“So what do we do?”
The sawyer pointed toward a clean corner of the mill.
“We slow down.”
That became the rule.
Slow down.
They did not cut another burl that day.
The boy wanted to.
Of course he did.
Every child in the world would have.
The first cut had revealed extraordinary wood and a hidden brass tube.
What if the second contained another message?
What if every burl had something inside?
The sawyer refused.
“One sample.”
“Why?”
“Because once it’s cut, you can’t uncut it.”
“But Grandpa said they were seasoned.”
“Yes.”
“And he marked twelve.”
“Exactly.”
The sawyer tapped the provenance sheet.
“He marked twelve differently.”
“We need to understand why before we turn them all into slabs.”
The boy hated patience when patience had no visible reward.
Still, his grandfather had been patient.
Thirty-nine years.
The boy could survive a week.
The first task was identifying what they actually owned.
The word provenance meant very little to him.
The sawyer explained.
“It’s the history that proves what something is and where it came from.”
“Like a receipt?”
“Partly.”
“Like Grandpa’s paper?”
“Maybe.”
“Why does wood need history?”
“Usually it doesn’t.”
He pointed toward the figured maple.
“But rare wood can.”
“Especially if people claim it came from something special.”
The paper listed trees by numbers.
M-4.
M-7.
M-11.
Locations like:
North ridge above stone wall.
Creek bend.
Old sugar lot.
Windfall west side.
The boy recognized none.
At the bottom, though, one property name appeared.
The farm where the burls had been stored.
The sawyer knew the owner.
Or had.
The man was eighty-six and living in assisted care.
The boy’s mother drove them there the following Saturday.
The elderly farmer sat near a window beneath a blanket despite the room being overheated.
He had forgotten many things.
He remembered the boy’s grandfather immediately.
Not by name.
By occupation.
“The fool with the ruler.”
The boy blinked.
His mother laughed.
The farmer smiled.
“He measured everything.”
The boy pulled out the brass-tube paper.
The old man’s eyes changed.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Your auction.”
The farmer took the page with shaking hands.
For several seconds, he stared.
Then whispered:
“He kept them.”
The boy leaned closer.
“What were they?”
The old farmer looked toward him.
“Maples.”
“I know.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Those maples.”
The boy waited.