—They’re just birds, Angus said when Annabel winced.
They crossed the green. As they rounded the corner near the church, they saw a crowd had gathered around a man who was speaking on an elevated platform. Angus recognized him immediately and tried to steer Annabel away, but she’d seen him too: it was the doctor who had come to the house with their father. It was impossible to hear what he was saying. He paced back and forth. He was not a tall man, but he wore a large billed hat and seemed bigger, somehow, than Angus remembered. Next to him on the platform stood a thin woman, dressed in black, who looked down at her feet. The doctor pointed at her, and she nodded, or shook her head. The crowd formed a thick, silent circle around the two of them but was quiet. Angus yanked at his sister’s arm, but she shook him off.
—It’s time for us to go, he said, and squeezed her hand.
—What’s going to happen? she said.
—It’s not our business, Angus said.
A call went up from the crowd. Finally, Annabel assented. As they turned to leave, a woman near the back of the circle slowly turned and looked at them. Her face, from that distance, looked to Angus not like a face at all, but an expressionless mask. She motioned toward them, but when they did not come, she turned her attention back to the doctor.
They retraced their steps until they found themselves back in the town square. They followed the road, found the seam in the woods that gave way to the dirt path that would take them home. Neither wanted to return so soon, but it would be dark, and there was nowhere else for them to go.
THEIR FATHER WAS NOT at the house when they arrived. They were used to it at this point, these night entrances and exits, and when they had the house to themselves, Angus couldn’t help thinking this could be their life, just the two of them: unseen, left alone, out from under their father’s moods. But their father always returned—sometimes exhausted, sometimes lit from within—and never told them where he’d been or why he’d left or what he’d seen. In the months following their mother’s death, Angus had stayed up with him, near the fire; but whatever streamed darkly across his father’s mind went unshared. Occasionally he’d felt his father’s gaze on his back and it registered coldly; but when he turned, the gaze transformed, and Angus could no longer locate the ill will he was so certain of. One thing he was certain of, however: his father, a strong, tall man, had grown sinewy these last few months, his arms thinned and his hands veined, almost as if he were disappearing into himself, leaving the world for someplace even more stern and unforgiving. We cannot call what we did a mistake, he had said to Angus one night while Annabel was asleep. It was she, he said, who did what she shouldn’t have. Angus had nodded and said nothing. He understood when his father was inviting him to speak and when his silence was required. Where do you go at night? Angus asked, but his father did not respond. I’ve given you everything you need, he finally said. I’ve done my best. With him they’d walked to the village to see their mother’s body. With him they’d come home through the darkening woods in silence. Only later had Annabel shown Angus the poppets their mother had left for them—a boy and a girl, made from twisted sticks, eyes of dried berries. She had fit them under their bed, where the hard mattress met the frame.
That night they were alone, but pretended they were not. They remained alert until they could stay awake no longer. Annabel was still, but Angus dreamed. In this dream, a great rush of swallows dipped across a snow-covered pasture, which he knew, though he didn’t recognize it, to be their property. And when he woke it was to his sister, gently comforting him, whispering in his ear. She was talking about their mother, and Angus let her. She was kind, his sister was saying. She was beautiful. She was ours.
WHEN THEY WOKE, the house was still and empty. In the quiet of the morning they passed the book to each other, finished, and their father had not returned. The wind came up, bringing with it a brief rain. After lunch the weather calmed, and the two of them walked the property, listening to the woods and the encroaching season. Annabel touched their mother’s tree. The paths on the property crossed, converged, knit together only to split unexpectedly. Some Angus had cut with his father. Others were natural, the range of deer and bear, of other night animals. —Where do you think he is? Annabel finally said.
—I don’t know, Angus said.
He followed his sister, snapping twigs. He cleared the path of small rocks. The leaves were almost gone; the cold hastening. The pond—that was where they were going, where his sister said she wanted to go—was ringed by willows, and the dirt path turned to mud as they came closer. In the winter, the pond froze with a thin layer of shallow, glinting ice that sucked the shore, but it was too early for that, and as the two of them made their way carefully around the soft and giving grass, Angus was struck by the illusion of depth given by the water. They swam this pond in the summer, careful to keep their feet from the grabbing mud—he knew the water to be shallow save for the very center. But now, standing on the northern bank, he was taken by the feeling that the pond had grown both wide and deep since he’d last swum across. He picked a small rock from under his boot and tossed it. The water accepted the stone and sent a small wave circling back to him.
—Don’t do that, his sister said. Please.
—Why not? he said, but she didn’t answer. He looked across the water at the trees and then looked back to her. She stood a few feet away. Though she was bundled against the cold, Angus could see she was shivering. Her long hair hid mostly under a cap, but a few strands, picked up by the wind, played in front of her face and caught in the corner of her mouth. This had been their favorite spot. Their father, who could not swim, never joined them here.
—Angus, his sister said, and showed him. In her hands she held two poppets like the ones their mother had left them.
—Why are you making those? Angus said.
She said nothing. Angus watched closely.
—Stop. You know what will happen.
—I’m not making them. I found them. They were in my coat. She began to squeeze the figures, then seemed frightened by what she was doing.
