Mission FireFly » Stories » Joy
The Life of Hovis Washam
A short story by Joy
Page 2
The boy, now feeling sure that he had disturbed a mad man during his senseless ramblings, had almost turned to go when the old man spoke. It was not merely the words that the old man spoke that made the youth turn around again, but the sound of the words spoken. They were not the hollow, raspy, lisping words of an old, toothless hermit. They were the words of a man. Yes there was a slight lisp, for Age had not been as kind as to leave the elderly one with all of his teeth. Yet except for that small factor, the words of the man were like the forest itself--strong, solid and deep, yet also soft and swaying. They surprised the youth, and in spite of himself, he found his strange desire to know more about this man return full force.
“Yes, me boy,” Hovis spoke. “Why have ye come to me house on this fine day?”
“Um sir. . . I was going . . . well you see I . . .” Even though he immediately liked the old man, he found himself unable to speak just the right words he intended to say to make a good impression.
Then the strangest thing happened. Hovis looked deep into the youth’s eyes and said, “Ah!! So ye’ve come to see and hear about old Hovis here! Well just ye step right in, son.”
This Hovis said as if the youth had spoken his exact intentions out loud and clearly! Amazed and a bit stunned, the youth, known as Jake, followed the bent figure of Hovis into the small but well lit and arid one room house. The surroundings showed exactly what kind of man Hovis was. The room was well lit--all the shades thrown open to welcome in the light. The air flowed freely through. It was not at all like one would expect an old person’s apartment or house to look or feel like: all stuffed up and smelling like medicine. This little house smelled of something different. . . what it was Jake could not quite make out until he saw all the different dried spices, herbs and flowers hanging from the ceiling of the corner of the house that was the kitchen. All four walls were decorated with hangings of detailed wood carvings on cross sections of stumps. The exact, tiny, and exhaustive detail immediately made Jake wonder how such an old man who obviously didn’t wear any glasses could do such precise, minute work.
“It's them carvings you see don’t ya boy?” Hovis asked Jake, who was obviously enthralled with the carvings.
“How do you get them to stand out of the wood and look so real? The best carvings I have seen in the museum back in town don’t look this good!” The boy, in his excitement, had forgotten his discomfiture.
“Ay. Them carvings are of me thoughts and past,” the forest-like voice answered Jake’s question.
Hovis arose from where he had seated himself and hobbled a little until the crink in his legs loosened. Then he walked over to join the boy. “Which one takes to yer likenin’ boy?”
Jake took his time and looked all around the house at each carving. Having studied the carvings, he finally pointed to one that immediately caught his attention. Hovis’ face lit up, and as he turned to smile at the youth, Jake saw a lightning-like scar flicker across Hovis’ left cheek as the elderly man smiled at his choice. The carving had such great detail the figures in it leapt out at the old man and boy as they stood staring at it and thinking their own thoughts. Hovis wasn’t much of a talker and neither was Jake, so this moment of silence meant just as much and said just as much as a bunch of gossiping house wives in a cross stitch get-together. The bear in the carving stood tall on his hind legs, each hair on his body carefully carved out on the wooden slab. The beast towered above a boy, also in the carving. The boy’s face was carved in such detail you could tell that he must not be much older that 15. The boy held a gun and it was pointed at the bear whose face showed all the fury, evil and malice of an angered female beast. One could almost see the pure white of her glistening, bared fangs. The boy’s face showed no fear or panic as one would expect the face of a boy of 14 facing a bear to show, but an expression of calm, almost amusement covered the smooth boyish face.
“You carved this?” Jake asked incredulously.
“That I did, son. That wee boy in the carving,” Hovis said looking up at Jake, “That wee boy is me.” And Hovis smiled again, and again the slight lightning scar flickered across his left cheek as the skin pulled tight when he smiled. Jake looked at the old man.