Read Online Centuries of June by Keith Donohue - Free Book Online
Authors: Keith Donohue
Tags: United States, Literary, Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, Literary Fiction, Metaphysical
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agitated her head till her dreadlocks clumped and swayed like a custodian’s mop. The bottled anger had nowhere to go, so out it fizzed in tears and spittle. Blood rushed to her face, darkening her complexion against the orange chiffon nightgown that twisted round her lanky frame, and when she stomped, her long legs looked like fence posts being driven into a peaty meadow. Though her frenzy obscured her features, her tantrum reminded me of such a display witnessed long ago. However, I could not place the exact location, time, or person. I turned back to confab with my associates, only to find them inspecting the spear attached to the wall. Dolly thwacked the shaft with her hand, and the vibrations caused a droning bass hum, which confirmed that it was indeed stuck.
“Hither, child,” the old man said. “Come dislodge your harpoon and apologize.”
“A pox o’ your throat,” she hissed. In three long strides, she marched into the full light of the bathroom, and beneath the tempest of her light brown hair, her green eyes darted upon the current occupants. As she walked past me, her upper lip curled into a sneer, and then she braced her foot against the tub, took hold of the weapon, and pulled. Small hills of muscle rose on her biceps, and with a great grunt, she extracted thedouble-flued point from the ceramic. The old man reached for the harping iron, and she handed it over without further complaint.
He touched his finger to the prick of the point and pretended it was razor sharp. Although the mere handling of the tip would not draw blood, the weapon looked fearsome in his mitts, and my eyes darted back and forth between the barbs and the barbarous woman who had tossed it headward in my direction. Hiding behind that matted hairdo, she resisted close scrutiny. Another tile, loosened by the impact, fell and shattered on the bottom of the tub.
“You could have hurt someone with this,” he said. “Not a child’s toy to be flinging about willy-nilly. What do you have to say for yourself, maid of the sea? Who or what are you, and why have you attempted to pin my man to the wall with your javelin?”
“Some call me by my Christian name of Jane,” she said. “But I am known by many names, all of which result from my most common surname.”
“Shall we guess?” the old man asked.
“Somers,” Dolly said. “Gates. Newport.”
“Go on, then. None of them fellas. Just take a look, and you’ll guess.”
The old man scratched his chin as he looked her over head to toe. “Tanglehair? Beanpole? Skinbone?”
“Long,” she said. “I am often called Long Jane Long on account of my height.” Raising her heels from the floor and straightening her back. “Though he may know me as Long John Long.”
I confess I had no idea what she meant. I knew no Longs, John or Jane, nor could I determine why a girl would have both male and female names. There was something unforgettable, however, about the way she talked, or should I say the quality of her vernacular, an accent faintly British as if she was trying to hide or reveal her origins. The oldman held on to the harpoon like a bishop’s staff by the cathedral of the tub. Dolly settled in by his side, and I attended next to the toilet.
The tall woman opened the spigot on the sink, closed the stopper, and filled it with a rush of clear water. Dipping a long finger through the surface, she changed the colorless liquid to a briny blue-green and, stirring with a single digit, she created a miniature sea of sorts, waves and whitecaps, spindrift gathering like soapscum at the porcelain edges. We three witnesses peered into this ocean and beheld a miniature vessel, like a ship escaped from a bottle, beating against the swale and foundering in a storm. The old man brimmed with glee and beseeched her to begin the tale. “Go to, go to.”
E ight weeks out of Woolwich and seven since they left Plymouth Harbor in the glories of an English June, in the year of our Lord 1609,
“Hither, child,” the old man said. “Come dislodge your harpoon and apologize.”
“A pox o’ your throat,” she hissed. In three long strides, she marched into the full light of the bathroom, and beneath the tempest of her light brown hair, her green eyes darted upon the current occupants. As she walked past me, her upper lip curled into a sneer, and then she braced her foot against the tub, took hold of the weapon, and pulled. Small hills of muscle rose on her biceps, and with a great grunt, she extracted thedouble-flued point from the ceramic. The old man reached for the harping iron, and she handed it over without further complaint.
He touched his finger to the prick of the point and pretended it was razor sharp. Although the mere handling of the tip would not draw blood, the weapon looked fearsome in his mitts, and my eyes darted back and forth between the barbs and the barbarous woman who had tossed it headward in my direction. Hiding behind that matted hairdo, she resisted close scrutiny. Another tile, loosened by the impact, fell and shattered on the bottom of the tub.
“You could have hurt someone with this,” he said. “Not a child’s toy to be flinging about willy-nilly. What do you have to say for yourself, maid of the sea? Who or what are you, and why have you attempted to pin my man to the wall with your javelin?”
“Some call me by my Christian name of Jane,” she said. “But I am known by many names, all of which result from my most common surname.”
“Shall we guess?” the old man asked.
“Somers,” Dolly said. “Gates. Newport.”
“Go on, then. None of them fellas. Just take a look, and you’ll guess.”
The old man scratched his chin as he looked her over head to toe. “Tanglehair? Beanpole? Skinbone?”
“Long,” she said. “I am often called Long Jane Long on account of my height.” Raising her heels from the floor and straightening her back. “Though he may know me as Long John Long.”
I confess I had no idea what she meant. I knew no Longs, John or Jane, nor could I determine why a girl would have both male and female names. There was something unforgettable, however, about the way she talked, or should I say the quality of her vernacular, an accent faintly British as if she was trying to hide or reveal her origins. The oldman held on to the harpoon like a bishop’s staff by the cathedral of the tub. Dolly settled in by his side, and I attended next to the toilet.
The tall woman opened the spigot on the sink, closed the stopper, and filled it with a rush of clear water. Dipping a long finger through the surface, she changed the colorless liquid to a briny blue-green and, stirring with a single digit, she created a miniature sea of sorts, waves and whitecaps, spindrift gathering like soapscum at the porcelain edges. We three witnesses peered into this ocean and beheld a miniature vessel, like a ship escaped from a bottle, beating against the swale and foundering in a storm. The old man brimmed with glee and beseeched her to begin the tale. “Go to, go to.”
E ight weeks out of Woolwich and seven since they left Plymouth Harbor in the glories of an English June, in the year of our Lord 1609,
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