which disturbed them at last.
Dear Father, said the Widow, throwing her apron over her head, what shall I say? What must I do?
Ara opened the door.
It’s Angel, she said.
What does she want? the Widow asked. Speak, woman, speak. Do you know where the child is, God forgive her andme. Dear God, she said, I who wouldn’t drive a whelping dog out of the yard have done this.
Angel did not answer.
Can you harness the wagon? she asked Ara.
Then she turned to the Widow.
We’ve got to get you down to Felix Prosper’s somehow, she said. There’s no use wailing on God.
No one thought of Felix, Ara said.
12
Felix played the fiddle. The children slept on. Kip raised himself on his elbow to listen.
Light a light, the girl said. I want to see.
It will be daylight soon, Felix said.
The girl could hear his arm rubbing against the cloth of his overalls. She could hear the pad of his foot beating out the rhythm.
What if Angel doesn’t come? she asked.
She’ll come, Felix said.
Why did she go? the girl said. What good could it do?
She put out her hand and grasped Felix’s knee.
Felix, she said, I want Angel. Felix, she cried, I’m afraid. Will it hate to be born? Will it blame me all the years of its life?
Go away, she called out. Let me be.
Felix put down his fiddle. He went to the bedroom door. The light was turning blue at the window. A bird rattled about in the bushes. The hounds rubbed softly at the base of the door.
The girl’s voice filled the cabin.
It might be dead, she cried. Nobody wants it. Nobody. It might have a scar like the lash of a whip. Felix, she called, come back. Come back. There’s a flower growing against the wall and it’s reaching out to cover me.
She’s thinking of Greta, Kip said. What did she and James do? he asked the girl.
Nothing, she moaned. Nothing. James is coming I tell you. I can hear his horse’s feet snapping the twigs. I can feel the beat of its hooves trembling the ground.
Then she began to cry again.
It’s me, she sobbed, outside in the night. Open the door.
Felix shook the children out of bed. The terrier yelped as he pushed it with his hand.
Outside, he said. Get going.
Take something to cover your backsides, Felix bellowed. You can lie with the hounds or in the hay.
He went back to the kitchen and bent over the girl. Her arms were round his neck. He could feel her shaking and biting at his shoulder. He carried her in to the bed.
Keep listening, he called to Kip. Keep listening for Angel to come.
The girl shut her eyes. Her hands twisted the blanket which Felix threw over her. Then she lay still. She looked crumpled and worn as an old pillow.
Felix thought of Angel. Dark and sinewed as bark. Tough and rooted as thistle. I’ve never heard her cry, he thought. The folds above his eyes contracted. He bent over and took one of the girl’s hands between his thick fingers. It was not until the girl had come battering at his peace that he’d wondered at all about the pain of a growing root.
The girl cried out again and clutched at his hand.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The girl lay still.
If he could only shed his flesh, moult and feather again, he might begin once more.
His eyelids dropped. His flesh melted. He rose from the bed on soft owl wings. And below he saw his old body crouched down like an ox by the manger.
He reached for his fiddle. Then he heard at a distance the chatter of wheels on the rutted road.
13
James’s horse still brought him on. Night had shrunk into the long shadows of the trees, into the slender shadows of the grass, into the flitting shadow of birds. Light defined the world. It picked out the shattered rock, the bleached and pitted bone.
It would edge the empty bottle on Felicia’s table, James thought. It would lie congealed in the unwashed plates. It would polish the yellow of Traff’s head and count the streaked tears under Lilly’s eyes.
It would shine in his own empty mangers. On Kip’s face. On Greta’s bleak
Dear Father, said the Widow, throwing her apron over her head, what shall I say? What must I do?
Ara opened the door.
It’s Angel, she said.
What does she want? the Widow asked. Speak, woman, speak. Do you know where the child is, God forgive her andme. Dear God, she said, I who wouldn’t drive a whelping dog out of the yard have done this.
Angel did not answer.
Can you harness the wagon? she asked Ara.
Then she turned to the Widow.
We’ve got to get you down to Felix Prosper’s somehow, she said. There’s no use wailing on God.
No one thought of Felix, Ara said.
12
Felix played the fiddle. The children slept on. Kip raised himself on his elbow to listen.
Light a light, the girl said. I want to see.
It will be daylight soon, Felix said.
The girl could hear his arm rubbing against the cloth of his overalls. She could hear the pad of his foot beating out the rhythm.
What if Angel doesn’t come? she asked.
She’ll come, Felix said.
Why did she go? the girl said. What good could it do?
She put out her hand and grasped Felix’s knee.
Felix, she said, I want Angel. Felix, she cried, I’m afraid. Will it hate to be born? Will it blame me all the years of its life?
Go away, she called out. Let me be.
Felix put down his fiddle. He went to the bedroom door. The light was turning blue at the window. A bird rattled about in the bushes. The hounds rubbed softly at the base of the door.
The girl’s voice filled the cabin.
It might be dead, she cried. Nobody wants it. Nobody. It might have a scar like the lash of a whip. Felix, she called, come back. Come back. There’s a flower growing against the wall and it’s reaching out to cover me.
She’s thinking of Greta, Kip said. What did she and James do? he asked the girl.
Nothing, she moaned. Nothing. James is coming I tell you. I can hear his horse’s feet snapping the twigs. I can feel the beat of its hooves trembling the ground.
Then she began to cry again.
It’s me, she sobbed, outside in the night. Open the door.
Felix shook the children out of bed. The terrier yelped as he pushed it with his hand.
Outside, he said. Get going.
Take something to cover your backsides, Felix bellowed. You can lie with the hounds or in the hay.
He went back to the kitchen and bent over the girl. Her arms were round his neck. He could feel her shaking and biting at his shoulder. He carried her in to the bed.
Keep listening, he called to Kip. Keep listening for Angel to come.
The girl shut her eyes. Her hands twisted the blanket which Felix threw over her. Then she lay still. She looked crumpled and worn as an old pillow.
Felix thought of Angel. Dark and sinewed as bark. Tough and rooted as thistle. I’ve never heard her cry, he thought. The folds above his eyes contracted. He bent over and took one of the girl’s hands between his thick fingers. It was not until the girl had come battering at his peace that he’d wondered at all about the pain of a growing root.
The girl cried out again and clutched at his hand.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The girl lay still.
If he could only shed his flesh, moult and feather again, he might begin once more.
His eyelids dropped. His flesh melted. He rose from the bed on soft owl wings. And below he saw his old body crouched down like an ox by the manger.
He reached for his fiddle. Then he heard at a distance the chatter of wheels on the rutted road.
13
James’s horse still brought him on. Night had shrunk into the long shadows of the trees, into the slender shadows of the grass, into the flitting shadow of birds. Light defined the world. It picked out the shattered rock, the bleached and pitted bone.
It would edge the empty bottle on Felicia’s table, James thought. It would lie congealed in the unwashed plates. It would polish the yellow of Traff’s head and count the streaked tears under Lilly’s eyes.
It would shine in his own empty mangers. On Kip’s face. On Greta’s bleak
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