Bluegrass Symphony

by Lisa L. Hannett

  Stupid cow. Seelya’s that spent, I coulda told her the truth and she wouldn’t o’ stopped me. She jest flicks her hand as like to say, Do what you gotta do, girl. I ain’t goin nowheres. So I leg it fast as can be, near slammin’ the door off its hinges ahind me as I go outers, while she snuggles her sweaty face into my pillows.

  There’s a rustlin’ in the bushes off to my right. Them twiggy folk’s seen us now, sure as. I put Connell down on the dirt, unwrap him so’s his pale skin glows under them bright stars, then I start tuggin’ at what’s left o’ his birthin cord. The noise comin’ from the undergrowth gets rowdy as I takes out my belt knife and cut the cord into small pieces; I can see them greedy eyes twinklin’ afore I even tosses the sausage chunks o’ it out to the trees.

  “Get yerself over here, Twigs. Soup’s on.” I stab my knife point-down into the grass so’s they’ll know there ain’t no more comin ’til they shows.

  Twiggy hands scramble and grab at the meat I throwed—then them mouthfuls was all gobbled, faster’n blinkin’. None o’ them touched the cornbread, the ashes or them yellow coneflowers I charmed and scattered ’round the cabin afore the birthin’ begun. All stick-folks wants new flesh; none o’ them wants my magics. Either way, they gots to wait ’til that twig-wife gets her share first. So they stay hidden in the scrub, and fidget the time away.

  “I swear, Twigs. You get yerself out here for this snack I brung you, else I’m goin’ta—”

  She steps so dainty outta them bushes it were like she thought she were some fancy lady ’stead’ve a shrivelled up old critter. Tip-toein’ in total silence, movin’ toward me and the bebby, she holds her head high while her dry straw hair is wavin’ in the breeze. Walkin’ calm, tryin to fool me into thinkin’ she ain’t as hungry as I knows she is.

  Don’t get yer knickers all in a twist, she says. Looks like she’s about to say somethin’ else but changes her mind when she gets close enough to whiff Connell, his skin sticky with afterbirths and still smellin’ like the insides o’ his mama’s legs. Now she’s lickin’ her dried lips, smackin’ them together so’s they makes a crunchin’-leaf sound. She ain’t gots many teeth, but the ones she’s showin’ now look sharper’n my knife.

  “I knows you got the hunger, Twigs. Been years since you lot done a swap like this one, ain’t it? And don’t I know it’s yer turn.” That twig-wife, she’s inchin’ closer to Connell the whole time I’m talkin’, sneaky bitch.

  “Take one step more, Twigs, and I’m snappin’ that bebby up and leavin’ you here to starve. I ain’t goin’ta get screwed, you hear? Not one nibble o’ this here feast is goin’ta hit yer belly ’til you done what you promised.”

  I weren’t really goin’ to abandon our plan, mind. I ain’t like Atli: I finishes what I starts. That there’s a lesson he’ll be learnin’ soon enough. “Give me a new one as he’ll be horrorfied with. Make it look jest like this’n but fill him with blackness and filth and years o’ foul spirit. Do it now, Twigs. Do it fast.”

  She nods at me once.

  My skin’s near tinglin’ with excitements and I gots the biggest smile ever—I can’t help it. Soon Atli’s bebby’ll be linin’ that twig-wife’s belly and I’ll be givin him one that’s goin’ta make his head spin. Few weeks from now, he’ll be wore out with this demon child and he’ll be needin’ some place to escape, someone to give him some comfort. Someone as ain’t spawned that dark bebby.

  Twigs plucks a couple hairs from Connell’s head, winds them ’round a thistle she pulled outta her back. She looks at me as if to say, You sure ’bout this? and I says, “Hurry! I gots to get back inside.” And hurry she does.

  She pops that thistle into her mouth, swishes it ’round once or twice, then spews up a splashin’ pile o’ nastiness smells like it’s been in her guts for years. Crouchin’ down, she starts smushin’ dirt ’round her upchuck, always checkin’ that the thistle’s tucked well and good inside. Two arms start formin’, then two legs; chubby face and dimpled potbelly; seashell ears and the sweetest lips and nose I ever seen. Looks jest like Connell by the time she were through. ’Cept, o’ course, that dirt bebby were all brown, and not movin’ unless Twigs made him to.

