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Hardcover
First published September 10, 2026
We knew our worth. We could count our value. We seemed to stand in a new field of brightness. Great strangeness becoming clearer, vale by vale. Because, before they had gone up like a volcano, we had reached that audience. With what though? What in the wide earth was it? A sense that some power unknown might enter us in the singing of an old song, a torn thing we owned from long ago, like the dirty straw on our pallets, the few oft-used things, tin cup, prized needle, old working boots. All the objects of the old quarters that everyone remembered but never spoke of. Unless you were a Minnie, made free as a baby so never knowing such things–depending which version of her history she was telling you. We had given life to songs like those same half-remembered things, and found nesting in their poor meshes a little smiling god.
The heart. The heart pondering as good as the head. Rosalee. Love like that. My feeling for my two old soldiers, Thomas and John–and even Lige. Though now I was a reader of books I could see something amiss there. Many books talked of bondage. The Bible, the very book he had given me, was full of it too. Yes. But there was also Winona, an innocent person. My dealings with her, the stray talking, the time spent shooting the breeze. Her care for me. The long days of work, of course, but I had been able for it, I had had the arms, the strong neck–the heart for it. Yes. My mother. All on that small farm outside Paris, somewhere that was nowhere, in Henry County, of no account. Its people washed up there by accident–even old Luther. That turmoil of longing was in my heart because where those people abided was where I had belonged. And all that was lost and I knew as I made my way home that there was no home. All the old things, my days in the world, even the eyes I had seen them with, were gone for ever. I knew it. I missed it all with an illness that had no cure. There was no bottle of miraculous cure-all I saw advertised in the Nashville newspaper. Poor Odysseus. Who was a noble king and the son of a god and I was not like that, but I was like him in this one hard thing. The longing. The sickness of returning home. My sister. Not just the mirror of my heart but maybe the maker too. On our crazy walk to kill the killer of our mother. Through the dark trees. Like little cougars in the dark underwood. She so brave, so certain. Me trembling. My sister Rosalee. Do you understand? More important to me far than life itself, even than this new life in Nashville, where George and Minnie were, and the silly reverend. The lawyer Briscoe sundered me from my home place so he could save my life. But my life was not so important really. The bonds that bound us to others were life more truly. Without them, I hardly knew what I was. .