Part 10 (2/2)

”Up there,” he repeated after her, adding: ”I knowed that, but forgot.”

”What and where is Sunlight Patch? Twice you've spoken of it.”

”Hit's a cabin 'n' a clarin',” he answered simply, ”back in the mountings. I war borned thar--there; all of we-uns war born there.”

”An odd name,” she mused, although she knew odd names were typical of the mountains.

”Not when ye know how-c.u.m-hit,” he said. ”Hit war called that-a-way by a preacher onct. Yeou see, Miss Jane, my sister war born blind--leastways, the fu'st thing they knowed of hit she war blind. Thar war four of us brats in the cabin, two brothers older'n me who got shot, 'n' her. I war the kid, ye mought say, 'n' when I war mighty small some-un took her off ter the blind school in the settlements. She only come back 'bout two year ago, 'n' fetched some blind books they'd give her.”

”What were the books?” Jane softly asked, touched by the picture of that poverty she had so well known.

”The New Testament,” he answered. ”Thar war five big books of that.

Then she had four big-uns of a feller named d.i.c.kens--'The Tale of Two Cities,' that war. But what I liked most war the three wrote by a Cooper feller--he warn't no kin ter our Coopers, Ruth says--called 'The Last of the Mohigans.' That Injun, Uncas, war a man, I tell yeou! Thar war some poetry I liked mighty well, too. Ruth says all of 'em wouldn't take up so much room, if 'twarn't fer the blind writin'.”

”Do you remember much of those books?” she asked.

”'Member much! Why, I know 'em purty nigh off by heart! That's how-c.u.m I kin talk so good--when I stop to think. By repeatin' arter her I know the alphabet, the multiplication table, mental 'rithmetic up ter long dervision, some history, 'n' some g'ography--but I hain't never seed a map, nor writin'. Her books is writ in blind.”

”I think you have learned a great deal,” she smiled at him.

”Hit hain't nuthin' ter what I'm goin' ter larn,” he declared. ”But moh'n what I've told ye, even, I larned from her readin'. Yeou see, Miss Jane, she uster read ter ever'body who'd come, 'n' hit got so arter 'while--'specially Sundays--that folks 'd walk or ride ter our place from as fur as twenty mile ter listen, jest like they war comin' ter a singin', till the clarin' 'd be plumb full. They'd listen, 'n' watch her fingers slip over them raised letters, 'n' keep a-listenin' till plumb dark afore thinkin' 'bout goin' home. 'N' arter dark, too; 'cause ter her the darkness didn't make no diff'ence. 'N' sometimes, with jest the stars 'n' black trees 'round us up thar on the mounting side, hit seemed right quar ter see folks a-settin' on the gra.s.s, 'n' her voice comin'

outen the night like one of them prophets what maybe she war a-readin'

'bout. Yeou see,” his voice a.s.sumed a mystic, whispery tone, ”she never knowed when hit war night, 'n' the people wouldn't tell her, nur make a move till she quit--beant hit even mawnin'. Arter readin', she'd talk awhile; tellin' 'em things they'd orter do, 'n' things they'd orten't.

'N' onct she clean busted up a feud by makin' two ole fellers shake han's. That caught the preacher's eye. When he heern tell of hit, he called our cabin Sunlight Patch, 'n' said she war the sloc.u.m--'n' the name's done stuck.”

He paused; absently, almost unconsciously raising his fingers to brush back the long hair. And when she gently encouraged him to continue, he looked at her with another smile of grateful acknowledgment.

”I won't ever fergit that day, I reckon. She war settin' in the doh as usual, 'n' on the step nigh her feet war ole Ben French 'n' Leister Mann--two of the hatin'est fellers in our parts. But they'd wanted ter come so bad that both sides compacted ter leave thar weepons behind.

This day she seemed ter be readin' stronger'n afore, 'n' she talked moh like she war a-seein' things--I mean sure 'nough things; 'n' arter 'while the folks begun ter rock 'n' moan. They believe ter this day that the Lawd give her sight back fer a minit then, 'cause she reached down 'n' took ole Ben's hand in one of hern, 'n' ole Leister's in t'other'n, 'n' asked 'em ter shake. They'd been settin' thar a-cryin' afore that, so they shook friendly, 'n' all the fellers in the clarin' they shook, too; 'n' the wimmin folks on both sides crossed over 'n' made up. That's how-c.u.m-hit.”

”I don't remember those men,” she murmured. ”Leaders of that feud changed so quickly and so often! It lasted a long time, didn't it!”

”Hit did, that! The fu'st I ever knowed thar war sich a thing war when they brought Pappy home daid,” he looked down at the ground. ”I war only a leetle brat, then, but ole Granny busted out a-wailin', 'n' put his rifle in my han's, 'n' tetched my face with his blood, 'n'--but yeou know how our people takes the oath; 'n' ye know hit hain't no nice oath.” She shuddered, but the mountaineer continued: ”Wall, she done all that, 'n' made me say arter her the things I wisht 'd strike me daid if I didn't git the fellers what had got him. Then one day, from up in the rocks, she p'inted 'em out, so'd I know 'em. One got drowned takin' a raft down ter Frankfo't--he fell off jest arter I shot. 'N' t'other-un I didn't git fer a long time. I ketched him--”

”Don't tell me any more, Dale,” she pleaded. ”I know you must have ketched him.”

”Wall,” he mused, ”'twusn't right ter make no leetle feller take a oath like that, Miss Jane--'n' I moughtn't a-done hit, 'cept fer not knowin'

no better. I wouldn't be tellin' ye, neither, but Ruth said ye'd want ter know afore takin' me in school. She says folks in the settlemints is awful tetchy 'bout killin' folks.”

”We'll pa.s.s the feud. Tell me how you happened to come here?”

”A circuit rider come through our parts one day, 'n' tol' us 'bout yo'

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