Read Online The Rosewood Casket by Sharyn McCrumb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharyn McCrumb
Ads: Link
Grandma Flossie, “but don’t scare this child here.” She nodded toward Nora, who was twisting her pinafore, and looking as if she might cry.
When her mother was no longer a shadow in the doorway, Nora leaned over to her grandmother and whispered, “If those Stargills don’t want that little girl, do you think we could find her and take her in?”
Flossie Bonesteel sighed. “I don’t think your mother would take kindly to that, Nora, but she may be right about things at the Stargill place. And the Lord knows best. Perhaps the child will be happier … this way.”
Nora heard the sorrowful tone and felt cold in the May sunshine. “Reckon what happened to her, Grandma?”
The old woman motioned for Nora to sit down beside her. She picked up another potato from the bucket and began to peel it as she talked. “I don’t rightly know,” she said softly. “But, I’ll tell you what: the Cherokees that used to live in these hills told stories about people who got lost on the mountain. They would wander away from their villages, and never be seen again. Cherokees said that some of these mountains are hollow underneath, and that a race of little people called the Nunnehi live inside—only instead of being a dark cave underground, the rocks give way to a bright, beautiful land where it is always high summer.”
“What do the little people look like?”
“I don’t know that anybody has ever seen one, and come back to tell the tale, but the Indians thought they looked like little bitty Cherokees: copper-skinned, with long black hair. I always fancied that they had pointy ears, and cat-eyes, and hair like crow feathers, black and shiny. I never wanted to meet one, though. They say that if you go off with the Nunnehi, and visit their beautiful land, you will never be happy on earth again. Especially if you eat any of their food, you can never come home. But if you leave the earth to go and live with the little people, you never grow old, either.”
“I’m glad you never went off with those little people,” said Nora. “I’d sure miss you.”
“Well, I reckon I might go one day,” said her grandmother. “They are said to be kind to those that mean no harm. Someday when my rheumatism gets too bad to stand, and my eyes get to where I can’t see my needle, and I get too tired to walk to meeting, I think I might just go calling on those little people, and stay awhile in that bright land of theirs. I’d like being young again in the summer of always. I reckon I’d miss you, too, Nora, but I wouldn’t want you grieving to see me go. They say that those who dwell with the little people are forever glad.”
“Do you think the little girl in the woods is glad?”
“Well, Nora, I think she is peaceful, and—and—that she will never be cold or hungry again. She will never grow old.” Tears glistened on the old woman’s cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, and went back to peeling potatoes.
Nora wondered why her grandmother was sad if the little girl was in such a beautiful and happy place with the little people. What a blessing never to be cold or hungry again. She put the thought out of her mind. Even when the men returned after dark that evening, penning up the muddy, exhausted hounds without a word or a smile, and ate a cold supper in silence, she did not wonder.
CHAPTER THREE
Were there a voice in the trees of the forest, it would call on you to chase away these ruthless invaders who are laying it to waste.
—SIMON GIRTY,
white adoptee of the Shawnee,
from John Bradford’s Historical Notes on Kentucky
Even when he had no clients to chauffeur from one property to another, Frank Whitescarver spent a lot of time in his Jeep Cherokee, scouting the back roads of the county in search of suitable parcels of land. March was a good time for such expeditions. Dirt roads that had been rendered impassable by winter mud and ice were navigable again, and the still leafless trees
When her mother was no longer a shadow in the doorway, Nora leaned over to her grandmother and whispered, “If those Stargills don’t want that little girl, do you think we could find her and take her in?”
Flossie Bonesteel sighed. “I don’t think your mother would take kindly to that, Nora, but she may be right about things at the Stargill place. And the Lord knows best. Perhaps the child will be happier … this way.”
Nora heard the sorrowful tone and felt cold in the May sunshine. “Reckon what happened to her, Grandma?”
The old woman motioned for Nora to sit down beside her. She picked up another potato from the bucket and began to peel it as she talked. “I don’t rightly know,” she said softly. “But, I’ll tell you what: the Cherokees that used to live in these hills told stories about people who got lost on the mountain. They would wander away from their villages, and never be seen again. Cherokees said that some of these mountains are hollow underneath, and that a race of little people called the Nunnehi live inside—only instead of being a dark cave underground, the rocks give way to a bright, beautiful land where it is always high summer.”
“What do the little people look like?”
“I don’t know that anybody has ever seen one, and come back to tell the tale, but the Indians thought they looked like little bitty Cherokees: copper-skinned, with long black hair. I always fancied that they had pointy ears, and cat-eyes, and hair like crow feathers, black and shiny. I never wanted to meet one, though. They say that if you go off with the Nunnehi, and visit their beautiful land, you will never be happy on earth again. Especially if you eat any of their food, you can never come home. But if you leave the earth to go and live with the little people, you never grow old, either.”
“I’m glad you never went off with those little people,” said Nora. “I’d sure miss you.”
“Well, I reckon I might go one day,” said her grandmother. “They are said to be kind to those that mean no harm. Someday when my rheumatism gets too bad to stand, and my eyes get to where I can’t see my needle, and I get too tired to walk to meeting, I think I might just go calling on those little people, and stay awhile in that bright land of theirs. I’d like being young again in the summer of always. I reckon I’d miss you, too, Nora, but I wouldn’t want you grieving to see me go. They say that those who dwell with the little people are forever glad.”
“Do you think the little girl in the woods is glad?”
“Well, Nora, I think she is peaceful, and—and—that she will never be cold or hungry again. She will never grow old.” Tears glistened on the old woman’s cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand, and went back to peeling potatoes.
Nora wondered why her grandmother was sad if the little girl was in such a beautiful and happy place with the little people. What a blessing never to be cold or hungry again. She put the thought out of her mind. Even when the men returned after dark that evening, penning up the muddy, exhausted hounds without a word or a smile, and ate a cold supper in silence, she did not wonder.
CHAPTER THREE
Were there a voice in the trees of the forest, it would call on you to chase away these ruthless invaders who are laying it to waste.
—SIMON GIRTY,
white adoptee of the Shawnee,
from John Bradford’s Historical Notes on Kentucky
Even when he had no clients to chauffeur from one property to another, Frank Whitescarver spent a lot of time in his Jeep Cherokee, scouting the back roads of the county in search of suitable parcels of land. March was a good time for such expeditions. Dirt roads that had been rendered impassable by winter mud and ice were navigable again, and the still leafless trees