She shivered in the heat of the day and reached for the matches.
CHAPTER 8
The house threw a sunrise shadow across the backyard. Mason was tired, his face scratched from his midnight wanderings. He'd slept poorly, his brain invaded by feverish images of Anna, his mother, Ephram Korban, Lilith, a dozen others whose faces were lost in smoke. He shivered as he walked behind the manor, following the worn path that wound between two outbuildings. He climbed a row of creosote railroad ties that were terraced into the earth as steps leading into the forest.
The door on the smaller building was open. An old man in overalls emerged from the darkness within. Mason waved a greeting. The man rubbed his hands together, his breath coming out in a mist.
'Brrr,' he said, creasing his wrinkled jaws. 'Cold as a woman's heart in there.'
'What is it?' Mason asked. He'd assumed it was a tool storage shed or something similar. The shed, like its larger counterpart, was constructed of rough-cut logs and chinked with yellowish red cement. A smell of damp age and cedar spilled from the doorway.
' 'Frigeration,' the man said. When his mouth opened on the 'gee' sound, Mason saw that the old man had about enough teeth left to play a quick game of jacks. His overalls threatened to swallow him, his back hunched from years of work. The man cocked his head back toward the door and went into the shed. 'Take a look-see.'
Mason followed. Cold air wafted over his face. A mound covered the center of the dirt floor. The old man stooped down and swept at the grainy mound with his hands, revealing streaks of shiny silver.
'Ice,' said the man. 'We bury it under sawdust so it will keep through summer. You wouldn't think it would last that long, would you?'
'I wondered how you kept the food cold without power,' Mason said. 'What about the food safety police, the health inspectors?'
'They's rules of the world and then they's rules of Korban Manor. Two different things.'
The old man pointed through the door to a western rise covered by tulip poplars. Wagon tracks crossed the meadow, curving up the slope like twin red snakes. 'They's a little pond up yonder,' he said. 'A spring pops out 'twixt two rocks. The pond's fenced off from the animals so it stays clean. Come the third or fourth long freeze in January, when the water's good and hard, we go up and cut out big blocks of it.'
'Sounds like a lot of work. I understand that heavy machinery isn't allowed on the grounds.'
'Oh, we got machines. A wagon is a machine. So's a horse, in its way. And, of course, they got us, too.'
Mason went out into the sun and the man closed the door behind him. His gnarled hand fumbled in the front pocket of his overalls as if he were looking for a cigarette. He pulled out something that looked like a knotted rag with a tip of feather protruding from one end. He waved the rag in the sign of the cross over the front of the icehouse door. The motion was practiced and fluid, appearing natural despite its oddness.
Mason expected the man to comment on the ritual, but the knotted rag was quickly squirreled away. 'What's in the other shed?' Mason asked after a moment.
'That's the larder. Keep stuff in there that doesn't need to be so cold, such as squash and cucumbers and corn. A little spring runs through there, gets piped out into the gully yonder.'
Mason looked where the man had pointed and saw a trickle of water meandering through a bed of rich, black mud. Blackberry briars tangled along the creek banks, the scarlet vines bent in autumn's death. 'Do you pick the berries, too?'
'Yep, and the apples. They's hells of apples around here. You gonna have something apple every meal. Pie, turnovers, stewed, fried apples with cinnamon and just a dash of brandy. We keep up a vegetable garden, too, and-'
'Ransom!'
They both turned at the sound of the shrill voice. Miss Mamie stood on the back porch, leaning over the railing.
'Yes, Miss Mamie,' the man responded. The last bit of starch seemed to have gone out of him, and Mason was sure the old man was going to disappear inside his overalls.
'Now, Ransom, you know you're not to trouble the guests,' Miss Mamie said in a high, artificially cheerful tone.
'I was just-' Ransom swelled momentarily, then seemed to think better of it. He studied the tips of his worn work boots. The sun lit the silver wires of hair that were combed back over his balding head. 'Yes, Miss Mamie.'
The hostess stood triumphantly at the porch rail and turned her attention to Mason. 'Did you sleep well, Mr. Jackson?'
'Yes, ma'am,' he lied. He sneaked a glance at Ransom. The man looked as if he'd been beaten with a hickory rod. 'Um… thanks for setting me up in the master bedroom. It's very comfortable.'
'Lovely.' She clasped her hands together. Her pearls shifted over her bosom. 'Ephram Korban would be so pleased. You know our motto: 'The splendid isolation of Korban Manor will fire the imagination and kindle the creative spirit.''
'I read the brochure,' Mason said. 'And I've already got a few ideas. I might need a little help getting started, though. Is it okay if Ransom helps me collect some good sculpting wood?'
Miss Mamie frowned and her thin eyebrows flattened. Her face wore the same expression that glared from the portraits of Korban. Mason realized he had challenged her authority, if only mildly. He was suddenly sorry he had dragged Ransom into the spotlight of her stare. She folded her arms like a schoolmarm debating the punishment of unruly students.
After a moment, she said, 'Of course it's okay. As long as his chores are finished. Are your chores finished, Ransom?'
Ransom kept his eyes down. 'Yes, ma'am. I'm done till dinner. Then I got to curry the horses and see to the produce.'
Miss Mamie smiled and adopted her cheerful voice again. 'Lovely. And that sculpture better be perfect, Mr. Jackson. We're counting on you.'
'I'm kindled and fired up,' Mason said. 'By the way, is there a space where I can work without bothering anybody? Sometimes I work late, and there's no way to beat up wood without making enough noise to wake the dead.'
'There's a studio space in the basement. I'll have Lilith show you after lunch.'
'No need to bother her. I'm sure she'll be busy with the other guests. Why not let Ransom show me?'
A shadow passed across Miss Mamie's face and her voice grew cold. 'Ransom doesn't go down there.'
Mason peeked at Ransom and saw the corner of the man's mouth twitch. My God. He's scared to death of her.
Miss Mamie turned back toward the manor, her heels clattering across the wooden porch. Door chimes jingled as she went inside. Ransom exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for the last few minutes.
'What a wonderful boss,' Mason said when Ransom finally looked him in the eye.
'Careful,' he said out of the side of his mouth. 'She's probably watching from one of the windows.'
'You're kidding.'
'Just follow me,' he whispered, then said, more loudly, 'Toolshed's right through them trees.'
After they had gone down a side trail far enough that the house was out of sight, Mason asked, 'Is she always like that?'
Ransom's confidence grew as they moved farther from the house. 'Oh, she don't mean nothing. That's just her way, is all. Everything's got to be just so. And she got worries of her own.'
'How long have you worked here, Ransom? You don't mind if I call you 'Ransom,' do you?'
'Respect for elders. I like that, Mr. Jackson.'
'Call me Mason, because I hope we're going to be friends.'
Ransom looked back down the trail. 'Only outside the house, son. Only outside.'
'Got you.'
