Snake Ropes by Jess Richards Page A

over the beach and it flies off into the dark.
    I take a step towards the Thrashing House, and another. This place is ancient. The arrows carved in the door point up, and down. The sounds punch through the air, it judders through the soil under my feet, the sound thwacks and beats and whirrs andcreaks like wood and I run to the top of the path what leads down the cliffs and I hit the top of the path too quick and
    I trip
    slide
    fall,
    catch my leg on a rock. Earth and sand fall away down the cliff. It’s a steep drop, right next to me. I pull myself away from the edge through damp earth, my heart thud thud thud against the soil. The soil thud thud thud against my chest. I feel with my hands, where folk’ve left footprints, for the crowd what put Da inside were stood right here. The Thrashing House creaks, groans, thwacks, but I pull myself towards it and slump on the ground. I push myself up and my fingers touch something metal. A heavy chain. It sings in my palm. There’s a link missing, the welding hasn’t held.
    Something’s fallen off it.
    I drop the chain and scrabble around in the footprints with my hands. The Thrashing House creaks and cracks and whirrs. My fingers find something else, cold and metal. Much heavier than the chain. It hums right through me. I sit up – it’s cold in my hands. This metal is strong. Old. I blink and the metal shows me a picture behind my eyelids.
    I close my eyes, and see …
    A tussle, the shoves and sounds of a crowd of people wash around me. Murmurs of ‘Speak. Speak. Speak,’ from voices of old and young, men and women. Annie’s husband Martyn’s voice. Slurred, confused. ‘No future here … not for Kieran …’ Another voice, Clorey’s, muttering over and over, ‘Better life than mine.’ Bill, Valmarie’s husband’s voice, sharp as slaps, ‘Jealous. Yes. No. Wanted her back. Got him gone …’ A picture of the Thrashing House, clicks of a lock, the door creaking open. Darkness inside. An angered shriek from a woman, thewoman wearing this key. Valmarie. The crowd pitching, pushing and shoving the men through the door, Bill’s face, turning, eyes wide, mouth like a cave …
    The Thrashing House creaks and clicks and thuds.
    The metal shows me a dark sky. Flashes of faces, shawls and brown boots, angered voices, the smell of trampled earth, the sea, the flames in the torches, the Thrashing House towering above, a wash of faces, colours behind my eyelids. Trapped in a murmuring crowd, elbows, knees, pushing and shoving … pushing, then … falling onto earth. Still. Silent.
    This metal were dropped in the crowd what were stood here tonight.
    I look up at the Thrashing House – it creaks and cracks and whirrs and it’s battering inside, so loud that I know it’s too late for all the men inside it. Too late for Da.
    But I’ve found the Thrashing House key.
    I shouldn’t even touch
this
key till I’m twenty-one. I lean close and look at the maze of shapes cut out of the bit that would unlock a door. Like a part of a puzzle. The bow, the part held in the fingertips, it’s got a design made of arrows carved into it, one pointing up and one down.
    I swallow the sickness down what’s in my throat, wrap the key in my skirt, tie a knot in the fabric, so it’s hid and I’m not touching the metal.
    This key will have passed through the hands of all the women when them’ve took thems turns on the bell list. The women’s voices will all be stored in the metal of this key. So I won’t need to take any others. This is the only one I’ll need. For women know everything what’s going on. I’ve got to get this key home, and get it well hid.
    This morning the early sun shines as I open the curtains of the bedroom window. All seems still outside. My cottage is full of creakings and footstep noises and nothing making the sounds.
    Something small and grey moves on the floor.
    It’s the moppet.
    It crawls out from under my bed. It crawls awkward, its arms and legs