The Burning Gift

Revised Prologue

THE BURNING GIFT

 

A NOVEL

 

By Marjorie Kaye

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PART ONE:

THE LIFE AND DEATH

OF BERNARD BAKER

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

Ohio Woods, Dec. 24, 1900

            Are we lost? Stella peered through a clot of leaves and knotted vines.  The lolling branches signaling the narrow path hewn by the others beckoned, but lay out of reach. Shaking her head in disgust, she chopped and hacked at a tangled mass piled high and thick—leaves and vines held tight by twigs and fallen branches. With each swing, the wall’s leaves shook and the branches jerked, threatening to rebound and knock her off her feet.  She dodged its blows and kept at it until a sigh escaped the center. Was it giving way? Please, be quick. Wedging the  handle, she straightened her arms, pulling in one direction, then the other. A whine came from the dry leaves—you can’t be serious.

            The wind…never mind—keep going!  She twisted the handle under a thick branch, praying that it was all that kept the wall from collapsing. Her frozen hands were clumsy in the heavy gloves, and her thumbs slipped before she adjusted to the feel, letting them slide and come to rest. She ignored the pain in her arms; the pain would have its due when Becka was home.  From the pines that stood near by, the wind caught clumps of snow, flinging them on her coat, and knitted cap. A chortle blew in her ear—the vines and leaves whispering—what folly—Stella the fool—you think you can catch them now?  She answered with her fist and the end of her ax.  Groaning, the wall collapsed—oh God, thank you. A portion leaned and swung to the side.  Relief—the obstruction was now waist high on one side—maybe she could slide… Ah! Needles on sticks caught her coat, threatening to hold her. Thought you’d get away—we’ll see… No! She lifted up her boot and kicked down, yanking at the restraints. Oh God at last!  It gave way just enough.

             As she inched back onto the path, the wind resumed its torment. Spiraling mists of new snow blinded her. No—save your strength, keep up—find her before… The men’s voices were growing even fainter. Too much for a woman your age the sheriff had warned.  He was mistaken.

Urging her on, the buckeyes began to nod.  The arctic wind had rushed down from Canada, slamming ships that sailed the restless Lake Erie--pushing through the frozen Ohio woods.  Layers of wool protected her but slowed her pace–hard to keep up. Was Becka warm?  Oh God—let her be warm! Think—think of something else!  She banished the image of Becka’s frozen body...Arthur and peppermints—he’s slipping peppermints into stockings, Mary Kate’s new doll, blocks—the alphabet blocks for Phil…the ring—the pearl’s gray eye—what does it truly see? 

Under her glove, she wore the pearl ring—Becka’s gift. “To Stella Bella from Becka,” the box said.  For years the ring sat on Mrs. Collin’s bureau—a gift from Davy.  Despite its clumsy setting, the prongs gripping like small fingers, the pearl’s pattern—she never missed a chance to…Becka knew... what did Becka give her for it? The old lady loved to bargain…Branches waved above her head, her mind tore away—the sunlight fading.  It would be dark soon.

            Hope! The hounds were baying!  Her heart’s pounding in her ears caught the sound of the pack—the cries pulsed through her veins. No! The clearing disappeared and her path blocked again—she was gaining—Becka! Shifting sideways, she pushed on, ignoring the tangles of brush. Finally—a clearing—smoke in the distance—less than a mile. Smack!---a branch caught her face. Pain as a thorn pierced her forehead—blood trickling, freezing before it reached the scarf hiding her trembling jaw.  They had been searching for seven hours, not stopping for food or resting more than a minute or so—an eternity.

Becka—where are you?  Sleeping Beauty?  The forest of thorns…the most exciting part of the story.  Mother’s worn face, softened by the lamp as she read to Stella and her brother.  She knew the Lord would take her mother within the year— like she’d known about her father’s death---long before the horse had thrown him.

The dogs kept howling and her arms flailed as she stumbled in her haste to reach them.  Someone caught her arm.  It was Bobbo.  As he pulled her to her feet, she searched her brother’s face. Was there hope?  His eyes told nothing. “Up ahead” he said, “shake a leg”.  Rifle in hand,  he ran towards the hounds, his long legs covering twice the distance of hers as she scrambled—her frozen feet uncertain when they touched the ground. Closer—there were fir trees bent over a cabin.  It looked like a mound of earth and piled leaves, but there was a door--light escaping from its edges.  Smoke was rising from the mound’s center.  They had found her!  Becka was alive... please, God… She began to shake as she slowed her pace. Go home. Whatever is in there…let the sheriff take care of it.  Men were breaking through the door.

She rushed toward the cabin; a crack echoed. A falling branch?  No—a shot.  The echo fading, she heard slaps—like the sound of a leather strap hitting a hard surface, then a crow cawing—it was swooping down as if to crash into the mound, then spinning up into the heavy clouds.  A wail sounded from within the cabin…someone moaning.  Arthur!  Her breath came in short gasps when Bobbo blocked the doorway.  He gripped her shoulder.  She knew she must see--whatever the cost.  Her hands numb with the cold, she removed a glove, dropping it on the dirt floor, her calloused fingers closed on his wrist.

 “Bobbo, it’s our Becka.  Let me pass.”

 Tears clung to his sandy lashes.  She was uncertain as he dropped his arm. As she passed under the rotting wood of the cabin’s doorsill, her eyes adjusted to the candlelight. A clutter of tools and old newspapers rested on the floor next to a crude wooden table, its uneven legs causing an upward slant, the shimmering candles capturing their repose.  Rotting food—graying chunks of meat and greenish bread lay strewn like a hideous accident, the stench of death rising from it. Fearing she might faint, she put her hand over her nose and mouth.

She steadied herself and saw the four deputies clustered together, their glances skipping from her to the table.  Arthur sat on a bench near the four men. His hands cupped the sides of his head, as small whines and gasps came—his shoulders moving up and down. She thought of little Phil—he sounds like Phil, the time Phil tumbled off the wagon … something on the far corner of the table—a  round piece of reddish meat larger than the rest—fresh and so moist, occasional drops of ...?

 She looked again.  A heart—a pig’s-- she was certain. Her feet were waking up—the warmth was painful.  Where was Becka?  She looked at the sheriff, the question on her face.  He avoided her glance. Then slowly, Stella looked down. ..

  

Reviews

[Creepy Swine Guy]

The description felt a smidge heavy at first (1 or 2 paragraphs) but then your prologue came into sharp focus. Once that happened, I was fully invested. The prologue did what I believe is it's job, which is to reach out grab the reader by both lapels and yank him/her into the story.

[Oxonian]

Strong intro. Harrowing overtones of things to come. Needs concentration and that I like. You bring out the intrigue that I hope makes readers just want to know where this is going. Great start.