Yet despite it all Connor continues to grow. Sometimes when he is asleep she looks at him and sees the child that was, the beautiful baby she had held the day he was born, and in those moments she is filled with love for him. But when he is awake these moments disappear in the face of his anger and screaming.
In the village it is worse. It is common knowledge there is something wrong with her child, yet no one speaks of it to her. And so she goes through her days alone, tending to Connor and avoiding the gaze of people she has known all her life.
Even when she works alongside them she is like one apart. In the fields, the others fall quiet when she is there, or make awkward conversation, so much so that she takes to working on her own, bent over in a patch of field a furrow or two removed from the others.
And then, one afternoon in July she is with the Widow Thirlwell in the kitchens, preparing the food for the men’s dinners. All week they have been bringing in the hay from the western fields, the men and many of the women labouring through the afternoons and into the long, high evenings, eager to take advantage of the warm, dry weather, and although it is hard work there is cheer in it, and in the meals they eat, often after ten, when the sun finally dips low and the dusk comes. As they begin bundling the food the widow pauses and looks at Connor for a long moment before returning to her work.
“You should not blame yourself,” she says after a few seconds, not looking up as she speaks. “Some children do not thrive.”
Startled, Hannah pauses, a rush of emotion rising in her throat. A moment later the widow lifts her face and looks at her. She has round cheeks that are burnished apple red by the sun, and her eyes are small and bleary blue, yet there is a sharp intelligence behind her laughing manner.
“Some of the women say it was the shock of losing that husband of yours, others talk of bad blood, or witchcraft. Don’t listen to them: I had three children who did not thrive and I never lay with the devil or any foolery like that.”
Still Hannah does not speak. Part of her wants to weep with relief, but another part is angry and upset she has been a subject of discussion.
That evening, when she takes the food out, she watches the others talking and laughing, sees the children chasing each other, and her head singing with exhaustion, finds herself gripped by a sudden fury, too afraid even to speak for fear she will shout or scream like a madwoman.
* * *
A week later she is out by the field when old Maggie appears out of the trees. Hoping to slip away Hannah averts her eyes but the old woman is too quick, calling her name so Hannah must turn and acknowledge her. As Hannah turns Maggie smiles unpleasantly, aware she has won this small contest of wills.
“What is it?” Hannah demands, although she knows the answer well enough.
“You did not pay me,” Maggie says.
Hannah doesn’t flinch. “Why should I pay you for witchery?”
“Perhaps you should ask yourself that question. After all, you’re the one with a child who will not thrive.”
Hannah takes a step toward the old woman, her fists clenching. “Did you curse him, witch?”
Maggie snorts. “Calm yourself, girl. I had nothing to do with what ails your child, though I would have been within my rights”
When Hannah doesn’t step back Maggie smiles. “Are you telling me you haven’t guessed the truth already?”
‘What truth is that, witch?”
“Your child: he is not human.”
Hannah hesitates. “Not human?”
“It is the work of the little people. A baby as fair as him is easy prey for them. Was there never a night you did not feel their presence?”
She does not reply, just stands, looking at the old woman. Maggie smiles unpleasantly at her.
“Yes, now you see. The child you rear is no longer yours. Your Connor is gone, stolen away. And in his place a changeling.”
“No,” she says in a strangled voice. Maggie does not move, just stands, staring at her. Not for the first time Hannah sees the delight the old woman takes in causing pain.
“Is he as other children? Does he speak? Does he walk or play? Does he cry out when you touch him?”
She shakes her head.
“It is because he is not human, he is a thing made of wood by fairy hands.”
Something in Maggie’s words makes Hannah pause. “Wood?”
Maggie smiles and nods.
“And my Connor?”
Maggie shrugs. “Gone.”
“And how do I get him back?”
“Drive out the changeling. They fear fire and water: if you push him under the creature will leap free rather than drown, and once the enchantment is broken your child will return.”
Hannah stands looking at the old woman. Somewhere in her she knows this pleases Maggie that the old woman sees a way to have her in her power, that this is itself a vengeance of sorts.
“I must go,” she says. “I will be missed.”
Connor is sleeping when she returns, although she sees by Jane’s face the time he was not was not easy. Taking a penny from her apron she presses it into her hand, but Jane pushes it back, telling her to keep it.
“You have enough to worry about,” she says.
She does not argue, just nods, dropping her eyes as Jane leans close and kisses her cheek before she slips out the door and away.
Left alone with Connor she stares at him, hearing Maggie’s words echoing in her ears. Could it be that this creature she calls her own is nothing of the sort? That this thing she holds in her arms and feeds at her breast is nothing but a copy of a child? Part of her knows that it is madness, that the old woman’s words were meant to disturb and frighten in precisely this way, yet as she looks at him lying there she cannot put the idea out of her mind.
* * *
She and Brendan had been married a year when she went to Maggie. Brendan did not suggest it, nor would he have wanted her to if he had known, but she knew her failure to be taken with child worried him. It was not for want of trying: although afterward she often felt lonely, lost, she could not help take pleasure in the way their bodies moved together, in Brendan’s delight with her, the rapt intensity of his desire.
