The Village on Horseback: Prose and Verse, 2003-2008

by Jesse Ball

  — What is it, Moll?

  Moll’s face was red with the news.

  — The mayor, squeaked Moll, Falk’s hand was cut off at the wrist. He reached into a cupboard and when he pulled his arm out there was blood everywhere. I mean, they brought in the body of Pieter Emily today, and hung it on the gate. I said so myself, I said it was bad luck, and now see what’s happened.

  — Where is the body? asked Elsbeth.

  — The main gate.

  Elsbeth stood looking up at the arch. There was blood there, where the hook was, but no body.

  Took him down an hour ago.

  — What?

  Elsbeth turned.

  — What did you say?

  An old man was sitting there in the shade.

  — I said they took him down an hour ago. I’ve been sitting here all day. I watched them bring him, watched them hang him up, and I watched them come an hour ago, take him down and drag him off to burial.

  — Where would that be? asked Elsbeth.

  — Where do you suppose? asked the old man.

  He spat on the ground.

  — I don’t know, said Elsbeth, the graveyard?

  — Would you want him there? asked the old man, with decent folk?

  Elsbeth narrowed her eyes.

  — Where are they burying him?

  — Why do you care anyway? said the man suspiciously.

  Another old man came out of the inn and sat down on the bench next to the first old man.

  What’s the news? he said.

  — This woman’s wanting to know where they took Jansen’s son.

  — Jansen’s son?

  — Yeah, where they took him.

  — Doesn’t she know that?

  — Seems not.

  The second old man looked up at Elsbeth.

  — Haven’t seen you in a time, he said. Elsbeth Grinner. My son says the shops been closed last few days.

  — Clef Carr, tell me this minute, said Elsbeth. Where is Pieter Emily being buried?

  — Buried him already, said Carr. In a plot by the church, face down like a suicide, from shame.

  No one was at the house when she arrived. Elsbeth went up to her room and laid out a bag. She changed her dirty dress for another, and filled the bag with a few things, then a few more. She set out all she’d like to take with her, and saw that it was more than would fit in the one bag.

  — I could take two, she said. Two would not be so bad. He couldn’t object to two.

  But when she left the room, it was with the one bag, and having left the best of her things behind.

  On the stairs, she heard the door creak. Catha came in.

  — Elsbeth, she said. Elsbeth, where have you been?

  And Elsbeth looked at her and said nothing.

  — Elsbeth, she said, where have you been?

  — I went, said Elsbeth, to the mountain pass, to see if it’s clear, to see if anyone come from the outside.

  Catha shook her head.

  — That’s a lie, she said. What are you doing with that sack? Where are you going now all dressed to travel?

  Elsbeth looked at her feet.

  — What’s going on? said Catha. Last night I dreamt the strangest dreams, so clear I could remember all when I woke. And when I did, I went to your room to tell you, for I know you had the same, but you were not there, and your bed was made.

  — What did you dream? asked Elsbeth.

  — I dreamed of a opera house like the ones in the great cities of the East, a grand place, as large as a city itself, and made to hold all that were ever born, or ever will be. Yet it was morning, and the opera is an evening’s word. It was morning and I came there all alone to walk among the seats as through a forest of pines, where the needles make a bed and all’s quiet. There were no hands to hold, and so I held my own and went through the arcades, the balconies, the anterooms, calling out, but no one came. The roof of the opera was painted like the sky, and changed like the sky, changing as I moved, and ceasing when I ceased. All the lights were lit, great lamps burning at every interval, in every unpeopled room. I felt that you were there, that you had been there.

  Said Elsbeth,

  — I was there, with you, and you with me, but we could be no comfort to each other.

  — And this? asked Catha, her hand taking in the sack, the traveling clothes.

  — There’s no comfort for me here, said Elsbeth, only craft and continuing.

  — Do you know, said Catha, taking her sister in an embrace, that they killed him?

  Catha began to cry.

  — They killed him, she said, and hung him on the gate.

  To this Elsbeth said nothing.

  — Where have you been? asked Catha. Oh, you will not tell me. Then go, and go, and I shall watch you from behind your shoulder, as I always have.

  — And I you, said Elsbeth.

  On the stoop she set down her sack, for a thought had pricked her. What of iron had she taken unwittingly?

  And from her sack she drew a penknife, from her sack she drew three needles, from her sack she drew a scissor, all gone there unknown.

  She left these on the doorstep, and made to go. But Catha called to her from the door.

