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Barn Burning
by William Faulkner
The store in which the justice of the Peace's court was sitting smelled of cheese. The boy, crouched on
his nail keg at the back 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 stomach read, not from the lettering which meant nothing to his mind but from the scarlet devils
and the silver curve of fish - this, the cheese which he knew he smelled and the hermetic meat which his
intestines believed he smelled coming in intermittent gusts momentary and brief between the other
constant one, the smell and sense just a little of fear because mostly of despair and grief, the old fierce
pull of blood. He could not see the table where the Justice sat and before which his father and his father's
enemy (our enemy he thought in that despair; ourn! mine and hisn both! He's my father!) stood, but he
could hear them, the two of them that is, because his father had said no word yet:
"But what proof have you, Mr. Harris?"
"I told you. The hog got into my corn. I caught it up and sent it back to him. He had no fence that would
hold it. I told him so, warned him. The next time I put the hog in my pen. When he came to get it I gave
him enough wire to patch up his pen. The next time I put the hog up and kept it. I rode down to his house
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 evening a **** came with the dollar and got the hog. He was a
strange ****. He said, 'He say to tell you wood and hay kin burn.' I said, 'What?' 'That whut he say to
tell you,' the **** said. 'Wood and hay kin burn.' That night my barn burned. I got the stock out but I lost
the barn."
"Where is the ****? Have you got him?"
"He was a strange ****, I tell you. I don't know what became of him."
"But that's not proof. Don't you see that's not proof?"
"Get that boy up here. He knows." For a moment the boy thought too that the man meant his older brother
until Harris said, "Not him. The little one. The boy," and, crouching, small for his age, small and wiry like
his father, in patched and faded jeans even too small for him, with straight, uncombed, brown hair and
eyes gray and wild as storm scud, he saw the men between himself and the table part and become a lane
of grim faces, at the end of which he saw the justice, a shabby, collarless, graying man in spectacles,
beckoning him. He felt no floor under his bare feet; he seemed to walk beneath the palpable weight of the
grim turning faces. His father, stiff in his black Sunday coat donned not for the trial but for the moving, did
not even look at him. He aims for me to lie, he thought, again with that frantic grief and despair. And I will
have to do hit.
"What's your name, boy?" the justice said.
"Colonel Sartoris Snopes," the boy whispered.
"Hey?" the Justice said. "Talk louder. Colonel Sartoris? I reckon anybody named for Colonel Sartoris in
this country can't help but tell the truth, can they?" The boy said nothing. Enemy! Enemy! he thought; for a
moment he could not even see, could not see that the justice's face was kindly nor discern that his voice
was troubled when he spoke to the man named Harris: "Do you want me to question this boy?" But he
could hear, and during those subsequent long seconds while there was absolutely no sound in the
crowded little room save that of quiet and intent breathing it was as if he had swung outward at the end of
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a grape vine, over a ravine, and at the top of the swing had been caught in a prolonged instant of
mesmerized gravity, weightless in time.
"No!" Harris said violently, explosively. "Damnation! Send him out of here!" Now time, the fluid world,
rushed beneath him again, the voices coming to him again through the smell of cheese and sealed meat,
the fear and despair and the old grief of blood:
"This case is closed. I can't find against you, Snopes, but I can give you advice. Leave this country and
don't come back to it."
His father spoke for the first time, his voice cold and harsh, level, without emphasis: "I aim to. I don't figure
to stay in a country among people who…" he said something unprintable and vile, addressed to no one.
"That'll do," the Justice said. "Take your wagon and get out of this country before dark. Case dismissed."
His father turned, and he followed the stiff black coat, the wiry figure walking a little stiffly from where a
Confederate provost's man's musket ball had taken him in the heel on a stolen horse thirty years ago,
followed the two backs now, since between the two lines of grim-faced men and out of the store and
across the worn gallery and down the sagging steps and among the dogs and half-grown boys in the mild
May dust, where as he passed a voice hissed:
"Barn burner!"
Again he could not see, whirling; there was a face in a red haze, moonlike, bigger than the full moon, the
owner of it half again his size, he leaping in the red haze toward the face, feeling no blow, feeling no
shock when his head struck the earth, scrabbling up and leaping again, feeling no blow this time either
and tasting no blood, scrabbling up to see the other boy in full flight and himself already leaping into
pursuit as his father's hand jerked him back, the harsh, cold voice speaking above him: "Go get in the
wagon."
It stood in a grove of locusts and mulberries across the road. His two hulking sisters in their Sunday
dresses and his mother and her sister in calico and sunbonnets were already in it, sitting on and among
the sorry residue of the dozen and more movings which even the boy could remember the battered stove,
the broken beds and chairs, the clock inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which would not run, stopped at some
fourteen minutes past two o'clock of a dead and forgotten day and time, which had been his mother's
dowry. She was crying, though when she saw him she drew her sleeve across her face and began to
descend from the wagon. "Get back," the father said.
"He's hurt. I got to get some water and wash his…"
His older brother had appeared from somewhere in the crowd, no taller than the father but thicker,
chewing tobacco steadily,
"Get back in the wagon," his father said. He got in too, over the tail-gate. His father mounted to the seat
where the older brother already sat and struck the gaunt mules two savage blows with the peeled willow,
but without heat. It was not even sadistic; it was exactly that same quality which in later years would
cause his descendants to over-run the engine before putting a motor car into motion, striking and reining
back in the same movement. The wagon went on, the store with its quiet crowd of grimly watching men
dropped behind; a curve in the road hid it. Forever he thought. Maybe he's done satisfied now, now that
he has ... stopping himself, not to say it aloud even to himself. His mother's hand touched his shoulder.
"Does hit hurt?" she said.

