Read Online M.C. Higgins, the Great by Virginia Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Virginia Hamilton
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the night before. They had warmed all of it in the oven of the wood-burning cook stove. M.C. found that the food in the oven was hot and ready to eat. He dished it out onto plates Macie handed him. Then he poured milk into brown cups for Macie and Lennie Pool. Lennie got just half a cup even though he was bigger because he tended to spill a full cup. It was Macie Pearl who could have most of the milk. If she left it over, Lennie could have it. And if he didn’t want it, the next in line to get it could have it.
The children stared at M.C. in his soaking wet clothes. He went by them, passing through his father and mother’s bedroom into the place given to him for himself.
Jones had cut through the wall and clapboard of the house right on into Sarah’s Mountain. M.C.’s room was a cave dug out of Sarah’s side for him. The cave was always cool, no matter how the weather was outside. M.C. liked the space of it, with his bed made of oak jutting from the middle of a cave wall. He liked the way the walls were plastered and whitewashed, forever giving off a scent of lime.
Jones had braced the ceiling with oak beams so that the mountain would not come falling down on M.C. in the dark of dreams. There was one light bulb hanging down from a beam. There was a straw rug. There were objects M.C. had collected and arranged on a block of wood, and his few clothes on hooks by the bed. That was all. It would take him no more than ten minutes to pack his belongings.
There were no windows.
M.C. put on dry clothes. From the block of wood, he took up the kitchen paring knife he kept clean and sharpened in case he felt like hunting. He tested the blade and then wrapped it in a piece of rabbit fur. Carefully he pocketed the knife with the handle down.
All three rooms, the cave, his parents’ bedroom and the kitchen, were in a straight line. Jones had come into his own bedroom to put on dry, fresh work clothes and had gone back out to eat. M.C. stood in the cave buttoning his shirt. He could see all the children and Jones seated at the kitchen table, quietly eating. He didn’t feel hungry. He felt worn out.
As he watched the shadowy figures in the kitchen, his thoughts seemed to float away from him. He fell into a kind of reverie as he heard, deep in his mind, a wild creature’s roar. He thought he must be out somewhere hunting in the hills when he was not quite old enough for the silence and the darkness. He must be tracking when he was not yet brave enough for the feel of tall, black trees behind his back. He saw something, a silhouette there in the forest waiting for him. Or was he the image, waiting for another part of himself to reach it? He tried to move toward it when a numbing cold rose around his ankles. It climbed to his knees and then his neck. His leg muscles jumped, but he could not run. He was rooted to the mountainside as the sour and bitter mud of the spoil oozed into his mouth and nostrils. At the last moment before he suffered and died, he knew he was not outside. He was still in his cave, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt.
Jones was turned around from the table. “M.C.?”
M.C. shook himself seemingly awake.
“What you standing there like that for?” Jones said. “Come on out here and get you something to eat.”
In a moment M.C. had seated himself on the crate next to his father’s chair. Jones looked at him narrowly and passed food to him, but said nothing. M.C. took a little to eat as Macie Pearl reached over and pressed her hand on his cheek. Her fingers came away wet with the sweat from his skin.
“You all were fighting outside the house,” she said simply.
“Macie, you worry so much,” Jones told her.
“She’s not worrying,” Harper said. “She has to nose.”
“Stop it,” Jones told him. “We weren’t fighting,” he said. “We were just playing.” He glanced at M.C.
M.C. was silent, thinking about what he had seen in his mind just now in the cave.
Abruptly, he said, “The
The children stared at M.C. in his soaking wet clothes. He went by them, passing through his father and mother’s bedroom into the place given to him for himself.
Jones had cut through the wall and clapboard of the house right on into Sarah’s Mountain. M.C.’s room was a cave dug out of Sarah’s side for him. The cave was always cool, no matter how the weather was outside. M.C. liked the space of it, with his bed made of oak jutting from the middle of a cave wall. He liked the way the walls were plastered and whitewashed, forever giving off a scent of lime.
Jones had braced the ceiling with oak beams so that the mountain would not come falling down on M.C. in the dark of dreams. There was one light bulb hanging down from a beam. There was a straw rug. There were objects M.C. had collected and arranged on a block of wood, and his few clothes on hooks by the bed. That was all. It would take him no more than ten minutes to pack his belongings.
There were no windows.
M.C. put on dry clothes. From the block of wood, he took up the kitchen paring knife he kept clean and sharpened in case he felt like hunting. He tested the blade and then wrapped it in a piece of rabbit fur. Carefully he pocketed the knife with the handle down.
All three rooms, the cave, his parents’ bedroom and the kitchen, were in a straight line. Jones had come into his own bedroom to put on dry, fresh work clothes and had gone back out to eat. M.C. stood in the cave buttoning his shirt. He could see all the children and Jones seated at the kitchen table, quietly eating. He didn’t feel hungry. He felt worn out.
As he watched the shadowy figures in the kitchen, his thoughts seemed to float away from him. He fell into a kind of reverie as he heard, deep in his mind, a wild creature’s roar. He thought he must be out somewhere hunting in the hills when he was not quite old enough for the silence and the darkness. He must be tracking when he was not yet brave enough for the feel of tall, black trees behind his back. He saw something, a silhouette there in the forest waiting for him. Or was he the image, waiting for another part of himself to reach it? He tried to move toward it when a numbing cold rose around his ankles. It climbed to his knees and then his neck. His leg muscles jumped, but he could not run. He was rooted to the mountainside as the sour and bitter mud of the spoil oozed into his mouth and nostrils. At the last moment before he suffered and died, he knew he was not outside. He was still in his cave, his fingers on the buttons of his shirt.
Jones was turned around from the table. “M.C.?”
M.C. shook himself seemingly awake.
“What you standing there like that for?” Jones said. “Come on out here and get you something to eat.”
In a moment M.C. had seated himself on the crate next to his father’s chair. Jones looked at him narrowly and passed food to him, but said nothing. M.C. took a little to eat as Macie Pearl reached over and pressed her hand on his cheek. Her fingers came away wet with the sweat from his skin.
“You all were fighting outside the house,” she said simply.
“Macie, you worry so much,” Jones told her.
“She’s not worrying,” Harper said. “She has to nose.”
“Stop it,” Jones told him. “We weren’t fighting,” he said. “We were just playing.” He glanced at M.C.
M.C. was silent, thinking about what he had seen in his mind just now in the cave.
Abruptly, he said, “The
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