The farmer closed his eyes, searching through memory.
“There was a grove north of my father’s sugar woods.”
“Old trees.”
“Big around as barrels.”
“Some bigger.”
“Ugly trunks.”
“Crotches.”
“Burls.”
“Twisted things.”
He smiled faintly.
“My father hated them.”
“Tapped straight trees.”
“Left the ugly ones.”
The boy looked toward the sawyer.
The farmer continued.
“Storm came.”
“Eighties.”
“Ice.”
“Brought down three.”
“Split another.”
“We cut what had to come out.”
“Your grandfather saw the burl grain.”
“He went mad.”
The sawyer laughed softly.
“That sounds right.”
The farmer nodded.
“He said not to saw them.”
“Everyone else said firewood.”
“He bought the burls?”
The boy asked.
The old farmer frowned.
“No.”
“Not exactly.”
The boy became confused.
The farmer looked at the paper.
“We made a trade.”
“Your grandfather helped rebuild the sugarhouse roof.”
“Wouldn’t take money.”
“Took the ugly maple instead.”
The boy smiled.
Of course.
That sounded exactly like him.
The farmer continued.
“Then a man came.”
“What man?”
“Wood buyer.”
“Big money.”
“Wanted everything.”
The sawyer leaned closer.
“When?”
“Maybe ninety.”
“Eighty-nine.”
The old farmer shook his head.
“Don’t know.”
“He offered your grandfather…”
He stopped.
His eyes drifted.
The boy waited.
The farmer looked toward the wall as though someone stood there.
Then said:
“Your grandfather wouldn’t sell.”
“Why?”
The farmer blinked back toward him.
“Said the man was cheating.”
The boy frowned.
“How?”
The farmer smiled.
“You’d have to ask the dead.”
The boy looked down.
The farmer touched the provenance sheet.
“Your grandfather rolled this up?”
“Yes.”
“Smart.”
Then he pointed at the triangular marks.
“Those were the storm trees.”
The boy looked up.
“Twelve pieces?”
“From the three oldest.”
The farmer nodded.
“The others came later.”
“Trees taken down when we widened the lane.”
“Still pretty.”
“But those twelve…”
He whistled softly.
“Special.”
The boy’s mother asked:
“Why hide the paper inside the wood?”
The farmer laughed.
“Because people kept trying to buy it.”
He looked toward the boy.
“Your grandfather got sick of answering.”
Then something occurred to him.
“Wait.”
His expression sharpened.
“The buyer.”
“What about him?”
The farmer leaned forward.
“He had a son.”
The boy felt a chill.
The sawyer asked:
“What was his name?”
The farmer struggled.
Could not recall.
But he remembered something else.
“The son was always with him.”
“Big kid.”
“Beard later.”
The sawyer and the boy’s mother exchanged a look.