Goldeline by Jimmy Cajoleas (i read books txt) 📕

Said, ‘Every life is sacred.’ Wouldn’t hardly let us kill a cockroach. My dear old momma.”

Zeb takes another glug from the bottle.

“And I take it you have not seen the fugitive girl and her captive little boy?”

“Ain’t seen ’em. Night like this, probably fell in a gully.”

Zeb lifts the jug up for another sip.

“Then why, sir, are there three bowls filled with that disgusting swill on your table?”

Zeb stops cold.

I should hide, but I have to watch. It’s so hard to take my eye off the Preacher, like he commands it, like there’s nowhere else in the world to look. I realize that’s his magic. That’s how he gets folks to do what he wants. It starts with his voice, the rhythm and rise of his speech, like a melody that gets stuck in your brain, and before you know it you’re singing along, believing every word. But it’s more than just his voice. It’s the whole way he is, his whole being. He’s like a star falling. When the whole sky is full of burning things, the one falling is the only thing you see.

The Preacher lurches toward Zeb and grabs him by his collar. The jug goes clattering to the floor. He lifts Zeb high off his cart, until they are eye to eye.

“Have you seen the children?” he says.

“Yes,” says Zeb.

“Are they here now?”

A silence. Just the rain, the thunder, the wind howling through the chimney. I pray to Momma to save me, I sing the nothingsong in my heart, I call down every ounce of spell or favor Momma ever might have had.

“Nope,” says Zeb. “They long gone.”

“Are you telling me they left without their supper? Back into the storm?”

“Didn’t much care for beets,” says Zeb. “Like you.”

“If I pulled back that curtain, they wouldn’t be there?”

“Nothing but my old wheelbarrow.”

“Do you know that lying to me makes you an accomplice to murder? Do you know what accomplice means?”

“Means it’s the same as I did it,” says Zeb. “And ain’t nothing I’ve done you can pin on me, you preaching sack of dung.”

“Are you certain these children are not here, sir?” roars the Preacher.

“Ain’t no children here. I told you already, they left. Now leave me be and get your search on, lest they get farther away.”

The Preacher drops Zeb on the ground, where he lies and moans. Then he turns and faces the curtain. The Preacher smiles.

He knows. I know he knows I’m here. I have to hide, but I can’t move, it’s like I’m transfixed, like the Preacher casts his own spell over me when he speaks.

“Awful lot of trouble for one little girl,” says Zeb. “Don’t you think?”

The Preacher fixes his hood back in place, like maybe he hadn’t thought of that, like what Zeb said maybe bothered him a little. It’s just a bit of a frown, like a dark bird that swooped across his face in a blink. It’s enough for me to come back to my senses. I creep quiet and quick as I can to the hatch. Tommy’s motioning me to hurry and I slide the sack over the opening just in time for the Preacher to rip back the curtain.

The silence is awful, just the rain and the Preacher’s heaving breath.

After a few seconds Zeb speaks up from the floor.

“Told you there weren’t nothing in there,” he says.

“So you did,” the Preacher says. “Good evening to you, sir.” The door shuts and he’s gone.

Zeb yanks away the sack and glares meanly at us.

“Bandits, eh? My, my, girlie, you are a right piece of bad, aren’t you?”

“Thanks for saving us from the Preacher,” I say.

“Shut up. I hate the law. Hate preachers too. Went to jail before. Me, in my condition. Doesn’t matter to the law, doesn’t matter to the preachers. The law’s the law. And when the preachers are the law, well, it don’t mean nothing good for folks like ol’ Zeb.” He spits a glob that hits Tommy’s shoes. “Y’all just lay back here for the night. This ain’t no inn. Earn your keep. Could always use some help around here. I’ll put you to work in the morning.”

He shuts the curtain and scoots off. I hear him bolt and chain the door at the mouth of the house. He’s locked us in. There’s no windows in here, no way out except the front door. We’re trapped, at least until Zeb falls asleep. Maybe I can sneak the key from him then. I hear him talking to himself in the main room, clanking the jug down on his table. Me and Tommy crawl out of the hatch. The fire-glow under the curtain lights up our place: a pile of dirt, a wheelbarrow, a hoe. A pile of dead beets getting deader in the corner.

“Is the Preacher evil?” whispers Tommy.

“He’s worse than you know.”

“It’s like when he’s preaching he’s saying words from the Book but they come out all wrong, like they’ve gone bad somehow. Spoiled. But I can’t help but listen. I can’t help but hear every word he says.”

“That’s about right, Tommy.”

“I don’t think Zeb is very nice either. I think we’re in a bad spot.”

“You think?”

His eyes well up again. I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. The second he opens that door in the morning we got to run for it.”

“You think that’ll work?”

“I hope so.”

“Shut up back there,” hollers Zeb. “Can’t a grown man talk to his momma in peace?”

“Look,” I whisper, “let’s just get some sleep.”

It’s dark even with the firelight. Dark like everything else, the whole world full of mean and wicked, even me, for letting all Gruff’s men get caught. If it’s true about me, that I’m wicked, is any of what the Preacher said about Momma true too? The thought latches on to my heart like a bat on a blossom.

“Thanks for not turning me in, Tommy.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just lies down next to me, and I put my arm around him, both of us