Scribe PDF
Preview Scribe
Scribe Also by Alyson Hagy Novels Boleto Snow, Ashes Keeneland Stories Ghosts of Wyoming Graveyard of the Atlantic Hardware River Madonna on Her Back Scribe A Novel Alyson Hagy Graywolf Press Copyright © 2018 by Alyson Hagy The author and Graywolf Press have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify Graywolf Press at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy. This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and through grants from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota. Significant support has also been provided by Target, the McKnight Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks. Published by Graywolf Press 250 Third Avenue North, Suite 600 Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401 All rights reserved. www.graywolfpress.org Published in the United States of America ISBN 978-1-55597-818-1 Ebook ISBN 978-1-55597-869-3 2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1 First Graywolf Printing, 2018 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018934486 Cover design: Kimberly Glyder Cover art: June Glasson, J. S. For Mandy Hoy, who struck the spark Scribe Salutations The dogs circled the house all night, crying out, hunting. She knew they were calling to her. Beckoning. Working their churn. The world she lived in had become a gospel of disturbances, and the dogs wouldn’t let her forget that. In the morning, before she had even gone to the springhouse for milk, she saw a man waiting at the foot of her garden. It was how they did. Summer had spun away from them all. The creek banks were whiskered with a nickel-shine frost, and she could smell the cooking fires laid down by the ones who called themselves the Uninvited. Pig fat and smoke. Scorched corn. There were more people at the camp every week, staking out tarps, drying fish seined from the river. They were drawn to her fields at the end of their seasonal migrations because of what had happened there some years before, because of their beliefs. She did not know if they planned to stay for the winter. The man’s clothes were rust-rimmed and deflated. He wore a battered straw hat. Those who wanted something from her arrived at the brick house above the creek—the Doctor’s House they called it, a remnant from her father’s time—and waited for her, always alone. She didn’t care for ceremony, but ceremony was what they needed. Their silent arrival was part of a code they passed among themselves. It was the same for the Brubaker woman who prepared the bodies of the dead and the man from Jack’s Mountain who was known to hoard crystals of salt. The dogs began to gather. The swift brindle one, then the fawn bitch, then the rat catcher with its long, shredded ears. There were only three this time. Each bore fresh wounds. The fawn bitch, blood threaded through its eager saliva, leaned hard against her knees. It was a disrespectful habit, one that couldn’t be tolerated. Animals and neighbors had to be taught their limits. She struck the bitch on the ribs with her wooden staff. The bitch yelped and went to its haunches, but it didn’t leave her. None of them did. She raised her palm and signaled to the man. You are welcome at my home, she signed. It’s the time of barter and trade. The man showed neither a pistol nor a blade. He had put his weapons
Description:The list of books you might like
