Music Welcome to Snewscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us on Snewscast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a crisp, tang in the air. Tonight, we'll read the opening to an edited version of John Steinbeck's Cup of Gold, a 1929 historical fiction novel based loosely on the life and death of 17th century privateer Henry Morgan. The piece begins in a small Welsh valley where winter arrives with a biting chill, setting the stage for reflections within the Morgan household. Young Henry, yearning for adventure,

listens eagerly to the tales of David,

a former farmhand turned seafarer

who returns from the Indies.

As Henry contemplates leaving home to seek his own path,

his father, Robert, reflects on the inevitability of letting him go.

Let's get cozy. Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now take a few deep breaths. And after noon, the wind sifted out of the black Welsh glens, crying notice that winter was come sliding down over the world from the pole. In Riverward there was a faint moaning of new ice.

It was a sad day, a day of gray unrest, of discontent. The gentle moving air seemed to be celebrating the loss of some gay thing with a soft tender elegy. But in the pastures, great workhorses nervously stamped their feet, and all through the country small brown birds, in clicks of four or five, flew twittering from tree to tree and back again, seeking and calling in recruits for their southing. A few goats clambered to the tops of high-loan rocks and long-stared upward with their yellow eyes and sniffed the heavens. The afternoon passed slowly,

percession-like, with an end of evening, and on the heels of the evening an excited wind rushed out, rustled in the dry grasses, and fled whimpering across the fields. Night drew down like a black cow, and holy winter sent his nuncio to Wales. Beside the high road which lined the valley, ran up through a cleft in the hills, and so out into the world. There stood an ancient farmhouse built of heavy stones

and thatched. The Morgan who had built it played against time and nearly one. Inside the house a fire was burning on the hearth, An iron kettle hung over the blaze, And a black iron hid in the coals, Which fell about the edges of the flame. The brisk fire light glinted on the tips of long handled pikes And racks upon the walls. Weapons unused in the hundred years since Morgan clamored in Glendowers' ranks, and trembled with rage at the flinty lines before him. The wide brass bindings of a great chest, which stood in a corner, sucked in the light and glowed resplendently. Papers there were in the chest and parchments, and stiff untanned skins written in English and Latin and the old cumbrac tongue. Morgan was born, Morgan was married, Morgan became a knight, Morgan was hanged. Here lay the history of the house, shameful and glorious, but the family was few now, and little enough likely to add records to the chest other than the simple chronicle. Morgan was born and died. There was old Robert, for instance, sitting in his high back chair, sitting and smiling into the fire. His smile was perplexity and a strange, passive defiance. He would have said he sought to make that fate which was responsible for his being a little ashamed of itself by smiling at it. Often he wearily considered his existence, ringed around with little defeats. It was strange to Old Robert that he, who knew so much more than his neighbors, who had pondered so endlessly, should be not even a good farmer. Sometimes he imagined he understood too many things ever to do anything well. And so old Robert sipped the burned ale of his own experimenting and smiled into the fire. His wife would be whispering excuses for him, he knew. And the laborers in the fields removed their hats to Morgan, not to Robert. Even his aged mother, Gwenliana, here beside him, shivering to the fire as though the very wind sounds about the house called in the cold to her was not so judged incompetent. And the cottages there was a little fear of her and a great respect. Any day when she sat in the garden holding her necromanthic court, you might see some tall farm lad blushing and hugging his hat across his chest while he listened to Gwen Leonna's magic. For many years now, she had been practicing the second sight and taking pride in it. And though the family knew her prophecies to be whole guesses whose shrewdness grew less sharp with her years. They listened to her with respect and simulated awe and asked of her the location of lost things. When, after one of her mystic recitations, the scissors were not discovered under the second

board of the Shed Floor. They pretended to find them there anyway.

This play of Clack to a Simpleton was a harsh tax on the convictions of Mother Morgan.

