Chapter Sixteen
The udders are soft beneath my fingers as I cup them and squeeze the teat, pulling gently down. Warm milk squirts into the bowl on the platform between the goat’s legs. She fidgets and kicks up her back leg catching the bowl with her other leg as she moves back. The milk slops from side to side, the knocked bowl rocking on the wooden platform.
“Steady on, Annie!” I cajole as I squeeze the tendon of her leg gently above the hock.
“You’ve got it. Squeeze her there and she’ll soon learn kicking’s no use,” my father says, as he watches. “You’re a natural, lass,” he smiles, “we’ll be having you make the cheese next.”
I smile back to him as I squeeze and gently pull at the udders again, the milk squirts down to the side of the bowl and splashes up, spattering my jeans and the skin on my neck.
“Uggh!”
“Hah! That’ll learn ya!” my father jokes. “Concentrate, lass, or there’ll be more on you than in the bowl,” he laughs as he walks away.
I stare back down at the teats grasped in my hands, angling them to hit the centre of the bowl as I gently squeeze and pull again. They hit the middle, frothing and sending small ripples that lap the edge of the bowl, washing it white. The milk is pungent, but mixed with it comes an acrid waft of burning. Someone must be lighting a smoker or burning their rubbish. Annie shifts and bleats, pulling at the wooden slats either side of her head, the trap that keeps her steady on the milking platform.
“Pascha!” I call as I squeeze the tendon in her leg again to paralyse the kick. “Annie’s fidgeting. Fetch some dandelions for me.”
He looks up from his digging, watching as I nudge the fidgeting goat, keeping her in line, stopping her kicking legs from knocking at the bowl.
“Quick! Or she’ll knock it over and then we’ll catch it from Mum.”
The thought of her stern rebuke if we lose the precious milk, galvanizes him to action and he grabs at a handful of green leaves and runs across the garden, jumping over the growing vegetables, and stands with his offering to Annie. She calms instantly and snaps down at the golden headed flowers and green leaves with her long, brown teeth.
“I thought I could smell burning,” he says, looking up as the goat pulls at the greenery in his hand. “Now I can see the smoke. Looks like it’s coming from The Green.”
A thick black twist of smoke rises above the rooftops and into the air where it spreads out as a grey fog.
“Yes, it does,” I say, frowning, “why would anybody be burning stuff on The Green?”
“Dunno. They moved them refugees into the houses there. Perhaps they’re burning the rubbish they found?”
“There’s no rubbish in them houses. We’ve already picked them over for stuff we need.”
The black smoke billows.
“It’s getting bigger,” Pascha says as he watches the smoke spread large across the blueness of the summer sky.
“I’m going to see what’s going on,” I say as the flow of milk from the teat slows then sputters to a stop.
As we turn from the lane into The Green the usually quiet space, where the younger children play and climb the enormous horse chestnut, is alive with people. At its centre is a bonfire, a pile of flames reaching skyward, black smoke curling into the air. Men, women and children walk backwards and forwards from the circle of stone cottages that rings The Green to its centre where the fire burns.
“What are they carrying?” asks Pasha, confused.
“I dunno, I can’t tell from here,” I reply, uneasy.
“C’mon then, let’s get closer,” he demands.
He grabs my arm and pulls me forward. I’m hesitant, but I want to see what’s going on too so walk with him, further onto the grass.
“Those men, Edie, the ones in black, they’re watching, but it’s like they’re checking on them,” Pascha says, “and, and the refugees, they’re carrying books to the fire and … paintings!” His brow is furrowed as he looks in confusion at the people walking out of the houses, their arms full, and throw their burden on the fire.
I step closer, my brow knotted. A young woman, hair lank, her thinness obvious beneath the baggy dirt-greyed top she wears, walks out of the red door of No. 4. Under one skinny arm are a pile of books and in the other she holds the wooden shaft of a crucifix, the metal image of the dying Jesus, pinned to its front. She walks towards the fire. She can’t be!
“Hey!” I shout to her. “Hey! Stop!”
