Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

a sister and they are close, they laugh together.

I’m in Momma’s house, with the thatched roof and the stove and the rocks, the ones with the little birds on them, the ones Momma taught me with. The books in the corner stacked and good-smelling, I don’t know how she got them but there were always more whenever I wanted. The lantern I used to carry when I wandered the woods at night. But I was never scared, even in the dark nighttime, because of the songs Momma taught me, the nothingsong that sparkled the air when I sang it, that protected me from all the scary stuff in the dark, the horror of night like it says in the Book, the fanged things, the wolves and snakes and wicked men, my little light out in the black woods. I would wander and sing and pretend I was a star that fell out of its tree and toppled to earth but didn’t burn out, just got small and brave and became a girl who glowed at night. It was impossible to be scared when you could glow.

The light scares the mess out of the darkness, you can believe that.

There’s a flicker in my eyes and I’m in Bobba’s tree house again, but it looks different, all ragged curtains and brown, gunk-filled plates and rats gnawing bird bones off the floor. Bobba’s hideous scowl is a foot from my face, her eyes red and ripped-looking. She slaps me.

“No!” she says. “You got to remember!”

Bobba slaps me harder and my lip busts, and I can feel the blood go hot on my chin. It’s the blood that does it, and I’m back in the forest, back wandering, and it’s cold but not horrible cold, just enough that everything has a snap to it. It’s another memory. I’m a kid again, maybe five or maybe four, and I have my cloak and my lantern and I’m singing the nothingsong but it comes out all wrong because I’m sick and my throat hurts, I croak and caw the song like a bullfrogbird, like something with leather wings that lives in the mud.

I feel sick and I feel lonely and I hate my momma for making me wander out so late, so tired. I was already mostly asleep when Momma shook me awake and said, “Put on your cloak, Goldeline, take your lantern!” and I said I didn’t want to but she said it again, “Baby darling, please, you got to, Momma needs you to. Quick! Up to it! Go now! Shoo! Shoo!” and I’ve been wandering and wandering since. Hours maybe. The rule is, when something secret happens, Momma sends me out to the woods and I can’t come back, not until she lights a candle in the window to guide me back with. That’s the rule, and never ever have I broken it. But tonight I’m sick and the night is full of crows, the clouds running fast as rabbits across the sky. A storm is coming. There’s the burned-leaf smell in the air, the stench of a bad one way far off. The trees bend and stretch. An owl looks at me with big strange eyes. I think it’s blind. Nothing in the world feels right tonight.

Even though I’m not supposed to, even though I never broke a promise to my momma before, I start my walk back to our house early, even though Momma hasn’t lit the candle. See, I know the way, these woods are my own and I can’t ever get lost in them, not anymore, not so close to our little house. I sneak right up to the window and take a peek in.

Inside is a man. He’s got his back to me. Momma’s smiling at him, this sad kind of smile I’ve never seen on her face before, like I never seen her look at anyone in my whole life. Neither of them see me. I don’t understand what’s happening, all I know is that it’s something bad.

But the wind blows and the moon dims out and it all fades. I can hear Bobba screaming at me, screaming somewhere long and far off, No! No! You got to keep going! You have to see! But I’m tired, and there’s a bed for me, I can feel it, my old soft bed, Momma’s there too, with my quilt, and it’s warm, warm, and I can’t stop myself now, and soon I know I’ll be asleep and dreaming again. I hope I hope I hope for good dreams.

THIRTEEN

I wake up slumped in a hard wooden chair. Tommy’s still face-down in his plate, but instead of cobbler now it’s just a pile of old chicken bones. I’m scared he’s dead but then I realize he’s snoring. I’ve never been so happy to hear snoring before in my whole life. We’re in a room, a small one, dusty and ruined. The table is a dead gray color, like old skin, chipped and dented. Torn shreds of paper and the covers of books cover the floor. A rank nutria hide is nailed to the wall. A rat scampers over my feet. No Bobba in sight. I try to stand but have to sit right back down again. I’m woozy and confused. Sunlight spears through a chink in the roof, and bats hang like rotten teeth from the rafters. Where am I? I pray a little to Momma.

Momma my head hurts. Momma is this Bobba’s house?

The gnawed bones on my plate, crusts of moldy bread on the floor. Is this what we ate yesterday? But it had tasted so good. It tasted as good and lovely as the house looked, like a real home for me. Was it a trick, a dream? Or was it Bobba’s poison?

Tommy’s still snoring away on the table. Ants crawl a little speckled line over his hand, medium-sized ants like watermelon seeds. I brush them off and poke him awake.

“Hey, Tommy.”

He moans a little and blinks at