| Chapter One |
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Dusk was readying itself to fall, heralded by a cacophony of movement and sound. Birds tramped the foliage and let cry their pagan fears as the sun, long since lost behind the tree line, was slowly and by parts extinguished. A jay alighted upon a shadowed silver maple bough and cocked its head, as if listening for the coming storm, straining to hear the clouds gathering unseen to the west. She turned away from the window and lit a candle for the boy. He hugged his knees to his chest under the bedcovers and silently handed her his picture book. The story? asked his mother. He nodded. She smoothed his hair through and leant over to kiss him. When are you going to start talking to me, hey, my little soldier? Just let me turn the dinner down though, or there'll be nothing left of it. She arose stiffly, the labours of the day probably seizing her joints. Or the stiffness could be due in greater part to the damp that clung to the walls and dripped in places through the roof. Her son's cough from the bedroom would do nothing to alleviate that fear. And with the baby due any day now, she would thank God that they were finally through the worst of the winter and that spring was most days to be felt. In the gloom she moved the pot to the edge of the stove where the dinner wouldn't ruin and narrowed the flue so the fuel might last out. The front door rattled on its hinges and she started, thinking perhaps that he had crept home unheard, but it was just the wind starting to squall. Soon the whining would begin, and the creaking and straining of the trees surrounding the little shack, and she would be lucky to sleep for fear of a bough cracking and crushing their little home. She walked back into the boy's room. The dark had finally fallen outside, speeded by the burgeoning storm clouds. She left the curtains open and the candle flickered feebly in the chill draughts that gusted through the rotten woodwork of the window. Hold on, darling. I'll fetch the lantern. But he clung onto her sleeve, trembling. Alakazar, alakazon! You stay alight while I am gone! She cast a spell over the beleaguered candle flame with her free hand, and he must have trusted her magic enough to let her go. There was still just enough light to make out walls, a doorway, the kitchen table where the lantern stood. She reached for it, gently lifting the carry handle into a horizontal position, supporting it underneath with her other hand, taking only the most measured of steps back to the bedroom. His gaze was fixed rigidly on the doorway when she returned. She smiled at him and set the lantern down on the upturned crate that served as a table, and sat down upon the bed. She pinned her hair behind her ear, opened the lantern's glass door and picked by its black end the spent match from the boy's candleholder and held it into the flame. Once the match had sparked again alight she poked it into the lamp and stroked the wick from the base upwards. On the third stroke it took and she withdrew her fingers swiftly, shaking them to put out the flame and then as if to cool the beginnings of a burn. Would you like to blow the candle? He nodded, a small furrow forming in his brow. His mother reached for the brass handle of the candle holder and held it up to his face, the yellowness of its flame warming his pale complexion. Don't forget to make a wish. His gaze lifted to her face and their eyes met but he seemed to look through her, seeking out his wish. And for the wish to come true, you mustn't tell a living soul what you have wished for, she said, then swallowed back a tear, unable to look him in the eye. He glanced back at the candle, its light dwarfed now by that of lamp, the weak flame flickering in a half-hearted attempt to prolong its condemned life, like a landed fish thrashing its unenthusiastic last as it waits for the fatal blow. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and blew. The dark tufts of his fringe were blown upwards, but the trembling flame was not touched. He opened his eyes again and seemed at first pleased that the flame was still there. But he had a job to do and a wish to make, and he closed his eyes and tried again. Once more, though, his fringe rose and the flame remained untouched by his breath. Third time lucky, said his mother, and the air whistled as he sucked it in and closed his eyes and blew his fringe right off his forehead. This time, when he opened them again, the flame was gone, replaced by a thinly wisping thread of smoke. Well done, she said, and he smiled, rubbing his face where the puff had tickled it. He picked up the picture book and handed it to her again. Do you remember when you had lots of books? He nodded. He just needed something to keep the burner lit. He didn't mean anything by it. And you still have this one. She paused. But we'll keep it under your pillow just the same. Once upon a time there lived a little