All the Fabulous Beasts

by Priya Sharma

  Chick’s hurt cuts through my shock. I pick up a pan and fly at the cat, hissing back. I’m almost on it, screeching and stamping, when the cat decides I’m too much to take on. Its paws scramble on the tiled floor for purchase as flees between the legs of the kitchen table and chairs.

  I pick up quivering Chick. Blood stains my dress. The worst thing’s the sound. Her shapeless keening.

  How could you let this happen to me?

  The hag was right. It hurts.

  *

  At twelve Chick still has a young child’s body. There are no signs of puberty and, in truth, I’m glad that I don’t have to deal with her having periods as well as everything else.

  She is changing though.

  Chick’s acting strangely. Social Services would have a field day if they could see her. I’ve delayed her hospital appointment for fear that someone might examine her and see.

  She’s taken to climbing onto worktops, bookcases, and tables. She leaps and lands with a heavy thud, lying on the floor looking stunned. Her bruises are a spectacular range of colours, which never fail to make me wince. I’m exhausted from the constant vigilance supervising her requires.

  That’s not all. She’s stopped eating, just like she did as a baby, as though sickening for something. I’ve tried bugs and worms again but she won’t take them from me. She’s listless. She won’t splash about in her shallow bath. She doesn’t click her tongue or follow me.

  I undress her for bed. She’s lost more weight. I remember holding her in my hands when she was born. I resolve to take her to the doctor in the morning, regardless of her bruises.

  But that’s not all.

  There’s her skin. I slip her nightdress on, over the thick, ugly hairs on her back that are so tough that they take pruning shears to cut through them. The cotton slips down to cover the fine down on her belly.

  I lock the door and lie beside her on the mattress that I’ve put on the floor. It’s the safest way, in case she gets up at night. There’s nothing left in here for her to climb.

  I’m woken intermittently by Chick who spends her sleep in motion. Her arms twitch and she wakes with a jerk as if falling, followed by a dialogue of clicks as if she’s telling me her dreams.

  The grey light of morning comes in. There’s a sound at the window, like a pebble being thrown by some lothario below. I once had a lover who did such things, imagining himself romantic. Oh, the memory of sex. Chick used to get too upset if someone spent the night, or even an hour, while she slept. Afterwards she’d shy away from me as if I was tainted by a scent that ablutions couldn’t remove.

  The noise comes again, a series of short, sharp raps. A pecking on the glass that chills my skin. Something wanting to be let in.

  I part the curtains. A shadow flutters against the pane, its wings a blur. Not a ghost but a sparrow.

  The hag’s back.

  I listen to Chick’s ragged breathing and I want to have it out with the old bitch.

  I put a coat over my pyjamas and pull on boots. I put a sweater on Chick and swaddle her in a quilt. She’s a featherweight when I pick her up. Her eyelids flutter, then open and she looks through me with dead eyes before she closes them.

  The barn’s cold. I can see the shape my breath. The hag’s nest has been reduced by time to a rotting pile that reeks. She doesn’t seem concerned. It’s her throne.

  “I want a word with you. You cheated me.”

  The hag hasn’t aged where I feel the weight of the last twelve years. She still wears a riot of once-white rags.

  “She’s unique, isn’t she?” The hag clucks and coos like a proud parent. “You can’t remake her in your own image. She’s herself entirely. That’s children for you.”

  Chick’s awake now. Alert. She wriggles, wanting to be put down.

  “Eloise,” the hag calls.

  “She only answers to Chick.”

  The hag smiles at that.

  “Chick, come here.”

  I hate that Chick goes to her without hesitation.

  “She’ll do nicely.”

  “For what?”

  “Our bargain. You don’t want her. I’ll take her back as payment.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of smothering her with a pillow or drowning her in the bath.”

  I can’t deny it.

  The hag’s fingers roam over Chick.

  “She’s a fair payment. She has what my other fledglings don’t. A wishbone.”

  “I’ve been wishing on it for years,” I laugh. “It’s useless.”

