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CZ Studio and Radio Verte presents The Wild Wind by Corey Zimmerman.

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Chapter 19.

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A manual bookbinder.

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A hard worker. He worked much harder than the other grave diggers. Alone he could dig six,

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seven, eight graves a day. And when the others took a break, Book kept on digging. To Book,

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a break was nothing more than an opportunity for his nerves to return.

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Hey Book, come take lunch. We ain't never gonna see the end of these holes anyhow,

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said Hank. Book kept digging. Come on Book, come have a sandwich, said Charlie.

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And with a sigh, Book finally dropped his shovel.

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The diggers always ate lunch under a large twisted tree on the edge of the ravine by

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a small stone bluff covered in carvings. The primitive art of grave diggers of the

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recent past. Hank, a round man, pointed up at the tree with a full mouth of ham sandwich.

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This tree right here? This is the hanging tree. I know three of the Dunhung themselves right here.

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Charlie, tall and slender, mid-twenties, his red hair swooped out from under his sweat-stained

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cap. Said to Hank, that ain't true. Where do you hear that?

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Book arched his long neck back to look at the tree. Just last summer, old Johnny Dickens'

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wife left him for another man, his own brother. And Dunh broke all the chairs in the house,

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his own brother raising his boy and all. Well, then he got word that he was hitched.

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Then he wound up here with us. Imagine that. Everyone listened attentively, except Rich.

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Rich was annoyed. He was always annoyed. And he sat off at a distance,

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consumed in a cigarette and a cup of coffee he had just poured from his thermos.

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Rich was the self-imposed boss of the crew, and some actually wondered if he was a patient or

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an employee of the Hilltop. No one really knew, but they did know he was the grumpy son of a bitch.

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Hank continued, Well, one day he took a rope, tied it to this here branch, and that morning

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we found him dead as a dough now. Yep, eyes popped out and everything. Next thing we knew,

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he was digging his hole. That poor old bastard was in the ground by sundown.

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Hank looked over at Rich. Cup of coffee?

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Bring your own damn coffee. Rich barked.

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You grumpy bastard, said Hank. Then a week later, well, Timmy Rogers went

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to school with him, lost a leg on the track or something. Well, he spent some time at the

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poor house. Now he showed up just in time to take Dickens advice. We dug his hole too.

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Right over yonder, Hank nodded to the right. Charlie then said,

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You said three, Hank, and Rich threw his cigarette down and said,

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Alright y'all, story time is over. Staring at the sun, staring at nothing,

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talking to the sun, talking to no one, walking in circles, marching in place,

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spinning around, skipping, hopping, tiptoeing, hollering, whispering, knocking, rocking,

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sitting in silence, shaking the head, shaking the hands, slapping the face,

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pulling the hair, sticking the tongue, shaking the finger, clapping the hands,

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hugging the self, singing to the self, crying, lying, laughing, and lying in the grass.

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All things I learned growing up on the hilltop. As I sit here before my typewriter, my hands shake,

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my heart speeding disturbingly rapid. I feel weak, lightheaded, and I panic. I slide against

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the wall and down the stairs and out the house, fighting vertigo every step of the way. Outside,

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I collapse to the ground where I gasp for air, my chest heaving as I cling onto the grass with

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my fists. I lie on my back and let the sun calm me, and as it slowly warms my nerves and joints,

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long frayed and knotted with time, I worry my heart might seize up like an old ford sent out

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to pasture to rot and rust back into the earth. But the rich soil below provides me peace,

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a trick Dr. Zola once taught me long ago, and I grow calm. After some time, I return to my desk

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with steady knees. I stretch out my clawed and aching hands and press a dreadful key,

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one of the 26 which have come to haunt me. The Rose Garden was where I first met Book

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and Fanny in the eighth year of the Century of the Devil. Book was an odd fellow, but gentle

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and kind. I liked him an awful lot. But it was Fanny I fell in love with. Her dreamy eyes,

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she was as beautiful as the breeze. She was breathtaking, cunning like a fox. I begged

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her to teach me all her tricks. We would lie in the grass and bat her eyes like butterfly wings,

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and once I fell to the ground laughing in pain as I threw out my hip, trying to swing it in that

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way that makes the boys go wild as she would say. We'd laugh the days away, oh how I loved her so.