girl and her mother, right on the edge of a big, dark forest. The girl wore a bright red cloak so that her mother would be able to find her should she ever wander away from the house and become lost. The boy sucked his thumb and settled back into his mother's soft warm bosom. He didn't look up when branches hit and scraped the rattling window, raised only an eyebrow when an owl shrieked in the cold distance. And the woodcutter cut a long slit in the wolf's belly with his knife and out slid Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, alive and well. She stopped and put down the book and turned her attention to the howling gusts outside. The storm was focussing its intent, and there would be little hope that it would pass over and spare them tonight. She kissed the boy on his head and gently removed herself from him and from the bed and, after stretching her back to alleviate the ache, walked towards the window. She pressed her face to the cold glass and peered out into the gloom. The rain clouds were not yet overhead, and a gaunt sliver of moon afforded the light by which she made out a blurry figure approaching on the forest track. It can't be him. If the truck wouldn't go he'd put up in town, she whispered. Then came snatches of shouting through the wind, and jeering that broke into drunken singing, then a series of loud snorts and a muffled whinny. Whoever was approaching was on horseback. The vague semblance of a tune became discernible through the slurred song. The Yellow Rose of Texas. It's him. It's your father. For God's sake stay in your bed. She kissed him hurriedly but could not look him in the eye as she stole away the lantern and all of its light and made for the kitchen. There was no glow coming from the burner. She spat on the stove and it just sat there. The burner had died. She set the lamp down on the kitchen table and widened the flue. She forced open the furnace door and blew into the ashes and blackened wood, but there was no spark. She still held the boy's book. The decision was made and she ripped out the first page - they would easily remember how the story started - and struck a match and with her trembling fingers held it to the paper, which took, and which she threw into the furnace. She blew and blew the flame, but it consumed only the picture book page and went out. She ripped out the second page also - the story didn't really get going until the wolf appeared anyway - and folded it into a concertina, to temper the fire's feeding frenzy. This she lit again and waited for it to take before leaning over the furnace and digging it into the ashes and pulling a few charred sticks on top of it and blowing harder and harder, although her lungs were full of smoke. But the flame failed. She pulled herself up and staggered to a chair. The exertion must have deafened her and he was already in the house and at the kitchen door. He stood, surveying the room, silent now, only a little unsteady on his feet. Well ain't that just nice. No word of welcome for me in my own home. I'm sorry, Bobby. I was rushing to get your dinner. Came over a little faint. But still she couldn't rise from the chair. He stood in the doorway. Perhaps I should go out and come back in again? he asked. Yes, if you'd like to. And it'll be on the table. Yes, perhaps I should just go back outside, into the cold and the wind that have just assailed me for the last hour, just to get home to my wife who has nothing to do all day but have my dinner on the table when I come home. She arose and pulled a bowl from the cupboard and placed it on the table. The pot was still warm, and she ladled some broth into the bowl. The loaf she ferried on the breadboard to the table and picked a spoon from the drawer. Barely ten seconds had passed. A man has to eat alone does he? I'll get another dish, she said. Damn right you will. He pulled the chair from the table, scraping its legs along the floor, and sat down. She sat down opposite him, watching the bowl of broth she had given him. If any steam was rising from it, it was due in larger part to the coldness of the kitchen than the warmth of the broth. The first spoonful was accepted by him and she looked away and down at her own dish and tried the broth herself. He picked up the bread knife and cut himself a wedge of bread and bit into it. He finished and she stood up to fetch him some more. Where are you going? I thought you might want some more. Oh I would hope that there'd be more. The money it costs me, I would hope that there'd be more. She hesitated, then rose and fetched the pan. It was balefully cold. She emptied a ladle of the stuff into his dish. The rising steam had ceased altogether. She placed the pan back on the stove and stayed there. He lowered his spoon to his dish and lifted it again, pausing in mid-air to test the anticipated heat. He supped the broth. And spat it out. She hovered by the stove and pretended not to notice. This is funny, he