Dust and ashes though I am, I sleep the sleep of angels. Most nights nothing wakes me, not til I'm ready. But my sleep was ragged that night and pierced in the morning by someone calling to me in fear. A voice hissing, urgent, through the grille, "Father, are you in there?" "Carter?" Even in a grog, I knew this voice well. "What's the matter?" "A drowned man in the river. Down at West Fields. I--I was down at the river to see about clearing a tree that's fallen across it. A man there in the water, pushed up against the tree like a rag, Father." "Is he dead?" "Dead as anything I've ever seen." I'd slept that night on the low stool of the confession booth with my cheek against the oak. A troubled night's sleep, very far from the angels. Now I stood and pushed my skirts as flat as they'd go. Outside looked dark; it could have been any time of night or early morning, and my hands and feet were rigid with cold. Excerpted from The Western Wind by Samantha Harvey All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