She doesn’t hear and continues to walk towards the burning pyre.
I can’t stand watching for a second longer and launch myself forward and grab her elbow. She stops and the books fall to the floor.
“What are you doing?” I shout down to her. “You can’t throw books on the fire! And the crucifix!” I say in shock as I reach for it and pull it from her hand. “You can’t burn this!” I say angrily as I wave the body of Christ in her face, unable to help myself.
A hand slams down hard on my shoulder and her eyes open in fright as she looks behind me. Fingers dig into the soft tissue beneath my collar bone.
“Aghh!”
I drop away from under the fingers and turn to look at the source of my pain. A guard towers above me, his face grim, his eyes set hard.
“Give it back to her,” he says, his voice harsh, “and you,” he nods with disgust at the girl, “pick up those books.”
“I won’t,” I say, defiant. “You can’t do this!”
The pain in my scalp as he grabs at my hair and rips it downwards makes me yelp.
“Edie!” Pascha screams.
“Give it to her now,” he says undeterred, “or I’ll chop this off.” He yanks at my hair again, pulling me upwards so that I have to stand on my toes to release the pain.
“Ok,” I give in. “Here,” I say, shoving the crucifix at the girl.
She grabs it and walks away, deadened to my suffering. He gives my hair a last spiteful tug, then loosens his grip. I drop to my knees.
“Edie! Get up!” Pascha cries, desperately pulling at my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
“It’s OK Pascha, I’m OK,” I say, playing down my fear as I scrabble to my feet.
People continue to walk to the fire, arms full, then back to the houses for more to feed the bonfire. The guards are staring at me now, watching my next move. There’s nothing I can do to stop them and I don’t want their attention on us.
“You’re right. Let’s get out of here,” I say, pulling Pascha towards me before turning to run back to the safety of our cottage.
“We need to tell the others about what’s happening,” Pascha says, anxiety strong in his voice. “Why would they burn books and pictures? Did you see that boy? He threw that painting of Mary holding the baby Jesus onto the fire. Do you remember it when we went looking in that house? The one with the creepy picture of Jesus with the crown of thorns in the hallway.”
“Yeah,” I reply though I hardly hear him. “Let’s find Dad. We’ve got to tell him what’s going on here.”
“Going on where?” a voice booms in front of me and I stop, startled at the sudden block of a man in front of me. My voice is caught in my throat.
“The fire she means,” Pascha speaks for me, “they’re burning books and pictures on The Green.”
“Ah! Well, our houses must be free of distractions and lies,” replies Malachi, his voice determined, his gaze unflinching as he looks directly into my eyes.
Pascha looks at me confused. “What’s he on about, Edie?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, “let’s get home.” I nudge at him to move.
“Yes, go home,” Malachi agrees. “Leave us to God’s work,” he says piously then nods and turns to walk into The Green.
“He is a nutter!” hisses Pascha.
“Shh!” I hiss back. “He’ll hear you. Let’s get home.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Edie, love, stop tapping your fingers please,” my mother implores for the fifth time as we sit in t
he later afternoon waiting for my father. The mug of hot tea sits cold on the scrubbed table and my food uneaten. “You need to eat that, Edie,” my mother scolds, searching for things to say to fill the void of impatience. “We can’t waste food. There’s not enough as it is.”
“I know, I know. Please stop nagging,” I retort, instantly regretting my terseness. “I’m sorry Mum, I’ll eat it later. I just can’t stomach it right now. I need to talk to Dad.”
“I understand,” she says gently, stroking the top of my clenched hand, wrapping hers around it. “He’ll be back soon. He’s never out after sunset and its nearly dusk now.”
Pascha fidgets in his chair, the scrape of wooden legs across the stone floor intense, irritating to my frayed nerves. “Pascha!” I scold.
“What? Give over Edie. You’re such a nag,” he says querulous. The chair scrapes back again, falls and clats to the floor as he stands suddenly and points out the window. “He’s here!” he shouts in excitement as he runs to the hall and flings back the front door hard so that it crashes against the plaster of the hallway wall.
