laid aside their empty mugs, nestled deeper into their bedrolls. Like a family around the hearth after harvest day, Elisha thought.
“Exodus seems fitting for this evening. A long journey through a dark land—yes?” Professor Tiffin swallowed a sip of water and cleared his throat.
He read about the wilderness of Sin and manna from Heaven, about the murmurings against Moses and water from the rock. About rest on the Sabbath, and war against the Amalekites. About Jethro and Aaron and Zipporah, Gershom and Eliezer. Elisha closed his eyes, overcome by a pleasant fatigue. He felt soothed by the tale’s familiarity.
But as Professor Tiffin read on the boy’s mood soured. It frustrated him—for why should he feel unhappy, here at the country’s edge with a scientist and surveyor and a strange, lovely woman? He was surrounded by beauty and nature’s rarest mysteries. He half-expected to awaken and find it all a dream. Then Elisha recognized the sour feeling as homesickness.
There had been many such nights, before his mother’s illness: firelight, murmured Scripture, raindrops tapping at the windowpanes. But after she fell ill the house quieted. Evenings passed in silence, Elisha and his father drifting like spirits through the empty rooms, startled by one another’s glimpsed presence. His mother was shut away in the bedroom, too weak even to see her son. Her cough pulled time forward in a sickening lurch.
Elisha spent his days at the creek behind the parsonage, at a willow-shaded bend thick with pollen and mudminnows. Afternoons, he walked to Joseph Eliot’s dry goods shop and purchased a penny’s weight of boiled sugar. He loitered at the candy counter until the man stepped into the storeroom; then the boy stuffed a carrot of tobacco into his trousers and hurried from the shop. At home, he huddled behind the chicken house and pulled the tobacco into shreds, set the fragments alight and watched them burn. He felt dull and vacant, lifeless, like a sleepwalker moving through an empty town.
One afternoon Elisha waited until Eliot turned away, then he leaned across the counter and palmed a bone-handled Barlow knife. As he reached the shop’s door a man said, “Son?” Joseph Eliot was standing at the storeroom entrance holding an empty coffee sack. He approached the boy and pried open Elisha’s hand, scowled at the knife.
“I’m very sorry. It’s for my mother.”
The man moved as if to speak; then he clamped his mouth shut.
“She’s very ill.”
“I know she is.” Joseph Eliot gripped the boy’s shoulder and steered him out the door. “You get along home now. Get.”
Three days later Elisha was back at the shop. Eliot watched him with an expression that was equal parts irritation and sorrow. Elisha dawdled at the candy barrel. He asked for a half-penny of licorice, then spilled a fistful of coins across the plank floor. The man knelt with a sigh, and as he did Elisha snatched up a yellow silk hatband and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Joseph Eliot rose and slowly untied his apron. He took Elisha by the elbow and led him from the shop, then across the town green. The boy’s limbs felt numb. He could not form a thought.
Reverend Stone was a long time answering Eliot’s knock. When he opened the door his hair was disheveled and collar unbuttoned, his thumb stuck into a thick volume:
The Old Curiosity Shop.
He had been reading to her. Joseph Eliot said, “I apologize very sincerely, Reverend Stone. However we have a matter to discuss.”
In a nervous mumble Eliot explained what he had seen: the Barlow knife, the yellow silk hatband, the carrots of tobacco gone missing whenever Elisha visited the shop. Reverend Stone nodded, his expressionless gaze moving from Eliot to his son, then back to Eliot. At last he said, “Thank you, Mr. Eliot. Truly.” He ushered Elisha inside and closed the door.
He stood with his hand on the door latch. He looked anxious but exhausted, his red-rimmed eyes searching
“Exodus seems fitting for this evening. A long journey through a dark land—yes?” Professor Tiffin swallowed a sip of water and cleared his throat.
He read about the wilderness of Sin and manna from Heaven, about the murmurings against Moses and water from the rock. About rest on the Sabbath, and war against the Amalekites. About Jethro and Aaron and Zipporah, Gershom and Eliezer. Elisha closed his eyes, overcome by a pleasant fatigue. He felt soothed by the tale’s familiarity.
But as Professor Tiffin read on the boy’s mood soured. It frustrated him—for why should he feel unhappy, here at the country’s edge with a scientist and surveyor and a strange, lovely woman? He was surrounded by beauty and nature’s rarest mysteries. He half-expected to awaken and find it all a dream. Then Elisha recognized the sour feeling as homesickness.
There had been many such nights, before his mother’s illness: firelight, murmured Scripture, raindrops tapping at the windowpanes. But after she fell ill the house quieted. Evenings passed in silence, Elisha and his father drifting like spirits through the empty rooms, startled by one another’s glimpsed presence. His mother was shut away in the bedroom, too weak even to see her son. Her cough pulled time forward in a sickening lurch.
Elisha spent his days at the creek behind the parsonage, at a willow-shaded bend thick with pollen and mudminnows. Afternoons, he walked to Joseph Eliot’s dry goods shop and purchased a penny’s weight of boiled sugar. He loitered at the candy counter until the man stepped into the storeroom; then the boy stuffed a carrot of tobacco into his trousers and hurried from the shop. At home, he huddled behind the chicken house and pulled the tobacco into shreds, set the fragments alight and watched them burn. He felt dull and vacant, lifeless, like a sleepwalker moving through an empty town.
One afternoon Elisha waited until Eliot turned away, then he leaned across the counter and palmed a bone-handled Barlow knife. As he reached the shop’s door a man said, “Son?” Joseph Eliot was standing at the storeroom entrance holding an empty coffee sack. He approached the boy and pried open Elisha’s hand, scowled at the knife.
“I’m very sorry. It’s for my mother.”
The man moved as if to speak; then he clamped his mouth shut.
“She’s very ill.”
“I know she is.” Joseph Eliot gripped the boy’s shoulder and steered him out the door. “You get along home now. Get.”
Three days later Elisha was back at the shop. Eliot watched him with an expression that was equal parts irritation and sorrow. Elisha dawdled at the candy barrel. He asked for a half-penny of licorice, then spilled a fistful of coins across the plank floor. The man knelt with a sigh, and as he did Elisha snatched up a yellow silk hatband and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. Joseph Eliot rose and slowly untied his apron. He took Elisha by the elbow and led him from the shop, then across the town green. The boy’s limbs felt numb. He could not form a thought.
Reverend Stone was a long time answering Eliot’s knock. When he opened the door his hair was disheveled and collar unbuttoned, his thumb stuck into a thick volume:
The Old Curiosity Shop.
He had been reading to her. Joseph Eliot said, “I apologize very sincerely, Reverend Stone. However we have a matter to discuss.”
In a nervous mumble Eliot explained what he had seen: the Barlow knife, the yellow silk hatband, the carrots of tobacco gone missing whenever Elisha visited the shop. Reverend Stone nodded, his expressionless gaze moving from Eliot to his son, then back to Eliot. At last he said, “Thank you, Mr. Eliot. Truly.” He ushered Elisha inside and closed the door.
He stood with his hand on the door latch. He looked anxious but exhausted, his red-rimmed eyes searching
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