  This one needs sparkin to get goin’, she says to me—and afore I knows it, her hand’s in my belly, rummagin’ ’round straight through my clothes and all, causin’ me no end o’ pain. She’s tore a stack o’ twigs from her scalp and is stuffin’ them into me with the other hand, while the rest o’ her fingers is diggin’, diggin’ out somethin’ glowin; I can’t quite see. I don’t know what plan she’s got cookin’, but it hurts real bad; feels like I gots to shit blood, like I gots to spew up nails, like a thousand tiny teeth’s eatin’ away at my innards. Everythin’ goes black and afore I knows it I’m lyin’ on the ground.

  Can’t be more’n a minute later, I gots my focus back. The pain’s leavin’ me, but I lie here for a while longer jest to be sure. Lyin’ here, watchin’ that twig-wife slip a handful a white lights into her open gob.

  Where did she get them little shinin’ things? My belly’s achin’, but already it ain’t so bad as it were afore. She’s crunchin’ away at them sparklers like they was the maple candies Atli sometimes brung from up north. And my belly’s achin’. Twigs is gettin’ brighter, smoother, less twiggy-lookin’, and my belly’s achin’. She eats ’em all up, all my little shinin’ things, ’cept the last one. That one she puts in the dirt bebby’s middle—the flicker gone straight from my guts to his.

  “What’re you doin, Twigs?” I’m sittin’ up now, feelin’ ’round my belly for holes. There ain’t none there; nothin’ apart from streaks o’ muck from where I felled over. Don’t matter what my hands tells me: I knows that faery thief gone and stole all the makin’s for bebbys outta me, stuffed me full o’ brush instead. My guts is twistin’ with it and I ain’t stupid.

  I open my mouth to yell at her, but she cuts me off.

  A deal’s a deal, she says, gettin’ fleshier by the minute. I done what you wants; Atli ain’t got no reason to stick ’round no more. Seelya ain’t got his child: you does. So jest give that dark bebby a kiss, and he’s all yers.

  Well, didn’t that hit me jest like Pa used to? Smack, right in the head. This new bebby weren’t no changelin’. He were made with my fixin’s. All my makin’s tore outta me, and he’s all that’s left o’ them. I lean over and look at the little manikin that twig-wife’s left for me. Looks jest like Connell, but he gots my shinin’ things in him and nothin a Seelya’s. Mine. That’s right: this boy’s mine, ain’t he?

  Me and Atli made him.

  Me and my cleverness.

  I kiss his muddy cheek. There’s a deep blue cornflower dug into it, high up near his left eye. I kiss it right on the bud. Afore I can blink, it goes and changes into a dimple in the creamiest skin I ever seen. Spreads across his squeaky-clean face, down his wrinkly neck, ’cross his twiggy belly-button, all the way to his wrigglin’ toes. Yeah, he looks jest like Connell—’cept more gorgeous ’cause he’s mine.

  My heart’s all fluttery with feelin’s I ain’t never had afore.

  “Gods love ya, Twigs. He’s a stunner.” I ain’t seen nothin so beautiful that I ain’t had to give right back. Seein’ me happy, Twigs knows our deal’s really done. She’s lookin’ so healthy now, I can almost see the girl she used to be. There’s patches o’ bark still clingin’ to her, on her face and arms mostly, but I figure Connell’s juices’ll fix that up for her soon’s she swallows.

  He’s no more’n you deserve, she says. Her smile’s gots a edge o’ wrongness to it, but I don’t care. This bebby’s a keeper, and I does deserve him. Ain’t no way Seelya’s gettin’ her hands on another o’ my men.

  “Go on, then,” I says, and afore the words is left my mouth, Twigs is snappin’ the first Connell’s neck and draggin’ his body off to the woods. Reckon I won’t recognize her next time I sees her, when she’ll be wearin’ her pr
oper skin and all. Don’t matter, really. I’m through with her tricks for good, and right now I gots to get movin’.

  I bundle my bebby up in my apron—he don’t want nothin’ to do with Connell’s dirty blanket—and he snuggles in right close. Jest like that: he knows who his mama is. I stand up real slow and take a peek through the window. Seelya’s lyin on the bed with her eyes shut, dumber’n a bucket o’ slops. If she ain’t asleep she’s darn close. Not even thinkin’ on her bebby, is she?

  Good. Gives me time to hightail it outta here, get through them woods and to the road on th’other side. I’ll set me up a little cottage, somethin’ nice for me and my boy, then come back here to fetch Atli. He’ll be so glad to leave his wife once he sees how unresponsible she is—first night o’ his life an already her bebby’s gone missin’! Lord, it makes me laugh. Ain’t no way to prove it were me what took him: all I gotta say is I brung Connell back inside and tucked him in bed aside his mama. In the mornin’ when they see he’s gone, everyone’ll know it were Seelya got rid o’ her bebby. They’ll think she’s crazier’n a headless goose.

