Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

and Tommy come to a circle of trees. The circle was planted on purpose, like three hundred years ago somebody planted these trees for a reason, like it means something. But the feeling in them is good, like the people who planted them were good, like maybe we are part of the reason they planted them, somewhere in their hearts maybe they knew. An owl flies by overhead, big as the moon. The night is warm, and me and Tommy lie down together.

Soon he gets to dreaming, moaning softly in his sleep. I brush his hair, hush him, sing him a song. I wish Gruff were here. He always told me stories at night when I was afraid. Stories about things he’d seen in his travels, about a tattooed sailor whose skin knife blades couldn’t cut, or strange maidens that lived in the woods and had one long tooth in their mouths to suck blood with. Or haints condemned to wander the forest, peeking into kids’ windows at night, searching for the men who killed them. All Gruff’s stories were scary, but they made me feel braver somehow, like if Gruff had faced these dangers and survived, then maybe I could too.

Soon I’ll be back with him, when I make it to the Half-Moon Inn, when I’ve fought my way back to him. Just a few more days. Just a few more and we’ll be back together again.

ELEVEN

When I wake up I’m so hungry I feel like my stomach’s been empty for days. It hurts bad, like I spent all night getting kicked in the guts. Even with Gruff and his boys, I never went so long on just a handful of blackberries from the day before, same as I’ve never been so far from Templeton, so far from my own woods as I am right now.

Momma never had any reason to leave Templeton except for little errands she would run, journeys that didn’t last more than a day or two. She never let me go with her, said they were secrets, not meant for little old me. Even as a tiny thing I had to fend for myself, but it was all right. I could make a fire, I had books. The animals would come to play with me. Momma would draw the star and the wolf into the dirt around our house, for protection. Nothing bad could happen to me if I stayed in the house. And nothing ever did. Not until I left it.

Momma never taught me to draw the symbols. I used to bug her about it when I was little.

“It isn’t just the drawing,” she said. “Anybody can draw a star in the dirt with a stick. It’s what you put into it, what comes through you and into the stick. What makes the star gleam, what makes the wolf howl.”

“Always just looks like stick drawings in the dirt to me,” I said.

“That’s because you don’t see yet,” said Momma. “It’s the same with the songs. It’s not the words, but how you sing them. That’s why I taught you the nothingsong. It’s the most powerful of all because there aren’t any words. It’s about whatever your heart makes it be about.”

I didn’t like not knowing anything. I figured I was old enough for the world. I wanted to talk to squirrels and have them talk back to me. I wanted the rabbits to show me where they hid their gold.

“Someday maybe you’ll see, if you’re all good and blessed and lucky.”

“Then you’ll teach me?” I said.

“I won’t have to, Goldeline. By then you’ll already know.”

Momma was always saying stuff like that. Lot of good it does me now. For the first time maybe ever, I feel a little angry with my momma. Why is she not here now? Why didn’t she teach me better? How are me and Tommy going to eat today?

Tommy sniffles. His head is in my lap. He’s dreaming, making little dream noises, sighing. I poke him awake.

“We got to get moving,” I say.

“What time is it?”

“Late,” I say. “We have to go now, Tommy. It ain’t safe to lie here and dream all morning.”

Tommy looks out to the woods and shivers. We get to walking.

There’s a strange wind out, hot and fire-smelling. I wonder if the Preacher hunts us in the day, or if he just walks his men through the woods with torches all night, calling out to us. The thought sends cold spiders up and down my back, and I walk us a little faster.

Above me and Tommy swoop birds. They touch on a branch and are gone, little brown ones. But no crows, no cardinals. I do see a blue jay, but I don’t like them much. If you mess with their nests they’ll go crazy on you. One time a blue jay nest fell out of a tree in front of our house. The momma bird went crazy, diving at us, trying to peck our eyes out. Gruff was there that day, visiting Momma. I didn’t know him so well then. He was just Momma’s friend.

“I’ll shoot it if you want,” he said.

Momma gave him a look that could have wilted an orchard.

“Sorry,” he said.

It was strange being trapped in our own house, and kind of fun. Eventually Momma had to put on her heaviest cloak and run out to scoop the fallen nest up. She carried it out to the woods, the momma bird trying to peck her the whole time. After the nest was away from our house, the blue jay left us alone. A week later I went and found the nest. There were three dead baby birds in it. The momma bird had flown off by that point and left them. I dug a little grave and promised to bring flowers but I forgot until just right now.

I never brought flowers for Momma’s grave either. I don’t even know where she’s buried. I know they wouldn’t let her in a