Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  Brân is on Tirzah’s mind all week. When she says her prayers, most of them are for him. She remembers his ripped jumper and the way his famished-looking Adam’s apple stuck out. He’s like nobody’s child, she thinks, wondering who his family are. When she asks Biddy, she finds out that he is always running away from home. And he’s never in school. His dad’s a drinker, she explains. And his mam is always going off somewhere. Tirzah is sure Brân doesn’t believe in God. She knows it’s her job to tell him he’s a sinner, and that the anger of the Lord could fall on his head at any time. Or, she thinks, I should at least get him to chapel. When she next sees him, he’s alone, sitting on the Co-op wall, wiping his nose on a ragged sleeve. Tirzah tells him about the Sunday evening service, and how he’d be welcome. Push off, he says. Welcome in chapel? You gorra be joking. But she can tell he’s not angry. Anyway, maybe we’ll see you, she says, handing him the cheese and potato pasty wrapped in greaseproof her mother had given her for a snack. Tirzah’s chest becomes tight and painful, looking at Brân. I have to go now, she says. When she glances back, he has already eaten the pasty and is licking the paper.

  On Sunday, Pastor preaches a sermon about biblical curses. Do not be hazy about this, dear brothers and sisters, boys and girls, he says, resting one elbow on the pulpit and leaning forward the better to look each member of the congregation in the eye. The Old Testament is just as relevant to us here in the year of Our Blessed Lord 1972 as it ever was. More so, I would suggest. Everyone starts tuning up: Amen, they say, amen, verily, Lord. Tirzah shrinks down in the pew between her parents. She doesn’t like the sound of these curses. One of them is sure to apply to her. She sucks a Polo mint earnestly, looking at her clasped hands. Why does there have to be so much cursing, and being sorry, in everything Pastor preaches? And does the very fact she is daring to question things make her a wicked girl?

  I’ll confess all my sins, she decides, then I’ll be safe. She runs through her secrets, sure God will understand her need for them at present. It can’t possibly be wrong to befriend a lost boy and try to help him. After all, she’s only doing her duty, following Jesus’s words. But you never know. When she finishes praying, Pastor is reading from Deuteronomy, and really getting into the spirit. Cursed be thou in the city, and cursed be thou in the field, he booms at the now silent congregation. If thou will not hearken unto the voice of the Lord thy God, these curses shall come upon thee. Let us restrain ourselves, dear ones, from wishy-washy thinking, he shouts, waving the massive Bible above his head. Curses! No less. Curses will be upon you. Then he slams the Bible down on the pulpit. Tirzah’s body is changing, becoming more and more brittle with fear, and she tries to push her hand through the crook of her mother’s arm, but it’s rigid. She glances up at her mother’s face. Under the brim of her hat she looks terrified too. It’s as if no one has a place to hide.

  Out in the graveyard, Tirzah takes a gravestone near to the one Osian is perched on. Hello, she says. Are you all right? You haven’t been to chapel for a while. Osian smiles without looking at her. Been to my aunty’s for a bit, he states. Over by the chapel doors, both their sets of parents are talking to Pastor. Tirzah can sense the space between her and Osian stretching. They are not supposed to talk to each other since the attic episode. Tirzah’s shoulders are weighed down by a feeling of precariousness. It’s as if, at any moment, God could puncture the fragile blue fabric of the sky and point with a shining finger, cursing her for having a hardened, trespassing heart. She is exposed, but knows that even if a person went to the centre of the earth, the Lord would be able to see them. There is nowhere to run. Tirzah imagines burrowing deep under a huge rock and the Lord hooking her out as if she were a grub. Then, with a jolt, she remembers Brân. His heart must be riddled with sin, she thinks. And he doesn’t even understand what a curse is, except for swearing curses. But how can God blame him if he has never heard the Good News? It doesn’t sound fair. She lowers her head so her hair obscures her face and asks Osian if he knows Brân. Be careful with that one, he says, still looking ahead and hardly moving his lips. He’s a wrong’un. But, Osian, she says, what shall we do? We’re all wrong’uns, aren’t we? Osian seems so far away, sat beside her. Dunno, he answers, gazing up at the sky. But that Brân will definitely come to no good.

