The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton)

The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) by R. B. Chesterton Read Free Book Online

Book: The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) by R. B. Chesterton Read Free Book Online
Authors: R. B. Chesterton
Tags: Fiction, General, Thrillers
knew plenty of attractive men. The problem was that I liked him. Bitter experience had taught me that men were dangerous. Some lessons were so painful, they didn’t bear repeating.
    Patrick’s flirtations, and the love Bonnie felt for Thoreau, had awakened a longing in me I’d thought my high school experience had bludgeoned to death. Joe’s smile, the way his dark hair swept over his eye. Would his kiss be gentle or demanding? My body responded, and while I was afraid, I was also enthralled.
    Such thoughts unsettled me, and I pushed them to the back of my mind and spent the hours writing, and reading. Comparing and contrasting Thoreau’s written words with Bonnie’s journals left me in a fluctuating state about Henry. Why had he failed to acknowledge my ancestor as an important part of his life? Did he even know of her burning desire for a child? What Bonnie revealed in her journal and what she told her partner could be two different things. Women weren’t always truthful about their needs.
    I couldn’t judge Thoreau knowing only one side of the story. It was possible he was selfish, that he didn’t care what Bonnie wanted or needed. I’d learned that truth when I was sixteen. But I refused to tar Thoreau with the same brush I’d used for Bryson Cappett, former classmate and heir apparent of the New England Cappetts. He’d been a brutal teacher in the expectations of love and lust.
    Pushing aside my personal past, I put my focus for the day on recreating the 1850s and the life and rhythms of Concord. I’d read extensively about the time period and the area. If I closed my eyes I could visualize the gathering of the intellectuals and the discussions held in various parlors around town.
    Emerson’s emphasis on “trust thyself ” flew in the face of the church, which demanded that sinners trust God. In the 1850s, self-reliance sounded like heresy to the religious. Self-reliance was something I’d learned early on, and perhaps it was one of the long tentacles that drew me to the Transcendentalists.
    There was no God in the Kentucky where I grew up. At least not around my family. They lured the weak-minded and the helpless into their web of dependence, lining out the crushed oxy for a snort until the victim was truly hooked. Then the price went up and enslavement began. I’d seen a lot of people harvested by the Cahill clan. I still had nightmares about some of the events I’d witnessed.
    Eventually, my thoughts were so depressing and the rain outside so cold and relentless, I decided to call it a night. I sipped a small glass of merlot and warmed my feet in front of the fire before sliding beneath the quilts and letting the amnesia of sleep take me.
    Come morning, the weather had not improved. The relentless storm made my head throb. I worked sporadically for most of the day, but with little to show for my efforts. At last, I took three aspirin and climbed beneath the quilts and hid from the lightning and thunder.
    The second night of the long rain I dreamed of my family, the ones still living in the Kentucky hills and hollers, and those long departed. The whalers. The men who took to the ocean in a tiny sailboat and brought back a mammal nearly the size of their ship. In my watery dreams, I heard the clicking of the whales and watched their amazing grace as they spun and circled, unaware that my kin meant to kill them.
    And then I was one of the whales, a calf seeking my mother. I saw her, blood streaming from the harpoons, the ropes pulling her away.
    I woke up briny. Sweating and crying. The emotion of the dream choked me as surely as the salt water of the ocean would have filled my lungs. It took a long time to calm my breathing and slow my heartbeat.
    Vivid dreams had always haunted me, but I didn’t need to study Jung to realize this last one was fraught with symbolism and personal pain. Like as not, I would never get over my mother’s death and my father’s abandonment. He didn’t leave, physically,

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