It outraged her nature, for she was one who had, apparently, come into the world to be a Skrrrrrrrrrrrrr obviously no connection either with the church or with the prices of things were plainly nonsense. Old Robert had loved his wife so well and so long that he could think sharp things about her and the thoughts could not injure his affection. When she had come home this afternoon, raging over the price of a pair of shoes she hadn't wanted anyway. He had considered. Her life is like a book crowded with mighty events. Every day she rises to the peak of some tremendous climax, which has to do with buttons or a neighbor's wedding. I think that when true tragedy comes in upon her, she will not see it over her range of ant hills. Perhaps this is luck, he thought, and then I wonder now how she would compare the King's own death with the loss of one of the Southous Red Pigs. Mother Morgan was too busy with the day itself to be bothered with the foolishness of abstractions. Some one in the family had to be practical, or the thatch would blow away. And what could you expect of a pack of dreamers like Robert and Gwen Leana and her son Henry? She loved her husband with a queer mixture of pity and contempt, born of his failings and his goodness. Young Henry, her son, she worshipped. Though, Of of course she could not trust him to have the least

idea of what was to his benefit or conducive to his health. And all of the family loved mother Morgan and feared her and got in her way. She had fed them and trimmed the lamp.

Breakfast? and feared her and got in her way. She had fed them and trimmed the lamp. Breakfast was on the fire. Now she searched about for something to mend, as though she did not mend everything the moment it was torn. In the midst of her search for busyness, she paused and glanced sharply at young Henry. It was the kind of harsh, affectionate look which says, I wonder now if he is not in the way of catching cold there on the floor. Henry squirmed, wondering what things he had neglected to do that afternoon. But immediately she caught up a cloth and went to dusting, and the boy was reassured. He lay propped on one elbow and stared past the fire into his thoughts. The long, gray afternoon, piercing to this mysterious night, had called up strong yearnings in him. The seeds of which were planted months before. It was a desire for a thing he could not name. Perhaps the same force moved him which collected the birds into exploring parties and made the animals nervously sniff upwind for the scent of winter. Henry was conscious this night that he had lived on for fifteen tedious years without accomplishing any single thing of importance. And had his mother known his feeling, she would have said he is growing, and his father would have repeated after her, yes, the boy is growing. But neither would have understood what the other meant. Henry, if you considered his face, drew from his parents almost equally. His cheekbones were high and hard, his chin firm, his upper lip short and thin like his mothers. But there too were the sensual underlip and the fine nose and the eyes which looked out on dreams. These were old Robert's features, and his was the thick, wiery hair, coiled like black springs against the head. But though there was complete indecision in Robert's face, there was a great quantity of decision in Henry's, if only he could find something about which to decide. Here were three before the fire, Robert and Gwen Liana and young Henry, whose eyes looked out beyond the walls and saw unbottied things looked into the night for the ghosts. It was a preternatural night, a time when you might meet candles gliding along the road, or come upon the ghost of Roman Roman Legion marching at double quick to reach its sheltering city before the full storm broke. And the little misshapen beings of the hills would be searching out deserted badger holes to cover them from the night. The wind would go crying after them through the fields. In the house it was quiet, except for the snapping fire noises and for the swishing sound of blown thatch. A log cracked on the hearth, and out of the crevice, a thin blaze leaped up, and curled about the black kettle, like a flower, a flame. Now, mother flurry to the fireplace. Robert, you will never be paying attention to the fire. You should be poking at it now and again. Such was her method. She poked a large fire to make it It's smaller, and when it died, she stirred the embers vigorously to restore the flame. A faint sound of footsteps came along the high road, a sound that might have been the wind, or those walking things which cannot be seen. The steps grew louder, and stopped in front of the door from whence came a timid knocking. Com, Robert called. The door opened softly, and there lighted against the black knight, stood a bent feeble man with eyes like weak flames. He paused on the threshold as though undecided. But in a moment advanced into the room, asking, in a strange, creaking voice, Will you be knowing me? I wonder, Robert Morgan, will you be knowing me that have been out so long? His words were a plea. Robert searched the shrunken face, know you, he said. I do not think, wait, can it be David, our little farm lad David that went away to see years past? A look of complete relief came into the face of the Wayfarer. He might have been applying some delicate, fearful test to Robert Morgan. Now he chuckled. It's David, sure, and rich and cold. He finished with a wistfulness like a recurring pain. David was gray white and toughened like a dry hide. The skin of