  — Are you not hungry? Let me make you a meal before you go. Let us sit and have a drink.

  And in Elsbeth then a hunger greater than she had ever felt. Yet she dismissed it. Then in Elsbeth a thirst as for the sea.

  He said no food and drink. To have one drink alone. . It might be all right. She went into the house, and Catha poured a glass and a glass of wine.

  — Sit, said Catha.

  — Oh, said Elsbeth, I cannot.

  And she turned away from her sister, standing there with the two glasses.

  — Goodbye.

  Then she fled through the door, and as she did a nail caught at her.

  Her sleeve tore and the nail was against her skin. But it did not cut.

  Elsbeth breathed and closed her eyes.

  — Goodbye, she said again.

  And then she was out in the day and the day was soon to finish. Bag over her shoulder, she made her way down to the stable. I will go another way, she thought, than the usual. I do not want to see anyone at all.

  So she took the alley behind the main street, and went along behind shops and houses. As she drew near the stable and the town’s edge, a voice called out.

  — Elsbeth. Elsbeth Grinner.

  She turned. It was the priest.

  — Father, she said.

  — My daughter, what ails you?

  He came up, Father Rutlin, and took her chin in his hand.

  — What ails you? he said.

  — I am as well as I may be, said Elsbeth.

  She tried to pull away, but he would not let her.

  — Elsbeth, he said, Elsbeth, there is a skin on you. Another skin, that you cannot see.

  He ran his hand over her face and along her arm.

  — There is another skin. It is between you and the world. I shall take it away.

  — No, said Elsbeth. Do nothing!

  But Rutlin held his hands at her temples and spoke beneath his breath, and when he let her go, he drew something off her that left her weak in the legs and arms.

  — Come tomorrow, said Rutlin, I demand it.

  And he fixed her with his eye.

  The light of the sun was lying on its side and coming here and there through the houses and walls.

  Elsbeth looked helplessly back and then broke away.

  — Elsbeth, he called. Come tomorrow. Heed me.

  ||||||

  On down the road on horse, on horse down the low road as the road sank and the sun sank, and a weight was upon her.

  He must let me in, she thought. He must.

  On she went, and evening drew near. Yet as she came down the side of the last hill, the sun was in the sky, still above the trees.

  I am in time, she thought, and she urged the horse on.

  The cottage
appeared before her in ashes, as it had been. It lay ahead, in ashes. Up the hill she came, and down from the horse. The cottage was in ashes.

  — Change, she thought. Change. Flicker and be here.

  But she came on horse, and then she came on foot to the cottage, and the ground was ash. The cottage was ash. She walked about in the ashes, and moved them with her feet. The horse went off to graze where it had been the morning before. And the sun was gone from the sky, and she laid down in the ash and wept, and fell into sleep, and this is what she dreamed:

  She was sitting at the loom, the black loom, strung as it had been by her the night before. She began to weave, and she wove faster and faster, and the room began to spin. She wove and she wove and a pattern grew, and she could see what it was in the pattern, rising from her hand.

  A red blot growing, and then it was a fox, and a wood grew about it, and hills, and a road. A party of horsemen could be seen, and a pole they were carrying, a man hung from it. In the distance, a town of wood, a box of wood, a town like a box of wood. Three suns in the sky, each weaker than the one before. And at the edge of the town, a man with a woman’s skin in his hand. Then the loom cracked in half and broke to the floor, and Elsbeth woke.

  Yes, morning bright all about her, and Elsbeth woke, lying in ash, covered in ash, holding the tapestry in her hand that was the record of all that had passed, and on the near slope her horse stood, nosing at the grass, and looking up now and then to see if she was yet awake.

  THE END

  the early deaths of lubeck, brennan, harp & carr — 2006

  the first

  Four of them were on one side of a dim room.

  — I’m going to try it, said the first.

  The girl watched herself in the mirror as the young man approached.

  — I wonder, he said. I thought perhaps. .

  He stopped mid-sentence, for tears had begun to well up out of the girl’s eyes. She began to cry.

  — Please, she said, just leave me alone.

  She wore a straight brown dress, buttoned all up the side, and a long tweed coat. Her hair was braided into itself.

  — Are you all right? he asked. Can I help you?

  — You know, you can’t just speak to people. That’s not how things are anymore. No one wants to just be spoken to.

  She rubbed her eyes.

  — It’s rather silly of you. Already you look a bit like a fool.