  The hag’s quick as a whip. Chick’s across her knee, squirming and crying to be set free. “Wishbone’s must be broken if the wishes are to work.”

  Chick’s cry rises as the hag presses on her collarbone.

  “Stop!”

  “Really? I suppose you’re right. Wishing shouldn’t be an impulsive thing. And it’s strongest when the bone’s clean. I’ll boil her in a barrel. Don’t look put out. I’ll be a sport. You can pull one end. That’s a fifty-fifty chance on the greatest wish ever made. And Chick’s hands and feet will make the finest divining bones.”

  “No.”

  “No?” The hag cocks her head on one side. “You could wish for a child. One that runs to you, arms out, when you call.”

  “Let her go.”

  “Ah, I see. You want it for yourself. Snap it and you could have a whole brood to comfort you in your dotage. Who’ll hold your hand on your deathbed and bear your genes into the future. Children to praise your name and make you proud.”

  “I said let her go. Nothing of hers will be broken.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re hurting my daughter.” I climb onto the nest.

  “But you don’t want her.” She holds Chick out of reach.

  “I do. Every inch of her is mine. I’ve paid in pain and sacrifice.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because you made her pay too. She’s suffering and you can stop it.”

  “I can’t make Chick different.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” I wouldn’t tamper with a single cell of her. “I don’t know what she’s sickening for. You do.”

  “I can’t tell you what she needs.” The hag’s stroking Chick now. Quieting her. “Do you know?”

  The hag’s white eyes stare through me. She’s waiting.

  I look at Chick. Here it is, mother’s intuition, twelve years too late.

  “Yes, I know.”

  When the hag stands she’s eight feet tall, most of her length is spindly legs. She looks less haggard now. She leans down and passes Chick to me, then shakes herself out. The white tatters look like ruffled feathers. There’s a sudden soft gloss about her.

  “Up here.”

  I follow the hag up the rickety steps to the hayloft. She stoops to fit. A hole in the roof reveals clouds racing overhead. The birds have gathered up here, a panoply of breeds to bear witness to the glory of this morning. I can feel every thudding heartbeat.

  Here it is. The biggest sacrifice.

  There’s no end of hurt.

  I pull off Chick’s jumper and nightdress. Her nappy. Her feathers have come in overnight. I’d be restless too if I had pinions pushing through my skin. Soft plumes cover her abdomen.

  Her shoulder blades peel away from her back and unfold. Her wingspan is mighty considering she’s so slight. No wonder Chick’s clumsy on the ground. She’s designed for flight.

  Click, click, click.

  Chick leaps up, her feet curling like claws around my forearm. I hold her up. She’s heavy, held like this.

  Click, click, click.

  I’m fixed by my daughter’s gaze. She’s ferocious. Dignified. I bow my head. She doesn’t need my limited definitions. She has her own possibilities and perfections.

  Clickclickclick.

  I launch my precious girl. She takes flight through the hole in the roof, going where I can’t follow. She tilts and tips until she catc
hes the wind and spirals upwards, a shadow on the sky.

  How high she soars.

  The Sunflower Seed Man

  Man, woman and child. Father, mother, daughter. They make slow progress along the lane. The houses thin out and the road markings disappear, the hamlet dissolving into countryside. Birds sing out in liquid notes, music pouring from their throats. There’s a summer stillness, this golden day fixed in the sun’s amber gaze.

  “Are you tired?” Pip asks Jack. “We can go back if you’re tired.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Let me take Emma.”

  Pip takes the dosing toddler from him. As she does she steels herself in case her daughter wakes but the child sleeps on.

  They pass a field where a bull basks in the sunshine and the adoration of his herd. He’s covered in cream curls. The woolly monolith turns his head to watch them, the brass ring glinting in his nose.

  Jack leans against the fence. “Lucky sod. Not a care in the world.”

  Pip looks at gaunt, grey Jack, his fists clenched in sudden resentment, jealous of the innocence of beasts. The bull senses the implied threat and gets to his feet. It seems to take an age for it to mobilise its weight. Finally there, the bull stands and glares.

