Authors: ed. Simon Petrie
Orla’s room was at the very top of the house. She had picked it especially when she was twelve years old because there was a large window on one wall. It opened all the way out and she could climb out onto the roof’s overhang. She could sit there, the shingles pleasantly gritty underneath her palms, and see everything. The whole village and the hills beyond and the place where the sun bent down and kissed the land.
She sat there now and she relished the cool night air and the occasional breeze that brushed odd scents across her face. Late-flowering things and brittle dying leaves. Behind her, she could hear Parse navigating her crowded bedroom and she smiled. The dishes were done and put away neatly in their proper cupboards, her dress for tomorrow was laid out and Papa’s slacks were pressed. They had two-thirds of a jar of strawberry jam left yet and all the doors were locked. Order was necessary for the proper management of a house. It was a difficult job, taking care. So much depended upon her brains and her heart. Orla had to become wide, stretch thin to cover everything. Papa and Mother and Parse and the dishes in the cupboard and the unplanted garden. Like a sheet of hard plastic: impermeable. She only looked like glass. But she kept everything out and everything in, as long as she stood firm. And she held the equilibrium within her heart.
Parse handed her a cup of tea on a hand-painted saucer. Steam rose off of it in a pleasant, familiar sort of way. Orla patted the roof beside her and, slowly, Parse lowered and bent to sit beside her. Orla took a sip of tea. It tasted like every cup Parse had ever made-would ever make. It warmed her chest and pooled in her stomach comfortably.
In the east, something was burning. She and Parse sat on the roof for a very long time, watching the silvered smoke rise.
…Belinda Crawford
The mare’s leg is laid open to the bone, her skin and sinew separated in one jagged stroke from shoulder to knee. She stands lopsided on the other three, sinking into the stall’s carpet of straw, her head drooping and her ears wilted. I lay one hand on her nose, gently stroking the white blaze, her lead in my other hand.
Jack is crouched by the wound, his hands bloody. There is an edgy tension in my limbs as my husband’s mouth thins and his brow furrows like the freshly tilled fields. He shakes his head. My heart sinks.
He puts his hands to his knees and pushes himself upwards. “She’ll have to be put down.”
I stroke the mare’s nose. She is a faithful creature, placid with age and years of hard labour. Without her, the fields would not be tilled nor grain taken to the village market. “We can’t afford another horse.”
“We’ll make do.” Jack looks past me, towards the open barn door. “I can hitch Daisy to the plough.”
I follow his gaze. The cow awaits her morning milking, lazily swatting flies, untroubled by my son’s clumsy pets of her broad shoulder. Her honey coloured coat is again glossy and her udder full after the lean months of winter but unlike our neighbour’s oxen she is small and delicate.
I turn back, raising my eyes to Jack’s. “There’s another way.”
Jack’s shoulders tense, and the centres of his eyes grow large, till only a thin line of blue rings the black. He stares at me for several long seconds and I smile softly, willing him to agree. The Reverend’s sermons, full of shaken fists and dire warnings, have frightened us all, inviting suspicion into the village. Our friends and neighbours peer from around their curtains and hold themselves ready to point and cry alarm at the slightest hint of devilry, but there is little choice. We need the mare.
Finally Jack shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous, if the Reverend should find out …”
“There’s no one here to carry tales.” I widen my smile, gesturing around the barn, empty except for us, the horse and little Devon, petting the cow.
His lips tighten. For a moment, I fear he will refuse, and wonder what I will do if he does.
Jack nods, but his expression remains grim as he holds out his hand for the lead. I place it in his palm and step around him to the mare’s shoulder, touching it lightly just above the wound. The unmarred skin is warm and smooth, her chestnut coat silky beneath my fingers and for a moment I stand there, the dusty scent of horse strong in my nose.
I crouch and place my other hand on the mare’s knee, a bare inch below the ragged tear. Here her coat is tacky with blood as it seeps from the wound, and an iron tang mixes with her dusty scent.
I close my eyes. A few moments of concentration as I summon the coil of warmth that lives in my belly. It shivers and then leaps to my will, flooding through my chest in a rush that lightens my head.
