Scribe

132 Pages·2018·0.7 MB·English

by  Alyson Hagy

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