The Hour in Plain Figures

Jonas left the dry mouth of the box and came down to the cart. No dew, and a white haze over the stars. He took Abel's chalk stub off the tailboard, wiped the slate on his sleeve, wrote the hour, then Pike's name under GATE TIED TO CLINIC. He held it up to the Row hands, then to Delia, then lowered it in front of Pike's face.

PIKE. WHEEL. BEFORE DAWN. WHO SET THE BOARDS?

His other hand lay on the bell. Pike had the key, the wheel and the cuffs, and so far only the cuffs had turned.

The bank came up through Jonas's boot soles before he saw it. A slab the width of a house sat down into the Row's ditch and took the box, the gate and the iron wheel with it. Brown water slopped over the lip and went flat. Where the box had stood was a fan of mud, shining.

Pike rose from the dry ditch with the gate key still shut in his fist, the key Cole had tied through the brace, which now opened nothing. He stepped past the slate, took the empty bucket with the girl's ribbon on its bail and put it in Mrs. Tolliver's hand. Jonas read his mouth. Tonight he meant to read every word.

"Mr. Hale, the boards at the lower headgate are mine to set, and I will set them this morning with Mrs. Tolliver's barrel filling before the clinic's is touched."

He turned up the Row, one boot dragging.

Delia stepped into the mud ahead of him, keys up in her fist, and held out the chalk. Jonas had rung for her fence. He watched her keys.

"Pike, stop. You set the boards, fine, I'll walk up there with you, but the line goes down first, in front of Hale and Mrs. Tolliver: clinic eleven drink, Row barrel fills with it, your name under both. That's two lines, not a nine and not a favor. Sign it or tell me which bed I turn off."

Beside the cart the clinic ditch ran a finger deep. A rag of foam caught on a stone and stayed.

Pike opened his hand flat so they could all see the key, took the chalk and wrote under Abel's lines.

CLINIC ELEVEN DRINK. S. PIKE

ROW BARREL FILLS. S. PIKE

The chalk snapped in his grip.

Mrs. Tolliver got off the stool, shifted the boy to her other hip and read it with her lips moving.

"Thank you for the water, Pike. Walk faster, the boy's mouth is open."

She fell in behind him, a step ahead of Delia, where neither could get between her and the headgate.

Jonas came up last. The boards stood slick in their slots, the river a hand deep and brown against them, leaning to the clinic side. He knelt and laid his palm on the top board. Barely a pull. He wrote with the snapped stub.

PIKE. YOU SIGNED THE WATER. NOW SIGN THE BOARDS: WHO DROPPED THEM LAST NIGHT, AND AT WHAT HOUR? I RING ONCE IF IT IS TRUE.

Pike knelt with his cuffs in the water, read it once, and lifted the first board out himself, swinging it to the Row side.

"Mr. Hale, I dropped them, last night and not by the river's weather."

The water slid off the clinic side into the Row ditch. Inside a minute the clinic mouth was wet stones, then stones. Delia put her bare palm where it had been, then had the second board in both hands, half out.

"Eleven beds, a finger of water, that's a nine going to zero. Split the boards, half and half, a hand each way."

Mrs. Tolliver set the boy on the bank and planted her buckets in the Row mouth, boots either side of the slot.

"Fill first, Pike, like the cart says. Thank you for holding that board, Marsh, till my bucket's full."

Delia looked at the boy and pulled her keys to her chest. She didn't let go. Both buckets brimmed. She swung her board half back and shoved the slate at Jonas.

"Hale, write it: half to the clinic, half to the Row, S. PIKE under it."

The half over the clinic stones sank into the gravel a few yards down. Pike wrote under his own name.

SPLIT FAILS. THE WATER CARRIES ONE DITCH.

"Mrs. Marsh, I will not chalk a half that I can see sinking into the gravel, and I will not tell you which bed to turn off either." An hour to each ditch, by his hand, with the bell on every turn, "so that when we are asked who set them, we have only to point at the bell."

Jonas wiped the slate and wrote.

RING ONCE: YOU DROPPED THEM. NOT ONCE FOR THE HOUR. WRITE THE HOUR OR I STRIKE AGAIN. ONE DITCH AN HOUR EACH, I RING EVERY TURN. THE CLINIC TAKES THE FIRST HOUR, THE BOY HAS DRUNK.

He put his palm on the board between their hands and struck the bell beside Pike's ear, hard.

Pike wiped the silt off his dry hand, the first time Jonas had seen him bother, and wrote one hour under the line, the first week, in plain figures. He stood the slate against the board for Delia and Mrs. Tolliver.

"Mr. Hale, ring again, because that is the hour, the first week and my hand."

He swung the second board to the clinic side. The Row ditch went dry behind the full buckets, and Delia's ditch began to run over its stones. Jonas kept his hand on the bell.