  Tirzah wants to continue talking, but Osian moves quickly to pick a celandine and places it under Tirzah’s chin. It behaves like a little golden lamp against her pale throat. More to the point, do you like butter? he asks, studying her serious face. He bounces the celandine gently on both her anxious eyes. What are you doing? she asks, darting a look towards the chapel door. Relax, Osian says. If God made today, He must want us to enjoy it. And anyway, you and I have nothing to be ashamed of. You know I’m talking sense. Stop it, she whispers, glancing over at her parents again. Don’t worry, they’re deep in some doctrinal discussion, Osian tells her. Or arguing about us. They won’t notice a thing. But don’t you care about the curses, Osh? Tirzah asks, remembering the Bible’s decisive bang. Maybe, he answers, turning his face to the sun again. He doesn’t mean it, Lord, Tirzah thinks, sending up an arrow of prayer. She wants to cry, everything is so difficult. And Sunday will roll on, with over-cooked dinner and rice pudding that’s either crunchy or solid, then Sunday School, where she teaches a class of tiny girls who won’t sit still, and are constantly putting up their hands to go to the toilet. Sometimes she looks into their sweet, inattentive eyes and wonders if they understand a word she says. Then there will be evening service, and later, after-church meeting in the front room of someone’s house. They are almost certain to be offered fig rolls. From the gravestone she can see the shape of the forestry spread dark and dense along the side of the mountain. I’d love to be there now, Osian. How about you? she asks, immediately realising she wouldn’t want him with her. Osian shades his eyes and gazes at the mountain. More than anything, he answers.

  Thou Shalt Not Make Unto Thee Any Graven Image

  (Deuteronomy 5:8)

  The following weekend, Biddy and Tirzah are trying to think of something to do. It’s late Saturday morning, and they both know that if they’re seen looking idle they will be roped in to help with more chores. Biddy has already swept out the chicken coop and cleaned her room. Tirzah flicked a duster over her mother’s ornaments and polished all the Sunday shoes. So they hide in Biddy’s tree house, both having to struggle now to get through the opening. I don’t think this old platform is going to hold out much longer, Tirzah says, deliberately wobbling the wooden floor. Through the glassless windows clumps of just-open plum blossom obscure them from sight. Biddy sniffs deeply. Smell it, she says, shutting her eyes. The girls breathe with concentration. There’s pretty, Tirzah says. It’s a pink smell, like spicy sweets, that you feel you will never get enough of. Someone is walking under the trees. Shhh, Tirzah whispers, and they crouch, peering down through the gaps in the floorboards to the masses of flowers. Biddy’s mother is going to collect eggs from her chickens. They glimpse the top of her head with its sideways-drifting bun. Then she’s gone. Quick you, Tirzah says, pulling Biddy’s arm. Let’s get going. They swiftly climb down the ladder and dash up the path and out through the garden gate. That was a close one, Biddy says, as they lean briefly against the house. I thought we’d had our chips.

  They decide to pick bluebells for everybody. We’ll get sandwiches or something from my mam, Tirzah says. She always thinks getting flowers for people is God’s work. Tirzah’s mother is at the kitchen table when they go in, doing her morning Bible reading. I’m all behind today, she tells them, wiping her eyes with a balled-up hankie. We won’t tell, will we, Bid? Tirzah asks. Biddy shakes her head. Well, I really don’t know where the morning went, her mother adds, closing her Bible. I only know I have been dancing in the Spirit. Caught up, I was. The girls exchange a look. Can we have some grub, Mam? Tirzah asks. We’re going to pick bluebells for everybody. Oh, lovely, her mother answers, pushing her hair back up into the headscarf she wears knotted over her
front section of curlers. Bluebells and wood anemones, my favourites. Then she adds: And less of the grub, please. Who are we? Heathen? But Tirzah can tell she’s in a good mood, her voice is so mild. Mind, she goes on, you’ll be lucky. I doubt the bluebells will be out yet. Still, it’s unseasonably warm, so you might find some. I loved the bluebell woods when I was a girl, she tells them, moving to the window and staring out at the concrete. I used to go there with my friends, long ago now, it seems. Many happy hours I spent. Mam! Tirzah has to say to get her attention. Hark at me, her mother laughs, looking surprised. Now, where were we? Sandwiches, Mam, Tirzah tells her. Right you are, her mother says briskly. A little something for two growing young ladies.

