever Solomon described. No book or movie he'd ever known had drawn Joby in with such immediacy. He both longed to know how it would end, and wished it would go on forever, but after what seemed far too short a time, the tale wound toward completion.

"And so, after all his many adventures," Solomon intoned at last, "it seemed that all was lost. But Measure's years of captivity in that black and empty cell had left him stronger than he knew. The darkness trembled at his touch now, though Measure did not see it, and the silence drew away in fear, though Measure did not hear it flee. Left to sit, and stare, and listen, unheeded, some part of him had, itself, become so dark and still, that he no longer feared those jailers, but now made ghosts of them who had so long made one of him, and they feared that soon he'd come to know it. Very soon perhaps."