Snake Ropes by Jess Richards

is the forge, the great anvil stands next to it and I try not to trip over the tools with long handles him has left leaned up against all kinds of old blocks of wood. There’s a new birdcage hanging on a hook from a beam, all coils of metal and I think them’ve got great huge birds on the main land for the gaps between the bars are so wide. Unless them wear the birdcages like hats, for I never can tell which kind of fashion is going to take them all over from one month to the next.
    On the ledge of the forge I find a box of matches. I strike one and walk back to the door. There’s no key in the lock. There’s wrenches hanging from hooks, sledge hammers leaned up against the wall. The match burns my fingers.
    I drop it on the stone floor and light another. There’s a small set of drawers, the top one is full of nuts, bolts and hinges. Thematch burns my fingers again so I shake out the flame and light another. In the next drawer down, there’s a clutter of chains. I spark another match and rummage in all the drawers. No sign of hims key.
    Another match. There’s a box of tacks on top of the drawers. Underneath is a key. I pick it up, blow out the match and close my eyes. The smithy’s face swirls up, hims cheeks red from the fire. So this is the right key to hear hims voice in. I put the matches and the key in my pocket, creak the door open and go outside.
    I walk up the hill to a long low cottage that old Jessup and her man live in. I look through the window next to the front door. A small room with a couple of stools, a great basket of raw wool, carders and a spinning wheel by the grate. I look through another window at the kitchen. There are milk pails on the table and ridged butter hands in a small washbowl. I try the front door, and them haven’t locked it. The key’s in the lock on the other side, so I put it in my pocket and close the door, quiet.
    I pass a barn, the cows moan, thems hooves shuffle. Chickens squall and a cockerel shrieks and joins in, so I leg it back down the hill, past the well them all share and dun stop till I’m at Dougan’s barn. I lean on the wall till my breathing slows down, and walk, quiet.
    Moira the cobbler, she’s not locked her door. Just behind the front door is her workroom. All her shoe trees with half-finished leather boots, a whole load of her tools laid out on the table, the awls what she stabs the holes in the leather with, her stretching pliers and the hammer she uses to bang the nails in the heels. She’s got leather strips piled on a shelf, and though the leather is from the tanners it’s lost the stench, for it’s beencured. But I can’t see where she’d put a key. I go through the doorway at the back of her workroom and I’m in her kitchen. It’s all quiet. On the right of the kitchen there’s another door what’s open a crack – there’s just the sound of her breathing. In her kitchen, I strike a match. There’s a hatch to her storm room in the floor, so I open it and hold five lit matches down. There’s a stack of leather cut-offs in the corner and shelves with jars of pickled onions, cabbage and eggs. The steps on the ladder are dusty, so she’s not been down here for a while. She’s nothing to hide. I dun need her key.
    Outside, I walk back towards the cliff path to go home. I’ll go out and get more keys tomorrow night.
    I walk along a stone wall, there’s about nine dead moles hanging on string along the top. The farmers kill them and put them there, to show all the other moles what them’re up against. But moles are blind. That’s why them keep getting caught.
    The Thrashing House looms tall and dark. I get nearer, and stop, dead.
    It’s thrashing inside. Clicking and creaking and whirring and beating. It’s come alive with the thrashing. It’s made of dark wood and it stretches so high the sky spins. An owl hoots and I near scream out. It’s a pale barn owl, high on the roof. It swoops over me, wings spread wide. I turn, watch it circle