Read Online The Untold by Courtney Collins - Free Book Online

not scream it else I be confused with those white-breasted birds that caw all day. I just called it as clear as I could:
I am not dead.
    As Jack Brown grew nearer, I wormed my fingers into the dirt above me. I knew my arms would not reach the surface but I thought at least I could fright his horse and then his horse might shy or, better, buck him right off, and Jack Brown would have to face the wonder of the earth moving beneath him.
    With the weight of them upon me, I pushed harder into the dirt.
    But both horse and man moved over me and neither was at all disturbed by my calling out or pushing at the ground above me.

T he dog’s barking woke my mother early and when it stopped she heard the old man and the old woman arguing and then the old man call the dog, mount his horse and gallop off.
    She took her time getting out of bed, to avoid the old woman. She dressed in clothes the old woman had given her and for some time she just sat on the bed. The small, windowless room reminded her very much of prison and she wondered if she would always feel that every room, regardless of how small or bare or not, was designed to punish her.
    She opened the door.
    The old woman was sitting at the kitchen table with her back to her.
    Morning
, said Jessie,
and she filled the kettle with water, acting as if things were somehow normal and that she was a guest after all.
    The old woman acknowledged her with a nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the window. She was peeling apples with a small paring knife and the peel curled into her lap in a long, unbroken twist.
    You’re good at that
, said Jessie.
    Trick is not to try
, said the old woman.
    She was distant and my mother preferred her that way.
    Where’s the old man?
said Jessie.
    He’s in one of his dark moods again.
    And why is that?
    You’re best to ignore him. He’ll be gone all day, looking for some company for his misery. Though he won’t have to go far for that.
    The old woman began coring the apples. She had a hardened look about her.
    Are there any of his chores I can do with him away?
    No, dear
, said the old woman,
pinning back her hair, which was falling around her face.
For better or worse, that old man leaves nothing unturned or untended. Our most important chore for the day is to bake this pie and eat it. We’ll eat it all and leave him nothing. And let’s see if it doesn’t restore us in some way.
    Jessie had not had the company of a free woman in years and she wondered if this was what free women did: baked pies and ate them to lift their spirits. She could see no harm in it.
    She poured herself tea and watched the old woman coring the remainder of the apples and then slicing them and sliding them across the length of the table. She sprinkled each one with salt and sugar and vinegar and then she wiped her hands on her dress, shuffled over to the sitting room and pulled open the lid of a desk. Out popped a gramophone.
    The old woman dragged a box out from under the desk and picked out a record. She placed it on the tray of the gramophone and lined up a needle and then wound the thing up until music played.
    Most days
, she said,
I know I would be happier without him.
She moved back to the table with a new lightness of step and threw cups of flour into a bowl and tossed it through her fingers.
    What is this we are listening to?
asked Jessie.
    It’s Debussy’s
“Reverie,”
said the old woman, then she continued.
He was different when I first met him. But the years have not beenkind to him and he is not the forgiving type, not at all, and there are some things I have done in my life that I wish I hadn’t and he has found them unforgivable. And one of them has been the fact that I could never birth a healthy child. He is a superstitious creature, a stupid old man, and he thinks my womb is sour. Though he wouldn’t know a thing about it.
    As she spoke the old woman kept adding things to the bowl—more salt,