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Kristin Camitta Zimet Appalachian Heritage, Volume 24, Number 3, Summer 1996, p. 33 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1996.0062 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436673/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:08 GMT from JHU Libraries crying. The boy opened his eyes, moaned, then shivered. She held him, tried to warm him with his own chilled body. The strong smell of dead fish and mud was on them both. "Momma, it's cold," James said. William took a bottle from his pocket and gave James a drink of rum, then held it to Elizabeth's lips. The rich liquid—not like butterscotch at all, but like fire—burned away the bitter taste of canal water, scorch- ing her throat and stomach until she felt heated within. He cupped her face in his warm hands. "You did a wondrous thing, my brave girl. Now, you must get by the fire, quick." He took James from her and carried him uphill in the cold rain, his bad leg bowing out. They would make it, she, her husband and son. She felt their good fortune and God's mercy like the fire inside her. She lifted her chin and followed William
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 2014
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