Read Online The River of Souls by Robert McCammon - Free Book Online

hiding it behind dense forest, and then had revealed it again near the point where the two waters converged. 
    Though the sun shimmered on the surface of the River of Souls in bright coinage, Matthew thought the water in its vault looked dark. Darker than the Cooper, it appeared. More gray in its belly, and fringed with the black of swamp mud where it agitated the earth. Across the river was naught but further wilderness, a whole country of it. 
    Matthew took his tricorn off and used his hand to scoop up some water. He drank first, then wet his face, hair and the back of his neck. The cloud of biting insects that had been swirling around him and darting into his eyes for the better part of the last hour retreated, but they would soon be back with—Matthew was sure—reinforcements. In this swampland, such a battle went on incessantly. 
    He saw that a large cornfield stood northward, and along with it a grainfield of some variety of wheat. Jubilee thus maintained itself as a farming community, but it appeared that visitors here were few and far between. And just as Matthew thought that and was taking another slurp of water from his palm, a wagon being drawn by four horses came trundling down the same narrow track he’d followed from the North Road, where the word Jubilee was painted on the trunk of a huge mossy willow. The wagon’s wheels stirred up another floating curtain of yellow dust, people stepped aside to get out of the way for it seemed the wagon’s driver had no qualms about running anyone over, and in another moment the wagon passed Matthew and the well and pulled up in front of the general store. 
    The rawboned man with the raven’s feather in his hatband stood up in greeting, at the same time as four young black males—slaves, without a doubt—who’d been riding in the back of the wagon got out and stood obviously waiting for a command. They were dressed not in rags but in regular and clean clothing of white shirtings, black trousers, white stockings and boots. The driver was a white man, thick-shouldered and dark-haired, also wearing simple clothes. A second white man, who’d been sitting alongside the driver, climbed carefully down from the plank seat and he was the one to whom Sir Raven’s Feather spoke. This individual was older, wore a gray shirt and a pair of dark green trousers with stockings the same hue, and had some difficulty with his right leg, for he limped and it seemed to pain him. After a quick conference with Sir Feather he motioned the slaves to go into the store. They obeyed, and a moment later were engaged in the labor of bringing out barrels and grainsacks to load onto the wagon. 
    Supplies for the Green Sea Plantation, is what Matthew surmised. The wagon’s driver did not offer to help the loading process; he was content to light a pipe from his tinderbox, sit back and watch the slaves earn their keep. The distance between Matthew and the driver was not too far for Matthew to note on the man’s right forearm a medical compress fixed in place by a wrapping of cloth bandages, as his sleeves were rolled up. So there was the overseer who’d suffered the horse bite, Matthew thought. And from Matthew’s knowledge of medicine Dr. Stevenson’s compress, to soothe the wound and draw out infection, would be a soft mixture of meal, clay and certain herbs wrapped up in cheesecloth, heated and applied to the wound. Matthew assumed that the doctor had left more of the mixture at the plantation and instructions on how to change the compress, for within a short time the application would be dried out and unworthy. 
    Some of the citizens came to watch the wagon being loaded, as the slaves worked quickly at their task. Dogs barked and scampered around, enjoying the activity. Other citizens edged closer to Matthew, still curious about his presence. And suddenly Sir Feather pointed toward Matthew, and with a puff of pipesmoke the overseer took Matthew in and the older gentleman in gray and