Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

into crying, and me and Tommy cry each other out on the roots and tangles and dark wild earth of the woods.

I wake up with the daylight. Tommy’s munching the last of the blackberries, teeth as purple as brand-new grapes. It’s shady and cool under the tree. All the day bugs are waking up, whirring into the light. A fawn and two baby deer walk by, stepping soft as ghosts. Tommy whistles and they bolt off, gone quicker than a happy thought.

“You spoiled it,” I say.

“Deers got ticks on them,” he says.

“How would you know?”

“Sure do taste good though. My daddy used to shoot a deer any chance he got.”

“What was your daddy like?”

“He was the tallest, bravest guy you ever met. I one time saw him arm-wrestle a riverboat captain and he beat him in no time flat.”

“When did he die?”

“Three years ago, when I was seven.”

Tommy’s ten? That’s only one year younger than me. He acts like a six-year-old. His voice is all high and he cries all the time. If he were Gruff’s boy, Gruff would whoop his butt right into being a man.

“That’s right,” I said. “Three years ago. Hard for me to keep it straight.”

“Why’s that?”

“Heaven time don’t work the same as earth time, Tommy. A day with God is like a thousand years, don’t you know that?”

“Never heard that one before. A whole thousand years?”

“Doesn’t feel that way,” I say. “Sometimes it passes quick as a summer morning. Other times it’s like a cold winter night that won’t even end. Heaven time is a tricky thing.”

It’s fun being an angel. Good thing I know so much about the Book. I remember how Momma used to read me fairy stories, and Gruff would tell me all about the ghosts of the woods. But I feel like I grew up knowing the Book like it was already in me, every word. I know all the good stories. The one-eyed man and his talking donkey, the money in the catfish’s mouth, the shepherd prince and his magical songs. Stories from the Book are the best stories there are.

Oh no, what time is it? I’ve messed around for too long. Gruff will be missing me. Someone will notice, Pugh or worse. They would kill Tommy if they found him, no question. They might even kill me too. All of a sudden I realize how dangerous this is, what I’ve gotten the both of us into.

“Will you take me to Aunt Barbara soon?” says Tommy. “I bet she’s worried about me.”

“Tommy, I got to go,” I say. “I promise I’ll be back later.”

I run off toward camp as fast as I can go.

When I break the tree line all the boys are just waking up, cussing, hair sticking up with night sweat. Leebo cooking breakfast. The whole camp is in a groggy haze. I sneak up to Gruff’s tent, but I don’t have to check inside because I can hear him snoring from ten feet away.

I feel a small joy hopping in my chest. I got away with it. No one even noticed I was gone.

I spend an hour lounging, laughing with the boys, all of them still tired, all of them a little annoyed by me. I giggle and hop and sing, whatever I can to be noticed, to be as irritating as possible. I dance around Pugh so long I think he’s going to smack me. Even sweet Leebo, head in his hands, eyes dark with rings around them, waves me off.

“Why don’t you go out in the woods and run around for a while?” he says. “Nothing but old folks here, and not a one of us feeling much like fun.”

I play it perfectly, and it couldn’t go any better.

“Okay, Leebo,” I say, and kiss him on the cheek.

He chuckles a little, then grabs his head and moans. Soon I’m back out in the forest, no problems from anyone. Even better, I bring presents. Nothing amazing, just a few things I could fit into my pack, a few things we had some extras of. Like a leather flap that John Gooding used to use as a tent, before he took off to the Northlands. Said he wanted to see what other places were like, what the ocean was. Said he wanted to off and see the whole world. I liked John Gooding. He was only six years older than me, and handsome too, except for his nose, which was crooked from a socking he took over some old lady. That’s what he called her, his “old lady.”

I also got a storybook—with pictures even, folks on camelback and great dunes rising high as palaces—and some leftover beans from last night. When I get back to the tree it’s almost noon, and Tommy’s waiting on me, not looking near as scared as last time. That means he’s trusting me.

“Beans again?” says Tommy.

“Don’t be ungrateful,” I say. “Birds aren’t ungrateful, and all they get is worms.”

“But I don’t want beans. They stink.”

“Some birds don’t even get worms. They get dead stuff. They don’t even like food until it gets to stinking. You ever think about that?”

“Well, I ain’t any bird.”

“Nope,” I say. “You’re a growing boy, and as your very own guardian angel, I say the Lord hath provided unto thee beans. So eat your durn beans.”

“You don’t have to get all huffy,” he says. “I’m the one who got robbed by bandits. I’m the one trapped in the woods.”

Trapped. I never thought of it like that. The woods are the only place I never felt trapped, the only place where I was free to go as I please. Not the town, not Templeton. You couldn’t hardly step outside without fierce looks from the Townies, whispering from the kids and all the ladies, me and Momma walking heads high and proud, like she always told me to, from our house to the store and back again. If they whisper, it’s because they’re jealous, she always said. If they whisper,