  “You’re upsetting him.” Pip is at Jack’s elbow, pulling him away. What she means is Don’t be upset, not today. A day so tranquil that the clock hands have slowed to a pace that undoes time. A day when they can pretend that all is well.

  They walk on, joining another road. Emma is suddenly awake. Pip is looking down at her at the moment that she opens her eyes. The child lets out a long wail. The little body arches, rigid in protest.

  “Come on, pumpkin. Stop now.” Jack takes Emma when she refuses to settle for Pip. “Stop being a grump just because you’ve woken up.”

  Emma’s like a monkey, clinging to Jack’s neck. Pip doesn’t like how the child looks at her over his shoulder, smug in ownership of her father’s arms.

  Jack stops abruptly, putting Emma down. He kneels and points. “Look, blackberries.”

  They nestle amid the nettles and the webs. He gathers the purple and black berries. Emma clutches at his leg.

  “My mum always said wild blackberries are best.”

  He dispenses maternal wisdom and fruit. Pip tries to feed one to Emma but when the girl takes a bite she wails and spits it out. Jack bites one in half to check it’s not too tart and then puts it in her mouth. She chews it, her smile dimpled.

  Lips and fingers become stained. When they finish feasting, Jack takes up Emma again and carries her against his chest.

  “Let me take her. You must be tired.”

  “I’m okay, Pip.”

  His smothered irritation makes her wince but she knows he’s flagging.

  “Let’s go this way.”

  She starts off, making him follow, knowing that the other way will be a good mile. Ahead the road dips and curves into a field of rape.

  “Have you ever seen so much yellow?” The intensity stuns Pip.

  The mass of rape moves to and fro, a wind driven tide.

  “Look at that beauty.” Jack points to the solitary sunflower that navigates this floral sea. “I want a whole garden full of those.”

  Pip promises herself that she will grant this simple wish. She can’t make him well but at least she can do this small thing to make him happy.

  *

  Pip and Jack lie in bed together. Their alarm clock marks time with its relentless ticks and tocks, a reminder of each minute lost. The moles on Jack’s back are ink stains in the almost dark. The night has bleached the patterned quilt and prints upon the wall to shades of greys.

  “Are you still awake?” Jack asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you always end up on my side of the bed? It’s the same as yours.”

  “It’s not. You’re there.”

  She puts a hand to his mouth so that she can feel his smile.

  “It was a nice afternoon, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She fears a ruse.

  “We all enjoyed it, didn’t we?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Don’t mind Emma at the moment. Toddlers are funny. She loves you. She’s just that she’s testing boundaries. She’s all over me at the moment because she knows that something’s wrong. Just be patient.”

  “You’re so much better with her than I am. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  Pip’s glad he can’t see her face. The words sound petulant and bitter.

  “I know you were upset when you found out you were pregnant but I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  “You mean you’re glad that I didn’t have an abortion?”

  There. She’s said the word.

  “Yes. We made a choice, Pip. We made a choice, together.”

  No, I chose to have her because if I didn’t I wouldn’t have you.

  “Pip, it’s all right to be scared. Whatever happens, you and Em will always have each other.”

  She kisses him to stopper up his mouth before anything else spills out. She kisses and clings as though, at any moment, he might be washed away.

  *

  The estate agent led them up the garden path. Tales to tell, houses to sell, his mouth moved in a constant narrative. As he pushed open the front door, sun fell upon the parquet floor.

  The house was tired but clean. It was imprinted with the previous owners’ love, which was palpable even though every room was bare. The agent left them in the living room, where bouquets fell endlessly on faded wallpaper. The view through the open patio doors was of the long, narrow lawn.

  “It needs a new kitchen. We’d have to knock through into the outhouse to make a proper utility room.”

  “There’s a railway line at the bottom of the garden.”

  “And it needs central heating.”

  “It’ll take a long time to do up.”

