 
DAVID SHATH SQUARE Chapter Three
I WAS HALF A MILE DOWN the rail line, running fast, when it struck me that my father intended to amputate Jeb's foot. The thought was so horrifying that I nearly stopped dead on the spot. I probably would have except my grandfather was in big trouble and it was up to me to get some help.
My heart felt as if it had relocated to my mouth as I raced into the Swede's yard. I found him at work on a foot-powered lathe, turning a block of birch into a spindle for a chair. The Swede had asthma so he worked outside when the weather was good. He said air was good for his lungs, which were coated with two inches of sawdust.
He didn't seem to mind the black cloud of mosquitoes and flies that swarmed around his head. I guess he found insect bites preferable to asthma attacks.
The Swede was a big, handsome man and it was said that in his youth, he had broken any number of hearts with his flowing blond hair, broad shoulders, and blue eyes. My grandfather said the Swede had to beat women off him with a stick. Every young woman in the territory had mooned at his doorstep at one time or another. But in spite of his popularity with the females, the Swede had remained a bachelor, which surprised folks and led to some ugly rumors concerning his sexual preference.
My grandfather always defended the Swede. I once saw him knock a man clean off his feet with a single punch when the man made some joke about being careful not to bend over when Swede Hansen was around.
In his old age, the Swede's muscular body had run to fat and his long blond hair had fallen out. To make up for the injustice of hair loss, he had grown a long beard that reached to his belt buckle.
Sometimes when the Swede daydreamed while he worked at the lathe his beard became wrapped around the spindle. Usually he could unwind it himself, but on this occasion the beard was stuck fast. The Swede's big chin was wedged against the spindle when I arrived.
"Thank Gott you're here, Zach," he said, before I could get a word in edgewise. He was crouched over the lathe and very frustrated.
"Take the skew chisel and cut me loose before the pain in my back makes the death of me."
I wasn't sure what a skew chisel looked like so I grabbed the biggest and sharpest chisel and began to hack away the offending beard. The hair was tough and coarse and there wasn't much room for me to operate. I knicked the Swede's chin with the razor edge of the chisel several times before I managed to shear away the last strand of beard. He straightened up, rubbing his big chin while he speculated on his future.
"Now I must grow a new beard...but by Gott it feels goot to stand tall once again, ya?"
He continued to rub his chin while I attempted to get his attention. My grandfather claimed that when the Swede became contemplative it could take an explosion to break him out of his daydream. I tried everything from yelling his name to giving him a good poke in the ribs but nothing would bring him back to reality.
Finally, I grabbed the skew chisel, ran over to a pile of paint cans and began to pry off a lid with the keen edge of the chisel. Say what you will about the Swede, he was a craftsman with a craftsman's appreciation for fine tools. He couldn't stand idle and watch the wanton destruction of a carefully honed edge.
"My Gott, Zach, what are you doing to my beautiful chisel?"
He grabbed the chisel out of my hand, but at least I had his attention. My story poured out of me while the Swede listened and nodded and asked questions when he didn't understand the jumble of words. He sized up the situation fast for a fellow given to daydreaming. Before I had finished, he disappeared into his workshop to find a saw and a pint of home-brew.
He kept the amber booze in clear sealer jars arranged on the shelves covering every wall of his workshop. That way it could be mistaken for shellac when the RCMP constable was in the neighborhood.
My grandfather claimed that when the Swede got drunk he consumed a pint of shellac for every two pints of home-brew. It didn't seem to harm him, although my grandfather suspected the shellac might have gummed up the Swede's brain and account for his habitual daydreaming.
The Swede returned with the saw and liquor before I had completed my story. My father taught me never to leave a story dangling, like a participle. I would have continued the story to the end if not for the arrival of the Swede's daughter, Thoreena. She was an example of what my grandfather called the female form divine -- six feet tall with golden locks and a body by Boticelli.
Although she was only 16-years-old, Thoreena looked like a mature woman; and she was also strong-willed and intelligent. My grandfather said if I wanted a nice, peaceful life, then I should steer clear of Thoreena.
"That she-wolf will eat you for breakfast, boy. My advice is to find yourself a homely woman who can bake apple pie and darn socks. Of course, if you don't mind a roller coaster ride, then Thoreena is a mighty fine little filly."
I guess my grandfather should know. He's been married and divorced twelve times and even at his age he's still looking for another wife.
Thoreena was a mystery in many ways. For example, nobody could explain how she was the Swede's daughter, seeing as he was a devoted bachelor. Also, no one could remember where she was born, although it was established that sixteen years ago a baby suddenly appeared at the Swede's residence and he raised her just like a daughter.
Some folks thought she was half human and half forest nymph; the result of an indiscretion on the Swede's part during one of his forays in the woods in search of timber for his furniture business. Whatever her secret was, I knew that Thoreena was all flesh and blood.
I took the saw and pint of home-brew from the Swede and was about to high-tail it out of the yard when Thoreena caught me by the arm. She nearly hoisted me off the ground and whispered something in my ear which didn't make sense at the time: "Zach, I'm late," she said.
"Thoreena, I don't have time to talk. My grandfather needs help. Let go of me, now."
I guess she sensed the urgency in my voice because she released her hold and I hit the ground running.
"Zach," she called after me, "we've got to talk. I'm late."
As I ran back down the track, I heard an engine roar to life. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw the Swede had driven his ancient one-ton up the gravel berm. He had customized the axles so the truck's wheels straddled the steel rails and the truck rode comfortably along the track, as long as the Swede wasn't daydreaming or drunk.
I didn't have much time to ponder what Thoreena had said as I sprinted to my grandfather's aid. What did she mean by "I'm late?" She coudn't be late for a bus because there weren't any buses in these parts. Maybe she had been reading Through the Looking Glass and was mimicking the White Rabbit? My father said Lewis Carroll was a great writer, but I preferred Robert Louis Stevenson.
To Chapter Four
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