He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking of that white house on those red acres he would give her one day. He could see it so clearly in his memory, the house as it had been in years past, the rows of cotton starred over with white, that red land his parents had worked so long to have, had worked so long to give him—it would be theirs one day. No one would stop him from touching that dream again, no one would stop him from giving that home to Elise, and to the children they would have, no matter the fight he might have to go through to have it, no matter the struggle—he was long accustomed to struggle anyway, and it did not frighten him. There were few things in life that could frighten him anymore.
The train clacked and swayed over the tracks, the conductor announcing when they crossed the state line into Alabama, and Janson felt Elise’s hand tighten over his, though she did not turn her face to him—they were almost home now, almost home. He stared past her and out the window, seeing the red land grow more familiar by the minute, the rolling hills more known, and his soul ached for sight of the land that would be his again one day—theirs, when he could at last make the dream a reality again, the dream that had burned inside of him for the past year, the dream that had burned inside his father all his life. He would not be taking Elise to a life like the one she had always known, but he would make her happy. They had each other, and they would be together. There would be children, many years ahead to spend with her and to make a family—and that land and home when the time came, the home he would give her, the home he would give their children, the land that would be his again one day. He had not been defeated, no more than had any of the people whose blood flowed in his veins. No man could be defeated if he held to a dream.
An obscure Bible verse rose in his memory, something he had heard his mother say, or his grandmother, and he tried for a moment to remember the remainder of the passage . . .
And, when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him.
And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. . . .
Janson Sanders stared out the window of the train at land growing only more familiar by the moment.
The dreamer was coming home.
About the Author
Charlotte Miller was born in Roanoke, Alabama, in 1959, and has never lived outside the South. She began writing her Sanders family trilogy while a student at Auburn University, where she received a degree in business administration. Today, she works as a certified public accountant to pay the bills, and writes late into the night because she must. Behold, This Dreamer (2000), Through a Glass, Darkly (2001), and There Is a River (2002) complete her multi-generational saga of the agricultural and cotton mill South. One of her short stories, “An Alabama Christmas,” was included in the bestselling 1999 regional collection, Ordinary & Sacred As Blood: Alabama Women Speak. She is a member of the Georgia Writers and the National League of American Pen Women. She lives in Opelika, Alabama, and has one son, Justin.
To learn more about Charlotte Miller and Behold, This Dreamer, visit www.newsouthbooks.com/behold-this-dreamer.
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