The Turtle Boy: Peregrine's Tale by Kealan Patrick Burke Read Free Book Online Page B

heel of
her tattered gray slipper. Frightened, the boy followed her gaze
but saw nothing he deemed worthy of such intense focus.
    He spoke; she ignored him.
    He wept; she was silent.
    A newspaper sat folded on the table,
with only the word 'MURDER!' visible above a grainy photograph and
lines of tiny print. On the stove, the pots and pans were cold, the
customary smell of bacon and eggs absent from the air. There was
only the smell of woodsmoke as the embers of last night's fire
hissed and spat, as if to assure the curious that there was life in
its ashen bones yet.
    Beyond the window, low purplish clouds
rolled over the woods, rumbling. A flock of Canadian geese honked
their way across the bruised pallet of the sky, plowing forth
through a strengthening wind as lightning made dark veins of the
trees.
    Peregrine swallowed, panic clawing its
way up his throat. "Mom?"
    She didn't answer. He was beginning to
feel as if he'd woken up in a strange house, or a nightmare. He
wished for the latter, because all nightmares had to end
eventually.
    His mother hadn't combed her hair—a
lapse in her strict daily routine that only reinforced his unease.
Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, as if she hadn't slept. A part of
him he had to struggle to ignore wondered if she was dead, if she
had seen him to bed last night then come downstairs to sit in her
favorite chair and die. She had certainly been quiet and sad enough
over the past few weeks, ever since The Man left. Maybe the sadness
had stopped her heart?
    The mere thought of such a thing
almost stopped his own.
    Gently, so as not to startle her if
she was simply lost in a fanciful daydream, he put his slim fingers
on the arm of her chair, pausing when the pressure made it creak
forward a notch. He hoped the movement wouldn't hurt her heel,
braced as it was against the runner. Breath held, he drew close
enough to her to notice that only the faintest scent of perfume
lingered on her skin. Another ritual missed. She always squirted
some on her neck just before she made him breakfast. Eggs and
bacon, usually. Sometimes waffles, if he had done something to make
her proud.
    But there were no waffles this
morning, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd made his
mother proud, couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile.
Ever since The Man left, slamming the door and leaving only a waft
of whiskey, cigarettes, and sweat in the air behind him, she hadn't
been herself.
    Peregrine had done everything he could
think of to cheer her up, but nothing worked. As the days passed
and The Man didn't return, her face grew so tight and pinched he
gave up trying to make her smile for fear it would split like an
overripe melon.
    The chair creaked again and his heart
leapt. He leaned closer, listening for the reassuring sound of her
breathing, then gently, gently, pressed his ear to her
chest.
    When he didn't hear the slightest
sound, he almost screamed, but before the horror could claw its way
out, a dull thud sounded and he lunged forward, forgetting his
concern for his mother's foot in favor of confirming what he hoped
and prayed he'd heard.
    Thudump .
    He smiled.
    Thudump .
    Allowed himself to breathe.
    Thudump .
    "Mom?" he whispered and drew back to
look into her wan face.
    She was no longer watching
the wall. Her eyes had found him. He was almost overwhelmed with
relief. She's alive .
    "Mom?"
    Her eyes were still glassy, but at
least she'd shown some sign that she could see him. She was not a
ghost, after all.
    "Mom?" he said again, wishing more
than anything that she would answer, even if only to tell him to
shut up. "Can you hear me?"
    But to his disappointment, she
frowned, just a little, and her gaze returned to the
wall.
    I should call a
doctor , Peregrine realized. She's sick. There's something wrong with her. Why
won't she talk?
    Although she hadn't spoken much at all
after The Man walked out, she had at least moved and said a word
here and there to him. She had continued to make him