Read Online Whisper by Chris Struyk-Bonn - Free Book Online

he said. I looked at his brown boots, thick and durable, perfect for the walk through the woods. “You’ll not go back.”
    I barely felt the edge of the fire’s warmth. My place might have been with them, but it was not equal to them.
    â€œAnd if you run, I’ll hunt you down. Your father may be weak, but I’m not.”
    I looked up. The sky was dark, the trees shadowed and black around the outside of the fire. I could see nothing of his face.
    He returned to the campfire and sat down beside Belen. The boys glanced back at me. I turned on my side, lay down on the ground and rested my cheek on my hands. Hot tears dampened the fingers under my cheek, but the tears made no more sound than snowflakes might.
    This was my life now.

    We reached my family’s village, Astatla, in the afternoon of the fourth day. As we progressed through the forest, the pine trees thinned and disappeared, replaced by stunted magnolias that were more spread out, less dense. A thick, rotten smell filled the air. My head hurt from the reek, and my hand moved to cover my nose. Death. Decay. A world filled with rot. My eyes stung. I was hungry, but this smell made me queasy.
    I heard the village long before we came to it: dogs barking, children yelling, an occasional shout—and absolute silence from the insects and birds. I had never experienced it before, that silence. It was peculiar and indescribable. The emptiness made my heart feel hollow, lonely, even though there were people everywhere.
    We walked along a road now, and as we neared the first houses of the village, I noticed many smells. Some were good smells, like the cooking of soups, but behind those good smells always lay the heavy reek of filth, latrines and unwashed bodies. I could feel my nostrils flare. How could people live under this haze of stench? My hands felt unsteady and continually flew to my throat or clutched at my clothes. I tried to control them.
    The wide dirt road was lined with houses constructed of flat pieces of wood that fit together snugly. They had metal roofs. For a minute I felt some excitement—maybe I would be warm, dry and protected. Our huts in the woods, made of sticks, logs and mud, always developed cracks in the winter that let the cold air creep into our blankets and bones.
    I’d never seen so many people before and couldn’t believe how long the dirt street seemed to be. Children took breaks from playing with balls to stare at me. Women paused as they carried heavy loads of water, wood or clothing and watched as I walked by. I stared also.
    Everyone was beautiful, with smooth faces, sealed mouths and unsplit noses. No wonder they thought me a monster. I wanted to cover my face, hide it behind my hand, but instead I looked ahead and met their eyes.
    When a beautiful man glanced at me and then glared with narrow eyes, I felt a moment of panic. I’d seen him before—but I knew that wasn’t possible. His hair hung to his shoulders in graying black waves, his eyes watched me from beneath dark lashes, and his muscles twisted just beneath his skin. It was Jeremia—Jeremia without a missing arm. Jeremia older. When I walked past him, he hissed. Jeremia released his anger by disappearing for days at a time. I didn’t want to know how this man released his anger.
    My father’s house was near the end of the long street. As we walked, we gathered an audience. I trailed behind Belen, Mateo and David, my shoulders tense, my hands sweaty around the scarf that held my mother’s gifts. I followed them to the house but stopped outside the door.
    This was where I had been born. This was where my mother had lived. This was where she had baked the bread, cared for the boys, loved, lived, died. The outside of the house was brown. Two steps led up to a faded yellow door, the color of fall leaves. Two glass windows gave the dwelling a face, but I saw no friendliness in its expression. No flowers grew around the