flagstones. She lit a candle and washed her belly clean, using a rag and the bucket of water beside the stone sink. Her body was pale in the flickering light of the candle. The hair under her arms and between her thighs dark. Thaâll do me, lass . She remembered Michael again, how heâd kissed her and caressed her neck with his calloused hands and put himself into her and released the seed that had made this life that burned in her.
When she was dressed, Ellen cleaned the rifle and stowed it back in the eaves, then drew the curtain at the back window and took a candlestick and a knife to the sink. She held the hare and made a long incision from just under the ribs to its anus. It was a doe. When its guts fell away she saw that it was carrying three leverets, tiny pale ghosts that spilled from its womb. Ellen cut off the intestines and ran her thumb down the bowel so that pellets of dung squeezed out. She reached under the ribs and pulled away the lungs and heart, then cut off the head and paws, pressing the knife though bone that crunched and gave. Then she pulled the skin away from the neck and body until it was naked. She took the guts, the head and paws and the tiny foetuses and buried them in the midden where they couldnât be seen. The fur would make a cap for her baby. She left it on the hearth to dry. She poured water over the carcase to rinse away the blood, then quartered it and dropped it into the cooking pot for tomorrowâs fire. She poured water in, salted it, dropped in some sprigs of thyme that were hanging from the roof beam. Then washed her hands, smelling the rich, earthy scents of the hare, half sick at what sheâd done.
Ellen climbed the stairs and changed into her motherâs nightgown. It was white cotton with tiny violets embroidered over each breast. A wedding present from her father that came with the bed and three copper pans. She took the candle to the window that overlooked the graveyard and the river. Lead on the church roof showed as a dull gleam. The clock struck ten. Sheâd been a long time in the fields. Now she saw herself in the cracked glass, cupping the wavering flame, pale skinned, dark haired, shadows smeared beneath her eyes. Her hands and wrists had grown thin and were red from the cold water. There was blood under her fingernails. Sheâd done what had to be done to live. Her father would have been proud of her, the way sheâd known how to load and shoot. And sheâd been quick, merciful. She thought of the bullet striking the doe, the way it had drowned in its own blood and died running. Died making for freedom.
Remembering the way the day had started with rain, the church porch, a dead starling with folded wings, she pinched out the candle so that her reflection disappeared, then put her face to the cold glass. Her brother and mother were huddled under green mounds close to the churchyard wall, without headstones or words to mark them. In the flat valley bottom the river was coursing over stones and strands of weed to the sea. The sea sheâd never seen except in dreams and probably never would. She thought of her father in chains and where he was and whether it would be night or day. Heâd lost his freedom to the Queenâs pleasure, to the might of an empire where all men were born equal then rendered unequal. Heâd been made an example of and so would make his way home to grief and sorrow. She knew that. One day, not too distant. One day where the future lay, waiting to happen.
Someone sluthered across the flags of the square in clogs, then coughed, retching their way through the yard. A door slammed and there were raised voices for a few minutes. The manâs slurred and drunk, the womanâs shrill with anger. Then her voice stopping halfway through something she was trying to say. That was the way of it. Man and woman. Fist against tongue, tongue against fist. Silence trickled back to fill the space the womanâs voice
When she was dressed, Ellen cleaned the rifle and stowed it back in the eaves, then drew the curtain at the back window and took a candlestick and a knife to the sink. She held the hare and made a long incision from just under the ribs to its anus. It was a doe. When its guts fell away she saw that it was carrying three leverets, tiny pale ghosts that spilled from its womb. Ellen cut off the intestines and ran her thumb down the bowel so that pellets of dung squeezed out. She reached under the ribs and pulled away the lungs and heart, then cut off the head and paws, pressing the knife though bone that crunched and gave. Then she pulled the skin away from the neck and body until it was naked. She took the guts, the head and paws and the tiny foetuses and buried them in the midden where they couldnât be seen. The fur would make a cap for her baby. She left it on the hearth to dry. She poured water over the carcase to rinse away the blood, then quartered it and dropped it into the cooking pot for tomorrowâs fire. She poured water in, salted it, dropped in some sprigs of thyme that were hanging from the roof beam. Then washed her hands, smelling the rich, earthy scents of the hare, half sick at what sheâd done.
Ellen climbed the stairs and changed into her motherâs nightgown. It was white cotton with tiny violets embroidered over each breast. A wedding present from her father that came with the bed and three copper pans. She took the candle to the window that overlooked the graveyard and the river. Lead on the church roof showed as a dull gleam. The clock struck ten. Sheâd been a long time in the fields. Now she saw herself in the cracked glass, cupping the wavering flame, pale skinned, dark haired, shadows smeared beneath her eyes. Her hands and wrists had grown thin and were red from the cold water. There was blood under her fingernails. Sheâd done what had to be done to live. Her father would have been proud of her, the way sheâd known how to load and shoot. And sheâd been quick, merciful. She thought of the bullet striking the doe, the way it had drowned in its own blood and died running. Died making for freedom.
Remembering the way the day had started with rain, the church porch, a dead starling with folded wings, she pinched out the candle so that her reflection disappeared, then put her face to the cold glass. Her brother and mother were huddled under green mounds close to the churchyard wall, without headstones or words to mark them. In the flat valley bottom the river was coursing over stones and strands of weed to the sea. The sea sheâd never seen except in dreams and probably never would. She thought of her father in chains and where he was and whether it would be night or day. Heâd lost his freedom to the Queenâs pleasure, to the might of an empire where all men were born equal then rendered unequal. Heâd been made an example of and so would make his way home to grief and sorrow. She knew that. One day, not too distant. One day where the future lay, waiting to happen.
Someone sluthered across the flags of the square in clogs, then coughed, retching their way through the yard. A door slammed and there were raised voices for a few minutes. The manâs slurred and drunk, the womanâs shrill with anger. Then her voice stopping halfway through something she was trying to say. That was the way of it. Man and woman. Fist against tongue, tongue against fist. Silence trickled back to fill the space the womanâs voice
Similar Books