—Don’t lie, Angus said. Stop.
He reached for the figures, but she thrust them back into her pockets. He grabbed her coat at the shoulders. At his touch, her knees gave, and he struggled to keep her standing, off the grass, away from the mud. She began to fight but he held her still. He felt a great sadness well, and then a panic. He thought he might be on the verge of violence. He shook her twice until she grabbed at him, and then they were both sitting on the wet bank.
—You can’t have them, she said. She was crying.
—Give them to me. Give them to me and we’ll bury them.
—It’s getting worse.
Angus looked to the pond. The wind picked up and he watched a leaf fall from one of the tall trees, slowly twist, and land on the surface of the water.
—Stop, he said again. He was crying now.
—It’s her, Annabel said. Angus knew she was talking about their mother. She can hear us, Annabel said.
—Give them to me, he said, reaching now for her pockets. Eventually she heard him and drew the figures from her coat. He felt no charge at their touch, they had no weight. He unwound them, stood, and found a rock. With the twine he wrapped what he could around the rock, threw the rock far into the water, and then his sister lay back in the grass.
He waited as she kicked, and then, as the gasping began, he went to hold her. She batted the air in front of her face with her hands, but Angus saw nothing. Eventually, he lifted her from the grass, and they made their way back to the house. He put her in bed, washed her clothes. His fear was a live thing; then, as the fire he started took hold of the room, that fear unbraided and thinned into strands and he found he could control it. He made dinner, and Annabel ate. Eventually, their father came home. They greeted him quietly and tried not to shrink as he took himself to bed.
Later that night, when he heard his father outside their door, pacing then settling,
feeding the fire, Angus left his sleeping sister and walked quietly to the foot of their bed. Through his window, he could see the dark night, and the small glow pressing from the window of the main room where his father sat. It threw a circumscribed circle of light on the path that led away from the house. Beyond that was the woods, then the village, and then what he did not know. His panic returned and he pushed it down. When it seemed his father had settled, he made his way to their bedroom door, opened it, and slipped out. His father was fully dressed. Open before him was a book he was not reading.
—She might have gotten better, Angus said.
—Don’t speak, his father said. It would not have happened. It has happened nowhere else.
—We might have done differently.
His father coughed and reached with his hand to cover his mouth.
—A man should not have children, he finally said. It was your mother who left us. It was she who answered what she should not have. I tried and she did not listen. You are wrong. About everything you are wrong. He coughed again. Have you noticed the swallows? he said. They’ve returned.
Angus said he had not.
—You must remember to always tell the truth.
—I have seen no swallows, Angus said, and closed his eyes.
His father lay the iron down near the hearth and turned so his back was to his son. The conversation was over. Eventually Angus took himself back to bed. His sister shifted and released the blankets, reached for his hand.
Sometime later he heard his father stand, and then he heard the latch of the front door, a small metallic click, and the quick swing of the hinges. And then the house settled into a complete, recursive silence.
MORNING CAME, and with it the work of the day. Their father cut in the backfield while Angus and his sister gathered and tied the grass. It was slow work. The day was cold. Angus watched his sister closely—their father was far enough away that he might be able to help her before anything caught his attention—but Annabel showed no sign of trouble. She was not happy, but she hummed as she worked, tying bunches, scuffing her boots after bugs while Angus did the lifting. Angus guessed she was as wary as he was, as vigilant, but he could not know. She seemed exhausted. Their father, sweat-drenched, swung the scythe in a stiff-backed, rhythmic way. Only once did Annabel startle, and stare deeply across the field to the woods. Angus followed her eyes but could see nothing himself, and Annabel, aware of the slip, bent herself more fully to the work. Their father, consumed by the balanced shushing of his blade, saw none of this.
They finished and as the sun began its descent, they followed their father inside. Once in the kitchen, their father sat rigidly at the table in the corner as the children prepared the food.
—Almost winter, he said.
—Yes, Angus said. He dipped three cups and set the milk on the table. Annabel reached for a small bowl to prepare the eggs. He searched for something else to say but could think of nothing. As he brought the milk to his mouth, he smelled foulness.
—It’s soured, he said. He quickly put his cup down. Don’t drink it.
—It’s from this morning, his father said.
It was then that it happened. Annabel cried out and Angus turned at the sound. She now stood with her hand pressed tightly against her mouth in an attempt to reclaim the noise. It was too late. Her knees buckled, recovered, and she walked quickly across the kitchen. Move, he thought. He stood and crossed to where she’d been standing. She was now near the door and looked at him pleadingly. With her hands she began smoothing the front of her dress. Then he looked in the bowl where she had cracked the eggs. Curled at the bottom of the bowl were two half-formed chicks, red and dark, spread with sparse black feathers. They were beaked but had no legs.
—What is it? his father said.
—Nothing, Angus said. He tried to cover the bowl but was too slow and his father stood beside him.
—What is it? he said.
—Nothing, Angus said.
His father put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him out of the way. Angus could not read his expression.
—Who has touched these? he said. Shaking, he reached for the remaining eggs and slowly cracked each into the bowl. Look! he said, and brought the bowl to Angus. His hands were white from the grip. In the pool of glassy albumen Angus counted four more malformations.
