“Guess the gods didn’t need her, hey Reverend? She weren’t the answer after all.”
“No, Jesse.” Reverend’s knuckles crack as he collects the shovel he dropped before our tussle. He hefts it in his right hand, says, “They took her all right—they just ain’t given nothing in return.”
He, Tommo, and Billy make their way over to me and Dísah, stepping careful so’s they don’t fall into her burrow, never taking their eyes off her. Jed hangs back, though; shifts his weight from foot to foot without going nowheres.
“I knew this weren’t like last time,” he says. “Something you done didn’t work, Rev. We done all this again, and you fucked it.”
Reverend’s voice is heavy; he don’t look at me as he says, “I think it’s fair to say it weren’t me doing the fucking here, boy.”
Silence.
Loose snow squeaks in the treads of Tommo’s boots as he comes up behind me. A raven circles overhead, lets out a single shrill caw. Taking that as some sort of divine cue, Reverend nods.
“Watch out for them bones on the way down,” Dísah says, right before Reverend takes her head off with the edge of his shovel. Right before Billy kicks her body back into the hollow. Right before I hear Tommo grunt, hear the whoosh of his spade speeding through the air, hear the twang of its steel on my skull.
Right before this damned white world goes black.
My head’s thick from too much bourbon, but the straw’s comfortable beneath my back; it’s nestled so tight around my body I almost feel like I’m floating. The barn’s air is stuffy and close, warm with the heat of my breath. I ain’t shivering no more even though my pants is still down round my ankles. My belly’s roiling.
“Dísah?” I say—or try to. Snow fills my mouth, muffles all sound. It’s so dark, I ain’t even sure she’s there ’til I feel her arm snaking around my middle, feel the press of her body against mine. She lies on top of me like a shroud of ice.
“Meet you at the bottom,” she says, then kisses me ’til my lungs freeze. I look down and see a field of bones below, and then Dísah’s gone.
I close my eyes, feel the sun on my face, and hear the musical drip of melting snow.
Them Little Shinin’ Things
“Keep them legs open, Seelya. Like this.” I grab at her slick-sweat knees, pry ’em apart as best I can, prop a couple pillows underneath. “What gotcha into this bind’s goin’ta getcha back out, now ain’t it? Knees open then, knees open now. And push.”
I’m speakin’ the truth, sure as. I don’t jest deliver them bebbys: I had a poke or two in my time with Atli, a fine trader man I thought as loved me. But his lovin’ didn’t give me no swollen belly, even though we practised enough when Seelya weren’t around. While she were off learnin’ to be m’Lady—on accounta her Ma and sisters droppin’ off with the plains sickness and all—I were doin’ what most maids does out in the cowshed every now and again: a little skirt-liftin. A little wriggle and plunge.
“That’s it, take deep breaths now. Fresh air’ll clean out yer belly—I’ll even open my big window up for you. How’s that? Nice gusty breeze’ll blow that bebby right out.”
Gods, look at her. Now she’s coverin’ her nose at the smells comin’ through them screens: horse shit and fresh hay and a whiff o’ winter. Good smells them, and honest. But she wouldn’t know honest if it bit her on the arse.
I pull the curtains wide and peek through to see if them twiggy creatures is out there yet. Nope. Can’t see nothin’ ’cept them talismans I scattered on the grass afore the sun set: corn cobs and cedar branches, sumac dust and wooden bowls full up with oils I charmed meself.
“Them’s lucky smells on that wind, m’Lady,” I says. “You breathe them in deep.”
I never had much luck meself. Seems it all flied away when me and Atli’s pokin’ stopped right afore his weddin—which were right after Seelya’s—m’Lady’s—Pa figgered out I gots the know-how to be a bringer o’ bebbys. That I can twist branches for fortune, make invisible scratchins for fine health, and other tricks that ain’t quite so shiny. Messr Geir tells me it were a gift, what I gots; a magic none too many come by. He tells me I ain’t gotta be wastin’ my time drudgin’ no more, that there’s more’n enough I can be doin’ ’round here for m’Lady instead. But while he were talkin’ I were thinkin’ about Atli. Thinkin’ that if I ain’t gotta milk them cows and feed them chickens then when am I goin’ta see him? My kind only mixes with them rich trader folk when they gots a hankerin’ for a secret poke, for a bit o’ warmth and a easy deal in the barn.
