"Kennedy, Leigh - Belling Martha" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kennedy Leigh)

Belling Martha
by Leigh Kennedy


Martha was looking for her daddy.

By the time she saw the lights of the cabins on the stark hillsides outside the gates of Austin, she'd nearly forgotten her goal. Especially as she knew not to travel by road, it had been enough to survive one hill, the next, and then another Е

She sniffed the frigid wind blowing toward her from the notorious stove vents of those who lived just outside the city.

Someone was roasting human flesh in their fire.

The thin leather boots issued by the Central Texas Christian Reform Camp were scant protection for slogging through two feet of snow. Breaking the icy crust had made her shins sore, even through her jeans. Wind flapped her sleeves and collar and battered her ears until a dull ache throbbed through her skull. She'd stopped three times on the way from Smithville to build a fire and revive her feet, and sleep a bit.

The aroma quickened her progress. It had been a long time since Martha had smelled that particular odor. The biscuits and apples she'd carried with herЧstolen from the camp kitchenЧhad long ago been eaten.

The closer she struggled toward home and warmth, the more stinging the dry snow felt. Gradually, she could discern details of the cabin she'd spent most of her life inЧthe heavy drapes at the window, the flat boulder that she used to perch on while she watched her father chop wood, the daub patches on the east wall.

Wise enough not to approach the house from the road, where stray travelers, legal or not, were watched with interest, she came upon the rear door. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

"Daddy?"

The house had changed only a littleЧdifferent colors and smells; she noticed that her small bed was gone from beside the fireplace. On the stone of the hearth, a cracked head and shoulder lay with its hair stiff and awry. Strips of flesh hung from hooks above the fireplace, and a kettle bubbled on the high grate above the fire. The meat smelled old. It was apparently not a kill, but probably a body tossed out the gates because there was no one to pay for a burial inside the city.

She heard a sound behind her.

"Dad Е" she said, turning.

A woman was poised toward Martha, holding a garrotting wire in her hands. Martha stepped back and knew as she spoke that she was imitating the cool of her father's manner. "Hey, neighbor," she said.

The woman's eyes narrowed. She was still ready to strike. Martha would have to work fast to get out of the situation if the woman was a Crazy.

"Neighbor?" the woman repeated.

"What are you doing in my house?" Martha said.

The woman smiled wryly. "Like hell yours, kid. I live here."

Now Martha speculated. It had been over a year since her father's last letter had reached her at the camp. Could it be that he'd found himself a companion? "With my daddy?" she asked.

"Don't think so," the woman said. Her hands lowered a bit. "Not unless the old fella hasn't told me all."

"My daddy's Harry Jim Skill."

"Well, then, your daddy ain't here," the woman said irritably. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

'Looking for myЧ"

"Yeah, okay," the woman said. She unwound the wire from her hands and stuffed it into her pocket. "He didn't teach you a bit of sense, did he? If you're really neighbors with folks like us, I'll let you go. Go on now!"