  And I won’t accuse her o’ nothin’. No, I’ll play her friend on account a our long years together. Atli’ll be so impressed with my kind actin’, he’ll be itchin’ to get back with me. Easy as that. Jest like Twigs says: without them’s bebby, ain’t nothin’ keepin’ Atli with Seelya. Nothin’ at all.

  “C’mon,” I whispers to my dark-haired boy with his beautiful, sleepy brown eyes. “Let’s get you to beddy-byes.”

  “A splendid idea.”

  My heart near jumps outta my chest and I squeal like a sacrifice pig at the sound o’ Messr Geir’s voice.

  “Calm yourself, Hesteh. You’ll wake my grandson carrying on like that.” I shut my mouth, but my breathin’s hard. “I’ve had a bed in the attic made up for you—why don’t you give me the boy and take yourself off for a well-earned night’s rest?”

  Afore I can stop it, “No!” bursts outta me at top soundin’.

  Messr Geir looks at me sorta funny, then gets ahold a hisself. “Oh, dear,” he says, chucklin’ warmly. “You’re right. Seelya will need you to help the boy suckle. Lead on then, my girl. A mother’s arms shouldn’t stay empty for too long. It’s bad luck.”

  Ain’t nothin’ I can do but let Messr Geir nudge me back inside, holdin’ my bebby close, takin’ all that bad luck in with us.

  I’m stuck.

  Seelya, that thievin’ trollop, is nursin’ my bebby, forcing me to wait. I suppose a child’s gotta eat, don’t he? But Messr Geir’s smilin’ like a Cheshire, stokin’ the fire and makin’ it too toasty in here. Now I’m sweatin’ worse than afore, fidgetin’ like I got the crabs, jest waitin’ for a opportunity. Still plenty o’ night left. If only Messr Geir’d skedaddle! I’ll take back what’s mine and scat afore Seelya even knowed we was gone.

  “He’s gorgeous, sweetheart.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  Seelya’s high voice is cracklin’ with proudfulness and—oh, for the love o’ all them gods—is that tears in Messr Geir’s eyes? He’s rubbin’ his rough hand up’n down his beardy face, snufflin’ and snortin’ the way our horses do in winter. Yep. He’s cryin’. Pullin’ a chair up close to the bed, settlin’ in for a long spell o’ watchin’. He ain’t goin’ nowhere fast.

  “Ain’t you got nothin’ to tend to, Messr? Harvest comin’ in soon and all?”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning, Hesteh. Where else would you want me to be, except here with my grandson?”

  I feels my face steamin’ red up to the roots o’ my hairs. I think, Go on, shake yer head at me all you want, you rat bastard. I can send you places worse’n here if I gots a mind for it. Out loud, I says, “’Course, Messr. If you’s intendin’ to stay, should I getcha somethin’ warm to drink? A nice cuppa somethin’?”

  “Yes, please do. Make it three: Atli will be joining us any moment now.”

  “Yes, Messr.” I gets three cups and my kettle, still boiled from the birthin’, and sprinkle in some tea leafs. In two o’ them cups I drop a handful o’ seeds my Mama magicked afore she died. Three times I whisper the words she taught me, ones what will make folk sleep like they’s dead. Last thing I needs is a drop o’ blood and Seelya and her Pa will be out ’til mornin’, both o’ them, afore Atli even sips on his plain tea.

  But my knife ain’t on my belt where it’s s’posed to be. It ain’t on the table neither, nor near the bed. Then I remember where I left it, and start hustlin’ towards the door quick as. “I’ll be back in half a tick, Messr. Jest need to get some mint for m’Lady’s tea—” but afore I can finish the thought, my knife’s right there.

  In Atli’s hand.

  It looks a real mess. Covered in Connell’s blood and stuck with dirt. Atli sees my bebby—what he thinks is them’s bebby—in Seelya’s arms, so he don’t say a word. He looks at the streaks on my apron, the stains on my hands, and keeps his mouth pressed in a firm line. He gots a look on his face tells me clear as mornin’ he knows somethin’ ain’t right. No way I’d be lovin’ a stupid man: my Atli knows how to make two plus two. Won’t be long ’til he figures it out. ’Til my bebby shows it weren’t his.

  “Who knew bringing a baby to life was such filthy business,” he says, handin’ me my knife, blade first, followin’ it up with Connell’s ruined blanket. ’Neath his other arm he gots the bluest silk shawl I ever seen, fit for wrappin’ a queen in. So lovely, it hurts my eyes lookin’ on it, on that birthin’ present for Seelya.

