One evening, when Archie's father, Sean McCallum, sat late with Mr. Whitaker over a mug of strong corn ale, the talk first turned to life, the hard living far from big cities, to farm matters, and then — to children. Sean, mellowed by warmth and drink, waved his hand and chuckled:
"And my Archie, he's already keeping company with grown men. Sitting by the river with our bell-ringer, Johnny Tucker, sharing a flask. Two inseparable friends, heh-heh!"
And he told the story as an amusing anecdote, without malice, as if he were talking about his son's first time on a horse. Mr. Whitaker laughed heartily, so much that tears came to his eyes, and kept sputtering, shaking his head: "Ah, youth, youth!"
But the next morning, meeting Archie on the school porch, the principal winked at him with his small, cunning eye and asked with mock severity:
"Well now, Mr. McCallum, how's the constitution after yesterday's relaxation? Head not ringing?"
Archie blushed to the roots of his hair and stayed silent, fixing his gaze on the porch's creaking boards. He understood there was no malice in the joke, but it left an unpleasant, ticklish feeling inside, as if a slug had crawled over his bare back.
But real trouble came later, a couple of days after, when Mr. Whitaker, finding himself in straitened circumstances, asked Sean McCallum for a small loan to buy a cow for his wife. Archie's father, a thrifty man not inclined to risk, politely but firmly refused. And from that minute on, Whitaker's jocular ribbing changed sharply — not a day passed without him taking a jab at Archie.
"So? Head not cracking today, Mr. McCallum?" the principal would ask, passing by when Archie and the boys were kicking a rag ball in the yard. "Though with your bosom buddy, Johnny, a morning hangover is just the thing!"
And he'd laugh loudly, booming, deliberately for all to hear.
The boys, like a flock of sparrows, immediately picked up on the tune. If the principal openly laughed about it, then the boys wouldn't be left behind. Of course, no one dared tease Archie openly, with spite — he was quiet but strong, and everyone knew he wouldn't abandon a friend or comrade in trouble. But still, harmless, "friendly" jibes started making the rounds of the school every day.
"Let's drink to your health, Archie!" someone would holler, raising a mug of water. "Just make sure you remember how to crawl home!"
Archie never answered these taunts. He just shrunk inside, and each barb stuck in him like a sharp splinter. He didn't know how to snap back like Larry, or answer with his fists like Tommy. He simply turned and walked away, leaving stifled giggles behind him.
And then his only comfort became the great river. He started often going to the river alone. He'd stand for a long time on the bluff, watching the heavy, leaden waters of the Mississippi carry past broken branches and yellowed autumn leaves. Listening as the fog, cold and damp, crawled over the water, shrouding everything in a deathly haze. Inside him, something seemed to go mute and freeze. Even his rare conversations with Mary were now somehow dull and quiet. He fell silent more and more, and she, confused and not understanding his silence, soon fell quiet too.
At home, his mother was the first to notice the change in her son. One evening, when Archie sat on the doorstep mending an old collar, she came over, wiping her hands on a canvas apron, and sat beside him, laying a caring hand on his shoulder.
"Son..." she began softly. "What's wrong? You're not yourself. Did someone hurt you?"
And then, under her soft, warm gaze, the dam inside him broke. He told her everything. About Whitaker's mockery, about the boys' whispers, about how every such glance burned his heart worse than a nettle sting. And in the end, to his own shame and despair, he began to cry, burying his face in his mother's shoulder — quietly, soundlessly, tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto his dirty hands.
His mother immediately flared up with fierce, righteous maternal anger.
"I'll show that old buzzard... I'll show him right now!" she fumed, taking a step toward the door as if ready to march straight to the school and have it out.
But his father, sitting at the table on the wide house porch with his eternal ledgers and battered account book, stopped her without lifting his head from the figures.
"Let it be, Mary," he grunted, inscribing another number in a column. "Is he a man or what? Life'll throw worse at him. Needs to get used to it, people are like that. If he endures it — his hide'll grow thicker. And his character'll toughen up. It'll serve him in the future."
Archie looked at his father, then at his mother, and seeing the helplessness in her eyes, something inside him finally cooled and hardened. He said nothing more. Just nodded, wiped his face with his sleeve, and went back to mending the collar.
The only one who understood him without words was Tommy Savage. He came over once when Archie was sitting alone on the school's back steps, staring into emptiness, and sat down heavily beside him on the step.
