When Ben asked one evening, rubbing his blistered palms, “How can cows make enough heat for all this?” she knelt and drew in the dirt.
“They breathe. They live. They give off warmth every minute, same as we do, only bigger. The stone catches it. The earth keeps it from escaping. Then the air moves on its own.” She tapped his chest lightly. “It isn’t magic.”
“It sounds like magic.”
“No. Magic asks for faith. This asks for understanding.”
He considered that, grave as a little old man. “Then we’ll prove it.”
Others came to inspect her work.
Dr. Edwin Mercer, who had studied in Boston and wore spectacles that flashed with his self-importance, declared it impossible after one circuit of the excavation. “Mrs. Harper,” he announced, loud enough for the onlookers above to hear, “the earth absorbs heat. It does not create it. You are constructing a sophisticated icebox.”
Without pausing in her stonework, Evelyn replied, “It doesn’t need to create heat. It needs to stop wasting what already exists.”
The doctor colored. “You misunderstand the basic principles of thermal exchange.”
“My grandfather understood them well enough to keep milk from spoiling in summer and from freezing in winter.”
“Your grandfather was not scientifically trained.”
“No,” she said, fitting another stone into place. “He was alive.”
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