Rebel Heart by Moira Young Page A

appeared beside Auriel, pluckin at her sleeve. Small an wiry, his face carved hollow by hard cares. It’s my woman, he says.
    If she’s sick, says Auriel, it’s the health committee you need to—
    Not sickness, he says. It’s . . . her mind ain’t right. Please, lady, she might take notice of you.
    He presses his hands together, holds ’em out to Auriel. Beggin fer help.
    Take me to her, she says.
    We follow as he hurries between the row of tents, talkin all the while. They took our oldest girl, see, our Nell, he says. She’s only jest ten. When they run us offa our place an give it to the Stewards, they took Nell away in the prison cart. They took her with ’em.
    Ten year old. Emmi’s age.
    The Tonton, says Auriel.
    Ruth blames me, he says. Says I should of fought. But one man got no chance aginst so many, an I ain’t no good to nobody dead. After that, she couldn’t sleep fer worryin about Nell an she wouldn’t let our little one, our Rosie, move from her side.
    Jest as we reach his junk shanty, there’s a wild scream from inside. The man ducks through the door. Auriel’s right behind him. I tell Tracker to stay. As I go in, outta the corner of my eye, I catch a rush of darkness. Hear a shiver of laughter. Cold sweat breaks on my skin.
    Go away, I says.
    Inside, it’s only jest high enough fer me to stand upright. It’s dim. No light but what slants through the door. Aginst the far wall, a woman sits in a chair. She cradles the little girl, Rosie, on her lap. Clutches her close to her chest. She rocks back an forth, keenin. It’s a raw, animal, unbearable sound. Three other women hover, anxious, around her.
    The fever took her two days since, says the man, but Ruth won’t give her up to be burnt. The fever, lady. It ain’t safe, it ain’t right the dead should be among the livin.
    Auriel takes off her eyeshield an goes to Ruth. Her cool voice ripples an murmurs, ripples an murmurs. Ruth shakes her head, clutchin her dead child even closer. No, no, no, no, no, she moans. The women an Auriel try to loosen her grip. Another wild scream.
    The man looks at me, helpless. Would you try? he says.
    Me, I says.
    Please, he says.
    My feet take me over to Ruth. I kneel beside her as she rocks back an forth. I says nuthin fer a bit, then, My sister’s called Emmi, I says. She’s ten, jest like yer Nell. I used to think she was useless. Too young to stand up an be counted. Turns out she’s a real fighter. I never thought she would be, but she is. She’s a survivor. I bet Nell’s jest the same.
    She don’t look at me, she keeps her face buried in Rosie’s hair, but I can tell she’s listenin. That’s how I know what she’s doin right now, I says. Becuz it’s what Emmi’d be doin. She’ll be watchin an thinkin an . . . plannin how to git away. How to git back to you. An she won’t ever give up till she does. So don’t you give up neether. You owe it to her. An yer man. It’s the livin that need us, not the dead. They’re past all that.
    Rosie’s only wearin a short, thin shift. I take my tunic off, lay it over top of the child.
    Here, I says, you want her decent.
    My body’s heavy. My head’s empty. I’m spent.
    I’m sorry fer yer loss, I says.
    As me an Auriel start to go, the man’s face changes. He rushes over to his wife, to Ruth. She’s opened her arms. As she begins to weep, as he gathers up his dead child fer the pyre, we leave.

    We step outside. The sun so bright. The colours dazzle my eyes. The trees, the water, the sky. The noise. Too much.
    Dogs bark. People chat. Cookfires smoke an crackle. Down at the river they’re washin clothes. The pound pound of the washrocks. Children play and chase. The thunder of runnin feet. The bubble of cookpots. The yip of a dog. A sniff. A cough. A sigh.
    The shadows of the dead creep out from between the shelters. They gather at the edges of who I am.
    Let us in, they sigh. They crowd me. Press me. They’re closin around me. Let us in, let us in, let