Hard Red Spring Read Online Free

those dead ancestors roamed their woods, sabotaging their farm. Death had just become a more powerful stage of life, the boundary between the two so fluid that anyone could pass from one to the other. If her family wasn’t careful, they could wake up dead one day and not even know the difference.
    Mother’s patience for Father’s European stories wore thin quickly. She had never been to Europe and blamed Father for not taking her.
    â€œEurope’s played out, Robert,” she reminded him, with the phrase he often used on her. “And Evie, sit like a lady. That’s enough geography for today. Maybe we should discuss a plan. How are we going to harvest the cochineal this week?”
    â€œWe won’t,” Father declared, twirling a pencil. “We’ll wait until next week.”
    â€œWhat if it’s still ashing next week? We’re cutting it close as it is with the rains.”
    The rains, which had come early last year, had drowned half of Father’s cochineal crop. Judas later told Evie that an old Indian woman had been in the cave, praying for early rains.
    â€œIt won’t be ashing next week,” he said, with a confidence that put Evie’s mind at ease. She did not understand much about her father’s cochineal, but she knew that if this year’s crop failed, they would be finished. The cochineal was hard work, but it didn’t last long. The planting, tending, and harvest only took three months. The rest of the year, Father grew different kinds of wheat. Wheat was what he really cared about, that was his grand experiment, but he had to harvest the cochineal once a year to fund his agricultural endeavors. Once harvested and dried, the bugs were worth more than their weight in coffee.
    But so many things could go wrong. For their first crop, Father had not known to keep his workers from the religious festival in town. They all disappeared, tricked into accepting advances from coffee planters while drunk—an obligation they either had to flee or work off on the plantations on the other side of the volcano. Father could not find enough replacements in time, and two-thirds of the bugs were lost.
    Evie’s father knew how the world worked and, barring two failedcochineal harvests, the world generally worked in his favor. He navigated the compelling dramas, like the mudslides, the beheadings, and even this volcano, with a confidence to rival Ixna’s. So instead of worrying, Father announced a game with his magnifying glass. He held the glass up. “I can see everything,” he declared, blinking his giant blue eye.
    â€œCan you hold it up and see the volcano with it?”
    â€œNo, Evie. It’s not for big things you always see, but little things you never see.”
    They held the magnifying glass up to Magellan, the bird. Father had named him, but Evie would be responsible for taking care of him. This was the first job given to her at the farm, and she took it very seriously. In addition to freeing his crammed tail feathers so they extended out of the crate, she had placed a dish of water near him, along with some dinner scraps.
    â€œIxna says she’s made out of corn,” Evie said. “She told me last week that all Indians are made out of corn. Can we see if that’s true?”
    â€œCorn!” Father declared. “Ixna, is this true?”
    From her cross-legged position on the floor, Ixna nodded, determined to be bored despite the incredible drama of the day. She did not have to sit like a lady. In fact, she refused to sit in chairs at all.
    â€œWell, let’s see.” Father crossed the room and politely asked for Ixna’s hand. She gave it, feigning disinterest, but after a moment she, too, leaned in to see the landscape of her own skin. Her fingerprints, like Father’s topographical maps, curved into parallel lines, coming to a point, to a summit, at the tips.
    â€œI sure don’t see any corn.” He