Read Online Straw Into Gold by Gary D. Schmidt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gary D. Schmidt
Tags: Ages 10 and up
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the bandages. "A change at nightfall, and again in the morning. As gentle as ever you can." I nodded again, and she took my face in her huge hands, leaned forward, and pressed her forehead against mine, her nose against mine. Then she reached down and scooped the thick meal dust into her hands. "Let the eyes of the unjust be blind," she said again. She started down the ladder, looked at us once more, and was gone. I was left with the thrumming and with Innes.
I had never been kissed so before. The newness of it and the loss of it were all mixed up together, and I could say nothing in the heat of that mix.
Sitting there, I thought it seemed that this was all one of Da's phantasms. In a moment he would shake his hands and the air would swirl and the misty pictures dissolve. We would pick up our mugs and laugh and stretch our feet out to the fire. But it was no phantasm. The thrumming of the mill wheel and the labor of Innes's breathing were both real.
We slept. Warm and tight against the sacks, we slept.
When I opened my eyes, it was still light, the kind of light that lies low on the land late on a winter afternoon. Innes was still asleep, his breathing less harsh now. Nothing else moved. All was absolutely quiet. But something had wakened me.
Then I knew: It was the quiet that had wakened me. The mill wheel had stopped.
I crawled to the edge of the loft stairs and peered down at the very moment that the miller was thrust into the mill by the King's Grip, the miller's wife following closely behind. With mailed hands the Grip pulled the miller's smock and lifted him up, holding him so close that it seemed as if he were about to bite him. The miller's wife stood still, her hands smothered in her apron, afraid to plead with anything but her eyes.
With a jerk the Grip tossed the miller into a heap, and his wife immediately rushed over and knelt between them. But the Grip ignored them. Instead, he drew his sword and began to poke it into the sacks, one after another, until he walked ankle deep in the meal that poured from them. The miller and his wife stayed on the floor, watching.
I had seen battles in the conjurings that Da had set in the air before us. I had seen the murderous rage in the eyes of the great Achilles as he stalked Hector, then slew him with a sweeping stab. I had never understood the blood lust that reddened his face. I did now.
The Grip sauntered to the staircase and set his foot on the first step. I scuttled back, crossed the floor, leapt over the sacks, and huddled quietly beside Innes. I wished that the thrumming would cover us again.
"Master," I heard the miller call, "no one has been up those stairs these five days and more. You see yourself that the dust lies thick upon them."
I waited, my breath like a millstone in my chest. The first step creaked under the weight of the Grip.
"With a simple push," the Grip said, "I could split this beam and bring this mill to a ruin. Two, maybe three more winters will bring it down for me. How is it, miller, that fortune changes so quickly for some? You, who might have been miller to the king himself, as wealthy and envied as any merchant has ever been."
"On the darkest days," said the miller wearily,"I think it but chance."
"Chance or design, you have lost everything on a boast."
"Not everything," said the miller's wife.
As I listened to their voices coming up through the floorboards, I imagined her taking her husband's hand in her own and fronting this man with the short sword.
A long pause, with some scuttling below. Then the Grip's voice came again. "Chance or design, the end is the same. But here is my design: See to it that you do all as I told you. The reward is large should you be the one to find them. The penalty for hiding them is even larger. And the king is of a mind that no one—not even those closely connected—will be spared his anger. Now bring some bread. And I'll take that bottle, and that. Load them into the saddlebags quickly and hope
I had never been kissed so before. The newness of it and the loss of it were all mixed up together, and I could say nothing in the heat of that mix.
Sitting there, I thought it seemed that this was all one of Da's phantasms. In a moment he would shake his hands and the air would swirl and the misty pictures dissolve. We would pick up our mugs and laugh and stretch our feet out to the fire. But it was no phantasm. The thrumming of the mill wheel and the labor of Innes's breathing were both real.
We slept. Warm and tight against the sacks, we slept.
When I opened my eyes, it was still light, the kind of light that lies low on the land late on a winter afternoon. Innes was still asleep, his breathing less harsh now. Nothing else moved. All was absolutely quiet. But something had wakened me.
Then I knew: It was the quiet that had wakened me. The mill wheel had stopped.
I crawled to the edge of the loft stairs and peered down at the very moment that the miller was thrust into the mill by the King's Grip, the miller's wife following closely behind. With mailed hands the Grip pulled the miller's smock and lifted him up, holding him so close that it seemed as if he were about to bite him. The miller's wife stood still, her hands smothered in her apron, afraid to plead with anything but her eyes.
With a jerk the Grip tossed the miller into a heap, and his wife immediately rushed over and knelt between them. But the Grip ignored them. Instead, he drew his sword and began to poke it into the sacks, one after another, until he walked ankle deep in the meal that poured from them. The miller and his wife stayed on the floor, watching.
I had seen battles in the conjurings that Da had set in the air before us. I had seen the murderous rage in the eyes of the great Achilles as he stalked Hector, then slew him with a sweeping stab. I had never understood the blood lust that reddened his face. I did now.
The Grip sauntered to the staircase and set his foot on the first step. I scuttled back, crossed the floor, leapt over the sacks, and huddled quietly beside Innes. I wished that the thrumming would cover us again.
"Master," I heard the miller call, "no one has been up those stairs these five days and more. You see yourself that the dust lies thick upon them."
I waited, my breath like a millstone in my chest. The first step creaked under the weight of the Grip.
"With a simple push," the Grip said, "I could split this beam and bring this mill to a ruin. Two, maybe three more winters will bring it down for me. How is it, miller, that fortune changes so quickly for some? You, who might have been miller to the king himself, as wealthy and envied as any merchant has ever been."
"On the darkest days," said the miller wearily,"I think it but chance."
"Chance or design, you have lost everything on a boast."
"Not everything," said the miller's wife.
As I listened to their voices coming up through the floorboards, I imagined her taking her husband's hand in her own and fronting this man with the short sword.
A long pause, with some scuttling below. Then the Grip's voice came again. "Chance or design, the end is the same. But here is my design: See to it that you do all as I told you. The reward is large should you be the one to find them. The penalty for hiding them is even larger. And the king is of a mind that no one—not even those closely connected—will be spared his anger. Now bring some bread. And I'll take that bottle, and that. Load them into the saddlebags quickly and hope
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