Maggie’s hut was quiet when she reached it, although in front of it a fire burned, a pot suspended over it. Over the door hung rabbit’s feet, the skulls of animals. Seeing them Hannah hesitated, stepping back, behind a tree, but as she did old Maggie emerged, and looked her way.
“Who’s that?” Maggie called. “Don’t worry, I know you’re there.”
A moment passed then Hannah stepped out to find the old woman staring at her.
“So,” she said, “it’s you. What brings you to my hut?”
Hannah did not answer, just stood rigidly, and after a moment Maggie snorted.
“I see,” she said, and turning motioned to Hannah to follow her into the hut.
Inside it was dark, thick with the stink of smoke and herbs and the old woman’s body.
“You would be with child?” Maggie asked, and Hannah nodded. For a long moment the old woman stared at her. Then she reached out a hand, quick as a snake, and shoved it into Hannah’s skirts. Hannah cried out, in shock and shame, but she did not pull away. The old woman’s hand was hard, her fingers rough. As she poked and felt Hannah fought the urge to look away, unwilling to give the old hag the pleasure of seeing her distress.
“He loves you, I think.”
Hannah looked at her in surprise and found Maggie watching her.
“And you?” she asked, “Do you love him?”
When Hannah did not reply immediately Maggie chuckled, a cold smile on her face.
“No matter. Here, drink this, then lie with him under the full moon. A child will come.”
Hannah took the herbs in her hand. Maggie was watching her. All at once she felt a kind of revulsion toward the old woman, her prying smile.
“What, witch?” she asked, the anger in her voice surprising her.
“You shoul
d be careful,” Maggie said. “He is touched by the fairies, that husband of yours. And they are jealous of those they favour.” As she spoke she reached out a hand for Hannah, but Hannah jerked away, suddenly filled with loathing. Maggie smiled in something like triumph, but shaking her head Hannah backed out of the hut, not turning back when she heard the old woman behind her, calling her name, demanding her coin.
She waited a week, then on the night of the full moon she made the soup Brendan liked and drank the herbs, wincing at their bitter taste. And when they were done she took him to their bed, and with an urgency that frightened her, drew him into herself.. But when they were done and he lay spent on top of her she felt the old emptiness return, and with it a loneliness that sang through her like regret.
* * *
As July passes she works in the fields in the days, sleeps in her cottage at night. While the other children run and play by the hedgerows and on the furrows, chasing the birds under the care of their older siblings Connor lies and stares at the clouds or the leaves overhead. Other children his age are walking, speaking, yet although his body is strong, the muscles in his back and neck holding him rigid when she touches him he does not sit, and on those occasions she rolls him onto his belly the violence of his fury and screaming quickly convinces her to return him to his back.
It is a blessing, in a way, for while he lies still she can work uninterrupted. Once she might have joked and laughed with the others as they worked, but as the months have passed the other villagers have become cautious around her; although they still laugh amongst themselves as they work they keep their distance from Hannah only, speaking to her when they have to.
It pleases her, in a way, to be made separate like this. For she does not seek their company, and in truth she has little energy for it. For although Connor is calm in the daylight, he is not at night. Instead, when the darkness comes he begins to cry and thrash, his voice rising in the high-pitched scream she has come to hate and fear, the sound of it keeping her from sleep night after night.
Were he another child she might be able to comfort him, to lull him to sleep. Yet her touch only makes it worse, provoking cries of fury and distress. The only thing that will work is feeding, and even that only works less often with each passing week. More than once she has found herself seated outside, in the dark, listening to his cries inside, and wishing only for sleep.
Unable to sleep at night she takes to curling up in the shade of the trees during the warmth of the afternoon, while the others rest and talk, dozing amidst the smell of the grass and the soil, the high song of the insects.
Thus it is that one afternoon she wakes to the sound of voices, and sitting up sees the others have made their way to the side of the road. Lifting an arm to shade her eyes she sees a man leading a wagon along the road below, some object secured beneath tarpaulins atop it.
As she hurries across the field to join the others she sees the object on the back is a machine,, a monster of a thing made of metal and timber, with great pipes protruding from it.
“It’s the threshing machine for the master,” Bill Egan says as she draws level with him, not taking his eyes from the road. Hannah nods, remembering hearing the talk about this machine, the way it has put men out of work in towns all over the county. But as she stands, watching the wagon wind on toward the big house it is not the machine she is looking at, but the young man on the horse, who has stopped and is conversing with old Tom Moore, his face relaxed and filled with an easy good cheer.
* * *
In the days that follow the thresher is the only subject of conversation in the fields amongst the men. The women, by contrast, are more interested by the young gentleman, whose name it seems is Thomas Middleton. He is an engineer, and has the manners of a gentleman, although he is often in the field with the other men. Jane claims to have heard he will be here a month, which means he will be here for the harvest dance, and for a time they amuse themselves by imagining who he might dance with.
She does not join them in their chatter. Yet she watches him. He is handsome, but she does not see that, or not only that. Instead she sees somebody who has come from the town, somebody who moves in a world larger than this one. There is a lightness and an ease to his manner, an openness in his smile she cannot help but notice.
