lain atop her for a while, she smilingly pushed his face back in a gesture he understood. He complied, turning over onto his back. Hannie rose on her knees, readying to position herself for utmost pleasure. A horsefly buzzed near her face. She brushed it away.
She suddenly realized that the branches of the black elm above her were studded with silent crows.
Then she saw it.
In the center of the clearing appeared the remains of a cook-fire. She knew it had not been there the week previous, before the storm. Wooden stakes had been driven into the ground in a circle around the blackened ash-pit. A cord of some kind hung from the stakes.
“Hannie?” Hans said, as the girl rose unsteadily from the patch of grass that was her prenuptial bed.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait a moment.”
She stepped toward the center of the clearing, brushing down her petticoat as she walked. The bombinating flies swarmed, targeting her eyes.
“Hannie!”
She needed to get to the cook-fire. To see. She felt she could not turn back.
Bones. Bones piled in a neat tower on the scorched earth. Big bones, too, nothing like those of a chicken or the remains of a pig roast.
Bones bladelike and white as frost.
The cord swung a yard from her eyes. Soft and viscous, it resembled the intestines of the lambs her family butchered every spring.
She turned around to see Hans lying inert, on his back, his hand thrown over his eyes.
“Hans, come see.” He ignored her. “Hans!”
A rustle from the woods at the far end of the clearing. A deer?
She looked back to the ash-pit, not wanting to, unable to resist.
Next to the bones, a fan of… What was it?
Fingers. Tiny fingers, such as those of her little sister Trude. Splayed out carefully in sequence, as though they were still part of a hand.
Next to the severed fingers, a corn-husk doll directed its mocking gaze toward Hannie.
And a symbol, drawn in blood everywhere, on the trees, the stones of the fire ring, the half-burnt logs. A circle cut by a cross:
The last thing Hannie saw was a piece of cutout deerskin stuck with an indian hatchet to a pinewood tree, fashioned into a kind of mask, with gaping holes for eyes and an eerie, twisted shape for a mouth.
Hans looked up when Hannie started shrieking. She didn’t wait for her beloved to come and see. She started moving her feet in the direction of home.
The tiny golden bat folded its wings, clung upside down to the ceiling of the lodge and whispered to Kitane of his coming death.
“Brother, why are you alone?”
“You, too, are alone,” Kitane responded soundlessly. “Where is your colony?”
“Where is your family?” the bat echoed. It spun slowly around into the shadows, then again caught a golden light. Hunching its leathery wings, it made the reddish hairs on its neck ruffle up like the collars of the Dutch.
Outside, the locusts raised a dry-husk chorus. “Why are you alone?” they said.
An old lodge, long abandoned, its mother and children no doubtdead from the plague. The lice inside were lonely for their people. They welcomed Kitane.
Mid-moon in the harvest month. Kitane played his mind over what should be happening now, the sunlit life he should be leading, seeing it from the shadows of now.
Bringing in maize from his clan’s plantings. Hunting deer. Dressing deer. Cutting the venison into strips, hanging it above a fire. Looking toward winter.
Kitane and Showma and Munn, together with the clan.
That life gone. Swallowed by shadow. Instead, he was alone in an empty lodge on the edge of a pond-fed marsh. On his back in bed, watching a yellow bat hunch across the rough bark roof.
“It’s morning,” the bat observed. “I’ll be going to sleep now.”
“Go ahead,” Kitane said.
“You’ll be all right? I’m worried about you.”
“Sleep well.”
“Why don’t you sleep, too? This is, what, the third day of your waking?”
Kitane rolled away to face the wall, the willow sticks of his bed snapping in their
She suddenly realized that the branches of the black elm above her were studded with silent crows.
Then she saw it.
In the center of the clearing appeared the remains of a cook-fire. She knew it had not been there the week previous, before the storm. Wooden stakes had been driven into the ground in a circle around the blackened ash-pit. A cord of some kind hung from the stakes.
“Hannie?” Hans said, as the girl rose unsteadily from the patch of grass that was her prenuptial bed.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait a moment.”
She stepped toward the center of the clearing, brushing down her petticoat as she walked. The bombinating flies swarmed, targeting her eyes.
“Hannie!”
She needed to get to the cook-fire. To see. She felt she could not turn back.
Bones. Bones piled in a neat tower on the scorched earth. Big bones, too, nothing like those of a chicken or the remains of a pig roast.
Bones bladelike and white as frost.
The cord swung a yard from her eyes. Soft and viscous, it resembled the intestines of the lambs her family butchered every spring.
She turned around to see Hans lying inert, on his back, his hand thrown over his eyes.
“Hans, come see.” He ignored her. “Hans!”
A rustle from the woods at the far end of the clearing. A deer?
She looked back to the ash-pit, not wanting to, unable to resist.
Next to the bones, a fan of… What was it?
Fingers. Tiny fingers, such as those of her little sister Trude. Splayed out carefully in sequence, as though they were still part of a hand.
Next to the severed fingers, a corn-husk doll directed its mocking gaze toward Hannie.
And a symbol, drawn in blood everywhere, on the trees, the stones of the fire ring, the half-burnt logs. A circle cut by a cross:
The last thing Hannie saw was a piece of cutout deerskin stuck with an indian hatchet to a pinewood tree, fashioned into a kind of mask, with gaping holes for eyes and an eerie, twisted shape for a mouth.
Hans looked up when Hannie started shrieking. She didn’t wait for her beloved to come and see. She started moving her feet in the direction of home.
The tiny golden bat folded its wings, clung upside down to the ceiling of the lodge and whispered to Kitane of his coming death.
“Brother, why are you alone?”
“You, too, are alone,” Kitane responded soundlessly. “Where is your colony?”
“Where is your family?” the bat echoed. It spun slowly around into the shadows, then again caught a golden light. Hunching its leathery wings, it made the reddish hairs on its neck ruffle up like the collars of the Dutch.
Outside, the locusts raised a dry-husk chorus. “Why are you alone?” they said.
An old lodge, long abandoned, its mother and children no doubtdead from the plague. The lice inside were lonely for their people. They welcomed Kitane.
Mid-moon in the harvest month. Kitane played his mind over what should be happening now, the sunlit life he should be leading, seeing it from the shadows of now.
Bringing in maize from his clan’s plantings. Hunting deer. Dressing deer. Cutting the venison into strips, hanging it above a fire. Looking toward winter.
Kitane and Showma and Munn, together with the clan.
That life gone. Swallowed by shadow. Instead, he was alone in an empty lodge on the edge of a pond-fed marsh. On his back in bed, watching a yellow bat hunch across the rough bark roof.
“It’s morning,” the bat observed. “I’ll be going to sleep now.”
“Go ahead,” Kitane said.
“You’ll be all right? I’m worried about you.”
“Sleep well.”
“Why don’t you sleep, too? This is, what, the third day of your waking?”
Kitane rolled away to face the wall, the willow sticks of his bed snapping in their
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