  And I know, sure as I know I ain’t fit for such fine material, he ain’t never goin’ta leave her.

  “Atli, I—”

  He don’t care what I gotta say. Seein that hurt look in his eyes, that disappointment I knows I put in there, my belly starts achin’ afresh. Painin’ and painin’, with all them brushwoods Twigs shoved in me stretchin’ and pushin’ up my innards ’til it feels like I’m about to burst. My skin gets smaller, stiffer, my fingers’n toes stretch while the rest o’ me’s shrinkin’. Them branches change me total, suckin’ the wet right outta me. I’m shrivellin’ but the hurt in me keeps growin. Soon it’s the only thing leavin’ me standin’, givin’ me the giddup to walk my twiggy legs outers, trailin’ my long leafy hairs ahind me.

  Oh, Atli, I says to his back. My voice don’t make no sound; it’s all in my head now. But he wouldn’ta stopped, even could he hear me. He’s walkin’ toward the bed, movin’ closer to his family. Movin’ far as he can away from me.

  I know feelin’s change. They change as easy as a girl turns twiggy, quick as a bebby gets stolen from his ma. But paths don’t jest go one way: what you lost gotta come back to you some day, sure as spring follows winter. That’s what my twiggy folk says: they tells me a twig-wife’s gotta be patient. That she’ll never know when her chance’ll come to turn things ’round. They says I gots to be vigilant. And I am. Oh, I am. My teeths is sharp, my diggin’ fingers is ready, my eyes is always lookin’. Watchin’ Seelya raise my bebby, waitin’ for my luck to change. Jest waitin’ to take back what’s mine.

  Fur and Feathers

  “Where’s Reynard got himself to, Rori? I ain’t seen him for days.”

  There’s a waver in Ida-Belle’s voice as her question travels up the henhouse stairs, a straining to be casual. Her feet scuffle in the dust, sandals shifting back and forth with toes pointed in. Clouds of dirt lift, cling to her ankles, then settle like sighs on the ground.

  “Answer to that will cost you.” Aurora’s response comes from within the whitewashed structure; it sails out the multi-paned windows on a wave of chicken giggles and clucks. A minute later the woman appears, apron-covered legs framed in the lower half of the screen door, head and torso indistinct in the shadows cast by the coop’s overhanging eaves. One stride short of emerging, she looks down the five wooden steps to where Ida-Belle waits.

  “I got coin,” the girl says, fumbling for the
cotton purse she wears slung over her shoulder. She’s just gone twenty-one but long hours in the woolshed have wizened an extra decade into her face. Her hands—one lifted to shade her eyes from the glare reflecting off the tin roof, the other pressed flat against her belly—are pink and soft. Years of gathering, combing, and carding lanolin-rich fleece has left even the creases around her knuckles smooth.

  “Bet you do.” Arms wrapped around a pail of feed, Aurora uses a hip to push open the door. Springs squeal as the hinges stretch wide to let her out; they recoil with a clatter of wood against wood.

  “Call me batty,” she continues, clomping down the steps, “but I reckon you ain’t drove half way across Napanee to talk about Rey.”

  “No,” says Ida-Belle, eyes cast down. “I reckon not.”

  Aurora shifts her grip on the pail, cradles its weight in her left arm. “Well, out with it then.”

  “Jimmy’ll kill me if he finds out I came.” The girl’s voice trails off as she looks up, takes in the henhouse. The place is bigger than her cottage and twice as old. Foundations raised four feet off the ground, the weatherboard building tilts to the right. Its porch sprouts support pillars like dozens of running legs caught beneath its bulk in mid-stride. A brace of hares, necks slit and draining red, dangles over the railing just high enough to be out of predators’ reach. Garlands of bones and feathers, poppy heads and rosehips hang in rollercoaster loops from the eaves. To the left, a ramp sticks like a laddered tongue out a rooster-sized hole in the wall. Though a scrub brush and pail wait below the rainwater tank’s faucet, every horizontal surface remains speckled with bird shit.

  “Ain’t no one forcing you to stay, girl. Get on with it, or get moving. My lasses have had themselves an upset this week; they sure as hell need my help if you don’t want it.”

  “It’s just—” Ida-Belle pauses, begins again. “I can’t give you much in the way of payment, but I was hoping?” Her eyebrows and shoulders lift as she speaks, then slump as she sees the older woman’s stern expression. “I was hoping.”