I take a breath, quieting the magick, before drawing it through my hands and sending it into the animal’s flesh. The warmth twists and turns, wrapping itself around veins and muscles, pulling them together. It is not enough though, the injury is too great and my power too small, so I steel myself and reach down, through my feet and into the earth, seeking more. It comes quickly, flowing hot and rich, burning its way through my hands and into the horse. Behind my lids I can see skin knit together, unblemished and whole, and my head spins.
My eyes open and I smile, barely noticing the grass at my feet, brown and dry, its life taken for the mare.
There is a gasp from behind me. I turn. Euphoria vanishes.
Little Devon stands at the stall’s gate, jumping and waving, and next to him—
oh dear Lord
—next to him in her heavy black skirts is Hetty Jones, the storekeeper’s wife, a hand over her mouth and a covered basket hanging from the crook of her arm. Her wide brown eyes stare at me with such fear that I think my heart may stop.
Beside me Jack moves, taking a step forwards, his face as pale as mine. Hetty’s eyes snap from me to Jack, to his outstretched hand. She stares at it like she would a snake, or the Devil himself. She draws back, her eyes growing wider.
“Hetty,” Jacks says and takes another step forward.
The basket falls to the ground, a crock of honey spilling from under the white covering.
Hetty runs.
* * *
I pause, clutching little Devon closer, terrified of dropping his precious weight and just as terrified of the stillness of his form. I squeeze my eyes shut and send a prayer to God that my magick wasn’t too much.
The mob had come so fast, so much faster than we had thought. Hetty’s feet must have flown her to the Reverend. There had been no time to pack the cart, less to hitch it to the mare and take ourselves to safety. Only my magick had allowed our escape, allowed us to slip past the storekeeper, waiting at our back door with a torch.
There had been so much confusion, so much fear, and the mare had taken all of my magick to heal. I had reached past the empty tangle of power in my belly, reached once more for the earth, when little Devon had clutched at my leg. Thick and rich the power poured through me, igniting the spell on my lips and wrapping confusion around the storekeeper’s eyes. My son sank to the ground at my feet, his face pale, a small part of his life absorbed by the spell.
For several moments I stood horrified, looking down at my son’s crumpled form. Then Jack yelled at me to run and I scooped little Devon into my arms, feeling his heart beat against my chest, and fled, dashing past the storekeeper’s sightless eyes.
Now the breeze at my back brings the whiff of burning wood and my heart leaps. I glance over my shoulder and see the vague glow of the mob’s torches over the rise. They are gaining on me.
A faint noise escapes my lips as I look frantically towards the tree line. I have to reach it before they top the rise or all is lost.
Jack is already gone, taken by the mob. I heard our front door splintering as I ran, and knew my husband was not running behind us as he had promised. I dashed through darkness towards the barn, Devon still clutched close, his arms and legs dangling limp by my sides. I reached its dense shadow and turned. The mob had surrounded our house, lighting the night with fire, the Reverend at their head.
People spilled from the front door and my heart clenched when I saw Jack struggling in their midst. They jerked to a halt before the Reverend. The old man leaned forward. Jack screamed. I wanted to scream with him and bit my lip till it bled. I saw Jack crumple, disappearing behind a curtain of bodies. The Reverend shouted and raised something that glinted in the torchlight. I didn’t see him bring it down. Instead, I turned and ran. From behind me Jack screamed again.
The field is soft and my feet sink and slide in the furrowed earth. I cross the field as fast as my sodden skirts will allow. My breath comes in rasps and the faint taste of blood coats the back of my throat. My limbs are tired, and Devon is heavy in my arms, but the knowledge of the mob at my back and the memory of Jack’s horrifying screams keep me moving.
Faster, faster until I fear tripping over my own feet. Twice I risk a look over my shoulder and each time the glow over the rise is brighter. The tree line is close, but not close enough. My heart pounds in my ears, louder and louder as I run. It’s not loud enough to drown the sudden braying of the hounds.
Oh my Lord, let me reach the trees before they see me.
Only a dozen yards before I’m safe and again I glance over my shoulder. My blood freezes and my feet with it. A silhouette, torch in hand, stands against the sky.