“Pascha!” my mother calls out after him. “That boy! He’ll have this house round down our knees,” she mutters as I pass her and rush out into the last of the sun.
My father’s face as he looks to me is grim. Pascha must have already told him about the bonfire. “Let’s talk inside,” are the only words he speaks as he walks towards me, his arm round Pascha’s shoulders.
For once Pascha is quiet, subdued by my father’s sombre response. The atmosphere in the kitchen as my father drops his hunting sack on the table is tense, but he reaches across to my mother and kisses her gently on the cheek. She strokes his hair in response; their bond of love as strong as ever. He turns to me. “Now, Edie, be calm and tell me what happened on The Green.”
I take a deep breath and talk of the guards standing watch as the people burned the books and pictures and of how I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Of how I tried to stop the girl and how the guard hurt me. Of Malachi and his coldness. My father listens carefully, taking in each word and asking me to clarify where he doesn’t understand my ramblings. As I talk, I see the flickers of confusion turn to anxiety and then understanding.
“Iconoclasts,” he says, turning to my mother, “they’re stripping out the houses of the refugees, removing anything they don’t want them to have—knowledge, belief.” She shakes her head in despair. “Where’s Malachi now?” my father asks turning back to me.
“I saw him walk towards the School House about half an hour ago,” Pascha replies.
The look on my father’s face is grim with determination. “No one hurts my children,” he says before turning to leave the house once again.
“Wait! Tristan wait. I’m coming,” my mother calls out after him, pushing back her chair, reaching towards the door as she stands, “you two stay here,” she instructs as she reaches the hallway. I look to my brother, know that we’re both going too, and follow after them down the lane.
The School House doors are shut fast. My father turns the large metal knob, pushes at them, but they’re solid against him. He knocks hard and loud. The door opens and a guard, the leaking black lines of his tattoos smudged across his cheeks, bars the gap between my father and the congregation inside.
“Yes?” he growls.
“I’d like to come in,” my father says, his voice surprisingly pleasant, “we’d like to hear of God’s word,” he lies.
The door closes again and we wait, tense.
“I don’t want to hear about God’s word!” Pascha complains.
“Shh! It’s just so we can get in,” I explain.
“What are you two doing here?” my mother reprimands, “get back home. This is no place for you.”
“But Mum, if we come as a family they’ll believe Dad and you’ll be let in!” I say, not wanting to be left out. The door opens again and the guard waves us in.
The room has been stripped bare again and men, women and children stand to the back of the room. Malachi’s henchmen stand in front, blocking them. Other villagers, the ones who’d wanted to listen to Malachi’s preaching, stare as we make our way into the crowd of refugees. We stand behind the guards, pushed up against the empty white walls and listen.
“Welcome Fletcher. We are always happy for more pilgrims to join us and hear of God’s word,” Malachi nods sternly towards my father, his eyes searching, his neck stiff above the white pleated ruff at his neck. “Before you joined us, we were talking of the evil that lurks in our thoughts.” He touches his hand to his brow, his black cloak flapping about his arm. “Of how this evil has brought mankind to ruination, and how we must turn to God’s word to bring about peace and prosperity once again to our land.” He grabs the leather-bound book from the carved lectern in front of him and punches it into the air. “All that you need to know is in here.” He punches the air again with the book. “These words will save us.” Again the book is thrust into the air. “These words will destroy the evil that roams our land.” He slams the book down again on the lectern as if the evil itself lurked there.
A murmur behind me. “Yes!”
I recognise the voice. Agnes! Shocked, I swing around to look. She’s oblivious to everything but Malachi and looks at him yearning. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes sparkle. She seems full of desire, elated at his words. Enraptured is what my mother would call it. Confused, I search the faces of the others in the room. Some sort of mania seems to have spread among some of them, but the ones who aren’t smiling are frowning and desperate, hollow.
“Tell us the word,” Agnes shouts again. Again I’m shocked at her response. She can’t believe him!
