The Song of the Mockingbird

The sounds grew louder, closer, and more distinct as my heart pounded in my chest. I was convinced that whoever was upon me could hear my heart throbbing just as I heard it in my own ears. I could see nothing. The campfire I had made the night before had long since dwindled to hot coals then to ashes. In a flash, I knew I was surrounded. The darkness shrouded those by whom I was encompassed, whether man or beast. With no time to think and no ability to control my reflex, I was on my feet groping all around me in an attempt to strike at the ominous beings. “Welcome to our little party, Jeb Carter,” the man said laughingly in a sarcastic tone. “We’ve been lookin’ forward to this for a long time. We hope you appreciate our hospitality.” I didn’t answer. I was too sick to even try to engage in a confrontation with anybody who spoke to me with a demeaning attitude. How did they know my name? What were they after? It was early in the construction of the house that I decided I would no longer tolerate admiring Elizabeth from a distance and being tormented and taunted by her amorous expressions. I wanted more than anything to hold her in my arms, to lavish her with kisses, to tell her all my hidden feelings for her and to drink in her sweet devotions. I was obsessed with her beauty and simplicity, her maturity and childishness, her tirelessness and her playfulness. “I would have no reason for wanting to hurt you like this. I’m only telling you so you won’t make the mistake of marrying Elizabeth.”