Grace of a Hawk by Abbie Williams

Author:Abbie Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Central Avenue Publishing
Published: 2018-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

THE FIRE was banked for the evening hours, Cort and Nathaniel retired to their loft bed. In light of what would have been a celebratory dinner, given the arrival of the newest year, Sawyer and I lingered in the main house after dinner, joined at the hearth by Tilson and Rebecca. I sat near Rebecca in one of two rocking chairs, a length of fine, spun wool stretched across our laps; there was always work to be done, even while stationary, and Rebecca was attempting to instruct me in the art of knitting, for which I possessed a shameful lack of skill. She proved unfailingly patient, guiding my fingers over the needles when required, exclaiming over the smallest of achievements. Tilson smoked his pipe, chatting quietly with Sawyer, who’d not yet taken up a pipe of his own despite Tilson’s continual insistence that smoking was an inevitable consequence of advancing age.

“I’ve only advanced to a quarter-century,” Sawyer had joked the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, November the eighth. “Perhaps when I’ve advanced closer to the half-century mark.”

“Son, that’s a slight at my age, ain’t it?” Tilson had fired back, jabbing at Sawyer’s shoulder with the stem of his pipe. “I ain’t a day over a half of a century. Well, mayhap more’n a day.”

This cold night, snow having fallen steadily for the past twenty-four hours, we were reluctant to retire, remaining guarded, fearful to welcome 1869, or to dare to hope it might bring about any news – good or otherwise. The rocking chairs issued a creaking rhythm against the floorboards. The fire snapped, releasing a shower of crimson-hearted sparks. Tilson’s pipe tobacco smelled pleasant, combining with the scent of dinner, biscuits and smoked pork laden with gravy. Tin cups of mulled cider for Rebecca, Sawyer, and me, while Tilson contented himself with two fingers’ worth of whiskey. Despite the lull of the warm room, a restless knot near my heart worried itself ever tighter, a sensation not unfamiliar; many hours had I lay awake, stretching outward with my mind, attempting to find them.

Malcolm, I’d begged, to no avail. I could not reach him as I could Sawyer. Even still, I cried the boy’s name night after night, pleading with him to respond. Sweetheart, answer me. Where are you? What has happened? I know you are out there, this I will never cease to believe.

My gaze flickered to the candles Rebecca had placed in the windowsills this night, following a custom long ago established by her mother, a way in which to tangibly welcome the incoming year as it arrived with the midnight hour. The small bright flames appeared doubled by their reflection in the panes, swaying with the breath of the air. A wreath of pine boughs hung on a nail driven into the door, which Rebecca had helped the boys to construct, attaching the slim boughs to wire she’d curved into a circle roughly a foot in diameter. At the top, she’d affixed a length of red grosgrain, a proper Christmas wreath to spice the house with its green scent.

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