farm road connected to some other road downhill and another after that, to the valley and the railroad and coal country. He must feed himself and move on, quickly.
The sun edged closer to the hill. A breeze came up. The old lady appeared, visited the outhouse, split a little kindling rather handily with a hatchet, and went back inside.A few minutes later smoke puffed from the chimney.
Lucky was put out; probably interfering with supper preparations. He sniffed around the yard and backtracked uphill the way theyâd all come, bristling when he came to where Phin had turned around. He raised his head and woofed several times, staring hard in the wrong direction. The breeze was coming uphill from the yard, not downhill toward the dog. After a while, with a sort of huff, Lucky turned to other business.
Now Abby came out with a pail. She reached through the barn door and took down a faded blue army coat, buttoned it over her clothes, and walked out to the cow. By clenching his fist and looking at her through the smallest opening he could make, Phin brought her into focus; a small person with regular, determined features, pretty in an unextravagant way. He couldnât tell if she was his age or a little older. She seemed like someone who had come into her looks and wouldnât change much from now on.
Down on one knee in the grass, she pressed her forehead against the cowâs flank. Phin imagined the milk filling the pailâwhite, sweet smelling, warm, and frothy. He could take it, drink it all down. How could she stop him?
Lucky could probably stop him.
After milking, she set the pail aside, pulled up the stake,and moved the cow to fresh grass, tempting her along with a treatâsomething white, a piece of bread maybe, or a slice of turnip. Phin wanted it, whatever it was. He wanted the cow, too. His thoughts ran on pickled beef and beef tea and steak and stewâ¦.
Abby carried the pail back, pausing to hang the coat up. She hugged herself briefly as the cool air struck her. Phin wished she hadnât. Heâd managed to ignore the growing cold. The sun had set, taking the warmth with it.
Abby went into the house and came out wrapped in a shawl. She sat on the bench by the door and took a sock on four needles out of her apron pocket, spread a book open beside her, and bent, reading fiercely, as if this was the moment sheâd waited for all day. She knitted, too. Phin saw the moment when it was shawl fringe instead of sock yarn that her busy fingers worked. She only noticed when the shawl began to pull at her neck. Then she tugged the fringe loose impatiently and crushed the sock in her lap, reading on.
Phin wanted the shawl and what was cooking in the kitchen. He wanted the book, too. What was it? Had he read it? He wanted to look over her shoulder. He wanted her to go inside and leave it on the bench.
Lucky scrounged around the foundations, sniffing for mice.
Tender little morsels, miceâ
Finally the mother came out to the front step. A brief exchange; Phin couldnât hear it, but it was perfectly clear. Abby wanted to read more. Her mother thought it was too dark. Besides, supper was ready.
They put on gloves and carried the wilting blackberry canes into the barn. What were they doing? Phin wondered. Those plants wouldnât live now with the roots dried outâ
But blackberry root bark was an infallible cure for diarrhea. Theyâd been harvesting medicine on the hill, he realized, the way people did at home.
The house door shut behind them. Phin slid out of the tree. Time to make his move.
16
P HIN A GAIN
F irst he drank from the brook. Then Phin walked down the farm road through the deepening shadows. The horse lifted her head as he passed.
He climbed the wall that divided yard from field, and crossed silently to the garden. It was near the end of the house, overlooked by two dark windows. The house seemed cold and lonely at this end.
But at the corner where house and barn
The sun edged closer to the hill. A breeze came up. The old lady appeared, visited the outhouse, split a little kindling rather handily with a hatchet, and went back inside.A few minutes later smoke puffed from the chimney.
Lucky was put out; probably interfering with supper preparations. He sniffed around the yard and backtracked uphill the way theyâd all come, bristling when he came to where Phin had turned around. He raised his head and woofed several times, staring hard in the wrong direction. The breeze was coming uphill from the yard, not downhill toward the dog. After a while, with a sort of huff, Lucky turned to other business.
Now Abby came out with a pail. She reached through the barn door and took down a faded blue army coat, buttoned it over her clothes, and walked out to the cow. By clenching his fist and looking at her through the smallest opening he could make, Phin brought her into focus; a small person with regular, determined features, pretty in an unextravagant way. He couldnât tell if she was his age or a little older. She seemed like someone who had come into her looks and wouldnât change much from now on.
Down on one knee in the grass, she pressed her forehead against the cowâs flank. Phin imagined the milk filling the pailâwhite, sweet smelling, warm, and frothy. He could take it, drink it all down. How could she stop him?
Lucky could probably stop him.
After milking, she set the pail aside, pulled up the stake,and moved the cow to fresh grass, tempting her along with a treatâsomething white, a piece of bread maybe, or a slice of turnip. Phin wanted it, whatever it was. He wanted the cow, too. His thoughts ran on pickled beef and beef tea and steak and stewâ¦.
Abby carried the pail back, pausing to hang the coat up. She hugged herself briefly as the cool air struck her. Phin wished she hadnât. Heâd managed to ignore the growing cold. The sun had set, taking the warmth with it.
Abby went into the house and came out wrapped in a shawl. She sat on the bench by the door and took a sock on four needles out of her apron pocket, spread a book open beside her, and bent, reading fiercely, as if this was the moment sheâd waited for all day. She knitted, too. Phin saw the moment when it was shawl fringe instead of sock yarn that her busy fingers worked. She only noticed when the shawl began to pull at her neck. Then she tugged the fringe loose impatiently and crushed the sock in her lap, reading on.
Phin wanted the shawl and what was cooking in the kitchen. He wanted the book, too. What was it? Had he read it? He wanted to look over her shoulder. He wanted her to go inside and leave it on the bench.
Lucky scrounged around the foundations, sniffing for mice.
Tender little morsels, miceâ
Finally the mother came out to the front step. A brief exchange; Phin couldnât hear it, but it was perfectly clear. Abby wanted to read more. Her mother thought it was too dark. Besides, supper was ready.
They put on gloves and carried the wilting blackberry canes into the barn. What were they doing? Phin wondered. Those plants wouldnât live now with the roots dried outâ
But blackberry root bark was an infallible cure for diarrhea. Theyâd been harvesting medicine on the hill, he realized, the way people did at home.
The house door shut behind them. Phin slid out of the tree. Time to make his move.
16
P HIN A GAIN
F irst he drank from the brook. Then Phin walked down the farm road through the deepening shadows. The horse lifted her head as he passed.
He climbed the wall that divided yard from field, and crossed silently to the garden. It was near the end of the house, overlooked by two dark windows. The house seemed cold and lonely at this end.
But at the corner where house and barn
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