Those Times and TheseCobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
General
Those Times and These
Cobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
Short stories, American; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
The more robust and capable among the adults cultivated these poor crops
in a pecking and puny sort of way. The children went clothed in ancient
rags, which partly covered their undeveloped and stunted bodies, and
played in the rubbish; and sometimes in their play they delved too
deep and uncovered grisly and horrible objects. On sunny days the blind
soldier and the palsied one sat in the sunshine, and when it rained
they took refuge with the others in whichever of the leaky burrows was
handiest for them to reach. If they walked the Breton towed his mate in
a crippling, zigzag course, for one lacked the eyes to see where he went
and the other lacked the ability to steer his afflicted legs on a direct
line.
The wreckage of rafters and beams and house furnishings provided
abundant supplies of wood and for fires. By a kind of general assent,
headship and authority were vested jointly in the old tempestuous woman
and the blind man, for the reasons that she had the strongest body and
the most resolute will, and he the keenest mind of them all.
So these people lived along, without a priest to give them comfort by
his preaching; without a physician to mend their ailments; with no set
code of laws to be administered and none to administer them. Existence
for them was reduced to its raw elementals. Since frequently they heard
the big guns sounding distantly and faintly, they knew that the war
still went on. And, if they gave the matter a thought, to them it seemed
that the war always would go on. Time and the passage of time meant
little. A day was merely a period of lightness marked at one end by
a sunrise and at the other by a sunset; and when that was over and
darkness had come, they bedded themselves down under fouled and ragged
coverlids and slept the dumb, dreamless sleep of the lower animals.
Except for the weeping woman who went about with her red eyes
continually streaming and her whining wail forever sounding, no one
among them seemingly gave thought to those of their own kinspeople and
friends who were dead or scattered or missing.
Well, late one afternoon in the early fall of the year, the workers had
quit their tasks and were gathering in toward a common centre, before
the oncoming of dusk, when they heard cries and beheld the crotchety old
woman who shared leadership with the blinded man, running toward them.
She had been gathering beets in one of the patches to the southward
of their ruins; and now, as she came at top speed along the path that
marked where their main street had once been, threading her way swiftly
in and out among the grey mounds of rubbish, she held a burden of the
red roots in her long bony arms.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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