Once, only a few years ago, he would have noticed her. Now though she pauses in her work to stare at him, aware of the way she has been made invisible. One afternoon, down by the road she pauses by the trough where the horses are watered and takes in her reflection, saddened by the sight of her sunburned cheeks and unruly hair, the coarseness of her skin.
But then, a fortnight or so after he arrives, Old Tom Moore calls her to him in the east field and bids her bear a message back to the master’s house for the Widow Thirlwell. Because it is hot Hannah takes the path past the old dovecote by the stream, hoping to keep to the dappled shade of the beech trees that spread there. The dovecote has been abandoned for as long as anybody can remember, its structure home to wild birds, disturbed only by the children who come here to steal their eggs. But as she rounds the bend toward the road she is surprised to see Mr Middleton standing in front of it. Suddenly uncertain she comes to a halt, and is about to turn away and up the slope, but as she does he turns and looks at her.
“I am sorry,” she says, “I did not mean to disturb you.”
He smiles. “You have not disturbed me. I was just wondering how long this has stood empty. Do you know?”
Hannah shakes her head. “It was empty when I was a child,” she says. “And even then it was old”.
Mr Middleton looks back at the structure, as if considering her answer. “And would the local people use it if it were not abandoned?”
Hannah hesitates, uncertain about what he is asking. “It is not ours to use,” she says. “It is the master’s”.
He nods and looks at her again. “But if it were yours to use you would use it?”
“I suppose.”
Perhaps seeing her discomfort Mr Middleton shakes his head and grins.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I sometimes forget myself. It’s just it seems strange, you all toiling in the fields while something like this stands empty.”
Hannah nods. “Perhaps you should speak to the master.”
He looks at her. “Perhaps I should,” he says, then pauses, looking at her. “Do you have a name?”
Hannah looks at him. Seen close up he is younger than she had thought, his eyes green beneath brown hair.
“Hannah O’Rourke.”
“A handsome name,” he says. “And what brings you this way?”
“I am taking a message to the kitchens.”
“I see. I am heading back there myself. Might I walk with you?”
For a long moment he stands, watching her. Then, surprising herself, Hannah smiles. “Of course,” she says.
* * *
When she returns to the field she does not tell the others of her conversation with Mr Middleton, although she knows some busybody will make sure they hear of it soon enough. But for now it is enough to have this thing for herself, to feel the way it swells within her. Perhaps Connor senses it as well, for as she makes her way back home that evening he lies against her quietly, without fighting or complaining as he usually does, and when it comes to sleep he passes easily into unconsciousness. Yesterday he screamed and fought and moaned and she wept with frustration, until she looked at him and saw what other saw, that there is something unnatural about him, something not-human, as if he were a distorted reflection of a child. Yet now, as she lies on the edge of sleep and hears him breathing next to her she does not know what to think. For although he is barely there, a dumb thing, still she knows somewhere within herself his flesh is of hers, his warmth is wound into her being, and to think otherwise is sinful, hateful, a denial of herself as much as of him.
* * *
July fades into August, the days coming high and hot so they work faster against the threat of the storm
s they know will come. As they cut the wheat she watches Mr Middleton directing the men, teaching them the operation of the machine. Although they have not spoken again since that afternoon she has seen his eyes seek her out across the field, seen the way his manner changes as she passes. So have others: although they are wary of teasing her about it some of the women have taken to whistling at her when he passes, although she will not give them the pleasure of responding.
The machine is a monstrous thing. Steam-driven, it roars and hisses, belching steam and smoke into the air as it grinds and creaks. The first time it started Connor began to scream, beating his head into the ground so hard she was afraid he would do himself harm. That first day she bore him away down to the stream where it was quiet and spent half an hour trying to calm him, a response that has not altered, meaning she has spent much of the past fortnight with him screaming and beating his head, the merest murmur of the machine enough to make him grow rigid and begin to fight.
For the others the machine is a constant source of wonder. Even though the men still mutter darkly about how many have been put on the road by similar machines this one is a source of constant fascination, so much so that at any given moment a group of them are to be found standing near it, watching as the wheat is fed into its maw and discussing its operations.
And then, all at once, the harvest is over, and the celebrations are upon them. Although it is two years since she went to the harvest dance, this year she finds herself as giddy about it as she was when she was a girl of fourteen.
The Widow Thirlwell offers to care for Connor while she is at the dance, and so, on the evening appointed she brushes her hair and takes the shawl Brendan bought her when they wed and walks the half a mile into the village to leave him with her and then on, to the back barn, where the dance is to be held.
It is a warm night, and although the storm that has been threatening all day has held off clouds are gathering to the west, lightning dancing on the horizon. Perhaps sensing she meant to leave him, perhaps simply because he was uncomfortable in a strange place Connor had begun to whimper as she bid the Widow farewell, and although she hesitated the Widow had placed a hand in the small of her back and pushed her out into the warm night, leaving her anxious, but now, as she approaches the barn that unease falls away, replaced by a strange, giddy delight in the possibility of her freedom.
The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5) Page 18
