Read Online Tree By Leaf by Cynthia Voigt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cynthia Voigt
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reflecting each other. The tide was out, but even with the knocking at last silenced, the water lay dark and still at the foot of the heavy rockfalls. The sunny air spread out all around her. Clothilde stepped out onto a flat chunk of granite. Sunlight fell over her. Her shadow lay curled at her feet.
“Clothilde,” the Voice named her. “Child.”
But she was alone. Clothilde spun around to see who had spoken, her heart beating fast. She saw no one. She didn’t expect to see anyone, because nobody could have a voice like that. It was a huge, rich voice, rich like Mother’s chowder, rich with pungent clam broth and sweet silky milk, with soft chunks of bland potatoes and sharp bits of onions, rich with the springy, nutty clams and crisp slivers of fried salt pork. She recognized the Voice, which she had never heard before. Her heart beat with painful slowness.
“Child,” the Voice said again, but not from the woods she peered into. She turned around to catch it, over the water. “Clothilde.”
It was behind her and in front of her. It surrounded her. It weighed down on her from above androse up under her feet. But it wasn’t the Voice that was making her feel squeezed; it was scaredness squeezing at her. Oh, she was glad—gladness burst out of her the way it had when she first stood on the headlands and understood that the peninsula lying behind her was hers, her own. With the gladness, however, she was also remembering, knowing, all of the things she shouldn’t have done—the meanness in her heart and the way she’d wanted to take away Polly Dethier’s ruffledy dress and her dimple; times she’d sat there and watched Lou or Mother work when she could have got up and helped; and the way she’d run away from things at school instead of standing to fight them. The remembering made her afraid.
Clothilde turned around, putting the water behind her. She ran as fast as she could. She held her skirt up so her legs could move freely. She ran among the trees and through the woods, not following any path, dodging and ducking. Leaves brushed at her face. Branches slapped at her body. When a root caught at her foot, she stumbled but she didn’t fall. She ran on.
The Voice ran beside her.
Clothilde’s blood beat in her ears and she gasped for breath. It hurt her feet, the way they were poundingdown onto the ground. It hurt her chest, the way it tried to suck in air. But the Voice beside her ran like water, flowed beside her like water.
Clothilde couldn’t get away. She halted, and rested her forehead against the white trunk of a birch until she had caught her breath and had stopped the sobbing she hadn’t realized she’d been doing as she ran. Then she turned around to return to the headlands, rubbing at her eyes and nose. She was tired. She’d been as frightened as she could stand to be, more frightened than she could have imagined being, and now she was too exhausted and afraid to feel frightened. She walked back through the shady woods, with the dappled sunlight falling like rain. The Voice walked beside her.
Standing again on the rock, facing again over the water, Clothilde just waited. Her hands felt like they were trembling, so she put them behind her back. There, they held tightly each to the other, and her fingers wound together. Her back straight, her shoulders stiff, Clothilde held her head up. She made her head stay up.
It wasn’t gone, she knew that.
“All right,” she said out loud. Her voice sounded thin and high. “I’m listening,” she squeaked out.
“Sit down,” the Voice told her. “Let your body rest upon the rock.” The Voice was trying to make itself as little as it could, which wasn’t very little. Clothilde almost smiled, at how large small was to the Voice.
“No,” she said, adding politely. “Thank you.”
She waited to hear what the Voice wanted from her. Maybe it was going to tell her she was about to die. Maybe this was what happened when you died, and she was
“Clothilde,” the Voice named her. “Child.”
But she was alone. Clothilde spun around to see who had spoken, her heart beating fast. She saw no one. She didn’t expect to see anyone, because nobody could have a voice like that. It was a huge, rich voice, rich like Mother’s chowder, rich with pungent clam broth and sweet silky milk, with soft chunks of bland potatoes and sharp bits of onions, rich with the springy, nutty clams and crisp slivers of fried salt pork. She recognized the Voice, which she had never heard before. Her heart beat with painful slowness.
“Child,” the Voice said again, but not from the woods she peered into. She turned around to catch it, over the water. “Clothilde.”
It was behind her and in front of her. It surrounded her. It weighed down on her from above androse up under her feet. But it wasn’t the Voice that was making her feel squeezed; it was scaredness squeezing at her. Oh, she was glad—gladness burst out of her the way it had when she first stood on the headlands and understood that the peninsula lying behind her was hers, her own. With the gladness, however, she was also remembering, knowing, all of the things she shouldn’t have done—the meanness in her heart and the way she’d wanted to take away Polly Dethier’s ruffledy dress and her dimple; times she’d sat there and watched Lou or Mother work when she could have got up and helped; and the way she’d run away from things at school instead of standing to fight them. The remembering made her afraid.
Clothilde turned around, putting the water behind her. She ran as fast as she could. She held her skirt up so her legs could move freely. She ran among the trees and through the woods, not following any path, dodging and ducking. Leaves brushed at her face. Branches slapped at her body. When a root caught at her foot, she stumbled but she didn’t fall. She ran on.
The Voice ran beside her.
Clothilde’s blood beat in her ears and she gasped for breath. It hurt her feet, the way they were poundingdown onto the ground. It hurt her chest, the way it tried to suck in air. But the Voice beside her ran like water, flowed beside her like water.
Clothilde couldn’t get away. She halted, and rested her forehead against the white trunk of a birch until she had caught her breath and had stopped the sobbing she hadn’t realized she’d been doing as she ran. Then she turned around to return to the headlands, rubbing at her eyes and nose. She was tired. She’d been as frightened as she could stand to be, more frightened than she could have imagined being, and now she was too exhausted and afraid to feel frightened. She walked back through the shady woods, with the dappled sunlight falling like rain. The Voice walked beside her.
Standing again on the rock, facing again over the water, Clothilde just waited. Her hands felt like they were trembling, so she put them behind her back. There, they held tightly each to the other, and her fingers wound together. Her back straight, her shoulders stiff, Clothilde held her head up. She made her head stay up.
It wasn’t gone, she knew that.
“All right,” she said out loud. Her voice sounded thin and high. “I’m listening,” she squeaked out.
“Sit down,” the Voice told her. “Let your body rest upon the rock.” The Voice was trying to make itself as little as it could, which wasn’t very little. Clothilde almost smiled, at how large small was to the Voice.
“No,” she said, adding politely. “Thank you.”
She waited to hear what the Voice wanted from her. Maybe it was going to tell her she was about to die. Maybe this was what happened when you died, and she was
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