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She showed me how to keep my ankles slim as we held her feet in the air, and she said,

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you must lay upon the floor and rest your feet on the foot of your bed every morning as you dream

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of love. Fanny also taught me to wash my face with buttermilk and I almost gagged watching her gutted

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chicken. But we devoured the heart together for the sake of beauty. We were friends. At night we

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would sneak out to moonbathe, and I'd listen to her wild adventures hoping to live half the life

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she had. She once told me she'd stolen a cow and rode it all the way from the Ozarks to Iowa,

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but in all honesty I never knew what to believe, but I chose to believe it all. However, looking

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back I suppose, Fanny could have gotten anyone or anything to think or do just about anything

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she desired, and that made me all the more vulnerable. She was the first to tell me I was

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lovely, insisting I eat plenty of your sweet potatoes Sam. They're good for the rosy cheeks,

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she would say, those the boys adore. Or you can always slap yourself across the face,

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whichever you prefer, and again we would laugh. I began not only to walk like her,

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but dress like her, showing a little leg, talking like her, a little attitude stirred

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with flattery. I pushed out my backside, arching my back as far as I could, a bit painful,

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yet I did not mind. For beauty was pain, she would say. You always gotta be on the make,

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especially while smelling the roses, and never forget to peek ever so slightly, ever so sexful

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over the shoulder, and bat your lashes like I showed you, not once, but twice, not three

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times. As you do not want to come off too loosey, and right when you catch his eye,

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look away, and when you walk away, remember that sway. Keep him yearning for more, you gotta get

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them hooked, hooked like a fish, that's how you get him to kill for you. On Saturdays,

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as the patients stirred about freely in a beautiful dance, to music born of the most

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absurd note, the three of us would go on a quest, Fanny once suggesting we shall rotate one apple

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from every dining hall upon the hilltop to the next. And Book was so intense on blending in,

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he would appear as though he were invading Poland as we seized the first apple, and then placing it

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in the fruit bowl of the next dining hall at the expense of another identical red apple,

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I could hardly keep from laughing, as Book's stiff spine protruded his head upward to a degree he

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had no less than a half dozen double chins. And Fanny believed floating about like a butterfly

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might make her presence more inconspicuous. It was, after all, an asylum, I suppose.

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After a fool-hearted yet successful odyssey, Fanny decided to up the ante, and we made our

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way for the General Hospital. Her goal was to mix up all the patients' files, which hung from a hook

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at the end of each bed. Although I worried a man might wrongly have his appendix removed,

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I felt so bright and alive until Book's demeanor shook me to the core.

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As he grasped onto the footboard of an old sickly man's bed, they had caught eyes,

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but neither said a word, as neither could. Yet the old man's eyes glistened in a silent,

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almost vacant fear. The sight was deep, painful, and exotic, until Fanny pulled Book away by the

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arm, somehow whitewashing his mind with affection, an old dirty trick though lovely indeed. And I

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never knew what had become of the potential Frankenstein Fanny may have created. We carried

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on, between here and there, wherever we happened to be or might have gone, and we began tossing

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the apple back and forth, higher and higher each time, until Book fumbled it about, and it fell to

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the ground, splitting in two. Fanny picked up a half, exposing an inchworm, tiny, green,

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and curious. It reminded me of a little old man, hard of sight, as it squinted its invisible eyes,

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as it felt blindly confused. Fanny held it to her eye and stared at it close up,

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then plucking it out of the space where seeds grow. She leaned back her head and dropped it

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into her mouth, and Book practically had a seizure, until Fanny itched her ear and pulled

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him out of its canal, whispering, Hey there, buddy. And I laughed until I might vomit. It

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was the climax of the day after all, and I cannot remember much more.

