Song Yet Sung by James McBride Read Free Book Online Page B

rose, searched among the thickets for an elm tree that had thick, twine-like branches. She pulled off two live stout ones, grabbed some smaller branches, and fastened a flexible one to a thick one, spinning one around the other, round and round until the thick branch coiled like a snake, then uncoiled by itself. She placed the thick branch under the teeth of the device and the coiled branch beneath it. She bent the branch back, and when she released it, the teeth of the trap opened slightly, just enough so that she could place another branch between the teeth, and yank the child’s foot out.
    The boy roared in pain, the sound of his cries echoing off the trees and into the dank, shrouded forest beyond where her eyes could see.
    â€”Shush now, she said nervously, looking around. Shush. You’ll give us up.
    The boy howled and howled, the sound of his pitiful cries connecting to each other like locking rings, clanging through the swamp like a brass band, the howls bouncing from tree to tree, vine to vine, rousting birds from their nests, unfurling muskrats from their holes, sending clouds of angry mosquitoes buzzing up from standing water; whippoorwills joined in, ospreys, ducks, geese, mallards fluttered into the air; the wading birds, sandpipers, sanderling, willet, black-bellied plover, ruddy turnstone, dowitcher, and glossy ibis appeared, splashed in and out of the water as they galloped away. The entire swamp roared to life around them, as if his cries had summoned all living creatures of the Chesapeake into action.
    Liz frantically cast about for something, anything to calm him. She hastily dashed around the marsh, wandering several hundred yards away, until she found a sassafras bush. She dropped to her knees, dug at the bottom of it, clawing with her fingers, pulled out several roots, and hastily washed them off in the creek. The child continued to howl loudly. Even at the creek, a distance of several hundred yards away, it sounded close at hand, pressing the immediacy of the child’s agony on everything.
    She trotted back to the thicket. She approached the howling boy, gently lifted his head, and thrust the tangy, bitter-tasting root into his mouth. The boy bit down and choked a bit, then chewed, mercifully silent. His big eyes locked in on hers. She grasped his hand and stroked his forehead. His tiny fingers clung to her hand tightly. He stared at her with deep gratefulness.
    â€”You ought to check yourself before you give me thanks, she said. You ain’t in no better shape now than you was five minutes ago.
    The boy whimpered in muted pain, both hands locked around her arm now, his tiny, pitiful hands not large enough to encircle her arm. She gently pulled him closer and he locked his arms around her neck. He smelled terrible.
    â€”Good God, she said. I can’t stand you.
    With a grunt, she stood, holding his thin body, and staggered over to the nearby creek. She sat at the bank, formed a cup shape with her hands, and made him drink. He lapped like a dog, expertly, from her hands. She cleansed his wounded foot and he howled again. She placed a finger to her mouth to shush him and the boy did not obey, so she covered his mouth with her hand to silence him. He seemed to understand.
    â€”That’s better, she said. She gently lowered him into the water so that the creek flowed over him. She washed him as he cried softly, bitterly, and then regarded his foot closely. It was badly mangled. You need a doctor or some kind of healer woman, she said. I can’t do much with this.
    With great effort, she lifted him and took him back into the thicket, out of sight. She sat down, Indian fashion, cradling his head, drying him with a portion of her ragged skirt. She was exhausted and hungry, the effort of bathing him having taken what little strength she had left. Now that he was clean, he howled again, pitifully, his cries echoing into the treetops around them.
    â€”You got to shush, she said,