The murmuring builds and the crowd shifts as I stand stupefied at the rapture brightening her face. Bella stands at her side sucking her thumb, summer-tanned arm wrapped around her mother’s leg.
“This should be interesting,” my mother mutters.
Malachi’s slitted eyes dart to her face, searching it, reading her. He scowls and raises his hands. Quiet descends on the room. He waits in the silence then continues. “My children, I have been sent here to save you, to bring you to peace and true understanding of your place in this world.” He looks out across the room then stands firm. “First, we must recite the Primitive Oath.”
My father shuffles and a sharp frown pulls his brows together. I feel his agitation in the thuds of my heart. Malachi coughs and looks out over the people before him, then begins to recite the Oath, waiting for the gathered villagers to follow suit. I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to take part.
‘I believe that the Primitive Elect are God’s chosen elite sent to rule over me and I submit myself to the Primitive Way,” his voice is strong in the silence. The villagers echo back in monotone. “I will accept its laws and rule.” My father shuffles his feet again and his fists are clenched. “I will accept its punishments when I do wrong and I will inform on all wrongdoers.” His fists clench and unclench, but still he doesn’t speak. “I will learn and live by the Primitive Way and abandon all other knowledge.” My father looks to my mother, both are frowning in disagreement. “I denounce all other religions.”
“No!” my mother shouts, “No! That’s not right! Preaching this hate is what caused so much destruction. It’s this kind of intol-”
“The Primitive Way is the ONLY way,” Malachi shouts, his voice drowning out my mother’s. “The Primitive Way is God’s way.”
“No!” she shouts again.
Malachi motions to the guards in front of us. He turns and bears down on her, but she won’t be silenced.
“No, it’s not true. Don’t listen to him,” she shouts again, turning towards the villagers. They stand staring back at her, agitated but unmoving, a mass of uncertainty and fear.
“Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect,” Malachi’s voice booms out above hers.
She steps towards him and a guard steps in to stop her then grabs hold of her wrist, fingers tight round its circumfer
ence, crushing the woven rosebuds of her shirt.
“Praise be to God and the Primitive Elect,” is the fervent, anxious response from the villagers as my father reaches out to the guard, digging his fingers into his hand, prising it off my mother. Another guard runs forward and throws his arm around my father’s throat, pulling him backwards, forcing him to lose balance. Pascha adds to the chaos as he leaps forward and grabs the back of the guard. I can’t hold back any longer and grab the arm that is still locked around my mother’s wrist, digging my fingers, my nails, into his flesh, trying to break his grip. It holds fast, my efforts have no impact. A hand grabs around my waist and I’m yanked back, twisted round and thrown across the floor. My shoulder hits the wooden floorboards as I land and when I turn back to the scene, Pascha lies on the floor, a guard holding him there. My mother and father stand trapped, their backs pushed up against the wall, hands at their throats. The crowd cowers against at the back of the room. Malachi steps down from his platform and walks towards them, his eyes black slits of anger.
“Fletcher,” he says as he reaches my father, “your wife needs to learn her place,” he smirks.
“Learn my pla-”
“Shut up woman! The devil is in your tongue,” he snaps. “It will do your children harm.”
She looks to Pascha and then to me, the pain and rising fear obvious in her eyes, and quietens in her realisation.
“You will come to understand and to follow,” he says, stroking at her cheek, whilst looking at my father. “God’s word must be followed.” He holds her jaw in his hand as my father squirms against the hand about his throat. “And the Primitive Elect must be obeyed.” She yelps as he squeezes her jaw and pushes her head back before dropping his hand. “Fletcher. Take your family back home,” he orders, locking his eyes to my father’s, threatening and confident in his power. “I shall visit tomorrow and school your wife, and your children, in the need for obedience to the Rule.”
He steps back and motions to the guards to release my parents. Another guard opens the doors and I grab Pascha and then my mother’s arm as a guard prods at my back to move me forward and out through the door.
Burning (Dark Powers Rising Book 1) Page 10