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Posted by CtotheVrzrbck

WeWaCo

Member since Dec 2007

37538 posts

Posted on 10/21/16 at 10:59 pm to CtotheVrzrbck

3
"Naw," he said. "Hit don't hurt. Lemme be."
"Can't you wipe some of the blood off before hit dries?"
"I'll wash to-night," he said. "Lemme be, I tell you."
The wagon went on. He did not know where they were going. None of them ever did or ever asked,
because it was always somewhere, always a house of sorts waiting for them a day or two days or even
three days away. Likely his father had already arranged to make a crop on another farm before he...
Again he had to stop himself. He (the father) always did. There was something about his wolflike
independence and even courage when the advantage was at least neutral which impressed strangers, as
if they got from his latent ravening ferocity not so much a sense of dependability as a feeling that his
ferocious conviction in the rightness of his own actions would be of advantage to all whose interest lay
with his.
That night they camped in a grove of oaks and beeches where a spring ran. The nights were still cool and
they had a fire against it, of a rail lifted from a nearby fence and cut into lengths - a small fire, neat,
****rd almost, a shrewd fire; such fires were his father's habit and custom always, even in freezing
weather. Older, the boy might have remarked this and wondered why not a big one; why should not a
man who had not only seen the waste and extravagance of war, but who had in his blood an inherent
voracious prodigality with material not his own, have burned everything in sight? Then he might have
gone a step farther and thought that that was the reason: that ****rd blaze was the living fruit of nights
passed during those four years in the woods hiding from all men, blue or gray, with his strings of horses
(captured horses, he called them). And older still, he might have divined the true reason: that the element
of fire spoke to some deep mainspring of his father's being, as the element of steel or of powder spoke to
other men, as the one weapon for the preservation of integrity, else breath were not worth the breathing,
and hence to be regarded with respect and used with discretion.
But he did not think this now and he had seen those same ****rd blazes all his life. He merely ate his
supper beside it and was already half asleep over his iron plate when his father called him, and once
more he followed the stiff back, the stiff and ruthless limp, up the slope and on to the starlit road where,
turning, he could see his father against the stars but without face or depth-a shape black, flat, and
bloodless as though cut from tin in the iron folds of the frockcoat which had not been made for him, the
voice harsh like tin and without heat like tin:
"You were fixing to tell them. You would have told him." He didn't answer. His father struck him with the
flat of his hand on the side of the head, hard but without heat, exactly as he had struck the two mules at
the store, exactly as he would strike either of them with any stick in order to kill a horse fly, his voice still
without heat or anger: "You're getting to be a man. You got to learn. You got to learn to stick to your own
blood or you ain't going to have any blood to stick to you. Do you think either of them, any man there this
morning would? Don't you know all they wanted was a chance to get at me because they knew I had
them beat? Eh?" Later, twenty years later, he was to tell himself, "If I had said they wanted only truth,
justice, he would have hit me again." But now he said nothing. He was not crying. He just stood there.
"Answer me," his father said.
"Yes," he whispered. His father turned.
"Get on to bed. We'll be there to-morrow."
To-morrow they were there. In the early afternoon the wagon stopped before a paintless two-room house
identical almost with the dozen others it had stopped before even in the boy's ten years, and again, as on
the other dozen occasions, his mother and aunt got down and began to unload the wagon, although his
two sisters and his father and brother had not moved.

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Posted by derSturm37