The Kept by James Scott Read Free Book Online Page A

feet slammed on the floor. His vision blurred, and when he coughed it felt like he spit flames. He clutched his mother, fighting to pull her along with him, the heat so intense, so close, that he thought they wouldn’t make it.
    The air from outside slipped in the open front door, bracing and new, and it brought life to his lungs. He leaned back and dug his heels into the floorboards, and soon enough he lay gasping in the snow, his mother half on top of him. When the tears cleared from his eyes, he was surprised to find the fire more docile. It was sure to swallow the house, but now seemed like the milk snake he’d seen eat a mouse in the barn: content to finish its job, but in no great hurry.
    Caleb thought of the Ithaca and his father’s rifle sitting in the kitchen next to the door, and his mother’s bag beside the coatrack. They would need them. He allowed himself a prayer—he thought of his mother, said her name, so that maybe God would listen—asking that the wind wouldn’t pick up in the short time he would be inside. He pulled his scarf back over his mouth and nose. The doorframe held. The heat leeched all the moisture from his skin and lungs, leaving behind an aching dryness. He wrapped his hands in his sleeves so he could touch the hot metal and threw the weapons out into the snow, along with an old coat of Jorah’s, his mother’s bag and jacket, a pot, a pan, a bag of oats and one of cornmeal, and a few blankets.
    The wind resumed and the fire screamed with approval. His prayer hadn’t been answered. He threw himself out the door. As he turned over, shimmying away from the inferno, he heard a frenzied hooting. An owl emerged from the small triangular gap above the door, and swooped through the smoke. Then another. The windows cracked like gunshots.
    His mother lay where he’d left her. He wadded his shirt and tucked it beneath her head, and sat in the snow, shivering. He placed the back of his hand on her forehead. The snow seemed to have brought her fever down, but he knew he couldn’t leave her exposed for long.
    Half of the house collapsed. The living room bent outward, then flattened altogether, sparks exploding into the sky like fireflies. Sheets of ash, borne by the wind, their edges glowing orange, floated away like demonic leaves. The flames found the kitchen, and he watched the table withstand the onslaught through the darkening windows and the open door. His head filled with the impossible wish for the table to survive. At that moment, another owl burst forth. As it took flight, its wings beat frantically against the flames blooming from its feathers. He stood and watched it careen through the smoke-filled air, flying erratically in uneven spurts, the light consuming its body, until it dropped and landed in the snow with a hiss.

C HAPTER 4
    T he morning sun, as if recalling the fire, scalded the sky with bright oranges and reds. His mother lay inert next to him, bundled tightly in the few blankets he’d saved. The chill, however, seemed to have done her good; her face appeared less pallid and translucent, more solid. Caleb dripped some water onto her lips and she drank until she coughed and he turned her head so she didn’t choke.
    He threw aside the canvas he’d hoisted to protect them from the elements to find that a few inches of crisp, granulated snow had fallen in his brief sleep. He put on Jorah’s coat, which came to his knees, and he had to roll the sleeves in order to see his hands. The smell of smoke clung to everything and thickened his tongue. He hacked and spat an evil black stain onto the new powder. The house smoldered and popped. Caleb refused to look in the direction of his siblings, not yet ready to see what the flames had left.
    The barn door still wouldn’t budge. They didn’t keep any shovels in the house; they were all in the barn as Caleb would be first to wake in the morning and, if the snow was deep enough—he would leap from the opening to the loft, first