  Quickly she slices cheese and butters bread. I want salad cream in mine, Tirzah tells her. And me, please, Biddy adds. Her mother has finished making their picnic before Tirzah gets back with the greaseproof paper. You are quick, Mam, Tirzah says. Yes, well, I don’t hang around, her mother answers, wiping her hands on her apron. And this won’t do at all. I must get on with my chores. She disappears into the pantry. Tirzah concentrates on making the sandwiches into firm parcels. Now then, here’s a treat, her mother tells them, coming out with the old Quality Street tin. She opens it and they look in. The tin is full of fairy cakes, their sugar-dusted sponge wings perched on dabs of buttercream. The girls sniff the metallic, vanilla-laden smell. The blonde cakes with their weeping crowns of red jam look almost too good to eat. One each, Tirzah’s mother says, wrapping them up. Yesterday’s, but still nice, I think you’ll find. Now off you go, out from under my feet. Tirzah kisses her mother, and then dilutes squash into her dimpled plastic bottle, slinging it over her shoulder from the red strap. Biddy picks up the sandwiches and puts them in her bag. I’ll carry the cakes, Tirzah says.

  Soon the girls are out of the village and over the low wall that runs along the lane. The bluebell woods are way across the fields. They walk through clumps of thistles tall as they are. In amongst them, sheep bend their necks to the tussocky grass. The sheep droppings look like someone has strewn oversized currants everywhere. The fields go on and on, separated by stony walls they clamber over, but eventually they push through the undergrowth that borders the farthest end, until they can stand on a kind of long, wide ledge where holly and nameless small trees grow. They gaze up at the sun-speckled beech-bud canopy. At first, everything is as it always has been each year they come. There is the stream far below, and the beech trees that seem to be striding down to drink. But all around, the bluebells that they hoped would spread and flow across the hill, lapping the bases of the beech trees and running on in huge lakes of an almost purple colour, are still stiff-tipped and tightly sheathed.

  The girls are transfixed for a few moments, adjusting their expectation of dazzling blue. Tirzah remembers her mother’s face when she recalled the bluebell woods, and wishes she’d listened instead of rushing her to make the picnic. Come on, dozy, Biddy shouts, and they start to search for the odd, squeaking, blue-crowned stem amongst the glossy leaves. It doesn’t take long before they each have a little bunch of blooms, the root tips shining whitely. Let’s lay them down and go exploring, Tirzah says. But we’ll take our dinner. They decide to visit the stream. As they run through the silent trees they hear sounds of shouting, and stop to listen. Who can that be? Biddy asks, raising her eyebrows and grabbing Tirzah’s arm. They wade through the sleeping bluebells and ground ivy towards the sounds, trying to be as quiet as possible. Then they hear a scream, and over it, one voice yelling the same phrase repeatedly.

  Look, Tirzah whispers, tugging Biddy’s dress. There is a group of small boys kneeling on the bank around a deep pool in the stream. Tirzah can see that Brân is up to his waist in the water and he’s bending over, struggling with something that’s putting up quite a fight below the surface. The watching little boys are frozen. Brân is shouting, but she doesn’t understand what he’s saying. His face is contorted, his eyes staring and blank. Tirzah realises with a jolt of fear that the thing struggling beneath the water is a boy. She and Biddy hold each other tight. The beautiful woods have changed; the air seems to move with invisible things; the plants around their shoes coil and uncoil; along each branch mean creatures creep, ready to drop like hanks of rope.

  As they watch, Brân pulls the boy up and heaves him on to the bank, where he lies motionless like a heap of wet washing. Brân pokes with his foot, and the heap begins to move. Then another boy comes shakily forward. There is a kind of stone altar on the far bank of the stream, topped by a roughly carved wooden head with what looks like a sharp beak. On a flat slab in front of the head sits a bloody bundle. Tirzah’s heart is jumping inside her ribs, and her mouth is drenched with a thin, acidic fluid, but she pulls away from Biddy and moves forward, stumbling, until Brân notices her. She is lightheaded and has to force herself to speak. Whatever are you up to, Brân? she calls. Is that a graven image? Brân turns and the boys all move in around him. We are worshippin’ the Devil, he shouts, his chest heaving. And havin’ a baptism. That’s what we’re up to. And all the boys join in a wavering cheer. Tirzah is suddenly so cold she will shatter if anyone touches her. As she looks at Brân she sees his soul, like a plastic carrier bag filled with air, escaping from the folds of his bundled-up chest. No! she screams. Stop! And the white bag swiftly collapses, tucking itself away again.

