a green cover with a drawing of a man in a tall hat, wearing a suit with the longest coattails he'd ever seen. Thinking it looked interesting, Derek brought it home and tucked it away in the secret box he'd made in the wall. He'd taken several books from the rubble of the Village, but that was the only one without any pictures for him to look at. All it had were words.
Someday, he'd promised himself as he flipped through the pages, I'll read this. He just knew it had to say something wonderful and important for a man who looked and dressed like that to be on the cover.
After stomping through the underbrush for nearly an hour, Derek finally came to a stop at the well. Sitting on the stone edge, he took a deep breath and looked around.
In his Village, he felt a little better about the past few days. It had been a while since he was there and the soothing chortling of a catbird in the trees put his raw nerves at ease. It was a break he'd needed for weeks.
When he calmed down and caught his breath, he stood up and started strolling down the street. He glanced at the buildings, noticing a few more branches had fallen in the last storm.
The front window of the corner store was broken out now and one of the remaining posts that held up the porch roof on the meeting house was leaning dangerously. It looked like one good gust of wind could knock it down completely.
Sitting on the step by what Derek named The Courthouse, he plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. Everything was so simple in his Village. Why couldn't he just live here forever? All by himself? There would be no one to yell at him, or tell him he was doing it wrong. He'd never be wrong because everything in the Village ran on his time, in his way.
He sat there for an hour. And then another hour. And another. Finally, the cries of the osprey floated down through the woods from the marshes, reminding him what time it was.
Sighing, Derek stood back up and started towards home as the sun began to set.
The walk back was slower and a little cooler. When he got to the swimming hole, he stopped for a few minutes before wading up the river and to the sandy ground beyond the blackberry bushes. By the time he got back to the stables it was completely dark. Dinner had long-since passed and Devon's heavy snores could be heard from his bed in the small apartment at the end of the building.
Climbing up into his loft, Derek got ready for bed. He set the broken lamp on the floor by his chest and took out his night shirt.
He was asleep almost as soon as he laid his head on the hay.
In the morning Derek was woken up not by Devon's raspy voice inquiring to the horses' night, but by heavy steps thumping their way up his ladder. Opening his eyes, he saw light streaming in through the cracks around the little door at the far end of the loft.
What time is it? he wondered, sitting up.
Just then, Jonathan's head appeared where the ladder leaned on the loft. "You are awake," he said indifferently, climbing the rest of the way up.
Feeling oddly self-conscious in his tattered night shirt next to Jonathan in his tailored vest and trousers, Derek sat up and asked, "What do you want?" He also became suddenly aware of the fact that the sheet he'd stolen for his bed was from one of Mrs. Worthington's best sets.
The man looked down at him with a closed expression on his face. After glancing around the loft with its piles of burlap sacks and twine, and at the little chest with its broken lamp, he looked back at Derek. "I'm supposed to whip you."
A mixture of humiliation and anger swelled in Derek's gut.
"I'm not going to," Jonathan continued in the same cool voice.
"Well, just as long as Mother thinks you did," Derek sneered.
He would almost have preferred a beating to any amount of pity from the man. Did he look like that much of a wreck that Jonathan couldn't bring himself to hit him? Remembering all the times Jonathan the Deacon had hit him with the wooden rod
Someday, he'd promised himself as he flipped through the pages, I'll read this. He just knew it had to say something wonderful and important for a man who looked and dressed like that to be on the cover.
After stomping through the underbrush for nearly an hour, Derek finally came to a stop at the well. Sitting on the stone edge, he took a deep breath and looked around.
In his Village, he felt a little better about the past few days. It had been a while since he was there and the soothing chortling of a catbird in the trees put his raw nerves at ease. It was a break he'd needed for weeks.
When he calmed down and caught his breath, he stood up and started strolling down the street. He glanced at the buildings, noticing a few more branches had fallen in the last storm.
The front window of the corner store was broken out now and one of the remaining posts that held up the porch roof on the meeting house was leaning dangerously. It looked like one good gust of wind could knock it down completely.
Sitting on the step by what Derek named The Courthouse, he plucked a blade of grass and twirled it between his fingers. Everything was so simple in his Village. Why couldn't he just live here forever? All by himself? There would be no one to yell at him, or tell him he was doing it wrong. He'd never be wrong because everything in the Village ran on his time, in his way.
He sat there for an hour. And then another hour. And another. Finally, the cries of the osprey floated down through the woods from the marshes, reminding him what time it was.
Sighing, Derek stood back up and started towards home as the sun began to set.
The walk back was slower and a little cooler. When he got to the swimming hole, he stopped for a few minutes before wading up the river and to the sandy ground beyond the blackberry bushes. By the time he got back to the stables it was completely dark. Dinner had long-since passed and Devon's heavy snores could be heard from his bed in the small apartment at the end of the building.
Climbing up into his loft, Derek got ready for bed. He set the broken lamp on the floor by his chest and took out his night shirt.
He was asleep almost as soon as he laid his head on the hay.
In the morning Derek was woken up not by Devon's raspy voice inquiring to the horses' night, but by heavy steps thumping their way up his ladder. Opening his eyes, he saw light streaming in through the cracks around the little door at the far end of the loft.
What time is it? he wondered, sitting up.
Just then, Jonathan's head appeared where the ladder leaned on the loft. "You are awake," he said indifferently, climbing the rest of the way up.
Feeling oddly self-conscious in his tattered night shirt next to Jonathan in his tailored vest and trousers, Derek sat up and asked, "What do you want?" He also became suddenly aware of the fact that the sheet he'd stolen for his bed was from one of Mrs. Worthington's best sets.
The man looked down at him with a closed expression on his face. After glancing around the loft with its piles of burlap sacks and twine, and at the little chest with its broken lamp, he looked back at Derek. "I'm supposed to whip you."
A mixture of humiliation and anger swelled in Derek's gut.
"I'm not going to," Jonathan continued in the same cool voice.
"Well, just as long as Mother thinks you did," Derek sneered.
He would almost have preferred a beating to any amount of pity from the man. Did he look like that much of a wreck that Jonathan couldn't bring himself to hit him? Remembering all the times Jonathan the Deacon had hit him with the wooden rod
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