Read Online Straw Into Gold by Gary D. Schmidt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary D. Schmidt
Tags: Ages 10 and up
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that I decide not to take anything else. Your ear, or perhaps her nose."
I heard a bustle below, then the grating sounds of the Grip's footsteps, a whistle and the sharp snort of the horse, and, after a moment, a gallop. I sank back against the meal sacks. "What fills a hand fuller than a skein of gold?" I wondered, and held my own hand up to look at it. I could barely make it out in the wasted light. What might fill my hand? I let it drift to my forehead to touch the spot where the nurse had touched me.
The sound of someone slowly ascending the stairs. A pause. I backed against the sacks, making myself as small as ever I could. Then a whisper filtered up through the dust like a distant memory.
"You needn't be afraid now." I peered out from behind the meal at the miller's wife, who stood with open hands looking into the loft. "It's all right. The miller will watch a moment against his return, but he is sure to be off to burn some barn or smash the windows of a manor house or two. That's the way of it with his type."
I stood up, wonderingly."You knew we were here all along?"
"Not until the King's Grip started up the stairs. We saw the meal dust fall through the flooring as you ran across. He saw it too, but he didn't know what it meant; fancy that. There's to be some good in working a mill all your life long." She crossed the loft and stood over us. "You're the boy from yesterday," she said, and I nodded.
When she saw Innes, she looked at him with an almost aching tenderness. She went to the top of the stairs and called the miller, who came with hands roughened by his work to pick up Innes as easily as a sack of flour. He balanced him down the loft stairs and out the mill with his wife mothering behind him.
"You're not to sling him about like your grain," she scolded. "And you'll be watching his head by the doorway. No, his head, you numb miller."
The miller nodded patiently.
"Mind you lay him gently on the cot. Gently. Is that gently?"
I followed behind, hoping that the miller would not open the shoulder wound more. As it was, the bandage was tinged red. But the miller held Innes like a wounded lamb and laid him down like a baby into feathers. He did not groan.
"Now take your chunky self away and let me tend to him," the miller's wife said, and he turned to me and shrugged his shoulders, a look of exasperated and long-suffering love on his face.
"There's not a thing to do with her when she's like this but to stumble along behind the millstone."
He was a short, thick man, but short as he was, he could have touched the ceiling of the cottage. Its roof squatted down to him, its center beam bowing and one corner sagging like a man in a stupor. The chimney stones stomached out, two iron braces angling against their collapse. It was a house that had settled into itself.
While the miller's wife fussed over Innes, clucking at the wound, and while the miller bustled through the house to find the new shirt his wife was calling for, I stood by the trestle table and smelled. Just smelled. It was filled with loaves of braided bread, bread speckled with cinnamon, bread yellow with its cheesy crusting, bread filled with the last of the fall apples.
"The boy looks hungry, my dear. It's a glory you've done the baking, or he might wither away as he stands in front of us." The miller laughed deep and low.
"When we laugh, we escape the Devil," I said automatically, and was startled to see how they both turned toward me, open-mouthed.
"There's been many a turning of the mill wheel since last I heard that," said the miller slowly.
"I heard it myself just today," I answered,"but ..."And I looked longingly at the table.
With a smile the miller brought me close to the fire, laid a wooden trencher in my lap, and ladled in stew.
Stew! How could I have missed its meaty bubbling? When he ladled it out, the steam curled into the room. I shoveled it into my mouth, finishing the bowl before the miller had torn a hunk of bread for me.
"Is
I heard a bustle below, then the grating sounds of the Grip's footsteps, a whistle and the sharp snort of the horse, and, after a moment, a gallop. I sank back against the meal sacks. "What fills a hand fuller than a skein of gold?" I wondered, and held my own hand up to look at it. I could barely make it out in the wasted light. What might fill my hand? I let it drift to my forehead to touch the spot where the nurse had touched me.
The sound of someone slowly ascending the stairs. A pause. I backed against the sacks, making myself as small as ever I could. Then a whisper filtered up through the dust like a distant memory.
"You needn't be afraid now." I peered out from behind the meal at the miller's wife, who stood with open hands looking into the loft. "It's all right. The miller will watch a moment against his return, but he is sure to be off to burn some barn or smash the windows of a manor house or two. That's the way of it with his type."
I stood up, wonderingly."You knew we were here all along?"
"Not until the King's Grip started up the stairs. We saw the meal dust fall through the flooring as you ran across. He saw it too, but he didn't know what it meant; fancy that. There's to be some good in working a mill all your life long." She crossed the loft and stood over us. "You're the boy from yesterday," she said, and I nodded.
When she saw Innes, she looked at him with an almost aching tenderness. She went to the top of the stairs and called the miller, who came with hands roughened by his work to pick up Innes as easily as a sack of flour. He balanced him down the loft stairs and out the mill with his wife mothering behind him.
"You're not to sling him about like your grain," she scolded. "And you'll be watching his head by the doorway. No, his head, you numb miller."
The miller nodded patiently.
"Mind you lay him gently on the cot. Gently. Is that gently?"
I followed behind, hoping that the miller would not open the shoulder wound more. As it was, the bandage was tinged red. But the miller held Innes like a wounded lamb and laid him down like a baby into feathers. He did not groan.
"Now take your chunky self away and let me tend to him," the miller's wife said, and he turned to me and shrugged his shoulders, a look of exasperated and long-suffering love on his face.
"There's not a thing to do with her when she's like this but to stumble along behind the millstone."
He was a short, thick man, but short as he was, he could have touched the ceiling of the cottage. Its roof squatted down to him, its center beam bowing and one corner sagging like a man in a stupor. The chimney stones stomached out, two iron braces angling against their collapse. It was a house that had settled into itself.
While the miller's wife fussed over Innes, clucking at the wound, and while the miller bustled through the house to find the new shirt his wife was calling for, I stood by the trestle table and smelled. Just smelled. It was filled with loaves of braided bread, bread speckled with cinnamon, bread yellow with its cheesy crusting, bread filled with the last of the fall apples.
"The boy looks hungry, my dear. It's a glory you've done the baking, or he might wither away as he stands in front of us." The miller laughed deep and low.
"When we laugh, we escape the Devil," I said automatically, and was startled to see how they both turned toward me, open-mouthed.
"There's been many a turning of the mill wheel since last I heard that," said the miller slowly.
"I heard it myself just today," I answered,"but ..."And I looked longingly at the table.
With a smile the miller brought me close to the fire, laid a wooden trencher in my lap, and ladled in stew.
Stew! How could I have missed its meaty bubbling? When he ladled it out, the steam curled into the room. I shoveled it into my mouth, finishing the bowl before the miller had torn a hunk of bread for me.
"Is
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