The Hammer - Cor Series Book I

Kate and Corvan walked down the back lane to her house with the late afternoon sun creating a canopy of light overhead. Placing the pastry bowl down in the grass, Corvan held the gate open for Kate.

A voice drawled from the deepening shadows.

“Looks like you got yourself some real good berries there.” Bill Fry emerged from behind a stout maple tree and sauntered over with a shotgun cradled haphazardly in the crook of his arm.

“The berries are for my mom to make her pies,” Kate said as she stepped away from Bill’s advance.

“I seen your footprints in the mud out by our pond, so those are my berries. You can have Corvan pick you some more.” He laughed. “Maybe he can get his three-foot high lizard to pick the ones he cain’t reach.” He grabbed the handle of one of the pails. Berries sprayed into the dirt as Kate hung on.

Corvan let go of the gate, and it swung shut on its spring, slapping the hammer stuck in his back pocket and knocking it halfway out. Corvan shoved it back in, and as his hand touched the smooth stone, the back lane seemed to grow brighter. He looked at Bill, and for the first time, he wasn’t afraid of him.

“Leave her alone, Bill.”

The large boy jerked back in surprise. He stared at Corvan for a second. Then the wicked smirk returned to his face. Pushing Kate aside, he moved to stand toe to toe with Corvan with his bulk blocking out the light. “Did I say you could speak? Mind your own business. I don’t need any advice from no half-breed.”

Corvan tightened his grip on the hammer and looked into Bill’s narrowed eyes. “When you bully Kate, it is my business. I’m telling you to leave her alone.”

Bill blinked, then laughed. “And if I don’t, what are you going to do about it?” He jabbed a thick finger at Corvan’s chest.

“Whatever it takes.”

Billy snorted as confusion flickered across his broad face. “Well, looky here; Stumpy’s got hisself a girlfriend, got to show how brave he is. Well, short stuff, you can have her. She’s white trash, just like her mother.”

Kate whirled to face Bill. Her cheeks were bright red. The boy stepped back.

“Why do you have to be so mean?”

Bill’s eyes narrowed, and he gestured with the barrel of his gun. “I’m goin’ to be taking them berries, Kate Poley, so I suggest you hand ‘em over.”

The sun glinted off the barrel of the gun. Fear gripped Corvan’s chest, but he took a deep breath and stepped between Bill and Kate.

“Leave us alone, or you’ll be in a lot of trouble for pointing a gun at people.”

Bill turned to look at Corvan. “Yeah? Who’s gonna tell?”

Corvan steadily returned his gaze but didn’t answer.

Bill hesitated and then turned back to Kate. “Go ahead, keep the berries. Everyone knows your mom’s a rotten cook. I’d rather eat a cow pie than the soggy mess she cooks up.” He turned and hollered over his shoulder as he swaggered off down the lane, “When you two get married, your kids will be so short, people will mistake them for gophers and shoot ‘em.” He gave a loud guffaw and continued on his way.

Corvan let out a sigh of relief. His shoulders relaxed, and he released his grip on the hammer. He turned to find Kate gazing at him with admiration. His face flushed as he picked up the pastry bowl from the grass.

“I’ll take that,” Kate said.

She put the berry pails down on the other side of the picket fence and reached for the heavy stoneware bowl. For a moment, her hands wrapped around his, and the scent of lilacs filled the air as a breeze rippled between them and flicked a lock of hair across her eyes. She smiled at him. “Thanks, Corvan. Thanks for standing up for me.”

Stammering out a good-bye, Corvan stepped quickly through the gate and trotted up the alley. Over the years, he had endured a lot of teasing about Kate. If he had a dime for all the times he had heard that stupid rhyme about Corvan and Kate sitting in a tree and kissing, he would be rich.

Kate, however, always stated emphatically that she would never have a boyfriend, that they weren’t worth the trouble.

He thought about it as he walked along, draping one hand loosely over the hammer sticking out of his back pocket. Truth was, he wouldn’t mind kissing Kate. The problem was that she might punch his lights out if he tried.

He smiled. Maybe someday he would give it a whirl anyway.

Back at home, Corvan stopped at the outhouse and then washed up on the porch. The blue stains on his hands reminded him of his dirty pants, and he peeled them off and dropped them into the tub of the old washing machine. A pair of patched coveralls lay draped over the threadbare armchair. He pulled them on and stepped into the kitchen.

His mother was carrying her sack of floor back into the pantry and turned to look at him. “Those fit you pretty well considering they belonged to your grandfather.”

Corvan ran his hands over the faded cotton. “He was as short as me?”

“Shorter.” She laughed and pointed at his feet. “Looks like you’re expecting a flood.”

He looked down to where the pant legs rode high over his ankles.

A glass of water and a piece of bread waited at the table. Corvan sat and looked up at his mother. “You’ve never told me much about my grandfather and why he left.”

She closed the panty door. “We don’t really know for sure. He left without saying a word to anyone.”

“So maybe he’s still alive?”

“I don’t think so. There’s nothing in this world that could have kept him away from you. You’re what he lived for. I could never understand why he left the day before your birthday.” She shook her head gently. “He was so looking forward to it.”

As she turned to the stack of pots and pans by the sink, Corvan grabbed his slice of bread and slipped from the room.

