Lamb in His Bosom by Caroline Miller

Author:Caroline Miller [Miller, Caroline]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-08-26T17:22:07+00:00

Caroline Miller

her body with breath fit to burst her lights; she called for help,

turning her face yonder toward her Ma’s and Pa’s place. Her cry

went flying into the night, the weird distress call of these piny-

woods, high and clear and long-drawn, sent on two long, distinct

notes like the beginning of a terrible song going through the death-

still woods in the night-time:

She called again and again into the dark. Mayhap some soul

had seen the glare in the sky and would know that Lonzo Smith’s

place was burning down over yonder; for fear that they had not

seen it, she would try and wake them. And they would come if

they heard her; they would lash their oxen to a run, for they would

know that somebody was in dire trouble—fire, or cruel danger of

death, with no time for sending word.

The hideous, piteous distress cry of the pinywoods went

ringing out across the swamplands. And the lonesome echo of the

cry returned into Cean’s face, breaking in mocking cries softly in

her ears, “OO-OO-oo-oo!” lessening like her courage.

O-oh, Lonzo! her heart shrieked. Oh, Lonzo! Come home to

me—for yore house has burned down to the ground and yore little

younguns are here in the cold….

She hushed her calling; her hands fell away from her mouth. It

was no use to call; Pa’s place was six mile off, and that was the

nearest house. She had called with all the strength of her body, but

that was not enough.

She listened; if the night would hold very still for the space of

a clock’s tick, mayhap, oh, mayhap! she would hear a cry coming

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from Margot’s in answer to her crying, or the sound of three gun-

shots to tell her that help was on the way. The answering wind

might blow strong in her face from home, telling her to keep up

heart. Tight-lipped, she faced the dark….

An arm’s-length before her face, a night bird—an owl, or

some such thing—lumbered by with dark wings fanning the cold

air. Across Cean’s face, there passed the brief, wild scent of its flesh

garbed in unwashed feathers. The sudden bird startled her so that

all her body trembled.

And no answer came, save a lonesome echo that mocked her

cry. No sound could she hear but the soft roaring of the fire behind

her in the ruined timbers of her home that Lonzo had built for her

when she was young and pretty as a pine sapling, and merry-

mouthed as a guinea-hen.

No, there was no help. For the men were all at the Coast,

trading and tippling and kissing the mouths of strange women.

Lonzo, too! What did he care, and him merry-making yonder,

leaving her alone to fight fire or to do any other hard thing that

came along to be done? Had not she killed a painter oncet when

Lonzo was gone yonder a-traipsing to the Coast, and her with a

little youngun not yet cooled off from her body’s heat? And had

Lonzo ever parted his lips to say a word about it? No. He went on,

cold as a stone, deaf as a cypress log, blind as a bat, dumb as a bump

on a log,

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