THE GARLIC WIND

by Richard Thompson


    When his mother died in the Spring, it fell to Young Tom to be looking after the house and the garden, making the meals for himself and Old Thomas, feeding the animals, mending the clothes - all those things.  He did the best he could, and, of course, there was always Mrs. Chutter down the road happy to give a bit of advice.
    "Mind you boil them sprouts well before you feed them to your father, Young Tom," she told him.  "There's nothing worse than raw sprouts to give a man the gassy twists."
    "The dandelion greens are getting a bit too old to be really good, but you can still use them for soup, Young Tom," she told him.  "Just make sure you soak them a couple of hours in brine so they won't be bitter."
    "See them little holes?  You got mealy worms gnawing at your cabbages there, Young Tom," said Mrs. Chutter.  "Well, what you got to do is douse them good with soapy water.  That'll stop them gnawing fast enough."
    Young Tom listened, and he managed pretty well.  His father never got the gassy twists, there was never a hint of bitterness in his dandelion green soup, and the cabbages grew just fine.

    Spring passed into Summer and Summer into Fall.  Winter came, the pond froze over and snow started to fall.
    Then one afternoon in February, the Wind started to blow.  It came howling and bawling down from the top of the high and rocky hill that rose up behind Old Thomas' cottage.  It whipped up the snow into swirling devils and battered at the cottage windows in its fury.
    Old Thomas came in from the yard with his teeth clacking together and his eyelashes frozen shut.  He stomped over to the fire and stood there thawing.
    "Oh, Young Tom!  That's a raw and a bitter Wind, my boy!  It gnaws a man to the white of his bone!"
    Every day the Wind blew down from the hill and every day Old Thomas complained to his son, "Oh Young Tom!  That's a raw and a bitter Wind, my boy!  It gnaws a man to the white of his bone!"
    After a couple of weeks and the Wind still blowing, Old Thomas took sick and couldn't get out of bed.
    "It's the Wind, Young Thomas!  That raw and bitter Wind!  It's gnawing me away until I feel like I'm going to die!"
    That night Young Tom lay awake listening to the Wind and thinking about his poor father.  About midnight, the Wind stopped blowing.
    "The Wind - he's gone to sleep!"  thought Young Tom.  "Now's my chance!"
    He got out of bed and got dressed very quietly.  When he went out the door, he was carrying the big wooden tub full of soapy water left from his bath the evening before.
    He struggled up the high and rocky hill behind the cottage, stumbling and slipping in the dark.  Finally, he got to the top, and there was the Wind, sleeping between two boulders.
    Young Tom lifted the tub over his head and dumped it, dousing the Wind from head to tail.
    The Wind rose up and started howling.  Young Tom dropped the tub and ran down the hill and into the cottage.  Just as he closed the door, the Wind slammed into the house, shaking it like a shoebox.
    Young Tom pressed his face to the window and yelled to the irate Wind,  "That will stop you gnawing fast enough!"
    The next day, Mrs. Chutter came over with a pot of cabbage soup for Old Thomas.
    "The Wind's still blowing," she said.  "It's raw and bitter, but it doesn't seem to gnaw away at you quite as bad."
    That night, when the Wind had gone to sleep, Young Tom left the cottage and started making his way slowly up the high and rocky hill.  Balanced on his shoulder was a heavy earthenware crock half full of strong brine. He slipped and stumbled on the sharp rocks, and once or twice very nearly dropped the crock.  But, finally, he reached the top of the hill and found the Wind asleep between the two big boulders.
    Young Tom put the crock down and set the heavy lid to one side.  Very quietly, he crept up to the slumbering Wind.
    "Well, now's the time or never," he said to himself.  And he pounced on the Wind, grabbing him by the tail.  The Wind struggled and kicked, but Young Tom had taken him by surprise, and before the the Wind was even properly awake, Young Tom had rolled him into a ball, stuffed him into the crock and slammed down the lid.
    The Wind howled and battered again the inside of the crock making it hop about and clatter against the rocks.  Young Tom sat on top of the crock to hold it down, but the Wind kicked so violently that he was toppled off again.  The crock fell over and smashed into a thousand pieces, and out blew the Wind, dripping wet and all salty smelling like a Wind from the ocean.
