The Untold (6 page)

T
he old woman got her way. She picked up my mother by the hands; still cursing her, the old man picked up my mother by the feet and they loaded her into the cart next to the dead lamb.

It was a slow ride back to the base of the mountains. Leading on his own horse, the old man pulled Houdini along, tight-reined, punishing him with a kick to his flanks every time he turned towards Jessie. The old woman rode unevenly behind them.

When my mother woke it was dark. She arched her neck back to see the old woman, her hair swinging from side to side as she rode, her horse pulling the weight of the cart, jolting as they moved up the slope.

The moon was still thin but the stars were bright and lit the trees enough to make shadows. As the cart moved through the forest, the shadows passed over it. The cart canted more and more with the slope and my mother could see the path they had already traveled. On that path she could see herself standing, and then she could see that self growing distant. She turned away from it. She trained her eyes between the wooden slats of the cart and out into the forest, but there again she saw herself, or versions of herself, like children running between trees.

I
NTO THE WOODS:
the game they played when the moon was full and later, when they had their courage, when the moon was dark.
Their house was not far, but not visible, so the forest was all and their own.

Jessie was a child then, too tall for her age, too wild and too tall, trying to find her father, her sister, her brothers, all of them yelling to her,
I'm here, I'm here
,
then running between the trees. She crouched low, held on to a flashlight, a new thing of light, and turned it sharply in the dark.

I'm here!
A body would leap and weave between the trees.

I'm here!

She would run until she felt her heart exploding.

One night she ran so far that the sounds of them were lost to her and she felt they were gone, and not just gone but gone forever, and the feeling was real and she could not hold back her sobbing.

Where are you?

Through her tears the trees were doubling and shifting like legged creatures.

Where are you? Is that you?

Her father stepped out from behind a tree in the distance.

Jessie!
he yelled.
I'm here.

She ran to him.

You're crying, my love.

I thought I'd lost you.
She grabbed hold of his arm and wiped her eyes with his sleeve.

Darling
, he said,
you can't lose me.

Her father took her hand and they walked along the broken path until her two brothers and her sister leapt out and said,
We're here!
Then they all walked together, all holding hands, taking turns with the flashlight, their feet never touching the circle of light that was always ahead.

M
y mother did not know what world she was in. She was in and out of feverish dreams and of course I tried to reach her. I could not reach out with hands or feet, so I bawled out,
Mother, there is life! Don't die. Not yet!
And I willed us as one and I imagined it was us riding together hell-bent up the mountain, disappearing into its shadows. All was dark there and we were protected. But even in my dreaming, where I wanted my mother to feel peace, I could only feel her terror—and soon I realized that this was not my dream at all.

My mother was dreaming me back.

In her dream, we were not escaping together into the mountains. She had us in the old woman's cart, but it was not a horse towing us, it was the old woman herself. The cart was bouncing over rocks and my mother stuffed me inside her shirt and opened the latch with her toes and slid out of the cart and then she sprinted into the dark. When she heard the old woman holler, she dropped to the ground and we rolled and we rolled until we hit a log. She crawled into it and she held me tight and told me to be as quiet as I could.

She's gone!
the old woman screeched, and then the sound of the cart rattled through the forest with the sound of the dog tearing through.

The dog found us in no time and circled the log. He pushed his snout right in and we could see his teeth and we shrank back and
back but there was nowhere to go. The old man grabbed my mother's hair and pulled us out.

You can't escape smelling like that
, he said.

M
Y MOTHER'S DREAMS
did not end there. She was scrambling barefoot up the mountain, pursued not by anything that she could name but by looming shapes that moved steadily and changed direction only when she turned to face them.

When she woke, she was lying in a room she did not recognize with a heap of knitted blankets piled upon her. She was sweating all over. The sheets were damp and she kicked them from her and when she raised her hands to rub her eyes, she saw her nails had been clipped and shaped and cleaned. There was a silver bracelet around her wrist. She tried to pull it off but it was too small for her hand and it pushed up against her bone and scraped her skin. It felt to her like a handcuff.

She sat up and pressed her feet into the floor and her head felt light and the floor looked to be a long way away. She examined her feet. Her toenails had been clipped too and she had never seen her feet so clean.

She was dressed in a nightgown. Lace fringed her neck and scratched her skin. It was cold out of bed. There was no window in the room but a draft streamed up between the floorboards. A dog barked outside and she could hear the voice of an old man. She remembered the barking and the voice and then the face of the old man leaning over her.

She searched the room for her clothes but could not find them. Aside from under the bed there was nowhere to look. There was nothing in the room except the bed, a kerosene lamp and a chair. She wrapped herself in one of the knitted blankets and opened the door.

S
HE WAS STANDING
in a sunlit kitchen. The wall facing her was made entirely of window frames, jigsawed together. They rattled in the wind. Outside, a stick flew through the air and the dog ran after it. She could see a cleared yard; from the rise of it and the way it was littered with bush rock she guessed she was very near the base of the mountains.

