Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

want things to be wrong?” he says. “I can’t be with you any other way except married. That’s the only way you and me can be good. That’s the only way it’ll be right. Don’t you understand?”

“I think I’m starting to, Cyrus,” she says, “and I don’t like it.”

“If it’s the only good thing you ever do,” he says, “please marry me. Be my wife. Make things right, with me and with yourself and with God. Let’s start a life together, a daylight life, one out in the open for anyone to see.”

My momma, face flushed red, gold-flecked fire in her eyes, hair soft white billowing out about her like some crazy wind rushed through the house, so beautiful I almost have to shut my eyes against it. Momma looks the Preacher dead in the eyes.

“You’re a good man, Cyrus. You’ve been so good to me, and to Goldeline. But you can’t go marrying me. Not with you being a preacher, not with me being what I am. You put a chain on me and I’d turn to ash in your hands. I’d rather be dead than married. It’s just the truth. I’m a witch, Cyrus, and I don’t belong to anyone except myself.”

“But you’re not like other witches I’ve heard about,” he says. “All the stories of evil and wickedness folks tell. You help people. You heal them, you don’t curse them.”

Momma hooks an eyebrow at Mr. Cyrus, and a look comes over her that I’ve never seen before. Something dark and mysterious in her eyes, and for a moment she doesn’t look at all like the Momma I know.

“Are you sure I haven’t cursed anybody, Cyrus?” she says. “Maybe I never hurt anyone in Templeton, but what about long ago, before I got here? How do you know I haven’t sent rot over a neighbor’s cornfield just because he was mean to me, or made some old lecher’s face blister with boils? How do you know I haven’t cursed a liar mute, or turned a cruel man’s cup of wine to blood? You have no idea what I’ve done, Cyrus. You don’t know where I’ve been, what I had to do to survive. You don’t know what I’ve done just for the sheer pleasure of it.”

Mr. Cyrus puts his face in his hands and cries. I never seen a grown person cry like that, shake and moan. I can’t help but feel bad for him, how he has to love Momma in his own way, how he can’t love her in her way. It’s no good to make Momma marry. Even I know that. She’s not that kind, never could be, never would want to be. But I never heard of Momma cursing anyone before. Her magic was always good. I never knew she could do a thing like that.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says. “You don’t know what it feels like to ache and burn like this, to want something so bad it kills you.”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to want things?” says Momma. “You think I don’t want a better life for my girl than this? Out here in the woods, away from everything, barely eating every week?”

“Then come with me,” says Mr. Cyrus. He’s on his knees, pleading. “Marry me. Be with me forever.”

“I can’t do that, Cyrus. You know that.”

“But I need you,” he says. “And Goldeline needs a father.” Mr. Cyrus looks at Momma, his eyes flinting in the firelight. “I’ve seen her, you know. I’ve seen what happens when Goldeline sings that song you taught her, the way it speaks pictures into my mind. I’ve seen her conjure, even if she didn’t know she was doing it. I’ve seen her call a wind to snuff out candles while she’s sleeping. I’ve seen a doe kneel down to her in the woods while she let her pet it. I know Goldeline’s every bit the witch you are, and I can prove it.”

“What are you saying, Cyrus?”

“I’m saying folks will be mighty interested to know what kind of daughter you’re raising. What kind of danger you’re putting their kids in, letting her hang around them. I’ll tell them everything. Unless you marry me. Unless you come and live with me in town, be my wife.”

Momma’s mad now. I can see a fire start in her, right down at her toes, and rise slowly up. She balls her fists, all her power and pride and anger sliding up into her face, sparking her eyes.

“No, Cyrus,” she says. “My answer is no. Get out of my house, and don’t you dare ever come back.”

The Preacher screams something awful. He pounds his fists on our floor, the veins bright purple on his face, bulging. He screams again. Momma puts her hand to her cheek, like she’s scared, like she knows maybe she went too far this time.

“Cyrus?” she says.

She reaches out and lightly touches his head.

The Preacher slaps her hand away. He crawls toward her and grabs her dress. Momma tries to run but he yanks her down. She claws at Mr. Cyrus’s eye, her fingernails ripping a gash down his cheek.

It’s like something breaks inside of me, like whatever ghost had clapped its hand over my mouth is gone.

I scream, loud and hard as I can. I scream with every bit of strength I got.

The Preacher turns to the window, eyes red-lined, face fierce and ugly as a demon.

When he sees me his scowl softens, his eyes go blue again, they stare straight into me, a look of awful sadness I’ll never forget, the very same look that brought these memories back to me again. Great big tears stream down his cheeks. He looks down at his hands and moans, a horrible leg-broke-dog howl.

“Goldeline?” says Momma, her voice gone ragged.

I’m scared the Preacher’s coming for me, but he doesn’t. He runs to his horse and he climbs onto it and he rides away from us, away from Templeton, into the woods.