once more, and the younger man let go of his corner of the flimsy fabric and the dance was over.
The older one wiped the Reverend's handkerchief across his own perspiring forehead. He held it out before his face and inspected it. The black initials— J. W. W: John Wesley Watson— hung in the air. The man nodded in confident affirmation, although of what the Reverend could not know. Then the fellow let out a high, happy cry of triumph.
Baffling people, Grace thought as she watched the man stuff the handkerchief into one of his many pouches. As he did so, she noticed something that equally surprised her: hanging from the dirty, embroidered sack was another strip of cloth that appeared to be made of the same fine linen as her husband's handkerchief. Thin and gray from use, the edge of this other piece of fabric looked identical to the one the man's thick hands stuffed inside now.
The Reverend appeared mesmerized by this sight, too, although he did not seem concerned about the coincidence. His face remained steely and firm until Grace noticed the slight twitching of his eyebrow, a tic from his boyhood whenever self-doubt captured him. The older bandit pulled the red string on the pouch. He let out a long, satisfied sound, then looked directly at the Reverend and pointed, his eyes fierce and sure.
The Reverend suddenly whipped around and shouted at Grace. "Go, woman, get inside with Wesley and lock the doors!"
Grace heard her husband's words and wanted to obey, but her arms wouldn't let go of his sleeve. He pried her fingers off and pushed her toward the cottage. With effort, Grace finally began to move.
"Run, Grace, run!" the Reverend yelled again.
Clutching Wesley to her chest, she hurried up the rocky path in the direction of the cottage. She heard Mai Lin screaming to her from the porch. It was a harebrained plan. She could not possibly escape two men on horseback. But Grace tried anyway, her fingers digging into her son's small body to keep him close. As she approached, she called out to Mai Lin to open the door.
"Gentlemen," she heard her husband behind her plead, "take this very fine watch. Sell it for many cows."
The older one shouted orders. Grace turned back, and it wasn't the gold watch she saw held in the air but a sword aloft in the older man's hand and pointed in her direction. The younger man threw himself onto his horse and rode hard toward her. Grace stumbled over the rough ground toward the cottage, but she did not fall.
Mai Lin called, "Here, Mistress, come!"
Behind Grace, the Reverend instructed her to press onward, too. But as she did, she was in such a state of confusion, she could no longer tell who was yelling what, and then it no longer mattered— none of it mattered. She might as well have been standing still, for the young man barely slowed his horse as he swooped down over her. He grabbed Wesley's arm and pulled. The boy held on to her neck for as long as he could. He cried out as his mother and the bandit fought over him. But finally, the barbarian stopped toying with Grace and simply yanked her son away.
She would never forget how easily Wesley was lost to her, as if to show that these men could have done it at any moment all along. They could take whatever they pleased. And what they wanted was not her but the child.
"My son!" she screamed.
The robber turned his horse and rode away across the flat land with her baby in his arms. The older man let out a loud cry, too, as he whipped his horse away. Grace chased after them. She ran until the frantic noise in her ears became unbearable. She tried to press on through it, but finally she bent over to catch her breath and crumpled onto the hard dirt. Her hands gripped her belly, and she squeezed shut her eyes and saw blackness. A quick prayer passed through her mind for the unborn child in her belly. She opened her eyes again and through
The older one wiped the Reverend's handkerchief across his own perspiring forehead. He held it out before his face and inspected it. The black initials— J. W. W: John Wesley Watson— hung in the air. The man nodded in confident affirmation, although of what the Reverend could not know. Then the fellow let out a high, happy cry of triumph.
Baffling people, Grace thought as she watched the man stuff the handkerchief into one of his many pouches. As he did so, she noticed something that equally surprised her: hanging from the dirty, embroidered sack was another strip of cloth that appeared to be made of the same fine linen as her husband's handkerchief. Thin and gray from use, the edge of this other piece of fabric looked identical to the one the man's thick hands stuffed inside now.
The Reverend appeared mesmerized by this sight, too, although he did not seem concerned about the coincidence. His face remained steely and firm until Grace noticed the slight twitching of his eyebrow, a tic from his boyhood whenever self-doubt captured him. The older bandit pulled the red string on the pouch. He let out a long, satisfied sound, then looked directly at the Reverend and pointed, his eyes fierce and sure.
The Reverend suddenly whipped around and shouted at Grace. "Go, woman, get inside with Wesley and lock the doors!"
Grace heard her husband's words and wanted to obey, but her arms wouldn't let go of his sleeve. He pried her fingers off and pushed her toward the cottage. With effort, Grace finally began to move.
"Run, Grace, run!" the Reverend yelled again.
Clutching Wesley to her chest, she hurried up the rocky path in the direction of the cottage. She heard Mai Lin screaming to her from the porch. It was a harebrained plan. She could not possibly escape two men on horseback. But Grace tried anyway, her fingers digging into her son's small body to keep him close. As she approached, she called out to Mai Lin to open the door.
"Gentlemen," she heard her husband behind her plead, "take this very fine watch. Sell it for many cows."
The older one shouted orders. Grace turned back, and it wasn't the gold watch she saw held in the air but a sword aloft in the older man's hand and pointed in her direction. The younger man threw himself onto his horse and rode hard toward her. Grace stumbled over the rough ground toward the cottage, but she did not fall.
Mai Lin called, "Here, Mistress, come!"
Behind Grace, the Reverend instructed her to press onward, too. But as she did, she was in such a state of confusion, she could no longer tell who was yelling what, and then it no longer mattered— none of it mattered. She might as well have been standing still, for the young man barely slowed his horse as he swooped down over her. He grabbed Wesley's arm and pulled. The boy held on to her neck for as long as he could. He cried out as his mother and the bandit fought over him. But finally, the barbarian stopped toying with Grace and simply yanked her son away.
She would never forget how easily Wesley was lost to her, as if to show that these men could have done it at any moment all along. They could take whatever they pleased. And what they wanted was not her but the child.
"My son!" she screamed.
The robber turned his horse and rode away across the flat land with her baby in his arms. The older man let out a loud cry, too, as he whipped his horse away. Grace chased after them. She ran until the frantic noise in her ears became unbearable. She tried to press on through it, but finally she bent over to catch her breath and crumpled onto the hard dirt. Her hands gripped her belly, and she squeezed shut her eyes and saw blackness. A quick prayer passed through her mind for the unborn child in her belly. She opened her eyes again and through