The dog reappeared with the stick in his mouth and the old man walked into view. My mother's first instinct was to hide from him so she crouched beneath the window. But she realized immediately that hiding was a foolish thing because here she was, already in his house, dressed in his wife's nightgown, which meant she had already been found. She stood up slowly and hoped he had not seen her attempt to hide. She tugged the blanket around her shoulders and tied it in a knot at the small of her back so it looked like a shawl. She stood tall, hoping her fear would not reveal itself to the man or the dog.

T
HE OLD
MAN
did see her. Ducking down and rising up and then standing at the window. He took the stick from the dog and pointed
it and walked towards her.
Look here
, he said, tapping the stick on the glass.
She's risen from the dead.

His voice warbled in her ear and the sound of it chilled her.

She was standing there, her arms folded across her chest, wondering what to do next, when the old woman burst through the door.

Oh, child!

The old woman pushed her back against the door to shut it, and held on to her hair which was twining around her.

Where are my clothes?
said my mother.

With that old blanket around you, you looked like a harpy at the window.
The old woman chuckled.
Only, harpies belong outside.

My mother was not amused.
Where are my trousers, my shirt, my boots?

You weren't wearing no boots, child,
said the old woman.
Not when we found you. And you'd made a mess of your clothes. You'd lost your pants and that shirt you had on was no better than a rag.

Where is it?
said my mother
. I'll wear it anyway
.

Enough of that
, said the old woman.
We'll deck you out with new kit, no problems there. But first things first. Hungry is surely what you are. We'll give you a feed and get some flesh back on those bones of yours.

My mother was hungry. She did not know what to make of the old woman but her hunger was sure.

What is there to eat around here?

The old woman patted her on the shoulder and moved towards the stove. She lifted the lid on a pot which gave way to the thick smell of gravied meat. It made my mother's mouth water and she felt faint. She held on to a chair.

The old woman buzzed around the kitchen, setting the table, and then she said,
Sit down, dear
.
That's what guests are supposed to do.

Is that what I am?
said my mother, and she sat down. She didn't have the energy to pursue the question
What am I doing here?

The old woman poked at the coals within the stove and then tasted the contents of the pot with her finger.
Ooh yes,
she said
. That friend of yours does taste good.

My mother reared up from the table and knocked back her chair.

You fucking killed Houdini?
she spluttered.

The old woman spun around. She was holding a spoon out in front of her.

I'll not have your foul language here. I've heard enough of your mouth in your fever. And what are you talking about now? Who's Houdini?

My horse!
said my mother.
Have you butchered my horse for your dinner?

Oh, child,
said the old woman, turning back to the pot
. It's the lamb I'm talking about, that lamb in the back of the cart—the one you were clinging on to like it was your own beloved.

My mother sat down again, feeling nauseous at the thought.

And I don't know if it's no Houdini, but we found a horse loitering by you on the bank of the river.

Where is he?

He's in the stable. So everything is as it should be, dear. Every single thing on earth is in its place.

The old woman ladled out the contents of the pot.

You'll take me to him?

Only after you eat
, said the old woman. She set a bowl in front of my mother. The stew was dark and glossy with fat and hunks of lamb.

How long have I been here?
asked my mother.

You spent a good couple of days in a fever, cussing at the ceiling, and a couple more just sleeping it off. I don't know, dear—almost a week.

What did I say in my fever?

Oh, a whole lot of gibberish and nonsense. You copped the old man a spit in the eye and a punch in the chops, though, so who knows if you were actually sleeping?
The old woman laughed again.

I'm sorry for that
, said my mother and she began to eat heartily.

No mind
, said the old woman.
We all have our ways.

My mother put her head down and ate so close to the bowl she could have scalded her chin. The stew was salty and good and she did not lift her eyes until the bowl was empty. The old woman did not eat but sat opposite, watching her intently.

My mother noticed her staring only when she had finished eating.

Not hungry?
she asked.

The old woman reached across the table and covered my mother's hand with her own.
Only for your company, dear
, she said. She lifted her eyes skyward.
You see, God has finally answered my prayers.

My mother snatched back her hand.

What is this?
said my mother, raising her wrist with the bracelet.

It's a gift
, said the old woman
.

I don't want it.

Why?

It hurts my hand.

The old woman snapped the bracelet open and pulled it off my mother's wrist.

I thought you would appreciate it.

I've got no interest in such things.

You know how to hurt an old woman's feelings.

The old woman's presence began to oppress my mother.

I'm not feeling well
, she said.
Can you take me to Houdini? And then I should go back to bed.

You can rest all you need to, dear
, said the old woman.
And your horse is right there. But first you must bathe.

Soap and water irritate me
, said my mother and she was not lying. It was one of her defenses against Fitz, to bathe not very often or not at all.

They may well, dear. But this is my house and there are certain rules and you must wash that fever from you or else catch it from yourself again and your insides turn septic.

All right, I will bathe
, said my mother,
but first I need to see my horse.

The old woman tut-tutted but she cleared Jessie's plate, then led her outside.