Read Online Over the Misty Mountains by Gilbert Morris - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gilbert Morris
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Stag and looked up and down the street. It had begun to snow again, and she shivered. She thought of Josh, and for one moment her heart seemed to lose some of its hardness. “I wish I could’ve gone with him,” she whispered—then she thought of what she was, and she shook her head, bitterness tingeing the sheen of her eyes and twisting her lips into a sarcastic line. “But he wouldn’t want the likes of me.”
Chapter Four
Cry of a Hawk
The face of Faith Spencer appeared as sharply and clearly in Jehoshaphat Spencer’s dream as if it were a painting set before his eyes. Unlike most dreams, in which scenes and faces floated through his mind in a ghostly fashion, the features, so long beloved, were suddenly just there . In one of those inexplicable moments of the dream experience, Josh simultaneously knew he was dreaming, but the face that he saw was conjured up of memories drawn from the past and had the reality of a canvas painted by a master.
He lay quietly, aware of the bitter cold that encased his body, which was no less real than the warmth that came from the image of Faith. He studied the dark brown hair that fell to her waist and was conscious of the fine lace of the light pink party gown that he had seen her wear on several occasions. Her eyes, brown and warm, and flecked with tiny touches of gold, studied him provocatively, and the lips that he had kissed a thousand times softened with compassion and then opened to speak. He was conscious also of the frailty that had drawn him to her as a young woman—yet at the same time of the spiritual strength that had been an element of her makeup as much as the color of her eyes, or the straightness of her nose, or her delicate cheekbones.
From somewhere far away, he heard sounds, high and keening, and even as the sounds brushed against the levels of his consciousness, he tried to hang on to the sensation as though it were reality. She seemed to smile at him, and then her features began to fade, and a pale iridescence gathered around her in a halolike fashion. Then slowly, but with a tragic finality, the face began to break apart. It was like an image in water that had been suddenly stirred. As the sound became louder, and the face and the image of his wife withdrew and dissolved, Josh cried out, “Faith—!”
The sound of his own voice was hoarse and desperate. Vaguely hopeless, and coming out of sleep with a rush, he was suddenly frightened—for nothing was familiar. He had gone to sleep next to the fire that he had built under a towering hemlock tree beside a frozen stream. For a long time he had lain awake watching the stars as they did their great dance across the velvety blackness of the sky. He remembered seeing the snowflakes joining the stars, different only in that their movements were faster and more active than those distant orbs of frozen fire that dotted the heavens.
Now as he came out of sleep, bitterly disappointed by the loss of the vision of Faith’s features, he was aware of a weight pressing down on him. He panicked as the thought brushed across the edge of his conscious mind, I’ve been buried alive! Frantically he lunged, and with a sob of relief, his arms broke through the blanket of snow that had fallen upon him. The snow was no more than six or seven inches deep, and was so light that he sat upright with a gasp and a shudder. As he brushed the snow away from his face with his forearm, he stared around in a confused fashion.
Everything was changed. It had been snowing, it seemed, all night, and now the hemlock tree overhead was laden with a shimmering mantle of white velvet. Throwing his blankets aside, he saw that at some point the branches overhead had dislodged a load of snow on the fire so that everywhere he looked a plush carpet of glistening snow met his eyes. He squinted against the brilliance of the scene and stood to his feet as the morning sun touched the tiny grains, reflecting them like jewels. He had slept in his clothes,
Chapter Four
Cry of a Hawk
The face of Faith Spencer appeared as sharply and clearly in Jehoshaphat Spencer’s dream as if it were a painting set before his eyes. Unlike most dreams, in which scenes and faces floated through his mind in a ghostly fashion, the features, so long beloved, were suddenly just there . In one of those inexplicable moments of the dream experience, Josh simultaneously knew he was dreaming, but the face that he saw was conjured up of memories drawn from the past and had the reality of a canvas painted by a master.
He lay quietly, aware of the bitter cold that encased his body, which was no less real than the warmth that came from the image of Faith. He studied the dark brown hair that fell to her waist and was conscious of the fine lace of the light pink party gown that he had seen her wear on several occasions. Her eyes, brown and warm, and flecked with tiny touches of gold, studied him provocatively, and the lips that he had kissed a thousand times softened with compassion and then opened to speak. He was conscious also of the frailty that had drawn him to her as a young woman—yet at the same time of the spiritual strength that had been an element of her makeup as much as the color of her eyes, or the straightness of her nose, or her delicate cheekbones.
From somewhere far away, he heard sounds, high and keening, and even as the sounds brushed against the levels of his consciousness, he tried to hang on to the sensation as though it were reality. She seemed to smile at him, and then her features began to fade, and a pale iridescence gathered around her in a halolike fashion. Then slowly, but with a tragic finality, the face began to break apart. It was like an image in water that had been suddenly stirred. As the sound became louder, and the face and the image of his wife withdrew and dissolved, Josh cried out, “Faith—!”
The sound of his own voice was hoarse and desperate. Vaguely hopeless, and coming out of sleep with a rush, he was suddenly frightened—for nothing was familiar. He had gone to sleep next to the fire that he had built under a towering hemlock tree beside a frozen stream. For a long time he had lain awake watching the stars as they did their great dance across the velvety blackness of the sky. He remembered seeing the snowflakes joining the stars, different only in that their movements were faster and more active than those distant orbs of frozen fire that dotted the heavens.
Now as he came out of sleep, bitterly disappointed by the loss of the vision of Faith’s features, he was aware of a weight pressing down on him. He panicked as the thought brushed across the edge of his conscious mind, I’ve been buried alive! Frantically he lunged, and with a sob of relief, his arms broke through the blanket of snow that had fallen upon him. The snow was no more than six or seven inches deep, and was so light that he sat upright with a gasp and a shudder. As he brushed the snow away from his face with his forearm, he stared around in a confused fashion.
Everything was changed. It had been snowing, it seemed, all night, and now the hemlock tree overhead was laden with a shimmering mantle of white velvet. Throwing his blankets aside, he saw that at some point the branches overhead had dislodged a load of snow on the fire so that everywhere he looked a plush carpet of glistening snow met his eyes. He squinted against the brilliance of the scene and stood to his feet as the morning sun touched the tiny grains, reflecting them like jewels. He had slept in his clothes,
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