Scribe by Alyson Hagy

Author:Alyson Hagy [Hagy, Alyson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-55597-869-3
Publisher: Graywolf Press
Published: 2018-10-21T16:00:00+00:00

She knew the way to Billy Kingery’s store as well as she knew the lines on her own face. She would go there first. She could cross the river and head west. That’s what Hendricks had recommended—and it’s what he believed she had agreed to do. But Hendricks was a habitual evader in ways she was not. It was folly, always folly, to sidestep Billy, especially if you’d torn a hole in his local spiderweb. He was the only remaining arbiter for miles and miles, the agreed-upon proprietor of peace. Even if the peace, such as it was, was quickly unraveling, it was necessary to pay tribute to Billy. After her sister’s death, Billy chose to ignore her as long as she gave beans or corn to his bargain men whenever they asked. He appeared to take no interest in her letter writing. But she knew how treacherous he could be. She needed to make a deal with him. Otherwise, she would not be allowed to proceed.

The moon cast a weary watchman’s light across the slanted roof of her house. A faltering wind nagged the grasses at her feet. She imagined Hendricks whispering to her, telling her to stay alert. She imagined his moist lips moving close to her waiting ear, nearly touching her. He had asked her to take care of herself. He wanted her to be safe. She could hear his rusty, unlatched voice waylaying her with his hopes. He had expressed them more than once.

Why couldn’t she believe him? Why did his caring words rinse her in distrust even as they made her heart twist?

She shook her head to clear it, to gain some distance from the seductions of Mr. Hendricks, then eased her way toward a familiar tree line. She knew the terrain so well she needed only the soles of her feet to lead her across the tapestries of fallen leaves that lay upon the floor of the forest, yard upon yard of them washed silver by the parsimonious stars. From salty white oak to sweet mountain laurel to stinking stands of sumac, she worked herself toward the ragged border of what had once been her father’s uppermost field. There were deer bedded in the shelter of the hickories. She sipped their ruffled scent. And wary hares, she felt them halt and quiver as she passed.

The surveyor’s line at Mr. Poindexter’s was still visible to someone who knew where to look for it. And a few apple trees remained in the Poindexters’ orchard, although they had been thoroughly stripped by Altices and Billy Kingery’s enterprising bargain men. The shapes of those trees were a welcome sight to her, nonetheless, open-armed as they were, as white-hemmed as acolytes. Mrs. Poindexter had died long ago. Mr. Poindexter, who had been a staunch widower, was highly valued for his ability to graft the branches of fruit trees one to another and to understand the trees’ sulky moods. He had been among the last of the old farmers to

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