Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang Read Online Free PDF Page A

David found himself blessing his grandfather for his purchase of Selnick's equipment, which had come with detailed instructions for making artificial placentas as well as nearly completed work on computer programs for synthetic amniotic fluids. When David had gone to talk to Selnick about the equipment, Selnick had insisted—madly, David had thought at the time—that he take everything or nothing. "You'll see," he had said wildly. "You'll see." The following week he had hanged himself, and the equipment was on its way to the Virginia valley.
           They worked and slept in the lab, leaving only for meals. The winter rains gave way to spring rains, and a new softness was in the air.
           David was leaving the cafeteria, his mind on the work in the lab, when he felt a tug on his arm. It was his mother. He hadn't seen her for weeks, and would have brushed past her with a quick hello if she hadn't stopped him. She looked strange, childlike. He turned from her to stare out the window, waiting for her to release his arm.
           "Celia's coming home," she said softly. "She's well, she says."
           David felt frozen; he continued to stare out the window seeing nothing. "Where is she now?" He listened to the rustle of cheap paper and when it seemed that his mother was not going to answer him, he wheeled about. "Whe re is she?"
           "Miami," she said finally, after scanning the two pages. "It's postmarked Miami, I think. It's over two weeks old. Dated May 28. She never got any of our mail." She pressed the letter into David's hand. Tears overflowed her eyes, and heedless of them she walked away.
           David didn't read the letter until his mother had left the cafeteria. I was in Colombia for a while, eight months, I think. And I got a touch of the bug that nobody wants to name. The writing was spindly and uncertain. She was not well then. He looked for Walt.
           "I have to go get her. She can't walk in on that gang at the Wiston place."
           "You know you can't leave now."
           "It isn't a question of can or can't. I have to."
           Walt studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "How will you get there and back? No gas. You know we don't dare use any for anything but the harvest."
           "I know," David said impatiently. "I'll take Mike and the cart. I can stay on the back roads with Mike." He knew that Walt was calculating, as he had done, the time involved, and he felt his face tightening, his hands clenching. Walt simply nodded. "I'll leave as soon as it's light in the morning." Again Walt nodded. "Thanks," David said suddenly. He meant for not arguing with him, for not pointing out what both already knew—that there was no way of knowing how long he would have to wait for Celia, that she might never make it to the farm.
           Three miles from the Wiston farm, David unhitched the cart and hid it in thick underbrush. He swept over the tracks where he had left the dirt road, and then led Mike into the woods. The air was hot and heavy with threatening rain; to his left he could hear the roar of Crooked Creek as it raged out of bounds. The ground was spongy and he walked carefully, not wanting to sink to his knees in the treacherous mud here in the lowlands. The Wiston farm always had been flood-prone; it enriched the soil, Grandfather Wiston had claimed, not willing to damn nature for its periodic rampages. "God didn't mean for this piece of ground to have to bear year after year after year," he said. "Comes a time when the earth needs a rest, same as you and me. We'll let it be this year, give it some clover when the ground dries out."
           David started to climb, still leading Mike, who whinnied softly at him now and again. "Just to the knob, boy," David said quietly. "Then you can rest and eat meadow grass until she gets here."
           Grandfather Wiston had taken him to the knob once, when David was