  The barkeeper, standing just across the bar, nodded.

  — There are rules, he said.

  And indeed, on the wall, a list of rules.

  — I’m sorry. I didn’t know.

  — That’s no excuse.

  The girl stood up as if to go.

  — I’ll take care of this, Myrna, said the barkeeper. You stay where you are.

  He came around the bar towards Harp. He was a big man, with thick forearms like a steelworker.

  — It’s time for you to go, lad. The others too.

  — Come on, said Harp, taking a step back. The place is empty. I’ll just go back to the table. We’ll mind our own business.

  — Hey, Barton! the man called to the back.

  Another man appeared.

  — Get out.

  Harp’s friends had come over.

  — What’s the problem? said Lubeck.

  — The lot of you, said the barkeeper. Get out.

  — We didn’t do anything, said Carr. Why should we leave? Our money’s good.

  The girl spoke up.

  — He told me if I didn’t go into the back with him he’d hit me. He said he was going to take me off somewhere and tear me in half. Wouldn’t think nothing of it, he said. Just like that.

  Her face was fierce and covered in tears.

  — What? I didn’t. .

  The barkeeper and the man called Barton looked at each other.

  Barton grabbed Harp and lifted him from the ground. At a sort of half run, he went for the door and heaved him through.

  The barkeeper took Brennan’s shoulder. Brennan wrenched away, and ran for the door past Barton. It was a general flight.

  — If I ever see you in here again, said the barkeeper.

  Harp’s face was bruised and cut from the street where he’d been thrown. They dusted him off and continued.

  — What was that?

  — Why did she say that?

  — Who was that girl?

  They soon came to another place and began again. Lubeck was talking to two dressed like match-stick girls.

  — Can you believe it?

  — That’s ridiculous, said the first girl. She must have a score to settle, and she can’t settle it.

  — I don’t know, said the second girl. Maybe you deserved it. I don’t know.

  Lubeck spoke up.

  — But Harp didn’t say anything like that. The girl just invented it. She made it all up.

  — Well it had to come from somewhere, didn’t it, said the second match-stick girl. It had to come from somewhere.

  — That’s right, said the first match-girl. Even if she was making it up.

  — But it’s not fair, said Carr. She made the whole thing up. It wasn’t true.

  — Well, I guess you’re right then, said the second match-stick girl. But any way you look at it, you lost. If she wasn’t lying, well then, your friend deserved what he got, and it was her speaking up that caused him to get punished, in which case she won, and if she was lying, then she managed to trick those guys into throwing you out, in which case she still won. She won and you lost, and it was the four of you against just her.

  That’s pretty good.

  The match-stick girls agreed: the girl in the brown dress had won.

  An hour or two went by.

  It was thus late in the evening when one of the match- stick girls yelped.

  — Hey, isn’t that the girl. Isn’t that her out the window?

  — That’s her, said Harp. Damned if it isn’t her. Let’s go.

  — What’ll we do? asked Carr.

  — I don’t know, said Harp. Let’s go.

  The party poured out into the street, with the four young men out ahead of the others. Indeed, the long tweed coat and brown dress of the girl could be made out just up ahead. It had snowed the day before, and drifts and piles lined the street. The girl walked there in the company of an older man.

  — Let’s pelt them, said Harp.

  He forced the brown, gritty snow into a ball as the others did the same. Then with a shout, they ran forward, throwing the snowballs as hard as they could.

  The first missed the man’s shoulder by an arm’s length. But the second struck him. He turned, face lit up with anger. The girl stopped too, and turned, and just at the moment, a snowball struck her hard in the face. In the moment before it struck a fact became plain to all of them:

  It was not the girl, but someone else, a woman of perhaps forty.

  She tumbled down falling heavily onto her back with a cry. The man started after them. What was there to do? They ran. Down the first alley, onto the next street, a right turn, a left, onto another street, onto another alley. They were young and in good health, and so they made it safely away.

  the second

  Carr woke to banging on the door to his flat. He pulled on a pair of pants and went to see what it was.

  It was Harp.

  — You’ve got to come with me. It’s bad. Come to Lubeck’s place.

  Lubeck and Brennan, two of the four young men, lived near the river in a big house run by Lubeck’s mother.

  — Give me a second, said Carr.

  He finished dressing and then the two were walking in the street.

  — What is it?

  — Lubeck got a letter. You’ll see.

  More than that, Harp wouldn’t say.