Mud on the Coffin Box — As I Lay Dying

Jewel comes up the lane fast, mud flying beneath the hooves, then slows light and erect in the saddle while Vernon Tull lifts his hand from his lot. The wagon creaks on with a motion so soporific and dreamlike it feels like time, not space, is shrinking between them and Jefferson. The New Hope Church sign wheels up like a motionless hand above empty road, and Darl sees the red path as a spoke of which Addie Bundren is the rim.

Cash spits over the wheel. In a couple of days now it'll be smelling, he says. You might tell Jewel that, Darl answers. Jewel sits motionless at the junction, upright, watching them, no less still than the fading signboard opposite him. It ain't balanced right for no long ride, Cash says. Tell him that, too, Darl says. The wagon creaks on.

A mile farther Jewel passes them swift and wooden-faced, broken hat at a swaggering angle, without looking at them. A gout of mud, back-flung, plops on to the box. Cash leans forward, removes it carefully, and at Whiteleaf breaks off a willow branch to scour the stain with wet leaves. The warning never reached Jewel. The damage already landed. What changes when truth travels sideways while the wagon keeps rolling?