Convulsively I clutch Devon tighter.
They’ve found me, oh dear Lord in Heaven, they’ve found me!
A movement from the figure on the rise sends liquid fire through my veins and I start to run.
I hear a shout and fear lends speed to my feet but the short distance to the trees still seems like a mile.
* * *
I crouch lower in the hollow of the firs as the mob draws near.
The dogs run in circles, my magick has confused our trail, leaving them no scent to follow. I squeeze my eyes shut as the glow of the torches approaches.
If they see us it is over, they will hang me just for being born, and my son … I clutch Devon closer feeling him breathe, warm against my neck.
Oh merciful Lord, please protect my son from what I must do.
They can’t see us, they can’t see us.
Behind my eyes Devon blazes with life, so much closer and so much brighter than the earth and roots below. I grit my teeth, fighting an unholy instinct to draw on Devon for my spell, and touch the earth instead, feeling the pull in my belly as the magick comes. It wraps itself around our place of refuge, twisting and turning around the hollowed out trunk, playing tricks with the moonlight until we’re obscured from sight.
They can’t see us, they can’t see us.
I rock as I repeat my chant, my eyes closed tight against the sight of the mob, milling in confusion like their dogs. Soon the chant is all I can hear, all I will allow myself to hear.
They can’t see us, they can’t see us.
Somewhere in the distance I am aware of the Reverend’s voice. It reverberates against the trees and for a moment I am back in the small church, sitting on the hard pew as he stands at the pulpit. Standing as straight as his stooped shoulders will allow, his knuckles white, the wrath of the Lord on his face and promises of damnation on his tongue.
“She’s bewitched your dogs, Johnson, you can’t deny her perfidy now!”
I squeeze my eyes tighter and think harder to drown the sound of his hated voice.
“… confounded the dogs …”
“She can’t go far …”
* * *
Dawn breaks before I let the magick fade.
We are alone now. Above me a bird sings in the morning and I look up, spying the white spotted breast and cinnamon wings of a thrush. From somewhere comes the furtive rustling of leaves and something soft and round catches my eye. A hare hops an arms length from our refuge, its brown sides quivering as it sniffs the air. Its ears twitch once, twice, before it drops its head and paws at the litter of leaves and grass.
For the moment we are safe.
I look down at my son. His soft blonde head rests against my chest. Warm relief twists through me and I press my lips to his curls before resting my cheek against the top of his head and hugging him close.
“Devon,” I say. The hare’s long ears twitch at the sound of my voice. My son does not respond. “Devon.” I look down, noting his pale cheeks and the darkness under his eyes. My heart clutches, something nameless and terrifying crawls into my throat.
My hand shakes as I lay it against his cheek. It is cold. Too, too cold.
“Devon?” My voice rises, becoming strident. The hare lifts its head, ears alert.
I tilt my son’s head. It lolls against my arm. His face is lax, without expression, his lips blue. I press my fingers into the juncture between head and neck.
Oh dear Lord, please, please, please.
* * *
I leave my son in a cold grave under the branches of a sapling pine. It will grow. I have ensured that no blade will leave a mark on its smooth trunk. The hare and a nest of starlings paid the price for my spell.
I am cold inside, my innards are laid out next to my son and there is nothing left in me to feel. The coldness is its own comfort though, has its own voice, its own urgings.
* * *
The village square is grey, silent, tomorrow giving way to today on the crow of the cock. I stand beneath the oak at its centre, no longer cold, no longer empty. A day and night have passed since I left Devon under the pine and I have used the time well.
Now, this morning under the oak, I wait for the villagers to wake and discover the things I have taken during the night.
A shutter clatters. A candle flickers in the general store.
My breath shortens and my shoulders tighten.
The wind rustles in the leaves above me and from somewhere distant a cow lows. Closer, I hear birds flutter and call. Of the villagers I hear nothing of the villagers, and my chest pounds and squeezes. I take a step forward, then another, willing, hoping, waiting.
It rings out, high and piercing and piteous, a wail from the little house behind the store, full of pain and grief. The storekeeper’s daughter has found her parents, cold and still like my little Devon.