So I says to Messr Geir: I never knowed how I got that magic, I says. It were jest there all the time—musta drunk it in at Mama’s tit. My mama always were one for spellin’ and charmin’ and makin’ all manner o’ things as suited her own Messr’s wants. I ain’t gotta think about it much to make it happen, I tells him. Jest come natural, same way’s I gots Mama’s blue blue eyes.
But it were no use. Messr Geir says it don’t matter how I got it, jest so long as I use it for good purpose. He shoulda said for his purpose. Sometimes I catch him lookin’ ’round his homestead like I already filled it with bodies, brung him more hands to work them fields, magicked so many childs into his girl she’d be clean wore out with birthin’. Well, I ain’t really gotta help him with that last bit, do I? Clever Messr Geir gone and bought a husband for Seelya, one who’s fit and ready to take all care o’ that type o’ magic.
And I were a weddin’ present for them two. Made no difference to no one that me and Seelya’s been livin’ on this ’stead together since we was both young’uns. I were bought straight out—papers was signed at the Mayor’s and everythin—all ’cause Messr Geir had the coins and a wantin’ to keep me on his land. If Messr had his way, he wouldn’t spare a seed for a chickadee; so it shocked me all to hell when he tells me I should feel right proud to be m’Lady’s helper, and he gives me a feather bed in my own little cabin and even puts me in new clothes for the job. No way from Tunesday I could say no to that, could I?
But proud?
No. I ain’t got no proudful feelin’s, not now Seelya’s cryin’ birth-tears that should be mine; bleedin’ all over my mattress; squeezin’ away pain I should be feelin’ in her place. Sure as.
Another spasm dances a two-step up’n down Seelya’s round belly. Her pretty-girl’s face is gone all wrinkly and red; her nice teeth showin’ bright white but snarly. Us two stinks to the high heavens from this work—’specially Seelya, who’s gone and squeezed out more stenchy wind these past few hours than even them cows paddock-side does in a busy week. We’s both hot enough to boil eggs—our blonde hairs is lookin’ dark brown with wet—and we’s filthier than Messr Geir’s hogs out back. To top it off, I traced mud charms all over m’Lady’s skin soon as the pain started, and got the magics all over meself at the same time. Seelya don’t know I were scrawlin’ them symbols for my own luck rather’n hers, but never mind. Long as it works, she’ll have her hands too full to care which luck is whose, and that’s truer than Messr’s pennies.
She gives another grunt. There’s a sound o’ skin tearin’ and the tangy smell o’ blood, and I think it sure ain’t gonna be long now afore it’s all said and done. Seelya’s knees knock me upside the head as I crouch down to take a glance at her slit. I gots to see if the fur down there’s more’n jest her own thatch, if it’s them bebby’s head or ain’t it.
“Knees open, girl! I’ll tie them legs to the bedposts if I gotta—you jest try me.”
On the way down, I catch a peek o’ my fierce scowl reflectin’ in the window glass and almost scare meself at the sight. It’s a moon-sliver night: not much light comin’ in from outers, but there’s a shinin’-bright fire for boilin’ water, and enough candles burnin’ to let me see how Seelya’s rollin’ her brown cow-eyes at me jest like she used to when we was kids. Only this time she weren’t tryin’ to bust me up with laughin’. This time she
were bein’ rude.
“I’m so tired, Hesteh. Let me rest, won’t you? Give me a potion.” She scrunches up her fists ’til the mud on her knuckles cracks. She grits her teeth, her words all strangly, and says, “Put me to sleep—make me numb—take the fight out of this child! Please! Do something to end this torture.” Then she slumps back in a cryin’ fit, all sobbin’ and feelin’ sorry for her situation.
Seelya’s jest so dramatic. Squawkin’ like she’s the first and last lady ever’s been split open with bebbys. Comes from bein’ youngest in her family: she always were tryin’ to get every kinda attention, however she could. And now it’s all hers, ain’t it? Lady o’ the whole goddamn house, livin’ easy with her Pa runnin’ the show. Married to the finest man I ever laid eyes on—the kindest, most generous—yeah, the finest man. A man what’s made Messr Geir a grandpa. He planted a strong child in Seelya’s belly, one what’s got the fight to get hisself birthed this night. But even with all that love and attention, Seelya’s actin’ like she don’t want half a bar o’ it.
Selfish sow she is, sometimes, m’Lady is.
