Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

it’s because you’re more beautiful than they ever dreamed of being. If they whisper it’s because we’re the only ones who can heal their sick, who can magic all their dirt into flowers. Magic makes folks nervous, always has. People get scared of whatever they don’t understand. Momma said it was a risk doing what she did, healing folks like that out in the open.

“Others wouldn’t dare,” said Momma.

“There are others?” I said.

Momma only smiled. She was always saying that kind of stuff, and I never hardly knew what she was talking about. But I walked proud, with my chin up, my eyes fixed at the clouds up above everybody’s heads. Momma said the clouds were God’s own handwriting, all the sky was, and the moon was what whispered the future to you. She said she could read mysteries in the way leaves fluttered and trees groaned in the wind, that all birds had their own song you could listen to like a ghost story. That they all had a point, that you could read them. She said she’d teach me one day, when I was good and ready.

I guess I didn’t ever get good and ready enough. The only magic I know is the forgetting herbs. Well, that and the nothingsong. I always have the nothingsong.

But if I knew more magic like Momma did, I could show the woods to Tommy so that he would see them like I do. I could teach the woods to him, the wildness and birdsong, the way the trees hold the sunlight in them, all the way down to their roots. Then he wouldn’t feel trapped anymore. He’d feel freer than he ever did in any grubby old town anyway.

In the corner of my mind I see the Preacher lurking. His shadow, the hat and hair wild as fire sparking out from under it, the long tear-trail of a scar down his cheek. His hands reach out at me, fingers grasping.

“Whatcha thinking about?” says Tommy. “You got that look like a wiped-off dish. You look like an empty plate.”

“Finish your beans,” I say.

I snap a twig with my fingers just to hear it break.

The night passes about the same, Tommy and I huddled close in the dark under the tree. We don’t start that way, we start ten feet apart and slowly he scoots toward me till we both wake up tangled together and sweating in the morning sunlight. After that I sneak off and go wander around camp, chirping at everybody till they tell me to go away again. I even poke my head in the war tent, just to be a nuisance. Gruff and awful old Pugh are huddled over a map, talking something serious. I better bug them.

“Whatcha talking about, Gruff?”

Gruff shakes his head at me and says, “Goldeline, love of my heart, can’t you go and bother Leebo or somebody? Help Dunce with the dishes. I don’t care. Just get useful, and get out of my hair.”

Normally that would hurt my feelings a little for Gruff to talk to me like that, but this time I planned it so it’s okay. He’s been awful grumpy lately though.

“Anything I can help you with, Gruff?” I say.

“Not unless you can kill the Preacher for us,” snaps Pugh.

I stop cold. “The Preacher?”

“Yes, the Preacher,” says Pugh. “That crazy-haired tyrant running town to town, warning everybody about us, making everyone follow him or die.”

“Cool it, Pugh,” says Gruff.

“The Preacher can’t get us here,” I say. “We’re safe in the woods.”

“Not yet he can’t,” says Pugh. “But he’ll come for us, just you wait. One of those Townie cowards will tip him off about us and he’ll come and snap our necks and set us on fire, cook us up real good, same as he did to your momma.”

Gruff slaps Pugh so hard it knocks him into the dirt.

“I said to cool it, Pugh,” says Gruff. “You gonna shut up now?”

“The Preacher won’t get me, will he?” I say.

“No, darlin’,” says Gruff.

“You promise?” I say.

“I promise,” he says. “Now get out of the war tent. You know better than to come in here.”

“Sorry, Gruff,” I say.

As I’m leaving I hear him tell Pugh to get on up, what was he thinking, if Gruff ever catches him talking about my momma that way again he’ll fix him good. I hate Pugh. I hope he trips and busts his head somewhere.

But the Preacher I’m scared of. I have dreams sometimes, his wild white hair, the scar under his eye, his fingers spread wide and twitching the air like a spell caster, like an evil magician. All the Townies with their dumb faces looking up at the Preacher, believing every evil word he spits. He scares me in my dreams.

I head out to the woods, and soon I’m back with Tommy. His face is dirty and his clothes have blood on them from tramping around through briars. He’s starting to stink too. I figure if I’m pretending to be his guardian angel I might as well go all out and take care of him.

“Shoot, Tommy,” I say. “Smells like someone needs a bath.”

“Aw, come on. I hate baths.”

“You ever had a creek bath before?” I say.

“You mean with fish and frogs and worms? Heck no. Momma always bathed me in a tub, like you’re supposed to.”

“Not anymore,” I say. “The creek is your bathtub. This whole forest is full of stuff you can bathe in.”

“Savages and poor folks are the only people who go muck around in creeks and rivers and all that.”

“Guess what? You’re both of those things now. Savage and poor. Come on, we ain’t got all day.”

I lead him through the thicket, down a little deer path I found one day out wandering. It goes to this tiny creek I don’t think anybody knows about, except maybe some ghosts. It’s hard to see ghosts in a town, where most folks either don’t believe in them or just would rather not think about it one