THE LONGEST NIGHT
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779
I prepare the wheat field in spring, turning the soil. The day I plant the seed is cool and wet. The sky and the river are the same shade of gray.
Scar gives a snort in his sleep and I start awake. Or at least I think I do—I must have been asleep if I can’t remember my thoughts.
It’s late. The sky is black, with no hint of dawn’s glow. How can it still not be morning? This has got to be the longest night of my life.
I wiggle closer to Scar. Though my face and chest blaze hotter than the fire end of a flip-dog, I am frozen to the bone. And this dark, endless night makes me feel even colder. Thanks be to God that the burn in my belly has become more of a dull, faraway ache. Perhaps this means I’m beginning to mend. Or perhaps I’m just used to the pain.
I settle in and listen to the whistling of Scar’s breathing. I wish I could hear his story. It’s Scar’s turn to bore me into release from this place.
I try to bring Eliza Little’s face into my head, but I can’t. I toss things about in my memory, searching for her. I see the rock where we first sat together. I see the pines along the path where it curves down toward our farm. I even see her worn moccasins. But not her … I cannot see her.