The tractor backed, roaring, and the log chain went taut.
Old Jack Tysness opened the throttle of the rust-orange Allis Chalmers and clenched his teeth. The oak had been tough, but he had her now. He'd felled her with the chainsaw and grubbed her roots with spade and axe, and now the stump would come like a tooth. He always pulled his own teeth.
Men with machines could be hired to clear land, but that would have been the easy way, and a waste of money. He'd had that lesson from his father, who'd had it from his own father: first you get the work done, then you can look to your comfort.
Jack's great-grandfather had built the barn that still stood on the farm; raised it while his wife and baby muffled one another with love in a lean-to. The baby had died that winter, but there'd be other babies, and where would they be if they lost the cows?
So Jack in his turn had looked to the stock, looked to the fields, from year to year. It would have been nice to have finished high school, but dangerously comfortable and a temptation to get above himself. The house was lonely and run-down it needed paint and a woman's hand, but there had always been another job to do; the time for comforts was always next fall or next spring.
And now he was old and alone, shunned even by neighbors, and neighbors in the country were farther between than in the old days. The Twentieth Century had decamped with the small farm in its baggage. Jack's sole heir was a niece somewhere out in California, who would certainly sell the 160 acres to an agribusiness when the time came, and that would be that.
Jack still hated his father, but did not see the irony.
The stump cracked, groaned and moved. Snapping she came free, and the tractor raced back a few yards. Jack flipped in the throttle and cut the engine.
He walked to the stump and spoke to it. "That's it then," he said, and spat. "I been grubbin' the trees along this row for thirty years, and you're the last. You shoulda growed across the fence there, in Troll Valley. That's woods this is farm. I don't suppose you coulda knowed that a hundred years back, when you was an acorn, but that's how it turned out. Anyway, what kick you got? I'll never see a hundred.
"What's this here?" The corner of a flat, squared stone stuck up from the dirt and roots. Jack hadn't seen its like in his fields before. He bent closer and brushed with hard fingers.
"By God, there's writing here!"
The sun was going and Jack's eyes weren't what they'd been. He got his ax and chopped at the roots.
He'd nearly severed the thickest root when his ax slipped. It struck the stone, spitting sparks, and there was a sharp crack. The stone fell in two pieces, one on either side.
Jack cursed. A carved stone could be valuable, and he might have spoiled it. He was kneeling to look at the damage, dreaming of a Florida vacation, when he heard footsteps in the grass.
He peered up to see the craziest man he'd ever set eyes on, except for some of the college kids in town. The man wore a wide, floppy hat and some kind of dark blanket. He had a long gray beard, and in one hand he carried a stick taller than himself. He stopped a few feet away and fixed Jack with one bright eye. He swung his stick up and held it chest high and horizontal, as if offering it for inspection.
"I don't take no tramps here," Jack said, getting heavily to his feet.
The crazy man smiled, his teeth very long and white. Jack saw that his stick was wildly carved with snakes and crawling things, and weighted with iron. The crazy man spun the stick like a baton twirler, but with both hands. He flipped it around his back, danced it from hand to hand. He threw it high in the air.
Jack watched, fascinated, as it soared and spun and fell.
It was the last thing he saw.