his face was stiff and thick so that he seemed to change expression with slow, conscious effort. I'm cold, Robert. His queer, dry voice went on. I can't seem ever to get warm again, but anyway, I'm rich, as though we hope these two might balance. Rich along with him, they call Pierre Lagrand. Young Henry had risen, and now he cried. Where have you been, man? Where? Where? Why? I've been out to the Indies. That's where I've been. I've been to Tortuga. That's the turtle. And to Jamaica and the thick woods of his manual for the hunting of cattle. I've been all there. You'll be sitting down, David. Mother Morgan interrupted. She spoke as though he had never been away, all about getting something warm to drink. Will you look how Henry gobbles you with his eyes, David? Like is not, he'll be wanting to go to the Indies too. To her, the words were a pleasant idiocy. David kept silent, though he appeared to be straining back at a desire to talk. Mother Morgan frightened him as she had when he was a tow-headed farm-boyle. Old Robert knew his embarrassment, and mother, too, seemed to sense it. For when she had put a steaming cup in his hands, she left the room. Wrinkled old Gwen Liana was in her seat before the fire, her mind lost in the swimming future. Her clouded eyes were veiled with tomorrow. Behind their vague blue surfaces seemed to crowd the mounting events and circumstances of the world. She was gone out of the room, gone into pure time, and that the future. Old Robert watched the door close behind his wife, then settled himself with turnings as a dog settles. Now David, he said, and peered smiling into the fire, while Henry kneeling on the floor gazed with awe at this mortal who held the very distances in his palm. Well, Robert, it's about the green jungle, but, Robert, there's something gone out of me like a little winking light. I used to lie on the decks of ships at night and think and think how I'd talk and boast when only I came home again. But it's more like a child I am, come home to cry. Can you understand that, Robert? Can you understand that at all? He was leaning forward eagerly. I'll tell you, we took the tall plate-ship they call a galleon, and with we only had pistols and the long knives they have for cutting trails in the jungle. Twenty-four of us there was. Only twenty-four and ragged. There was a fine captain. I'm rich of the venturing sure, but most times that doesn't seem enough. I'm richer maybe than your own brother Sir Edward." Robert was smiling with tightened lips. Now and then his eyes wandered to the boy where he knelt on the hearth. Henry was taught with attention, gluttonously feeding on the words. When Robert spoke, he avoided David's eyes. Oh, I'm tired, Robert. So very tired, he sighed. But there's one thing I want to tell you before I sleep. Maybe the telling will ease me, and maybe I can speak it out and then forget about it for the one night. I must go back to the damned place. I can never stay away from the jungle anymore, because its hot breath is on me. Here, where I was born, I shiver and freeze. A month would find me dead. This valley where I played and grew and worked has cast me out for a foul hot thing. It cleans itself of me with the cold. Now, will you be giving me a place to sleep with thick covers to keep poor blood moving, and in the morning I'll be off again. He stopped, and his face flexed with pain. I used to love the winter so. Old Robert helped him from the home with a hand under his arm, then came and sat again by the fire. He looked at the boy who lay on moving on the floor. What are you thinking about now, son? He asked very softly after a time. And Henry drew his gaze back from the land beyond the blaze. I'm thinking I'll be wanting to go soon, Father. His father went on smiling valiantly. When will you be off, Henry? It will be lonely here without you. Why, I'll go now, as soon as I may," said Henry. And it seemed that he was the older and Robert a little boy. Henry, will you do two things for me before you go? Will you be thinking tonight of the long sleeplessness I'll have because of you and of how lost my days will be? And will you remember the hours your mother will fret about your underclothing and the state of your religion? That's the first thing, Henry. But second, will you go up to old Mirlin on the crag top tomorrow and tell him of your going and listen to his words? He is wiser than you or I will ever be. There is a kind of magic he practices which may be a help to you. Will you do these two things, son? Henry had become very sad. I would like to stay my father, but you know, yes, my boy, Robert nodded. It is my sorrow that I do know. I cannot be angry nor forbid you're going because I understand. I wish I might prevent it and whip you thinking that I helped you. But go to bed, Henry, and think and think when the light is out and the dark in and around you. Old Robert sat dreaming in his chair after the boy had gone. Why do men like me want sons? He wondered. It must be because they hope in their poor souls that these new men who are their blood will do the things they were not strong enough, nor wise enough, nor brave enough to do. It is rather like another chance with life, like a new bag of coins at a table of luck after your fortune is gone. Perhaps the boy is doing what I might have done had I been brave enough years past? Yes, the valley has smothered me, I think. And I am glad this boy of mine finds it in his power to vault the mountains and stride about the world.

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