is sick with her crying; her whole body attempts to extrude what she has seen.
They hold her down; clean up the mess of mucus, vomit and faeces that spurts and dribbles out of her, but her large, shouted words drift away unheard. Helen alone recognises the truth of Cassandraâs cries. But she says nothing, her perfect composure the exact opposite of Cassandraâs disarray.
The egg is full of vipers. An endless supply of them: if you cut one two will form. They breed and breed.
Dark worms make their way up the hill like big fingers. Fat fingers thrumming on the sand; fingers walking, walking along the floor of her room, across its white walls.
Nearer they come. Nearer.
Her bed.
Her body.
Fat fingers walking. An endless supply. Cut one and two form. They breed and breed and nothing will stop them.
Not even the cries Cassandra hurls from the battlements as she crashes around the palace.
Helen is ten years old and has been building a little walled town out of twigs and mud. At the top of the largest building â she calls it her palace â she has stuck the russet feather of a pheasant. Tiny fragments of shell pave the streets and slivers of bark from plane trees make shingle roofs for the buildings. There is a temple in which she means to place a light if she can make or find one small enough. She wants there to be fire in her town. Water too. With a forefinger she has excavated a small well; she imagines it fed by the same streams as the great river she is digging out to flow at the side of the town. When she has finished scooping out the riverbed she fetches water in a jar and carefully pours some out. But she has not thought to line her riverbed and the water drains quickly away leaving only a muddy trace. She takes the jar again, tipping it by the handles she thinks of as its ears, filling her riverbed again with water. And for a few moments she has the satisfaction of seeing her river full to its banks and she wonders where she will construct a bridge for her townspeople to cross at. Then that water also drains away leaving a deeper paste of mud than before. Well then, itâs summer, she thinks. The river has dried up. There is always water in the well if you let your bucket down far enough. She needs to make a bucket and some waterpots. An acorn cup and some small sea shells from her treasure chest.
She is thinking now of who will live in her town. She goes to the place in the wall where there is a gap and, making her first two fingers into legs, walks up the street to the palace. Then the first two fingers of her other hand walk up the street â or rather they run, in a hurry to join the first person at the palace with its feather flag flying. Thereâs going to be a party.
When the man comes in â she has not invited him into the hut where she plays â he asks her about her game. It is not a game, she explains, but a town and this is the river that runs near it and it is summer so it has run dry. And this is the palace where visitors are arriving.
âLike me,â he says. âLike me coming here to visit you in your palace.â
And with his great fat fingers he makes his way up the town street. When he gets to the palace door Helen is afraid he will push his way in. His fingers are too big and clumsy for the delicate frame she has made.
But he stops in front of the door.
This time Theseus stops.
From her high room in the palace Helen watches the men streaming up the hill. She feels each footfall as a print on her flesh.
The fat fingers keep walking till they come upon her and fasten. They push, tease, slide their way in where they should not go till her body feels like a cooking pot coming to boil; gobbets of meat rising and hurtling in different directions. Hot, muddled, excited, angry. The smell of meatâs juices. The fingers stick to her so closely itâs as if she has grown them; as if itâs her own secret will doing this painful, confusing, exciting
They hold her down; clean up the mess of mucus, vomit and faeces that spurts and dribbles out of her, but her large, shouted words drift away unheard. Helen alone recognises the truth of Cassandraâs cries. But she says nothing, her perfect composure the exact opposite of Cassandraâs disarray.
The egg is full of vipers. An endless supply of them: if you cut one two will form. They breed and breed.
Dark worms make their way up the hill like big fingers. Fat fingers thrumming on the sand; fingers walking, walking along the floor of her room, across its white walls.
Nearer they come. Nearer.
Her bed.
Her body.
Fat fingers walking. An endless supply. Cut one and two form. They breed and breed and nothing will stop them.
Not even the cries Cassandra hurls from the battlements as she crashes around the palace.
Helen is ten years old and has been building a little walled town out of twigs and mud. At the top of the largest building â she calls it her palace â she has stuck the russet feather of a pheasant. Tiny fragments of shell pave the streets and slivers of bark from plane trees make shingle roofs for the buildings. There is a temple in which she means to place a light if she can make or find one small enough. She wants there to be fire in her town. Water too. With a forefinger she has excavated a small well; she imagines it fed by the same streams as the great river she is digging out to flow at the side of the town. When she has finished scooping out the riverbed she fetches water in a jar and carefully pours some out. But she has not thought to line her riverbed and the water drains quickly away leaving only a muddy trace. She takes the jar again, tipping it by the handles she thinks of as its ears, filling her riverbed again with water. And for a few moments she has the satisfaction of seeing her river full to its banks and she wonders where she will construct a bridge for her townspeople to cross at. Then that water also drains away leaving a deeper paste of mud than before. Well then, itâs summer, she thinks. The river has dried up. There is always water in the well if you let your bucket down far enough. She needs to make a bucket and some waterpots. An acorn cup and some small sea shells from her treasure chest.
She is thinking now of who will live in her town. She goes to the place in the wall where there is a gap and, making her first two fingers into legs, walks up the street to the palace. Then the first two fingers of her other hand walk up the street â or rather they run, in a hurry to join the first person at the palace with its feather flag flying. Thereâs going to be a party.
When the man comes in â she has not invited him into the hut where she plays â he asks her about her game. It is not a game, she explains, but a town and this is the river that runs near it and it is summer so it has run dry. And this is the palace where visitors are arriving.
âLike me,â he says. âLike me coming here to visit you in your palace.â
And with his great fat fingers he makes his way up the town street. When he gets to the palace door Helen is afraid he will push his way in. His fingers are too big and clumsy for the delicate frame she has made.
But he stops in front of the door.
This time Theseus stops.
From her high room in the palace Helen watches the men streaming up the hill. She feels each footfall as a print on her flesh.
The fat fingers keep walking till they come upon her and fasten. They push, tease, slide their way in where they should not go till her body feels like a cooking pot coming to boil; gobbets of meat rising and hurtling in different directions. Hot, muddled, excited, angry. The smell of meatâs juices. The fingers stick to her so closely itâs as if she has grown them; as if itâs her own secret will doing this painful, confusing, exciting
Similar Books
