A Concord Scrivener

excerpt from the novel House Carpenter's Daughter

Words by Geoff Cohen

Art by Sandra Eckert

“My apologies, Mr. Loring. I could not hear you. What did you say? Yes, sir. I used my blotter. Yes, sir. I have never had to use my blotter. The ink, sir? Perhaps the ink is too wet. Yes, sir, that’s a thought.”

The creamy page tinged with gray, wire side up. I flip it over. The felt side smoother, better to write on. What time is it? There’s the bells. 10:15 in the morning. Mistress Thoreau is doing her shopping. I have copied three letters. Three.

I heard the chains jangling behind me. Horses’ hooves pranced with the jangling. I turned. Two outriders with gleaming shotguns resting on their outside hips led an oxen-drawn wagon towards Concord. The oxen leaned into the collaring oak yokes. Slow, patient, steps pulled forward with force. Two men sat on the wagon’s bench: one flicked the leather reins; the other sat with a shotgun on his outside hip. Man-catchers. The wagon rattled by. The chains jangled. Two men sat on the wagon’s bed, heavy iron chains linked their arms and legs. They looked through me as the wagon passed by. Eyes dark and distant. One man, dark-skinned, blood, dirt and mud covered his torn shirt. The other man, red like me three days after a bad sunburn, blood dried on his face. Behind the wagons, three brown dogs jogged along, thick chests, long flapping ears, thick noses, long lolling tongues, bloodhounds. Behind the dogs rode three men on horses. Two rested shotguns on their outer hips. The one in the center laid a Mississippi rifle across his saddle, a pistol at his waist. The riders did not look at me. Grim-faced men returning two men to where?

At my desk, I trim several quills, clean my nibs, cut several pencils, trim more quills. My ink bottle has been filled to the brim with black ink. A new sheet of white paper lies between my two hands, a deckled edge, wove, not laid, Whitman’s, not Ware’s. An important letter then. I reach for a white plumed quill with my finest tip. Mr. Loring stands beside me cleaning his spectacles with a great whitish handkerchief. To the Honorable Captain Richard Anthony, Tuckahoe, Maryland. With respect to Benjamin and Willie. Returned with my regards. The white quill fits nicely in my hand. Light, but strong, the tip shines. I reach to the right-hand corner of my desk where the ink bottle stands.

Chains jangle in the street below. Voices drift up.

I dip my tip gently into the ink bottle, just the very tip. Do not want too much ink. I pull forward, not lifting. I watch the bottle come forward. The tip drags it over. It reaches the tipping point as the quill tip comes free. My right hand comes back leading the way to the left side of the white paper. The bottle continues to lean, sluggishly dropping down. The ink slowly drips out of the mouth, a small stream, a fuller flow. The bottle lands flat on its side. The liquid pours forward,  small eddies and whirlpools moving forward, covering the right side of the paper, gliding with linked black bubbles. The white of the page slowly disappears under the darkness that covers it, that runs to the edge of my desk. The ink waves over the edge onto my trousers, onto the floor. The white plumed quill shakes in my hand.

When the wagon rattled and jangled by, I stood to the side. I looked at the two men. I saw the chains, their blood. When the last rider passed me, crows cawed. One snapped at another. A black feather floated down, gently caught the wind, gently fell, turned ever so slightly, the light caught it. The gleaming black feather drifted into my open hand.

Mr. Loring stands at my side. He calls for the boy to bring a cloth. He speaks to me, but I don’t hear. Mr. Loring shakes me, says my name. I push back my chair and stand. My knees try to buckle and I grab the back of my chair. I look around me. The boy looks at the floor. The others look at me. Mr. Loring and the judge stare at me.

The ink has stopped flowing across the once-white page. The page saturated, but for one small dot in the center. The ink drips off the side of my desk. I see each drop. I watch each drop fall thirty-four inches. I watch each drop hit the floor and explode outward making small black crowns before congealing into a round black spot.

I do not hear their voices. I shrug off the hands that grab me that try to hold me. I put on my coat and hat. I watch my ink covered hand reach for the door and open it. A voice in my head speaks with alarm. It says turn back, take the cloth from the boy, clean the floor and desk, apologize. It begs me to return to my desk, to the letters, to my copies. I ignore the voice, the voices, the questions, the demands, the orders, and step out onto the landing, and pull the door shut behind me. Right side, left side, center, left side, right side, make sure the stairs do not squeak.

The sun is bright when I step out into the street.

About the author

Geoff Cohen followed his own advice and retired to write full-time. He lives with his wife and dogs on an island in an house built by his mother.  He has been published in The Raven Review and The Coachella Review. 

About the artist

Sandra Eckert is a retired art teacher. She has a deep love for nature and living things. She lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania with her husband, Peter, and her rescue dogs, Jack and Teddy.