    Young Tom jumped up and ran down the hill with the Wind howling at his back.  He ran into the cottage and slammed the door, leaving the Wind to wail and moan outside in the night.
       Mrs. Chutter came with soup again the next day.
    "I think that Spring may come yet, Young Tom," she said.  "The Wind is still a mite raw, but it is not nearly so bitter.  And it doesn't gnaw at all."
    That night when the Wind stopped blowing, Young Tom crept to the top of the hill with an ax in his hand, the same ax he used to chop off the chickens' heads when they were being made ready for the pot.
    But this time the Wind was waiting for him, and it pounced out of the darkness and wrestled the ax from his grip.  The Wind swung the ax at Young Tom's head and missed him by a breeze.
    Young Tom turned and ran down the hill as fast as the Wind, and a good thing too, because the Wind was running after him, swinging the ax, chopping at his heels every step of the way.
    Young Tom ran into the cottage and slammed the door just as the ax came sailing though the air splitting the planking with a horrible cracking sound.
    "Well, that didn't work so well," said Young Tom as he climbed into bed.  "But I'll do some thinking in the morning... "
    The next evening, Young Tom sat in front of the fire and chopped several onions into chunks which he strung on a string with cloves of garlic, bits of carrot and cubes of turnip, all rubbed with oil and herbs.
    Later, when the Wind had stopped blowing, Young Tom got out of bed, got dressed and hung the fragrant garland of vegetables around his neck.  He lighted a fire in the fireplace and put a pot of water on to boil.  Then he picked up the pepper grinder and went out into the night.
    The Wind, no doubt confident that he had frightened Young Tom away for good, was sleeping peacefully when Young Tom reached the top of the hill.  Young Tom approached stealthily and sprinkled pepper on the sleeping blusterer.
    The Wind stirred.  His nose wrinkled, and then:  "AH-CHOOOOO!"
    The sneeze knocked Young Tom off his feet, and he tumbled backwards over and over right to the bottom of the hill.  When he picked himself up, he saw the Wind rushing toward him, cursing and screaming.
    Young Tom rushed into the cottage.  He closed the door, but left the latch off.  Then, quickly, he took off the necklace of onions and garlicë, threw it into the pot of boiling water and hid himself behind the bed curtain.
    The door crashed open as the Wind rushed into the cottage.   There was a moment of silence as he looked about the room, trying to spot the nasty little man who had been disturbing his sleep.
    The Wind sniffed.  What was that smell?  That was the smell he'd smelled when he woke up with such a sneeze - the smell of the nasty little man!  The Wind moved slowly around the room - Sniff!  Sniff!  Sniff!
    The smell seemed to be stronger over by the fire!  The Wind wafted that way and sniffed again.  The he stepped close to the boiling pot and bent right over it, breathing deeply.
    Young Tom rushed from his hiding place, and, with one sudden push, dumped the Wind into the cooking pot.  Quick as a zephyr, he popped on the lid and set a large stone on it to hold it in place.
    The pot lid rattled and banged, but the Wind hadn't the strength to escape.  After a while, the banging got weaker and finally stopped altogether.
    "I reckon it must be cooked, " said Young Tom.  And he lifted off the stone.
    When he raised the lid, the Wind wafted out of the pot as gently as you please.  It floated about the room for a few minutes and then wafted out the door.
    The next morning, Old Thomas got out of bed for the first time in two weeks.
    "I feel like a young man again this morning!" he declared.  "Spring is in the air, Young Tom!  Can you smell it?"
    The father and the son stepped out into the yard.  The snow had melted, the sun was shining warm and bright, birds were singing and crocuses were poking their heads out of the dirt.
    Young Tom took a deep breath.
    "Yes, Father," he said.  "I can smell it.  It smell good, doesn't it!"
    "It smells wonderful!" said his father.  "A little too much garlic perhaps, but wonderful all the same.""







RICHARD THOMPSONTHE STORY VINE