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I adored a boy, or rather a man. I did all I could that I might be seen. I once swallowed

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a four-leaf clover with him on my mind. Love times four. The next day, he called me over and

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handed me an ace of hearts, and my heart dropped. I batted my eyelashes, looking back but once,

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and swung my hips as I walked away, those eyes staring at me from behind those windswept bangs,

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through the rosebushes, sheers in hand, wiping the sweat from his brow, for he was indeed a man.

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I lied to myself. I was a woman, I said. My heart beat, yet in the chest of a child. Nonetheless,

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my lips were itching for a kiss.

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Mama had finished my new yellow dress on the new moon, yet having grown a few inches since she had

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begun, the hem was rather short upon my thigh. It was no matter, though. I wanted to be wanted.

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I wanted to be seen. I wanted so badly to be kissed, as Pa's dusty mouth had forgotten me

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long ago. Now here was this beautiful man, with all eyes upon me, as I lingered about the garden,

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in my fresh yellow dress.

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I put the ace of hearts under my pillow that night, and the next afternoon he handed me a red rose,

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one he had trimmed just for me, or so he said, and again as I walked away for the graveyard elm.

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My handkerchief upon my right shoulder, I turned back but once. Our eyes met, and I thought I might

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faint. I giggled, I pretended to hide behind the elm, but out of nowhere his fingers snuck up on me,

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and were running down the back of my neck, goose pimples down my arm. I gasped as he curled around

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the tree. With a finger on my lip, my belly became afloat with butterflies, suddenly so overcome

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with the most thrilling sickness. His hand clenched onto mine, his warm body pressed into mine,

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the rough bark dug into my back. But it had not bothered me so, as he slowly placed his mouth upon

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my quivering lips. I worried they may be chapped, as I had no time to moisten them with my tongue.

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Yet he did not seem to mind. I was stunned, in ecstasy, ecstatic. Yet nerves abound as his

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fingers walked up my thigh. A blinding white light came over me, and a sensation in the sweetest spot.

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He pushed me harder and harder into the bark of the tree, and as it edged further into the bones

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of my back, his other hand tightly around my neck, and I could hardly breathe. My pleasure had

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quickly turned to fear, and I pulled away but just an inch. Just enough to see his blue eyes had

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turned as black as coal. Old Scratch! He squished my twisted lips into his own, as he slivered his

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split tongue down my throat, and rammed his cold crooked finger inside me. I gasped, I froze,

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solid as ice, eyes widened, thighs clenched. My stomach turned in revolt, and I vomited at his feet

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on his yellow boots. As he jumped back, I slipped from his grip, I wailed in terror, in humiliation.

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My heart shattered.

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Buck always worked late, long after everyone else called it quits for the day. He was knee-deep

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along the ravine's edge, in a half-dug grave as the sun had begun to set.

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And then he heard what sounded like a tiny giggle coming from behind the graveyard elm a ways off.

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The wild one backhanded me and called me a silly, stupid bitch. He became clear to me.

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He loved his boots more than me, and as I shouted and wailed, a loud clank, the likes of sheet steel,

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crushing skulls, and the sound of his

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breath, I opened my eyes, I touched my face, and saw blood on my fingers, and saw Buck with a shovel.

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The word rung rang in my ears like the toll of a bell, as if it had been shouted a dozen times,

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yet all at once. Run, Sarah, run! But I froze as I saw the wild one lying, squirming, bleeding,

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and moaning at my feet. His whimper, that of a boy, a lost little boy, lost in a grown man's body,

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brought to a whimper, the defeat of such a tiny girl. Run, Sarah, get out of here! And I slipped

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from the grip of my own mind, fanny shaking me awake to this nightmare I ran and ran, too afraid

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to look back, for I saw only a dark tunnel before me. I was scared and confused, though certainly not

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as confused as he must have been, dying at Foxy's feet. You see, what that rat failed to see beyond

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his windswept bangs was that Fanny was no fox at all, for she was a wild one.