In seconds, he was sitting on his bed and unfolding the newspaper from around his grandfather’s letter. His grandfather left the day before his second birthday. That would have been September 20, 1939, the next day after the newspaper clipping wrapped around the letter was printed.

He scanned the front side of the paper. There was a long article about the beginning of the war in Europe. The other side was all advertisements except for one short article.

New Evidence Comes to Light at IPC

Representatives from the Industrial Power Company confirmed today that last Saturday’s explosion, which resulted in the deaths of three miners, may have been intentional. The explosion took place during the boring of an experimental shaft.

At first the mine operators claimed that the machinery overheated, igniting dust raised by the drilling. Investigators now report that footprints were discovered around the test bore. They claim someone was trying to tamper with the evidence, although it is unclear how anyone could have reached the site before the shaft was cleared.

One member of the investigation team, who has asked not to be identified, says he saw a figure retreating down the borehole. This claim has been rejected by the mine officials as there are no levels below the test site.

Corvan recalled his father talking about the disaster of ’39. A few days after the shaft was cleared, another massive explosion had collapsed the main shaft and forced the closure of the mine. IPC went bankrupt. Only the smaller Red Creek Mine was still in operation.

The thump of his mother’s broomstick interrupted his thoughts. After stuffing the newspaper and letter under his pillow, he returned to the kitchen. His mind was whirling.

“I need you to run to the Barrons’ and get some baking soda. Make sure you let Mrs. Barron know we’ll pay our bill as soon as we can.”

The Barrons owned the local corner gas station, and although it was long past closing time, they were always available to open the store and get something a neighbor needed. Corvan didn’t mind going to the store. Mrs. Barron often gave him a chocolate bar or licorice cigar the mice had nibbled on. “Can’t go selling that to my customers,” she would say as she cut off the nibbled edge and handed him the treat.

The sun had slipped over the horizon. The sky was painted in swaths of orange and pink above the low hills to the west. Corvan whistled as he walked down the center of the road and a few birds called in response.

By the time Corvan returned home with the taste of a Cuban Lunch chocolate bar still lingering in his mouth, his father was sitting at the supper table. While they ate, mother tried chatting about her day, but father didn’t respond. Normally on a Saturday night, they’d sit at the table after supper and play games, but mother said since it was getting late, she’d do the dishes and let Corvan get washed up for bed.

Corvan went out to the washstand on the back porch. Looking in through the rusty screen door, he saw his father staring at his half-eaten supper.

“We’ve managed through hard times before,” his mother said, “and we can make it again. If he’s old enough at fifteen for what your father was planning, he’s old enough to understand that we’ll have to celebrate his birthday another time.”

His father’s voice responded in tones too low to catch, and then he left the table and vanished into the bedroom. Corvan washed up and returned to the kitchen while wiping his hands on his shirt.

His mother shook her spatula at him. “How many times do I have to tell you to dry your hands on a towel? What good does it do to scrub your hands and then wipe them on a dirty shirt?”

“But this one’s clean.”

“It’s not clean now that you’ve wiped your dirty hands on it, is it?” She raised her eyebrows as if to dare him to respond.

Corvan could see this would be one of those circular arguments he could never win. “I’d better head to bed.” He leaned forward to kiss his mother’s cheek, but she pulled him in close and gave him a tight hug.

“Mom, are we going to lose our home?” Corvan asked.

His mother’s shoulders sagged as she released him. “We’ll lose everything if your dad doesn’t get the call to go back to the mine. This crop of wheat will only pay off what we owe the bank this year, never mind our debt from the past.”

“Is that because Old Man Fry has been talking to the bank?” He couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice.

His mother shook her head. “You shouldn’t refer to Mr. Fry that way.”

“But why is he always trying to make trouble for our family?”

She looked out the kitchen window at the castle rock. “Your father says Mr. Fry holds a grudge against your grandfather.” She turned back to him. “But I don’t think he’s behind the letters from the bank.” She waved him on. “Don’t stay up all night reading. If I see a light under your door after ten o’clock, I’m going to take your lightbulb away for a week.”

Corvan grinned. She couldn’t put a book down herself and would often reading until all hours of the night.

Back in his room, Corvan undressed and settled into bed. He wanted to get the rope out of the chest, but he couldn’t take the chance of being discovered. He would wait until he was sure his mother was in bed.

The crickets outside were tuning up for their nighttime symphony. The screen door banged as his mother went out on the back porch to set their ancient wringer washer into action. Soon its rhythmic swish and bump drowned out the crickets. Corvan closed his eyes and let his breathing fall into sync with the familiar sound.

The cave dream returned, but this time he was in pursuit through the damp tunnels. Just when he caught up and was reaching out to grab them, the person ran away and called out to him. “Who? Who are you?”

He woke to the repetitive hooting of an owl on the maple tree outside his window. “Whoo-hoo,” he called back, and it swept out across the yard on its nightly hunt.

A gentle breeze wafted the scent of rich earth and moist wheat into his room. The house was silent. This would be a good time to check out the mysterious rope inside his grandfather’s secret compartment. Picking his grandfather’s pants off the floor, he tiptoed to the chest and searched through the pockets.

The hammer was gone.