Scattered Seeds Read Free Page A

we’ve already suffered some measure of that witch’s wrath. I canny imagine the calamity that would befall us if it left our hands entirely.”
    Henry stared at the pouch on his lap, knowing it contained the answer to his prayers, something that could solve everything . . . if he could sell it. Owning something so valuable—and so completely unsellable—seemed to be a curse of its own.
    “It’s aboveground now. Mayhap our luck will change.”
    “It’s my hope that wi’ that torc in new hands, we have a fresh start. Now hide it in your bundle and try to look like there’s naught in there but worse tatters than ye’re wearing.” He slid his hand under Henry’s armpit to pull him to his feet. “Keep your ears and eyes open.”
    Henry followed him up the bank, his arms aching from pressing the bundle against his chest. “Where are we going? West?”
    “Aye.”
    “To Connaught?” Most of the poorest folk lived there.
    “A bit farther west than that. We’re going to the New World.”

Chapter 2
    The New World. The words reverberated in Henry’s thoughts as he trudged behind his father on the path ascending Sheriff’s Mountain. His mind teemed with questions he longed to ask, but sound carried far on still mornings. He tightened his grip on the bundle and held his tongue.
    Some of their neighbors already sailed to Philadelphia, his Uncle William among them.
    John MacFarlane’s cousin, Alexander, wrote letters from the Province of Pennsylvania, and since none of his intended recipients could read, they often asked Henry to oblige them. Henry never minded the favor. The MacFarlanes always fed him, and their house was grand, thanks to the coins Alexander sent with his missives. Besides, Alexander’s letters were chock-full of adventures from the wilderness, where he traded with the Indians and operated a clandestine gunsmithing business. Alexander never failed to beg his relatives to join him, assuring them that across the sea, a man could prosper.
    “Filthy today, Henry,” Father whispered as they crested Sheriff’s Mountain.
    Henry peered around the older man’s shoulder. Along the River Foyle below, Derry’s spires thrust up through a blanket of soot. The river was prickly with masts, the ships’ bellies bloated with unfortunate souls desperate for a better life.
    His stomach lurched. He didn’t know the cost of full fare to the Colonies, but he was sure his father didn’t have it. The hearth tax and tithes had likely robbed them of their last savings. They would have to enter into indentures, which meant selling themselves into slavery. Before the day was over, they would be chattels. Things. Things with a witch’s gold torc.
    The stench of the city assaulted him before their feet touched the cobblestones on Bogg Road. Most of Derry’s inhabitants still lazed in their beds, leaving the streets eerily quiet despite the city’s size.
    A cur, their only company, skulked ahead of them. It lifted its leg along the city wall, then trotted off into an orchard.
    Henry heard muffled voices and looked up. Two soldiers in crimson coats leaned over a bulwark wall next to a cannon barrel.
    Lobsterbacks.
    They glared, and he instinctively lowered his gaze.
    “Keep walking,” Father whispered.
    Henry caught the first noises of the quay. Frenzied gulls sounded like a thousand laughing children. Barrels and chains knocked and rattled, and captains and first mates barked orders in strange tongues.
    They passed through Shipquay Gate into the walled city, where women augmented the pervading stench by emptying chamber pots and buckets of dirty water into the gutters. In contrast to the city’s filth, the shops flanking Shipquay Street were well maintained and wedged between fine Georgian houses.
    Inside one of them, a bakery, a woman looked up from kneading dough and smiled at them.
    Henry’s mouth watered. “Imagine a slice of fresh—”
    A man leapt from a narrow side street. “Here’s an interesting