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My feet carrying me across the hilltop, down Paul's Row all the way home, where I kicked over every

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chair to prevent the marriage of which I regretted praying for. I shattered my mirror, and Jojo dove

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under the bed, and Sammy rushed in to see what might be the matter. And when you saw my tears,

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you opened your arms. I wanted nothing more than to collapse into them, yet I knew you would ask,

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so I pushed you away, and I ran to the barn. I hid in the loft and turned my dress inside out,

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and fell to the hay in tears. Midnight became distressed and meowed about, slithering his silky

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black fur upon my thigh, of which I could not stand. I kicked him off the loft and he scurried away.

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As Rowan Beauty dug into the earth with rage, I cried.

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Sam, you came out with a bowl of your sweet potatoes sprinkled with brown sugar.

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Your worrisome gaze upon me as you stood upon the ladder. I refused to look up. After some time,

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you let me be, and the sweet potatoes went uneaten. I threw the dish from the loft and it

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shattered, startling Rowan Beauty once more. He stomped the shards and I then noticed my

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handkerchief was gone. I must have dropped it at the roots of the elm.

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I stayed in the loft until dark. Lying awake through the night, Mama Nor-Paw never came

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looking for me. But I sensed you, Sam, sitting on the porch well past any reasonable hour.

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And when I dozed off, I awoke to my own scream as my hair was tangled with rats.

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Convinced I'd give birth to the spawn of old Scratch himself, I snuck into the kitchen through

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the back door, a hex I knew. But I was desperate for a half pint of vinegar and six tablespoons

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of salt. I returned to the barn and gathered nine rusty nails. I could see a tear in Rowan

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Beauty's eye as he continued to dig at the ground. And as he blew, I picked up a shard

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and slid open my thigh, for I was a wretched thing. As the blood oozed down my leg,

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in midnight returned to the scent, a stream of words pillaged my mind. And I questioned God,

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do you need the devil desperately? And before these keys as I searched for words,

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what type of potent God would allow such a rat to crawl up my leg? But a rat God,

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a God with a twin soul, a second mind. And again I asked, what type of God must this be?

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If not one we know, one who sits by a window on the hilltop, muttering profanities with his

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hand down his pants. And praising the virgin nurse as she delivers your round of morning pills,

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red ones round, which realign your thoughtful mind. Can good and evil exist in one? I ask you,

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God, mustn't one only spend a long afternoon in the day room to reveal that truth? Now I need you,

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God, just as Satan needs you, for you are nothing but God to the horned one. Silence.

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Silence. Only silence.

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Fine then, you shall have this day, this day to crawl up a young virgin's leg,

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for I bring darkness to your night. And you shine the brightness on his day. You can have this hour

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when you both agree, without you there is no me.

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And as I picked up a shard and slit open my thigh, I wrote a sweet poem in blood.

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The words dug in my flesh.

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This hilltop rising from the banks of the currents of time, I bow to one knee only

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and surrender to the wild wind. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick in knee and

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my eye, blind me to the light of day. Stallion of the wind, I need you and you need me.

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Thus there is one thing we can agree, without you there is no me.

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Silence.

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For nine days I slept in the loft, and mom and norpaw ever noticed. It's Sam you kept watch over

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me. And when finally baby birds seemed none too frightened, I came out with my fingers crossed

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for nine long months. And I never saw that rat again. The rose bushes were not trimmed that

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following day, after he had taken that second step in the grave. Over the following weeks,

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Book watched the mound of dirt gradually settle, in tiny blades at brilliant green grass in search

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of sun and the light of day, leaving dark secrets amongst the roots, until he could be sure the wild

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one was another of the long lost and forgotten, eaten by the worms, nameless. And only then

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did Book turn and walk away.

