All True Not a Lie in It by Alix Hawley

Author:Alix Hawley [Hawley, Alix]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-345-80857-8
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Published: 2015-02-10T05:00:00+00:00

Well. There are better.

I get restless all through again, my brains itch as though stitched up too tight in their casing. It is now a Sunday, and we all put on good clothes and sit about silent to take our ordained rest after my sister Hannah gives us a good talking- to about God and prays for her husband’s return. I listen, for Stewart’s sake, but I cannot keep my mind from wandering. As we sit outside the house, I remove one of my good black shoes, which is creased over the top and loose about the heel. My bared toes look white and sorry and blind. I am at once ashamed of my shallow roots here. So much for Rebecca’s happiness. I am sorry, Rebecca, but there is no help for it. We keep scratching at the ground and trying to dig ourselves in, but nothing is holding us here but stubbornness. And so there is no reason not to go on a space. I know of a space that I cannot forget in spite of what the Cherokee said.

I find myself wishing that the Cherokee would come back, and they do.

Rebecca huffs about my Indian tea parties and sends Susannah and Jemima out with seed cakes and rude stares. These occasions do feel thin, but we go along with them. We are attempting good will, as the Indians are. They always offer candy to the children and a smoke to the boys. Jamesie gets better acquainted with the pipe. Jim pulls the girls’ plaits lightly every time he visits, and after Susy cajoles him, he once lets his hair down out of his headscarf. He has only a scalplock, which falls down over the back of his skull and down his shoulders. Susy grabs it and laughs. Jemima will not touch it but she stares a good long time.

We talk of all manner of subjects. But I cannot think of anything but walking through Kentucky. All winter I think of it.

Again Fate reads my thoughts. Two broad shapes poke up out of the earth next spring as if from bulbs, all confidence. They are on horseback, and two slaves ride with supplies some distance behind. They are not Indians. One is William Hill.

—Here you are, Dan, we have heard much of your travels! And your woodsman’s prowess, your nobility of character. The first white man in Kentucky. I have spread the word, my old friend, are you glad to know it? The newspapers probably never reach you here. And I am still writing my book.

Dismounting, Hill bows low so that his forehead almost touches the ground. He has grown a small stiff beard and has the look of a broom when he springs up again.

I say:

—Hill, you are not telling the truth. I was not the first there, you know that.

—What does that matter? It is my book.

He snatches up my hand and pumps away, asking how I have been keeping, happy to see the family and all the dear Boone children.

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