"Don't tear yourself up, McCallum," he said simply, without any preamble. "His words, Whitaker's, are like a yard dog's bark. Paying attention to him is just wasting time. Now, if he'd started swinging his fists — then yes, then you should tell your father, let him sort it out. But this... let him bark."
Archie only gave a weak, wry smile.
"And what would you do?"
"Me?" Tommy thought for a moment, twisting a straw between his teeth. "I wouldn't even listen. And if he got really annoying... I'd pop him one. Or dunk him in a vinegar barrel a couple times, to smarten him up and clear his head a bit."
One gloomy autumn day, an old, familiar music drifted past the school. It was played on a hand organ by an ancient, stooped black man sitting on an old wagon pulled by a mare with one blind, clouded eye; he appeared in Clarkville once a season. He stopped, threw on the brake lever, and from the carved box flowed a thin, tinny music. It sounded like a child's cry and a forgotten lullaby all at once, and like something distant and irrevocably lost.
Archie stood by the school fence, utterly alone, and listened. And suddenly, without understanding why, felt tears drip down his cheeks. Not from hurt or pain. From some kind of aching, all-encompassing melancholy that suddenly washed over him and filled his whole being. It seemed to him he was forever leaving behind something bright and simple, that something important and tender inside him had irrevocably ended.
He no longer allowed himself to dream of Mary. Or rather, dreams still came, but he immediately shooed them away like pesky flies, considering them foolish and shameful whims. He remembered how, not long ago, he'd dreamed before sleep that they would grow up, marry, live in their own house by the river, keep horses, and read to their children on long winter evenings. Now these thoughts seemed ridiculous and absurd to him, like an infant's dream. When they walked home from school now, a heavy, awkward silence hung between them. Mary kept trying to talk to him about something empty — lessons, the weather. He answered in monosyllables, reluctantly, and sank back into his silence.
And sometimes, standing at his favorite spot right at the water's edge so close the cold waves licked his soles, a strange, all-consuming weariness would grip him. It seemed a little more — and he would plunge into these dark, unhurried Mississippi waters with the same relief with which he fell face-first into his pillow at night. The river pulled him toward itself with some dark, inexplicable force.
Once, when he was sitting like that on the bank, staring at one spot on the water, careful footsteps sounded behind him. Archie turned and saw Mr. Burns. The teacher stood, head slightly inclined, looking at him with that quiet, attentive expression he had in class when explaining something difficult.
"You've been sitting here awhile, Archie. Shouldn't you be heading home?" Burns asked, coming closer.
"I'm about to, sir," Archie mumbled. "Just... sat a bit."
"I see, I see," the teacher drawled, sitting down next to him on a large, flat stone. "So the river has grown so dear that you now pay it a visit every day before heading home?"
Archie stayed silent, not knowing what to say. He glanced at the teacher timidly, almost pleadingly. And then the familiar, bitter feeling stirred in him — what if Mr. Burns was against him now too? What if even his walks to the river had become someone's business? The distrust that had now taken deep root in him touched even this man.
The boy's sad, lost look touched the teacher's heart. He sighed.
"Why are you so sad, Archie?" he asked softly.
"I'm not sad," the boy answered automatically, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat with difficulty.
"How can you say you're not sad?" Burns insisted. "You don't play with the boys, you're always alone, either at school or spending time by the river. Tell me what happened. Is someone hurting you?"
"No."
"Then what's the matter? Tell me, and we'll think together what to do. Tell me what's on your heart. Don't be afraid, I won't tell anyone and I won't be angry."
"There's nothing to tell," Archie whispered, feeling a treacherous tremble reach his lips.
"See how secretive you are," the teacher shook his head. "Something's clearly wrong with you, but you stay silent and don't share it with anyone."
"Nothing is happening to me!" Archie suddenly almost shouted, and the tears he'd been desperately fighting back burst forth. Another moment — and, sobbing loudly, he jumped up from the stone and ran toward home, not watching his path, stumbling over hummocks and roots.
"Archie! Where are you going? Wait!" the teacher called after him, rising. "Come back, let's talk! Don't be afraid!"
But Archie didn't hear. He ran, driven by shame, despair, and a wild desire to hide from everyone, even from himself. Mr. Burns stood on the bank for a long time, watching the small, receding figure, and on his usually impassive face was written worry and sorrow.