—Who has touched these eggs? he said again. He spoke quietly now and was looking only at Annabel. She did not return his gaze.
—We all have, Angus said.
—I have not, he said. Carefully, he set the bowl by the kitchen door. When he stood, his eyes were bright.
—Undress, he said to Annabel.
—I touched them, Angus said.
—Undress, he said again, this time to both of his children. I’m not going to ask again.
Angus could feel his sister, next to him, struggling to stay on her feet. He could not look at her. He slowly took off his shirt. He loosened his pants and let them fall. Finally, he glanced at Annabel and saw she had done the same, her dress now on the floor, her eyes downcast. With shame he saw the marks he’d left on her arms when he’d grabbed her near the pond. But they were far from the only marks on her, and Angus saw his father tremble at the sight of his daughter’s bruised body.
—She fell from a tree, Angus said. You were gone.
—Do not lie, he said.
—She’s fine, Angus said.
—Do not lie, he said again. He instructed them to kneel and when they did, he turned and walked from the kitchen. Annabel began to cry. She tried to speak but no sound left her throat. Angus felt his mind go empty. His father was too big. There would be nothing he could do. I’m sorry, he told his sister. She did not move. If she heard him, she made no indication. When their father returned, he wore a new expression. He was no longer afraid or surprised. He appeared remote and focused, and to Angus almost unrecognizable, as though this was a man they didn’t know, someone else wearing their father’s face. But that impression was fleeting. In one hand he held a rag, and in the other he held a switch.
He’d beaten them before, but not like this. He swung for the backs of their arms and feet, his breathing deep and rhythmic and unhurried.
When the punishment finally stopped, their father broke the switch and stepped outside. It had grown dark. Angus reached for his sister’s hand. She did not take it. When their father finally returned, he carried a stouter branch. He was sweating. Neither child moved.
—Someone is calling for you, he finally said. I will show him out. He stood before them and raised the thick switch and cut the air once, twice, across the heavy distance between them, then walked toward Angus and roughly pressed the switch to his son’s chest.
—You are a fearful boy, he said. He was swaying, slightly, and looked toward the open back door. I am asking for your help.
—She has a fever, Angus said. She caught a chill.
Their father’s expression did not change.
—Neither of you is to leave this house, he finally said.
Angus nodded. His legs radiated sharp pain. Annabel had gathered her clothes and was holding them tightly.
—Take her to bed, and see to her, he said. Do your best. He reached for the bowl and carefully tucked it under his arm. He left the kitchen and walked out of the house.
—It’s going to be all right, Angus said. It’s going to be all right. He reached for Annabel’s elbow, and, careful not to touch the welts blossoming on her arms, helped her to her feet.
—Annabel, he said, and took her to their room. Whatever had been happening—it was now coming to a close. The children could feel that. That night, Annabel talked and Angus made no effort to shush her. She spoke of a red sky, and of a golden thread wrapped around her hair. He’d tended carefully to the welts on her legs and arms, and she had not winced as he cleaned and dressed her. He waited for her to kick and yell, but she did not. Then she’d cleaned his wounds and helped him into his shirt. There is a world outside of this
one, she said as they lay down. Angus asked her to describe it, and she did.
The night came through their window and bathed them in darkness. It seemed, perhaps, that this night would not end. It was a welcome thought.
Later, when Annabel stiffened, he held her gently in his arms. He put a corner of their blanket in her mouth to stifle her cries. He could not look at her eyes as they rolled back, but when she quieted, he put his hand to her brow and dabbed at the small amount of blood that had run from her nose. Then she finally slept, and Angus felt her isolation completely.
THE DOCTOR ARRIVED two days later. It seemed as though the house had summoned him itself. Angus saw him from afar: he’d been moving grass to the barn, and when he turned up the path to the house the doctor appeared near the mouth of the woods as though he were the breath of breeze himself. He carried a small case and was dressed in an oversized brown coat. He wore the same wide-brimmed hat they’d seen covering his head, shading his round and drooping face, in the village. The wind picked up. On the ground near where the doctor stood was a larger case, and behind that case stood their father.
Angus walked quickly to the house and called for his sister but received no answer. He left the milk in the kitchen and tried to calm himself. When he went to their bedroom, he saw Annabel sitting rigidly on their bed.
—He’s here, she said.
—I know, Angus said. In her hands she held one of the poppets their mother had made. Come on, he said. He took the figure from her and returned it to its hiding place. He didn’t have time to take it apart. Come on.
She was pale, her hair tucked roughly behind her ears.
—Are you prepared?
—Yes, she said.
She stood. Angus unrolled his sleeves and then rolled them again. They heard the front door open and there was nothing to do but stand and go to their father.
When they entered the room, the doctor turned from where he’d been warming himself against the fire. He was a small man. Something about his appearance was off: his arms were too long for his body, or his legs too short. His hat, which he had not removed, no longer cast a shadow over his face. His hands were gloved. With a small flourish, he took off his hat and placed it on their father’s chair. His black hair was unkempt, a nest.
Farthest South & Other Stories Page 12
