Mission FireFly » Stories » Joy
The Life of Hovis Washam
A short story by Joy
Page 4
Jake could think about that carving no longer and quickly moved onto another figure, praying that this one at least, would bring some, if not much cheerfulness back into this once happy series. But it did not. The next depicted a man alone. Standing braced against a tree, with a sadness and faraway look in his eyes, the man stood away from the crowd which was gathered, congratulating, around a newly wed couple. The man’s hands were in his pockets and he stared from his lonely place at the jubilant faces of the happy couple with the crushing his heart was experiencing showing so clearly on his drawn, but still handsome face.
Jake moved on. He had to see some light in these pictures, darkened with grief, or he would start tearing up. The subsequent carving, if not light, at least showed something different. It contained a small boy, dressed in rags standing on a street corner. The little boy had a dirty but not unlikable face, that showed he knew exactly who he was and what he was doing at all times. The boy was not older that eight, yet some thing in that carefully detailed face showed that the boy’s experiences made him older than his years. The boy was not the only one in the picture. A man was also there and the two were having some sort of staring competition with each other. The handsome, but now slightly aged, face of the man showed that he was amused, yet thinking hard about something as he and the boy continued to look into each other’s eyes.
Jake moved to the next carving hoping that it would shed some light on this puzzling picture. It did. The next picture told what the previous one had failed to tell. Two people were working in the fields. One, with the strong glistening back of a true farmer, sickle in hand, was placing smooth, steady strokes to the stalks of grain. His face—the handsome one of Hovis—was set as he worked. It did not look at the stalks he was felling, but at the other figure in the carving with a slight trace of amusement as he watched. The other figure was definitely the boy of the previous carving. He was not dressed in rags anymore but in a pair of overalls a little too big for him. Unlike the true farmer Hovis was in the picture, the boy was a complete novice. He held the sickle with both hands and was bent over in a way that showed his concentration, but not in any way easing to his work. His face showed no sign of worry or giving up, only complete concentration as he worked, only bending the golden stalks of grain as he chopped, and not slicing them through as the other figure. Jake smiled at the carving in spite of himself.
The next picture skipped quite far into the future. In it, was a large wagon harnessed to two muscular horses. Inside the wagon was a young man—early twenties by the looks of him. Even though so much time had obviously passed, still the face of the young man in the wagon was recognizable. It had the same certainty as it had in the carving when it was first introduced—as a beggar boy in rags. Sitting next to the man in the wagon was a young lady. Her bonnet was covering her face, yet by the way her hand lay gently and lovingly on the young man’s lap, showed that the two must definitely be engaged if not married. One of the young man’s hands were holding firmly to the reigns of the impatient horses while the other was grasped tightly in a solid handshake with the other character present in the carving—a now more than slightly aged man, but with the unmistakable face of Hovis. Hovis’ face was firm in the carving. He smiled yet it was a strained smile, not a true one. The young man in the wagon’s face was also firm, yet he was not so successful in hiding all his emotions. Jake didn’t know whether to be happy for the new couple of sad for Hovis, and not liking to be so undecided, he moved on.
There were only three more carvings left now. The first showed the aging but still handsome figure of Hovis loading up a car. Moving out of the house that had held so much joy and so much sorrow. As he lifted the last box onto the old fashioned vehicle, his face was sad but also relieved. Jake wondered where in the world the man could be heading to now, and stepped over to the second to last carving. This one showed Hovis building a house. Jake was sure it was the very house that he was standing in this minute. Simple, yet made with the skill of a true farmer and wood worker. Made with the same hands that had towed along a little sister so lovingly. Made with the same hands that had killed a bear so unfearfully. Made with the same hands that had placed a ring on his beloved trembling with excitement. Made with the same hands that had then dug those seemingly endless holes to bury pieces of his heart only a year later. Made with the same hands that had taken a homeless boy in off the streets and cared for him, being so lonely that he was willing to take the risk of having the boy only run away soon. And finally, made with the same hands that had worked so hard working the land, raising a boy who was not his own, and sending the boy off as a man. As Jake thought of all this, he paused. Had I not come here today, he thought, I never would have known the life this man had. I would have continued to pass him on the road and think of him only as an old, strange hermit. Jake was almost satisfied enough with this ending that he almost forgot to look at the last carving.
He moved slowly to the final carving and looked into the tamed roughness of the wood to discover the secret that it held. The last picture was different from all the rest. It did not contain humans at all, only angels. Angels with shining heavenly faces were floating on the pearly clouds of heaven. Some had trumpets and others tambourines. They were dancing with joy for something that Jake did not know. There was no sadness at all in this carving and Jake stood to look longer and get every little piece of the carving engrained in his head like all the others. Then, as he finished, he sighed slightly and turned around to tell Hovis what a grand carver he was and how he had thoroughly enjoyed his stay. At the moment he turned around, Jake knew something was different. The room had become still. There was no steady puff of Hovis on his pipe of no monotone of the slightly squeaking ancient rocker. As Jake completed his turn he inhaled quickly. There sat Hovis in his chair, but he was different. He was no longer alive.
His head was slumped back on his ancient rocker. His hands hung limp at his sides, the pipe slipping out. Jake would have raced out of that house as quick as lightning, just as anyone else would have, rather than be with a dead man, yet something made Jake stay. He looked at Hovis’ face. All the sorrow and strain of his past life was in it no more. Its expression was peaceful, almost joyous as it hung limp against the back of the rocker and all of a sudden the youth understood. The last carving was not of the past as all the others had been. It was of the future. And hadn’t old Hovis mentioned ‘the Father in Heaven’ at the beginning of their meeting? Yes, he had. Jake took one last look at the man, now freed of all his sorrow, before he silently closed the door of the little house and walked, hands in his pockets, back to the town. If he hadn’t come to visit Hovis today, his house and its contents would have been sold, once he had been discovered, and no one would have known that those artful pictures carved on the wooden cross sections of a stump, were Hovis Washam’s life story. As Jake continued down the winding road, leaving the old man’s lifeless body in peace, he thought of one thing only—the book he was going to write.