Read Online The Healing by Jonathan Odell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Odell
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the door that held back the sounds, shut tight.
The girl put her ear to a cold panel of white pine. From somewhere in the distance a dog belled out and others answered. Perhaps they were hearing what she heard.
Even standing on the tips of her toes, the latch was out of her reach. She quietly eased a chair over to the door. From its height, she lifted the little metal hook from its eye and then pushed, not reacting to the rusty creak. A fetid rush of air greeted her. It was the sharp, musty odor of things shut up for too long.
She climbed down from the chair and haltingly entered the unlit passageway. The planks beneath her feet were icy and the floor sloped downward, urging her forward through the narrow bricked hallway. Waiting for her at the end of the passageway was another door, this one open.
She entered a room as vast as nighttime, only there were no stars above her. She stood stock-still as her eyes adjusted to the light.
To her left was a succession of floor-to-ceiling windows, covered from the inside with immense slatted shutters, some partially covered with heavy drapes, identical to the damask panel that hung in the kitchen.
Directly before her was a seemingly endless table, extending into the inky blackness beyond. The whispering now was all around her. Hundreds of voices, some saying her name, some uttering sounds she did not know as words but could feel their meanings—happy, afraid, angry, sad.
Something on the table drew her attention. When she looked down and saw what it was, she let out a strangled cry.
A pair of glowing eyes peered back at her in a wide, petrified stare. Next two dark nostrils emerged from the void, and a large mouth smiled up at her.
The face remained frozen.
Violet found her breath and screamed, and kept screaming until she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and a light bloomed from behind.
“Violet! What you doing in here?”
The girl turned and threw herself into the old woman’s arms, shivering from the sight.
Violet’s embrace caught Gran Gran off guard. It had been so long since anyone had sought her out with such fervor, with such desperate need.
“It’s nothing to be a’scared of, Violet,” Gran Gran said. “Look a’here.”
She held the lantern over the face on the table. Violet peeked through the tiny slits between her lids. When she saw, she carefully reached out to touch it. The surface was smooth and cold and solid, not fleshy at all. It was clay! A face molded of clay and baked hard.
Gran Gran raised the lantern and threw the flickering light against the wall. “And here, Violet.”
The girl gasped. All down the wall there were other faces, dozens of them, each different, some smiling, some frowning, some looked as if they were about to say something, others like they had been startled awake, others still asleep. Some had coarse, patchy heads of hair made from moss and string. Rows and rows of them. There were too many to count.
“Nothing to be scared of. Only dried mud,” Gran Gran laughed, “just like me!”
The girl seemed calm now, but she still shivered.
“You ought be in bed,” the old woman fussed. “You not well yet and you and me both in our naked feet.”
The girl didn’t respond, her eyes still taking in the wall of faces.
When Gran Gran took the girl by the shoulder to lead her to the kitchen, she drew back and then reached for the edge of the table. She was making a stand. Since the night she had arrived, this was the first thing the girl had shown an interest in.
“You want to stay? You want to study these faces?” Gran Gran ventured. “Maybe one of them favors somebody you remember?” she asked hopefully.
The girl’s eyes scanned the wall, shifting from face to face.
After a long while, Gran Gran said, “I don’t know what you want to hear about. But I’ll just tell you what you looking at. How’s that?”
The girl turned to Gran Gran, her expression expectant, like a child eager to be taken by a
The girl put her ear to a cold panel of white pine. From somewhere in the distance a dog belled out and others answered. Perhaps they were hearing what she heard.
Even standing on the tips of her toes, the latch was out of her reach. She quietly eased a chair over to the door. From its height, she lifted the little metal hook from its eye and then pushed, not reacting to the rusty creak. A fetid rush of air greeted her. It was the sharp, musty odor of things shut up for too long.
She climbed down from the chair and haltingly entered the unlit passageway. The planks beneath her feet were icy and the floor sloped downward, urging her forward through the narrow bricked hallway. Waiting for her at the end of the passageway was another door, this one open.
She entered a room as vast as nighttime, only there were no stars above her. She stood stock-still as her eyes adjusted to the light.
To her left was a succession of floor-to-ceiling windows, covered from the inside with immense slatted shutters, some partially covered with heavy drapes, identical to the damask panel that hung in the kitchen.
Directly before her was a seemingly endless table, extending into the inky blackness beyond. The whispering now was all around her. Hundreds of voices, some saying her name, some uttering sounds she did not know as words but could feel their meanings—happy, afraid, angry, sad.
Something on the table drew her attention. When she looked down and saw what it was, she let out a strangled cry.
A pair of glowing eyes peered back at her in a wide, petrified stare. Next two dark nostrils emerged from the void, and a large mouth smiled up at her.
The face remained frozen.
Violet found her breath and screamed, and kept screaming until she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and a light bloomed from behind.
“Violet! What you doing in here?”
The girl turned and threw herself into the old woman’s arms, shivering from the sight.
Violet’s embrace caught Gran Gran off guard. It had been so long since anyone had sought her out with such fervor, with such desperate need.
“It’s nothing to be a’scared of, Violet,” Gran Gran said. “Look a’here.”
She held the lantern over the face on the table. Violet peeked through the tiny slits between her lids. When she saw, she carefully reached out to touch it. The surface was smooth and cold and solid, not fleshy at all. It was clay! A face molded of clay and baked hard.
Gran Gran raised the lantern and threw the flickering light against the wall. “And here, Violet.”
The girl gasped. All down the wall there were other faces, dozens of them, each different, some smiling, some frowning, some looked as if they were about to say something, others like they had been startled awake, others still asleep. Some had coarse, patchy heads of hair made from moss and string. Rows and rows of them. There were too many to count.
“Nothing to be scared of. Only dried mud,” Gran Gran laughed, “just like me!”
The girl seemed calm now, but she still shivered.
“You ought be in bed,” the old woman fussed. “You not well yet and you and me both in our naked feet.”
The girl didn’t respond, her eyes still taking in the wall of faces.
When Gran Gran took the girl by the shoulder to lead her to the kitchen, she drew back and then reached for the edge of the table. She was making a stand. Since the night she had arrived, this was the first thing the girl had shown an interest in.
“You want to stay? You want to study these faces?” Gran Gran ventured. “Maybe one of them favors somebody you remember?” she asked hopefully.
The girl’s eyes scanned the wall, shifting from face to face.
After a long while, Gran Gran said, “I don’t know what you want to hear about. But I’ll just tell you what you looking at. How’s that?”
The girl turned to Gran Gran, her expression expectant, like a child eager to be taken by a
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