Free Blackstrap Hawco by Kenneth J. Harvey Page A

daughters shall be given unto another people. And there shall be no might in thine hand. ‘Yays. Were a big moon. Ye knows da likes of dat. Huge moon. Hawco be just stand’n ’n stare’n down in da hole he made wit ’is backhoe. Big hole. Den he walk around,’ Tuttle sweeps his arm in a wide loop. So that thou shalt be mad for the sight of thine eyes which thou shalt see. ‘Da house look’n at ever’tin’. He see me stand’n in one of da windows so I moves ’way. Moves back. Back furder ’n furder.’
    Constable Pope nods. Writes on his pad of paper. Occasionally, he flicks the page over. Glances at Mr. Tuttle to ask the clear meaning of a word. Or to say ‘Yes’ or ‘Go on’ before dipping his neatly combed brown-haired head down to continue writing. Quick scribbles to put it all together.
    Isaac Tuttle whips up his hand. So that the man that is tender among you, his eyes shall be evil toward his brother, and toward the wife of his bosom. Shows the Mountie the gash in the shape of a circle. The gash from the branch that had scraped him. Deeply. When the bed was jammed against the tree trunk. High above the earth. The fruit of thy land, and all thy labours, shall a nation which thou knowest not eat up. Then he lifts his other hand. To furiously jab at the nose piece of his glasses.
    â€˜Yes, I see,’ says Pope, patiently. Having been shown the wound already. Numerous times throughout the spell of Tuttle’s statement.
    â€˜Ye saw, reet?’
    â€˜It’s okay.’
    â€˜Tell us again. Tell me it.’ And thy carcass shall be meat unto all fowls of the air.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Yer name, sir.’
    â€˜Cons’able Pope.’
    Isaac Tuttle smiles. A big wet smile. And blinks. Cursed shalt thou be in the city. Licks his lips. And cursed shalt thou be in the field.
    â€˜Where ye frum, da way ye talk?’ His wiry black eyebrows scrunching together. ‘Kaybec?’
    â€˜Mo-ree’all.’
    â€˜Muntree’all?’
    â€˜Oui.’
    Tuttle searches around the tabletop. Distracted. Cursed shalt be the fruit of thy body, and the fruit of thy land. Close to seventy years old. His hair remains coal black. Plastered to his head. Cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in, and cursed shalt thou be when thou goest out. But the stubble on his doughy misshapen face has gone grey.
    â€˜You say you move away from the window.’
    â€˜Yays, I did,’ says Tuttle, newly shocked at the recollection. ‘Yays x’actly dat.’ Pointing his finger at the window above the kitchen sink. He shall lend to thee, and thou shalt not lend to him: he shall be the head, and thou shalt be the tail. But keeping his big eyes on the officer. ‘Dat window. An’ da last I saw of ’im until I hear da backhoe comin’ up da road ’n den closer. Up da bank where da hole were dug fer me new well, ’n den.’ His hairy hands begin to tremble. And it came to pass, when he heareth the words of this curse, that he bless himself in his heart. He places them against his knees. And presses down. ‘Oh, me L’ard. He shuts his eyes. And that the whole land therefore is brimstone. His lids flinching. And ye have seen their abominations. ‘Dun’t know nut’n den till da back wall bust open, da backhoe coming troo.’ He opens his eyes. Wide. Also every sickness, and every plague, which is not written. Wider through the thick lens. Them will the Lord bring upon thee, until thou be destroyed. Points toward the dining room wall patched up with wide bare planks of spruce. Tongue and groove. See, I have set before thee this day life and good, and death and evil. ‘I ran fer da beddrum. Dun’t know why. Sat on da bed, ran in dere. No, ran in dere’n sat on da bed. Lay down. I were staring. No, cross da wall at da picture o’ da Sacred ’art ’a Jaysus ’n I get under da