I stand all the way up so’s I can glare at her better. I stare over the big white hill o’ her nightgowned self on the bed. She looks back at me good and long, ’til I start runnin’ my fingers up’n down the handle o’ my belt knife. I always wear it over my fancy apron, hangin’ on the leather sash Messr Geir gave me as part o’ my new kit.
“How ’bout I cut you right up the middle then?” I says to Seelya. “I could magic yer voice all quiet with one o’ them bowls o’ water over there—still water for still tongues my Mama always did say. How ’bout I quick-slice you on the sly, pop that bebby right out yer belly and no one ’round to see it? Put us all outta yer misery that way.” I snort at the hell-no look she gives me then. I ain’t seen nothin’ so funny since them little twiggy creatures left a great big turd in Messr Geir’s soup last Tunesday. The kinda look Seelya throws me now is jest like what her Pa threw back then—like she swallowed a mouthful o’ shit.
Makes me laugh full out, thinkin’ on the pranks them twiggy folk pull, and imaginin’ how scary I must look to Seelya now. Standin’ atween her chubby knees, sleeves rolled up and dirt written to the elbows; apron smeared with blood and pulled tight across hips wide and strong enough to carry two bebbys at once; cornsilk amulets twisted through my long hair, stickin up like a crown and woven ’round my neck atween the herb-knots and strings o’ milk teeth I always dangle there; my shadow loomin’ ahind me, creepin’ across the wall like a soul-suckin’ ghost who’s achin’ for a good feed. Hoo-ee, don’t my looks jest make me cackle like a hen!
I pull out my knife. Ain’t no law says I gotta to be nice to Seelya, jest ’cause I gots to bring her bebby into this world. She shrieks so loud I won’t be half surprised if she’s waked up deaf Jacob next farm over. I lean in, movin’ the blade closer and closer—but I ain’t really goin’ta slice her up the middle, mind. Any cuttin’s I do’ll come later.
O’ course, Atli don’t know that. Too late I were wishin’ I’d coated my tongue with sweet ’stead a sour jest then. Or that I’d held the knife low-like, so none but me and Seelya coulda saw it.
“What the hell, Hesteh?”
There he is, standin’ in the doorway, no more’n two feet ahind me. I ain’t heard him come up. I ain’t used to the musics in this place yet, this tiny cabin built wood-side, far from the field-side buildin’s I worked in since I were six. My little shack ain’t got the same creakin’s the big house attic gots, up there where I used to sleep. It ain’t got no rickety ol’ staircase complainin’ whenever a soul steps foot on’t. No Cook’s butcher knife choppin, takin’ heads off chickens and hares (now she gives me them guts an gizzards for my magics—Messr’s orders—and I pass ’em on to Twigs). No sheep-dogs’ feets scratchin’ at the screen door, beggin’ for scraps afore heading back out to the paddocks.
No pebbles ticklin’ my window.
No one callin’ me down to the shed for a tumble.
Jest Atli’s voice, deep and rumbly, soundin’ like a prince outta Cook’s yarns. “What the hell are you doing?”
He’s angry, sure; but hearin’ him speak, no matter what he’s sayin’, always gets a shudder startin’ in me that shoots straight from my heart and winds up hittin’ me right atween the legs.
“’Course I weren’t doin’ nothin’ to yer missus here, Atli,” I says, quick-like. “’Course not.
I shake my head—it ain’t his place to tell me what I can and can’t be doin’. Not in my own cabin, with my own magics ’round! “This ain’t men’s business—go and take yer worryin’ self outta here afore you mess everythin’ up.”
I can tell Atli don’t wanta go, but he’s gotta. He’s lookin’ at Seelya like I ain’t even here no more. Now he’s holdin’ her hand, callin’ her things like love and my dear heart; kissin’ her forehead, sweat and mud and all. I ain’t never seen a bloke so caught up in his wife’s pushin’s. No, never.
Seein’ it makes me want to howl my guts out.
I near bawled meself hollow on them’s weddin’ day last year. Out ahind the horse stalls where me and Atli use’ta go to share our lovin; howlin’ and howlin’ ’til there were no sound left. Jest a feelin’ o’ bein oh-so heavy, filled with barrow-loads o’ tiredness. So I laid meself down right there in the slops, not mindin’ the floor planks were wet and chilly with the comin o’ autumn. Muck and cold weren’t botherin’ me one speck; I balled my brand-new apron up and used it like a rich person’s pillow. Closed my eyes and says to meself, Go to sleep now, Hesteh. And never wake up ever again.
