a-worn-path

AWornPathbyEudoraWeltyItwasDecember—abrightfrozendayintheearlymorning.FaroutinthecountrytherewasanoldNegrowomanwithherheadtiedinaredrag,comingalongapaththroughthepinewoods.HernamewasPhoenixJackson.Shewasveryoldandsmallandshewalkedslowlyinthedarkpineshadows,movingalittlefromsidetosideinhersteps,withthebalancedheavinessandlightnessofapenduluminagrandfatherclock.Shecarriedathin,smallcanemadefromanumbrella,andwiththisshekepttappingthefrozenearthinfrontofher.Thismadeagraveandpersistentnoiseinthestillairthatseemedmeditative,likethechirpingofasolitarylittlebird.Sheworeadarkstripeddressreachingdowntohershoetops,andanequallylongapronofbleachedsugarsacks,withafullpocket:allneatandtidy,buteverytimeshetookastepshemighthavefallenoverhershoelaces,whichdraggedfromherunlacedshoes.Shelookedstraightahead.Hereyeswerebluewithage.Herskinhadapatternallitsownofnumberlessbranchingwrinklesandasthoughawholelittletreestoodinthemiddleofherforehead,butagoldencolorranunderneath,andthetwoknobsofhercheekswereilluminedbyayellowburningunderthedark.Undertheredragherhaircamedownonherneckinthefrailestofringlets,stillblack,andwithanodorlikecopper.Nowandthentherewasaquiveringinthethicket.OldPhoenixsaid,'Outofmyway,allyoufoxes,owls,beetles,jackrabbits,coonsandwildanimals!...Keepoutfromunderthesefeet,littlebob-whites...Keepthebigwildhogsoutofmypath.Don'tletnoneofthosecomerunningmydirection.Igotalongway.'Underhersmallblack-freckledhandhercane,limberasabuggywhip,wouldswitchatthebrushasiftorouseupanyhidingthings.Onshewent.Thewoodsweredeepandstill.Thesunmadethepineneedlesalmosttoobrighttolookat,upwherethewindrocked.Theconesdroppedaslightasfeathers.Downinthehollowwasthemourningdove—itwasnottoolateforhim.Thepathranupahill.'Seemlikethereischainsaboutmyfeet,timeIgetthisfar,'shesaid,inthevoiceofargumentoldpeoplekeeptousewiththemselves.'Somethingalwaystakeaholdofmeonthishill—pleadsIshouldstay.'Aftershegottothetop,sheturnedandgaveafull,severelookbehindherwhereshehadcome.'Upthroughpines,'shesaidatlength.'Nowdownthroughoaks.'Hereyesopenedtheirwidest,andshestarteddowngently.Butbeforeshegottothebottomofthehillabushcaughtherdress.Herfingerswerebusyandintent,butherskirtswerefullandlong,sothatbeforeshecouldpullthemfreeinoneplacetheywerecaughtinanother.Itwasnotpossibletoallowthedresstotear.'Iinthethornybush,'shesaid.'Thorns,youdoingyourappointedwork.Neverwanttoletfolkspass—no,sir.Oldeyesthoughtyouwasaprettylittlegreenbush.'Finally,tremblingallover,shestoodfree,andafteramomentdaredtostoopforhercane.'Sunsohigh!'shecried,leaningbackandlooking,whilethethicktearswentoverhereyes.'Thetimegettingallgonehere.'Atthefootofthishillwasaplacewherealogwaslaidacrossthecreek.'Nowcomesthetrial,'saidPhoenix.Puttingherrightfootout,shemountedthelogandshuthereyes.Liftingherskirt,levelinghercanefiercelybeforeherlikeafestivalfigureinsomeparade,shebegantomarchacross.Thensheopenedhereyesandshewassafeontheotherside.'Iwasn'tasoldasIthought,'shesaid.Butshesatdowntorest.Shespreadherskirtsonthebankaroundherandfoldedherhandsoverherknees.Upaboveherwasatreeinapearlycloudofmistletoe.Shedidnotdaretoclosehereyes,andwhenalittleboybroughtheraplatewithasliceofmarble-cakeonitshespoketohim.'Thatwouldbeacceptable,'shesaid.Butwhenshewenttotakeittherewasjustherownhandintheair.Sosheleftthattree,andhadtogothroughabarbed-wirefence.Thereshehadtocreepandcrawl,spreadingherkneesandstretchingherfingerslikeababytryingtoclimbthesteps.Butshetalkedloudlytoherself:shecouldnotletherdressbetornnow,solateintheday,andshecouldnotpayforhavingherarmorherlegsawedoffifshegotcaughtfastwhereshewas.Atlastshewassafethroughthefenceandrisenupoutintheclearing.Bigdeadtrees,likeblackmenwithonearm,werestandinginthepurplestalksofthewitheredcottonfield.Theresatabuzzard.'Whoyouwatching?'Inthefurrowshemadeherwayalong.'Gladthisnottheseasonforbulls,'shesaid,lookingsideways,'andthegoodLordmadehissnakestocurlupandsleepinthewinter.ApleasureIdon'tseenotwo-headedsnakecomingaroundthattree,whereitcomeonce.Ittookawhiletogetbyhim,backinthesummer.'Shepassedthroughtheoldcottonandwentintoafieldofdeadcorn.Itwhisperedandshook,andwastallerthanherhead.'Throughthemazenow,'shesaid,fortherewasnopath.Thentherewassomethingtall,black,andskinnythere,movingbeforeher.Atfirstshetookitforaman.Itcouldhavebeenamandancinginthefield.Butshestoodstillandlistened,anditdidnotmakeasound.Itwasassilentasaghost.'Ghost,'shesaidsharply,'whobeyoutheghostof?ForIhaveheardofnarydeathcloseby.'Buttherewasnoanswer,onlytheraggeddancinginthewind.Sheshuthereyes,reachedoutherhand,andtouchedasleeve.Shefoundacoatandinsidethatanemptiness,coldasice.'Youscarecrow,'shesaid.Herfacelighted.'Ioughttobeshutupforgood,'shesaidwithlaughter.'Mysensesisgone.Itooold.ItheoldestpeopleIeverknow.Dance,oldscarecrow,'shesaid,'whileIdancingwithyou.'Shekickedherfootoverthefurrow,andwithmouthdrawndownshookherheadonceortwiceinalittlestruttingway.Somehusksblewdownandwhirledinstreamersaboutherskirts.Thenshewenton,partingherwayfromsidetosidewiththecane,throughthewhisperingfield.Atlastshecametotheend,toawagontrackwherethesilver