  A litany of imperfections. Their fingers interlaced.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  It was nine months later, lying in bed together, that Jack found the lumps sheltering in his groin. A row of lymph nodes, hard and hostile, beneath his skin.

  *

  Pip and Emma are in the garden together. It is long and narrow with tall hedges and shrubs that the estate agent had described as mature. He means overgrown, Jack had whispered in Pip’s ear.

  A train trundles past, slowing in its approach to the station. Pip imagines Jack alighting. Taking long strides along the platform, stooped, a habit owing to his height. In her mind he’s loosening his tie. There’s no end to wanting him.

  Emma rushes past her into the house. Pip watches her go, pulling washing from the line. The final item is one of Jack’s shirts, which she’s taken to wearing. She holds it to her nose but there is nothing of him there. Only fabric conditioner and fresh air. The wicker basket creaks as she carries it inside on her hip.

  “What is it?” Pip is sharp, making Emma cry all the more.

  All Pip feels is exasperation, not remorse. She hasn’t the energy to deal with Emma’s outburst but she’s learnt that anger will only make it worse. She exhales her impatience and starts again.

  “Emma, what’s the matter?”

  Pip puts a stiff arm around her daughter’s shoulders and waits for the shuddering sobs to subside.

  “Emma, what’s wrong?”

  “It died.”

  “What? What died?”

  “Daddy’s sunflower.” Emma shrinks from her. “I watered it, like you said. Are you angry?”

  Oh God, how would Jack deal with this?

  It comes to Pip, all at once. The way he’d sit beside Emma. What he’d say and how he’d say it.

  “You don’t know, do you?” Pip tries to sound teasing.

  “What?” Solemn Emma, unaccustomed to maternal japery.

  “The sunflower’s secret.”

  Pip pulls Emma onto her lap even though she’s getting too big. She squirms. Pip’
s knees are bony, not soft and dimpled, not built for mother comforts.

  “Even though we love someone with all our heart and we’d do anything to protect them, sometimes they get sick. Or die.” The word die feels like a stone in Pip’s mouth. “They can’t come back which makes us sad. But the sunflower is different. It has a secret.”

  Emma’s arms snakes around Pip’s neck. Weighing Pip down. Buoying her up. She carries Emma out to the garden, over the mossy grass that springs underfoot, past the lavender full of bees and the tubs of shameless pink fuchsias, to where the sunflower stands.

  It towers over them, trunk thicker than Pip’s forearm. Hand span leaves that are rough against the palm. The glorious yellow halo is now withered raffia. The bin lid face is no longer turned in worship to the sun. It looks down on them instead. The surface has started to dry out, the coarse brown velvet gone to seed.

  Jack grew them first, then Pip, when he was ailing, his tired body failing. One day you’ll do this for me. Bury me in the ground.

  Pip plants them even though Jack’s no longer here to watch them from the window. This year only one has flourished, bursting from the soil towards the sun.

  I’ll give anything. Pip remembers watching Emma playing with a skipping rope on the path while she patted the soil down to around the young plants. Take Emma instead. Just give me Jack back.

  Recalling this appals Pip.

  “Emma, do you remember how we made the sunflower?”

  “We put it in the garden.”

  “That’s right,” Pip answers, “what did we put in the garden?”

  “A baby sunflower.”

  “How did we grow the baby sunflower?”

  Emma shrugs and hides her face in Pippa’s neck. A gesture shocking in its childishness. But she is a child.

  “That’s all right, darling.” Darling was what Jack called Emma. “We put something in a pot. Do you remember? It was a seed.”

  “Seed!”

  Emma shouts out the word in unison with her and smiles into Pip’s with joyful radiance. It fills up the cavity in Pip’s chest, displacing the aching emptiness.

  “Look,” Pip points at the sunflower’s head, “lots of seeds. We’ll cut it down on Saturday and let the head dry out. We’ll have all the baby seeds we need, waiting to be grown. That’s the secret. We’re sad the sunflower’s gone, but it’s left us something. A reason to be happy.”