Read Online The Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits by Emma Donoghue - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Emma Donoghue
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bands, and gloves: his final costume.
At her nod he unbars the door for the last time. They leave it swinging wide. She leads them up Templand Hill by moonlight in their slippers. The countryside is deserted; the green corn stands stiffly in the fields. They go slowly, a caravan of emaciated scarecrows, dragging the weaker Brothers and Sisters, but there is exultation in every face.
They have dragged their stock of wooden pallets with them, on Friend Mother's orders, and now they understand. "Build me a platform," she cries out. "A high platform so I can see Christ's Coming, at sunrise."
A shriek goes up.
Sunrise.
She has named the hour. At last, at last, thinks Hugh. His cheeks are wet; he finds himself weeping like a boy. The long trial is over.
The Buchanites stack up their pallets crazily, making a rough platform as high as their heads. Hugh waits, then heaves his own pallet on top, for Friend Mother's sacred feet to stand on.
"Bless you," she says, "bless ye all," and takes—of all things—a scissors out of her pocket. "Drop your hats, your bonnets. All your hair must be cut off," she instructs, "except for a tuft on top for the angels to catch ye by, to draw you up."
"Draw us up into heaven?" asks Hugh's small son, sheltering in Isabel White's skirts, and for a moment Hugh remembers what it was like to love his children—love them greedily, as his own. But there's no more time for that.
"Aye, hen," Friend Mother tells the boy. "At sunrise, there will be a light brighter than any light has ever been, and we will all be wafted into the land of bliss; we alone who are worthy, of all the folk that walk the earth!"
She cuts the hair of each man, woman, and child. It falls like dandelion seeds around them where they lie on the grass, suddenly weak again, as the night closes in around them. By the last of the moonlight, Hugh watches the transformation. Friend Mother comes to him last; he welcomes the feeling of lightness as the scissors move over his scalp.
Most of them sleep, in the end, but Hugh lies awake beside Friend Mother, his hand in hers, his blood thumping in his veins like a drum. He looks at her but her eyes are closed. He measures the slow creep of the stars.
Towards dawn she wakes, and mounts her platform like a cat, unaided. Hugh thought she might have asked him to share it with her, but really there is only room for one on this precipitous structure, and besides, Christ is coming for all of them; no one will be left behind. Hugh leads his Brothers and Sisters in the chant he has composed in the night. As the first tinge of gray light lifts the sky they clap their hands, they shout it out, panting with excitement.
Oh! hasten translation, and come redurrection!
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air I
Halfway down the hill, a crowd is gathering; Nithsdale men and women, gawking up at the freaks. What matter, Hugh tells himself; no one can hold back the Buchanites now.
Oh! hasten translation, and come resurrection!
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air!
Here it comes, the first yellow ray, sliding over the dark hill.
Oh! hasten translation, and come resurrection!
Their singing mounts to an ecstatic shriek.
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air!
Friend Mother is on her feet, her arms out, her hair shining. She has never looked so beautiful. The crop-headed Buchanites all throw up their arms.
Oh! hasten Oh! hasten Oh! hasten translation!
Hugh feels a gust of sweet breeze from the east; surely this is the beginning. Friend Mother dances on tiptoe, as if Christ's arms are around her already; her hair dances. Hugh strains to kick off gravity; under his canonical robes he is hardening, rigid with glory. The breeze scoops the air up, circles, gathers to a blast of wind ... and the platform, with one long groan, topples down.
Friend Mother is on the ground, on her knees, clutching her left ankle. She rubs it like any ordinary woman. There are smashed pallets scattered around her. Hugh
At her nod he unbars the door for the last time. They leave it swinging wide. She leads them up Templand Hill by moonlight in their slippers. The countryside is deserted; the green corn stands stiffly in the fields. They go slowly, a caravan of emaciated scarecrows, dragging the weaker Brothers and Sisters, but there is exultation in every face.
They have dragged their stock of wooden pallets with them, on Friend Mother's orders, and now they understand. "Build me a platform," she cries out. "A high platform so I can see Christ's Coming, at sunrise."
A shriek goes up.
Sunrise.
She has named the hour. At last, at last, thinks Hugh. His cheeks are wet; he finds himself weeping like a boy. The long trial is over.
The Buchanites stack up their pallets crazily, making a rough platform as high as their heads. Hugh waits, then heaves his own pallet on top, for Friend Mother's sacred feet to stand on.
"Bless you," she says, "bless ye all," and takes—of all things—a scissors out of her pocket. "Drop your hats, your bonnets. All your hair must be cut off," she instructs, "except for a tuft on top for the angels to catch ye by, to draw you up."
"Draw us up into heaven?" asks Hugh's small son, sheltering in Isabel White's skirts, and for a moment Hugh remembers what it was like to love his children—love them greedily, as his own. But there's no more time for that.
"Aye, hen," Friend Mother tells the boy. "At sunrise, there will be a light brighter than any light has ever been, and we will all be wafted into the land of bliss; we alone who are worthy, of all the folk that walk the earth!"
She cuts the hair of each man, woman, and child. It falls like dandelion seeds around them where they lie on the grass, suddenly weak again, as the night closes in around them. By the last of the moonlight, Hugh watches the transformation. Friend Mother comes to him last; he welcomes the feeling of lightness as the scissors move over his scalp.
Most of them sleep, in the end, but Hugh lies awake beside Friend Mother, his hand in hers, his blood thumping in his veins like a drum. He looks at her but her eyes are closed. He measures the slow creep of the stars.
Towards dawn she wakes, and mounts her platform like a cat, unaided. Hugh thought she might have asked him to share it with her, but really there is only room for one on this precipitous structure, and besides, Christ is coming for all of them; no one will be left behind. Hugh leads his Brothers and Sisters in the chant he has composed in the night. As the first tinge of gray light lifts the sky they clap their hands, they shout it out, panting with excitement.
Oh! hasten translation, and come redurrection!
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air I
Halfway down the hill, a crowd is gathering; Nithsdale men and women, gawking up at the freaks. What matter, Hugh tells himself; no one can hold back the Buchanites now.
Oh! hasten translation, and come resurrection!
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air!
Here it comes, the first yellow ray, sliding over the dark hill.
Oh! hasten translation, and come resurrection!
Their singing mounts to an ecstatic shriek.
Oh! hasten the coming of Christ in the air!
Friend Mother is on her feet, her arms out, her hair shining. She has never looked so beautiful. The crop-headed Buchanites all throw up their arms.
Oh! hasten Oh! hasten Oh! hasten translation!
Hugh feels a gust of sweet breeze from the east; surely this is the beginning. Friend Mother dances on tiptoe, as if Christ's arms are around her already; her hair dances. Hugh strains to kick off gravity; under his canonical robes he is hardening, rigid with glory. The breeze scoops the air up, circles, gathers to a blast of wind ... and the platform, with one long groan, topples down.
Friend Mother is on the ground, on her knees, clutching her left ankle. She rubs it like any ordinary woman. There are smashed pallets scattered around her. Hugh
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