Read Online The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan - Free Book Online Page B

the rough trunk of her damson tree. “Say it ten times fast, b’ys,” John commanded, as the three younger boys whispered, “Samson’s damsons, Samson’s damsons, Samson’s damsons” over and over again. “Louder,” he cajoled. “Eyes like the hawk, but she’s deaf as a boot.” And louder they crooned, only falling silent when they shimmied up the tree, began the unlawful harvest.
    Finding the branches heavy with sour fruit, they curled their backs into the elbows near the trunk, helped themselves, spit black slippery pits. The four of them gorged until their stomachs swelled, ached. “Shits tomorrow for the load of us,” John announced, and the middle two sniggered while Percy blushed. Then they stuffed their pockets, snapped whole limbs, dropped like cats to the earth below. Carted the works home, twigs, leaves and all.
    When they displayed their trappings on the kitchen table, their mother did not smile.
    Her voice was like jelly, quivering with anger. “On a Sunday of all days. Thieving on the Sabbath.”
    â€œBut–” John began.
    â€œDon’t utter a word! When your father catches wind of this, you’ll all be lashed. And deservedly so.”
    As though coached, Percy, head hanging, eased himself forward and murmured through purple lips, “Why, they was for you. To make something nice. For our family.”
    She softened instantly, pinched his stained chin, said, “That’s nice, my darling. But what do you expect? She’ll be by for a drop of tea, and I’ll serve her up a jam made from her own fruit? You don’t suppose she’d be a mite bit suspicious?”
    â€œWill you tell Father?” Percy’s teary owl eyes were on her now, pleading.
    â€œI could. And every one of you deserves to have your backsides reddened until they’s raw, but I believes your intentions was nice, so I’ll make you boys a deal. If you’re up tomorrow before the crack of dawn and manage to surprise your father with the biggest load of kelp he’s ever seen – well, that just might fasten my lips right tight. In the meantime, you can spend the remainder of the afternoon with your rumps stuck to that bench and thinking about how good your lives is.”
    Percy stepped back, marched straight to the bench and took his seat. As they moved past him, one brother knocked him, another yanked his ear, John struck him firmly on his crown with a fist, then grabbed his own backside, whispered, “Phew.” There was pride blossoming inside Percy’s small body. For once in his life, he was a hero.
    The following night at supper, their father said, “’Twas a grand day. Never seen the boys work so hard, and now this lovely pudding. Was the widow by?”
    Lifting the crumbly cake, Percy saw the illicit spiced fruit underneath.
    â€œMmm,” she replied, and began to chirp on about her day: paying the widow a visit, helping her pluck the stubborn feathers from an old white hen that was no longer a giver. “Stuck tight, those feathers. Poor old widow, fingers on her, already seen their best days, could barely get a grip. I finished it up for her, lit a small stick in her stove, and burned off every last trace of hair. Wind came up, though. My good Lord, if it didn’t coax every feather off the ground, into the air, scattering them hither and yon. Believe it or not, the widow wasn’t the least bit undone about the mess. Sat back, watched them dance through the air. ’Twas like a glorious dream.”
    To the boys and their father, it barely mattered what she said. It was the lilt of her voice that captured them, made them chew slowly to prolong their meal. Her words were a harmony that filled every corner of their home. Making them forget the hardship of the day. She chirped about dipping candles, the secret ingredient in her steamed bread pudding, how she felt like a twirling child when she