But them twiggy creatures weren’t havin’ it. No, they says to me. They was lookin’ hard at me with their sparkly eyes—none too friendly, but not mean neither—and they kept pokin’ their heads in and outta my sight. One minute ’bout four or five o’ them was there, and next they was all disappeared. It’s like they was testin’ me, seein’ if I could see them proper.
Well, I ain’t stupid. I seen stuff other folk don’t notice, I pay attention. Sure, it were hard to tell what were boys and what girls; but one o’ them done all the talkin’, and I knowed she were a she.
This ain’t yer time, she says without ever openin’ her mouth. Sayin’ straight into my mind, usin’ plain words an honest. Not talkin’ all fancy like Seelya does now she’s rulin’ the roost. Nor sayin’ one thing but actin’ jest the opposite, pokin’ here but marryin’ there. No, this here critter were truthful.
Don’t go outta yer head, my girl, she says to me. You ain’t lost nothin’ yet.
Maybe I shouldn’ta listened to that twig-wife, but I done so anyway. Maybe her’n the rest a them little critters—and they is little, no bigger than bebby sheeps and skinny as Granny Geir gets after fastin’ for holy Vinesdays—maybe they knowed my Mama while she were alive. Seems to me they coulda. Hell, it were easy as workin’ Mama’s magic, was talkin’ to that twig-wife. And ever since that first meetin’ it’s jest got easier and easier, our talkin’s.
Me’n her, we gots plans in common.
The bebby’s head’s full circle atween Seelya’s legs now. It’s rotten hot in here and it only stands to get worse afore it gets better. “Go on, Atli,” I says. “Get outta here. I gots work don’t need yer interference.” He hardly looks at me, so I raise my voice like I would to any old farm dog. “Get!”
He stares me straight on then, his looks makin’ me so wobbly I gotta turn away and whisper a few quick words to help screw my head back on proper.
“I think I’ll stay if it’s all the same to you, midwife.” He stands up, tall as a Grainspole, never lettin’ go o’ Seelya’s hand. “It’s not every day a man witnesses the birth of his first son.” Seelya tries on a smile but it twists upside her face. She’s lookin’ at me with beggin’ in her eyes, and there ain’t much more I can do. The bebby’s comin’.
“Stay outta my way, then.” I point
to a shady spot near the door, ahind me and lookin’ right up Seelya’s nightskirts. If he gots to be here he may as well get an eyeful. Nothin’ like the sight o’ his wife’s tore apart nethers to get Atli back in my knickers where he belongs.
“Out you hop if you’re hungry, Twigs. I ain’t got more’n a few minutes.”
Atli were right: bebby’s a boy. He’s bundled tight under my arm, and we’s huddled together on the outers o’ my cabin, crouched down in the dark. There’s a slanty bit a firelight shinin’ out my big window, but I steer clear o’ it and wait in the shadows, my finger stuffed atween the bebby’s slimy gums. Can’t take no chance he’ll start screechin’. We ain’t got no time for tangles.
“Come and get it,” I says, my voice shakin’ with jitters, and none too loud in case Seelya hears me from inside. I keep shiftin’ my gaze from the forest to the bebby in my arms, wonderin’ which one’s goin’ta wake first. Both, for now, is quiet.
Bebby’s sleepin’, praise all them gods. Seems he blowed all his steam blazin’ a path from the last world into this one: his wails was shrill enough to bleed yer ears. I’d had enough o’ that mouth after a handful a seconds—but I ain’t never seen Atli lookin’ so pleased with hisself as when he heard the racket his child were makin’.
“What spirit!” Atli says, laughin’ and smilin’ like a goon. “The strength of wolves is in that bellow.” So the two a them calls the boy Connell after them wolf-warriors so famous for battlin’ in Vinesday songs. It were Seelya’s idea. I reckon’ she brung it up jest to remind Atli she gots schoolin’ in her, the show-off.
Still, I knows it were a good name. Loud and strong and worth braggin’ over. And I says as much to Atli afore I shoo’d him off to fetch Messr Geir, sayin’ he should share him the happy news. Then soon as he’s out the door I wraps Connell in a nursin’ blanket and says to Seelya, “If yer child’s goin’ta stick in this world, m’Lady, I gotta clean him up and oath him to the moonlight.”
Bluegrass Symphony Page 4
