Valhalla by Newton Thornburg Read Free Book Online Page A

would be more to his taste.
    The animal was not much in the way of game, he knew. But it was a kill. It was food. So he was feeling better about himself and his chances as he started out again. He planned to move in a circular direction, keeping in view a lone sycamore that soared above the trees near the point where he had hung the animal. Within a few minutes, however, he came upon a road, a twin-rutted lane curving through the woods. A quarter mile farther on, the lane doglegged sharply and he found himself facing a small old Ozark stone house sitting in a clearing bordered by a run-down rail fence. Behind the house was an unpaintedpole barn and an outhouse that leaned precariously against a tree. The grass was overgrown everywhere and piles of leaves stretched across the front porch of the house, blocking the doorway. So he approached the place openly, with his rifle still on safety. Kicking the leaves away from the door, he went on inside, into a living room that was fetid and dust covered. A lacework of spiderwebs linked the furnishings, which consisted of a broken-down sofa, a bed without a mattress, a couple of chairs, and an old potbellied stove. On the wall hung a 1978 calendar, a broken mirror, and a framed photograph of a smiling Richard Nixon. A second room was empty, but the third, the kitchen, was a virtual treasure trove, with a dinette set, a few dishes and silverware, and an old glass butter churn—in addition to a sink with a hand pump.
    Stone tried the pump but got nothing until he primed it with water from his canteen, and then he heard the welcome sucking sound as the piston caught water and lifted it. A clear fount spilled into the sink. Stone cupped his hand and drank, not surprised to find the water cold and sweet. Continuing his winner’s streak, he went out the back way and tried a pair of hatchlike doors leading to the cellar. As he stooped to enter, an effluvium of rot rose from the tiny room and he turned on his flashlight, immediately picking out the cause of the odor—two bushel baskets full of moldy potatoes. Above them, hidden under dust and cobwebs, he saw three shelves of Mason jars. Only after he began rubbing the dust off them did he realize what they contained—tomatoes and tomato juice, applesauce and corn. He almost yelped with joy, and indeed did bump his head as he hurried out of the low-ceilinged room carrying some of his find, which he quickly opened and scarfed, the best corn and applesauce he had ever eaten. He washed itdown with tomato juice and then recapped all three jars and left them in the kitchen, for later, when he returned with the others.
    Feeling now like a Columbus, a Coronado, he went on outside and looked through the barn, but turned up nothing except dust and old hay. He checked out the privy and found it dirty but serviceable. Then he wandered out to the ridge at the back of the property, drawn there because he could see nothing beyond it except sky. He came to the edge of the ridge and saw below him a creek meandering back in the direction he had come. And suddenly he knew exactly where he was—on the top of that far bluff which he had seen from the creek bend, where Eve and Jagger and Eddie still were. Even as this occurred to him, he realized he was looking right at the bend now, and picking out the figures there, all three of them. Then it struck him that the colors were wrong, the movements were wrong. He raised his binoculars and frantically adjusted the lenses, until the figures leaped up at him—Eve lying on her back on the ground, holding up one hand as though to fend off the man leaning over her, a young black dude dressed like a skier in a Day-Glo red jacket and stocking cap, and shaking his hand at her, as if he were scolding or threatening her. Behind him, a second youth, lighter, with an Afro hairstyle, was crouched over one of Eve’s suitcases, throwing the contents every which way. Jagger and Eddie were not in sight.
    Stone was over a mile