The Madman’s Ax

The door to the Nashoba pizza parlor was open, but there was no one behind the counter. As they settled themselves on the twirly stools, Mary and Homer could hear raised women’s voices in another room. The argument seesawed back and forth.

“It’s trash. Dump it. It’s all just trash.”

“No, it’s not. Give that back.”

“Well, take it. I don’t give a damn.” There was a crash, followed by two simultaneous Whoopsies. After a pause, one voice demanded, “What’s the point? Who cares about all this stuff?” And the other cried, “I do.” Then the door to the other room burst open and the bitchy girl appeared. She slammed the door behind her and stamped along the counter, glowering.

Humbly, they gave their orders, and then Mary had a bright thought. Smiling graciously at the bitchy girl, she said, “I wonder if you know your neighbor, Miss Flint? She lives in the woods behind your shop, Miss Julie Flint?”

For an instant, the girl’s eyes met Mary’s, then flicked away. “Oh, her.”

“You do know her?” said Homer.

“Well, there’s this shortcut.” The bitchy girl jerked her head backward.

“Oh, you’ve been there? You’ve seen her?”

“Not me. My sister.”

“Your sister? Your sister’s seen her?”

“Stupid jerk, she takes orders—groceries and stuff.” The microwave beeped. The bitchy girl snatched out the pizzas, dropped them on paper plates, slapped them on the counter, and disappeared.

“A shortcut!” Mary beamed at Homer. “Why don’t we try the shortcut?”

But Homer wasn’t listening. In the absence of the bitchy girl, he felt free to lean far over the counter to look at the wall. The NO REST ROOMS sign was bigger than ever, but someone had tacked up a few more old photographs. One was a faded aerial view.

“Look at that,” said Homer. “It must have been taken from a cliff over a valley. No, not a valley, a graveyard.”

Mary put on her glasses and leaned forward, too. “What’s that big white spot in the middle?”

By this time, the upper half of Homer’s torso lay on the counter and his bushy head was only inches away from the picture. Triumphantly, he cried, “A tree stump. By God, I think it’s a tree stump.” Grinning, he pulled back and plumped himself down on the stool. “Just cut down, you see? The rest is lying on the ground.”

Mary whispered, “Do you think it could be—”

“Look, never mind the roots and berries lady.” Homer pushed his pizza aside. “Take a look at this. I brought along an old friend.” He pulled a thin book out of his pocket. The title, Fireside Verses, was stamped in gilt letters on the limp leather cover.

Mary leaned closer. “Oh, good, Homer, Oliver Wendell Holmes. What a nice old book.”

Slowly, Homer turned the pages, shaking his head at “The One-Hoss-Shay,” “The Chambered Nautilus,” and “The Last Leaf.” Then he stopped. “Here we are. Look at this.”

The poem was called “The Madman’s Ax,” and in that moment, as though struck by lightning, two of their queries melted into one.

The verses began with a line from Longfellow’s “The Village Blacksmith,” but it turned into something else at once:

Under the spreading chestnut-tree

A vicious killer stands;

He looks up at the branches free,

A great ax in his hands.

The tree flings wide its glorious crown,

Its leaves the winds caress.

Two hundred years the burial ground

By this tree has been blessed.

But now the madman lifts his ax

To play the devil’s part.

The keen blade strikes and strikes again

To burst that mighty heart.

Great nature weeps, Nashoba’s jewel

Lies shattered on the ground,

Broken, the hearts of young and old

In all the country round.

Let good men curse the vandal vile

Who killed our ancient tree.

May this foul deed afflict his soul

Till he shall cease to be.

Homer slapped the page in triumph, and together they looked up at the photograph on the wall, the aerial view of the giant stump in the graveyard. There it was, the tree itself, Dr. Holmes’s glorious tree, caught on a glass plate after the madman’s ax had cut it down.

Only one question was left without an answer. What did the lost church have to do with the tree and the poet and all the other pictures on the wall of the Nashoba Pizza Parlor—the photographs of the hot-air balloon and the nineteenth-century faces and the twins in their bowler hats?

Where was it, the lost church? Where on the face of the earth?