Free Sanctuary by Gary D. Svee

licked at the wood as though savoring the taste. Mary moved the rocker over to the table and invited the preacher and Judd to sit down.
    Then she bustled around the stove, arranging cookies on a plate and carrying them over to the table.
    â€œDon’t wait for me,” she said, offering the cookies. “You start and I’ll catch up in a minute.”
    The preacher took one and passed the plate to Judd. The boy shook his head, trying still to be as inconspicuous as possible.
    â€œTake one,” the preacher whispered. “You’ll hurt her feelings if you don’t.”
    The boy tentatively took one cookie and hid it beneath the table.
    â€œTry it,” Mordecai whispered again. “They’re good.” He punctuated his words by taking a half-moon bite from his own.
    The boy studied him for a moment, and then lifted his cookie and bit off a corner. The cookie was crunchy and sweet and good—really good. He stuffed the rest of it into his mouth and reached for another.
    The preacher put his hand on Judd’s. “Slowly.”
    Mary sat down, waiting for the teakettle to whistle. “What city land is this, and what do you need it for … for what do you need it?” she corrected herself.
    â€œWant to put in a garden down by the dump,” the preacher said. “Make a farmer of the boy here.”
    Mary studied Judd. Her first impression was the ragged state of the boy’s clothing, and the second was his eyes, black and impervious as the obsidian his people once used for arrow points.
    â€œWhere do you go to school, Judd?” she asked.
    Judd turned his eyes to the preacher, hoping Mordecai would speak on his behalf. But the preacher was silent.
    â€œHe speaks English, doesn’t he?” Mary asked.
    â€œSometimes,” Mordecai said.
    â€œWhere do you go to school, Judd?”
    â€œDon’t,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œNo school for us.”
    â€œNo school for Indians?”
    â€œNo school for sinners,” Judd whispered, his voice tight as his face.
    â€œWhy are you a sinner?” Mary asked, her voice soft as the rustle of aspen leaves in a spring breeze.
    â€œThe people are heathens,” Judd explained, laying his shame before the teacher. “I am of the people.”
    Rage flared across Mary’s face, hotter even than the fire in the stove.
    â€œHow could you do that to him?” she hissed, fixing the preacher with a withering stare. “How could you teach him something so—so hateful?”
    The preacher threw up his arms and leaned back from the force of her words. “I—”
    Judd interrupted, “Not the preacher …”
    As quickly as Mary’s temper flared, it changed direction.
    â€œThat ugly little man,” she said through gritted teeth. “I should have known. It was the Reverend Eli, wasn’t it?”
    Judd nodded.
    Mary stood so fast her chair almost tipped over backwards. She stalked back and forth across the room, her face black with anger.
    â€œThat … that man!” Mary hissed. “There is no limit to the hate he spews around him.”
    â€œHe is a man of the cloth,” Mordecai said.
    Mary turned to glare at the preacher. “He may be a man of the cloth, but he is not a man of God.”
    â€œThere is a difference?”
    â€œThere is a difference.” Mary sighed, the anger draining from her. “I didn’t mean that as any reflection on you.”
    Then her temper flared again. “How could he do such a hateful thing to this boy?”
    Mordecai shrugged. “Maybe a better question is how could he so control a woman like you?”
    â€œControl me?” Mary raged. “He doesn’t control me.”
    â€œHe isn’t even here,” the preacher replied, “and still you’re dancing on his string.”
    Mary glared at the preacher and then sighed.