Nobody's Feverish Enough

Jonas sets his boot on a spoke of the iron wheel and lifts the handbell off the sill. The brass is too hot to hold long. He tucks it under his arm, writes, and turns the slate toward Cole in the clay heap and the cart coming down the clinic road. Then he strikes once, flat, at the rider's stake standing in the notch.

Not yet. Ring the notch first, out loud, with Ruth and the rider's tag to hear it.

He feels the strike in his wrist more than his ears. Cole's key knocks against the bone on its lace. Above the Lower Headgate the windmill has quit; the shadow of its vanes lies across the sill and doesn't move.

Cole doesn't look up. He drives the shovel, throws clay onto the bank, and puts out his open hand toward Jonas's wrist without leaving the heap. Jonas taught him at fourteen to talk with his face up. He gets the words off the side of the boy's jaw anyway.

"Heap's half out and the river's dropping. Ring it when the water's in the ditch, Jonas, and I'll stand at the notch and say every word of it."

The cart pulls up short of the bank, and the water in its barrels swings at the bungs. It's the first time in three days Jonas has seen anything move in them. The broken brass padlock hangs on the tailboard hook. Abel hops down with his chalk in his fist. Drivers on the Row keep their own chalk so nobody can say the mark was lent, and this one looks like he hasn't put his down since morning. He slaps the tailboard and the barrels knock.

"Mr. Pike's not here, so somebody else say it: these barrels are full, and they're from the broken lock, and I want a name on the delivery. Delia, you first, please, before the Row counts me short again."

Delia comes down the bank and raps the nearest barrel with her knuckles. She looks at the barrel, not at the boy.

"Put my name on the clinic's receipt, not the lock, Abel: eleven beds, full barrels, I take them. Jonas, the second that gate opens you ring the ward's share first, and that's a nine out of ten for me."

Cole's shovel goes through. Jonas doesn't hear it. He sees the heap sag and open into the empty ditch below, and under his boot the spoke presses up as the river leans on the shut gate. Past the tagged notch, the nearest row of trees lets go of its leaves all at once. No wind. They come down yellow and dry across the bank, into Delia's stacked buckets, over Cole's shoulders.

Jonas steps between the open ditch and the wheel. He wipes leaves off the slate with his sleeve, strikes the bell at the stake again, writes, and makes them wait for it.

Not one turn of this wheel till the notch is rung aloud. Ruth hears it, the tag hears it, then you get your water.

Cole climbs out with clay to his knees and leaves stuck in his collar and walks up the bank to the wheel. He puts his palm out beside the lace. He's looking at the trees.

"Heap's out, Jonas. Trees are shedding and the river's still falling. Ring it right now, loud, I'm standing at the notch, then give me the key."

He's standing at the wheel.

Abel lifts the padlock off the hook and holds it out to Delia, and swings the first bung around so she can see the water.

"Delia said she takes them, so that's one name, Mr. Hale. Can you hear that over the bell, or do I chalk it myself?"

The boy's mouth is the easiest one on the bank to read. Delia takes the lock without looking at his face, hooks it back on the tailboard, and knocks the leaves out of two buckets and sets them under the bung.

"Chalk it yourself, Abel, and write it as the clinic's receipt, my name, eleven beds. Jonas, ring the notch and then ring the ward, because I've got buckets full of leaves and nobody's feverish enough for you yet."

Jonas looks up the road toward the glass. No Ruth on it. The bell is in his right hand. The lace is tight on his left wrist, and Cole's palm is still out, an inch from it, and the spoke keeps pushing at his boot.