Read Online Kornwolf by Tristan Egolf - Free Book Online

“
Of course he is, Fannie
…”
    She shook her head. “
No, I mean now. He’s here
.”
    A thud went up from the ground floor.
    Jonathan leapt with a start.
    Fannie hushed him.
    Hinges groaned. A draft blew over the floor. Footsteps.
    Fannie called to him: “
Ephraim!
”—her voice like a trapped canary inside the barn.
    Below, a mop of tangled hair and dripping fabric stepped into view. Glancing up, he was lost in shadow.
    Fannie beckoned tenderly: “
Come
,” she said, with her arms outstretched.
    Slowly, Ephraim climbed the ladder. Into the light he rose, his countenance gradually brought into stark relief.
    Jonathan took a step back at the sight of him. Fannie choked in a horrified gasp.
    Ephraim stood in the half-light. His right eye was blackened and swollen. The bridge of his nose had been cut. His garments were badly ripped. A pool of water was spreading around him …
    He squinted toward them.
    Fannie broke down. She seized his collar and jerked him about. She was sobbing convulsively—torn between hitting, embracing and throwing him out of the loft—until Jonathan got to and managed to steady her.
    Slowly, he led them both to the corner. Ephraim slumped in a pile of straw. Fannie remained on her feet, standing over him, tears cascading down her cheeks. Jonathan signaled her, motioning:
Keep it together
—and pointing to Ephraim.
    She sat.
    Even though Jonathan did his part by ejecting the
Weckit Shet
tape (he had characterized this music as “evil incarnate”) from out of the deck of the unit he’d brought along for precisely this occasion, and, setting it off to one side for disposal / incineration by flame later on, then inserting George Jones, track one, side one, “A Good Year for the Roses,” Ephraim’s favorite—even thoughthe opening notes thereof settled over the room as a sedative haze, lulling the almost unbearable pain to recession, if anesthetically so—there was only one thing that would ever bring Ephraim comfort, one person to quell the furnace—not Jonathan, for all of his noble intentions—not Auntie, who seldom, if ever, laid eyes on him—not the Crossbills, whatever their purposes, past and present, and not even Possum. Only Fannie, for all of their differences growing up, could bring him relief.
    That was one matter which Jonathan already understood, maybe better than they. Having grown up with them, he had been forced to accept that the bond which existed between them ran deeper than even blood being thicker than water. It transcended family, love and death. In a sense, it was larger than they, and, as such: nothing would ever come between them.
    For Jon, this kinship had to be frustrating.
    Here, indeed, was relief for Ephraim: nestled into his cousin’s embrace, with rainwater tapping the roof overhead, an oil lamp glowing softly beside them and Possum’s velvet delivery crooning of imminent safety, salvation, deliverance …
    Meanwhile, Ephraim had nearly gotten him, Jonathan, killed that afternoon—not to mention placing his wagon and pacer in danger, and his person at risk of a beating—for all of which, he didn’t even look apologetic.
    No doubt: Jonathan should have been furious.
    Instead, he looked more disturbed by something—a creeping stench that had entered the room. It seemed to be coming from Ephraim. It was … Even while soaked to the bone, he exuded it.
    Fannie had trouble accepting her senses. Ephraim had never been overly pungent. Somewhat
stale
perhaps, but in keeping with life as an only son, and not much of a wash keep, understandably so. Quite often, his clothing was mussed and bespattered with scratch, but his person was normally clean. At worst, he gave off the scent of manure.
    This was
not
the scent of manure.
    Ephraim himself seemed oblivious to it. He offered no gesture of explanation.
    But Jonathan smelled it. He blinked in poorly