said. This is very funny. Frozen half to death and now his wife is trying to freeze the other half. I'm sorry, she said. I think the storm has put the stove out. I've been trying to get it lit again. Don't bother. I would've spat it out anyway. I've known puke taste better. She began to cry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it's the best that I can do with what you give me. No. I don't think so. I think the best that you could do would at least be a little grateful. That don't even cost nothing, a little gratitude from you to me. But I am grateful. You know I am. He leered at her. Well, perhaps you'd like to show me how grateful you are. He stood up, the chair scraping the floor beneath him. He steadied himself on the table with one hand and fumbled at his flies with the other. Perhaps you might look like you want it. I can't. I can't. The baby. Oh yes. Another precious little goddamn mouth to feed. Well it might interest you to know that the oh so sweet little mouth might not be fed after all. It might interest you to know that there ain't no truck no more and without the truck there ain't no wages and there ain't no food. He swiped the dishes and cutlery and bread from the table and they crashed onto the floor. The lamp swayed back and forth in the ensuing silence and finally steadied itself. So it seems I'm going to have to find something else to spread on the table. He grabbed at her and caught her clothing and pushed her belly-down onto the table. He held her there with one hand while the other fished into his flies and then raised her skirt. Please, she whimpered, struggling to free herself. The baby. He laughed. Well at least you're moving a bit and making a bit of noise. This ain't so bad a welcome after all, darling. He moved to pull aside her pants but she tightened her grip on the pan and turned and swung it at his head. A dull thud rang and resounded and the remains of the dinner spilt over him and he loosened his grasp but held her still. Now that ain't nice. I-I, she sobbed. You don't want to hurt the little baby, he mocked. Well I'm very sorry but you just killed it. He spun her round and threw her onto her back on the table and punched her in the belly. Did you hear that, baby? You ain't shit. You don't run nothing round here. He punched her again and pulled her closer across the table. With one hand around her throat, he ripped her pants off with the other, and released the final button on his trousers. She struggled and kicked out and slapped out at his head with one hand, feeling for the bread knife with the other. She just couldn't reach it. That's it. You wriggle, baby. You wriggle. And he sunk himself in between her legs. No! she cried. She reached for the lamp, which was by some miracle still upright on the table, and smashed it over his head. He paused and looked at her as if for the first time and looked down at himself and saw that he was on fire and screamed, his arms thrashing around his burning head. He made a rush for the back door, outside of which stood the water-butt, but the trousers around his ankles tripped him and he dropped to the floor. In the light afforded by the burning of his clothes she could see the boy huddled in the shadows. Help me you damn bitch! She reached for the boy but he was frozen in fear. Come on! she cried. Run! She pulled him up by his arm, wincing as a violent pain seemed to hit her belly. She half dragged him out of the kitchen and into the hallway, accompanied all the while by her husband's screams. She opened the front door and there stood the horse from God alone knew where. She reached for its reins but it reared whinnying onto its hind legs and waved its forelegs in the air, shaking its head from side to side, the whites of its rolling eyes catching the scant moonlight. Hush! Whoa! she shouted, and made another lurch for the reins. The bit dug hard into the horse's mouth and perhaps shocked it from its fit, or served as blunt reminder that it was mastered by man and not by its moods now. Either way, it lowered its forelegs sulkily and waited for what was to pass. She lifted the boy onto the horse's back and placed his hands into its thick mane. Hold onto this, she said. Whatever happens, just hold on as tight as you can. He nodded and she already had her foot in the stirrup and was pulling herself up and onto the saddle, gripping her belly with the pain once she was there. The fire was beginning to take a hold of the cottage now, the wind fanning its flames, feeding its fury. Whoever would have thought that something so damp would take so well. Screams burst from the flames as the damp heated and boiled within the wood, freeing itself in banshee flumes. And other screams, less exultant, screams of animal fear and pain from within. She turned the horse onto the track and it did not wait to be urged on but leapt forward with blistering speed into the night.
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