Read Online Bohemians of Sesqua Valley by W. H. Pugmire - Free Book Online

assistance.”
    The lantern was on a small cedar table next to the intriguing black statue, and it was before that statue that Akiva made a very bizarre motion. I have said that one of the statue’s hands was held away from its body, palm outward. As I watched him, Akiva stood before the statue and began to mutter strange words in a language I did not recognize, although portions of the words seemed Semitic. I was astonished, because I knew that he had forsaken completely his racial and religious heritage. He then touched his fingers to the upraised palm of the black statue, as a Hebrew might touch the casing that holds a mezuzah parchment, and brought those fingers to his lips. Apparently my astonishment was evident, for he turned to gaze at me with playful wickedness shining in his eyes, and then he brought his fingers to my mouth. My kiss was a tender thing.
    “Let’s go,” he told me, grabbing a jacket and leading me outdoors.
    We walked beneath the moon and stars, which seemed intimately near in the sky above Sesqua Valley. I noticed, as we walked, how relaxed my friend was, with such a mellow expression on his face. Whatever it was that had drawn him to that mysterious valley, his dwelling there had had an advantageous effect, of that there was no doubt. At one point he began to whistle as he guided me down the dirt road toward town. It was a lengthy walk, and I wondered why he didn’t use his car more often, as he had when he picked me up from the train depot. But I had seen very few cars on the roadways, most people preferring to walk instead. The lack of vehicles added to the quietude of the place, which was striking to a city lass.
    After a length of time I espied the large Sphinx statue in the distance, looking eerie in moonlight. I was touched, as we passed the statue, with a sense of mild foreboding, feeling as though the sculpted beast had been awaiting and was now observing us as we passed it on our way to the walled cemetery.
    What strange apprehension I suddenly feel as I prepare to record this memory. So much of my time spent in Sesqua Valley is fading away, and when I try to remember things all I see in my mind is a kind of haze, a mauve mist. But this one midnight stroll is keen and clear, to the point where I can almost taste the fear it arouses. I remember thinking that the moon had never seemed so near to our planet and that I saw that sphere of dust as never before. The cosmos seemed but a little skip away, as if I could jump upward and follow a trail of twinkling stars into the depths of night. Akiva’s mellow mood struck me oddly: it should have helped to relax me, but instead it was a source of anxiety, as if he knew secret things that were not to be shared. He led me to an opening in the low stone wall and we entered the graveyard, which he called the Hungry Place. Very few of the stones seemed old, and on many of them there was but a name and date of death. I noticed a change in the air as we stepped onto the cemetery sod, a chilliness that I had not previously noticed. Akiva led me past tombs until he reached a statue that stood upon a colume of marble.
    “This is the man who brought me to Sesqua Town,” he whispered to me. “The poet, William Davis Manly. I had found a rare edition of his verse in an antique shop in Boston, and I bought it on a whim—or so I thought. Now I feel that I was destined to own it, and to bring it home. The verse affected me deeply, especially the sequence of seventeen sonnets entitled ‘The Seventh Sun.’ Tucked inside the book was a short epistle to the book’s original owner, which mentioned this hidden valley. The more I delved into that book, the stronger was my ache to find this town.”
    “And this is where the poet is buried?”
    “No. I—I don’t quite understand what happened to him, people don’t care to discuss it with me. I’ll find out, in time. I need to become more rooted to this soil. Come on, the place I want to show you is up a