  There is a long moment when Brân and Tirzah continue to gaze across the green space between them, and then Brân raises his spear as if to throw it. Tirzah feels as if he has struck her. The sensation in her chest is so intense that for a split second she can’t breathe. But then she leaps back and away, and hears Biddy gasp behind her as she drops her bag. They run back up the long bank, weaving through the beech trees, until at last they stumble on to the ledge and fall through the holly bushes, out into the scrubby, sheep-smelling field. Full pelt they still go, weaving through the spiky thistles, scattering the sheep, over the walls, until they arrive back where they began. Only then do they stop, throwing themselves down to rest against the lane’s boundary, with its warm, lichened stones. Biddy is still sobbing, but Tirzah is beyond tears; the place where her heart should be is strangely vacant. She can’t forget Brân’s face as he held the boy under the water, or his altar with the blood-soaked bundle. It is as if the sun-filled, blossom-strewn world she thought was true had split open, and there, wreathed in smoke, grinning at her again over its rim, was the curly-horned, scarlet Devil himself.

  Biddy takes the battered package of cake Tirzah has been clutching in her hand all this time. Look, she says, gulping, your mam’s nice fairy cakes are crushed. They look at the damaged cakes, amazed to see something so normal and blessed. Then they gather sweet crumbs between their fingers and eat them hungrily, enjoying the melting buttercream and tart jam. It’s hard to imagine her mother’s kitchen, and ordinary things like fairy cakes and orange squash, being part of the same world as the dark chaos of the scene in the woods. And that’s just our village, Tirzah thinks. It makes her wonder about the rows of houses all around her own home. What horrible things might be happening inside them? And what about the wide world? Tirzah dusts her hands off and wipes her mouth. Dammo, Biddy says. After all that, we’ve gone and left our bluebells behind. Who cares about them? Tirzah answers. Let’s pray for Brân and his gang. And for the whole world. But once she’s bowed her head she can’t think of a single word to say.

  Put Away Thine Abominations out of My Sight

  (Jeremiah 4:1)

  Pastor has moved on from curses, and is now preaching a series of sermons on God’s judgements, and what the consequences of these judgements are. On Sunday morning in Horeb he has been talking about God’s judgement on mankind generally. One of the ways God’s displeasure manifests itself, he says, is by sickness and mishaps of birth. These are all what the Bible calls abominations. Tirzah trips up on the idea of babies; it all sounds wrong. Surely, she thinks in her pew, discreetly plaiting and unplaiting a springy hank of hair, dwty, dribbly, d
arling babies can’t have done anything wrong yet? Why should the sweet things be punished? And how cruel to make them blind or deformed? If God really acts this way, maybe He isn’t the God of Love people say He is. Pastor, of course, has the answer: Original sin, beloveds, he repeatedly states. It’s as if he wants to bash home this truth to the fellowship. Original sin! he shouts. Original sin!

  Tirzah begins to feel headachy, and each time he shouts the phrase a nail of pain jabs her forehead. No one, apart from our Lord Jesus, comes into this sad world pure, dear fallen friends, Pastor sums up, pulling a hankie out to wipe his mouth. Each and every one of us is tainted by the Fall. Eve tempted Adam, and there you have it. We were abominations in our mothers’ wombs, and our mothers were fallen. Tirzah’s father is agreeing wholeheartedly with what Pastor is saying about everything being women’s fault. Amen, he says loudly, nudging his wife. Verily, Pastor concludes, I say unto you: all around we see the abominable, just deserts. Well, it’s fine and dandy for Pastor, Tirzah thinks. He can preach about original sin until his head falls off. Surely everyone knows he’s holy. The rest of us, though. If we are teeming with sin even before we are born, because of being human, what chance have we got? And if you’re a woman, it seems you’re even more to blame. Her headache gets worse, just trying to work it out.

  Tirzah’s parents disagree with these judgements, and have spent Sunday afternoon discussing the issue. Tirzah is not asked for an opinion, but she agrees more with her mother. In the kitchen, she goes back and forth to the dining room, carrying first a plate of bread and butter and then the cut-glass bowl of amber pickled onions. Her mother is boiling the kettle and buttering scones. The caramel-rich smell of a baking tart fills the warm room. Now then, her mother says, vigorously buttering, chwarae teg, Gwyllim. I will not dignify the argument about fallen women by discussing it. But surely our God is a just God. Babies indeed! So it’s their own dear fault they may not walk, or see, or speak? And then only some? The rest get off free? That’s not my God, I can tell you now. Tirzah’s father makes the throaty, growling sound that means they all have to look out, but her mother carries on, waving the butter knife. Think of Mrs Taylor’s beautiful babba, with her eyes like forget-me-nots, she says. I could eat that child in lumps. Just think, Gwyll. Finally, her father loses his temper. Silence, he shouts, red-faced. I am the head of this house. And I say God’s ways are above our ways. Enough! Now do your job and turn the gas off under that damned kettle.