Vixen

by Rosie Garland

  ‘Let us labour together,’ I smiled.

  He pulled at the handle; I pulled back.

  ‘No, Father,’ he whispered. ‘Rather, strengthen us with your prayers.’

  ‘Yes, I will pray. After this!’ I shouted. We stared at each other a moment; then he let go and I continued my work. ‘I will offer indulgences to all who help in making good the damage,’ I cried. ‘We will be holier men!’

  I tired quickly, but felt no shame, for I was a priest and not a peasant.

  Then it began. A shout went up from the direction of the sand dunes, followed by a murmuring like water running over stones. I heard them before I saw them: a tangle of men the colour of mud. At first I thought they were coming to thank the Saint for their deliverance from the storm; waited for their mutterings to shape into prayer, but as they approached what I heard was the pipe of nesting birds with a cat in their sights.

  They moved slowly, side to side, as though carrying a filled sack. A sack that struggled, striving to be free. They let it down before me, but hummocked about it, hanging onto its arms. It moved as wildly as a dish-clout shaken in a woman’s hand.

  ‘Look at the fish we have caught, Father Thomas,’ said one.

  ‘Is it a fish? It does not have scales, but is slimy, like an eel,’ remarked another.

  ‘It stinks like a fish.’

  ‘It is a mermaid, like sailors tell us.’

  ‘Not a maid, you fool. A maid has breasts, and it has none.’

  ‘What do you say, Father Thomas?’

  I looked closely at the writhing creature. It was so piled with filth it was hard to tell where its limbs ended and its body began. But it did have limbs: two arms and two legs.

  ‘It is no fish; it is a child,’ I said, to make an end of their chatter.

  ‘It is black as a Moor.’

  ‘Or a devil.’

  ‘Or a Jew.’

  ‘It is no Jew,’ snorted one. ‘All Jews are rich. Where is its fine clothing?’

  ‘The Jews have brought the pestilence to the world,’ said a solemn-faced fellow. As he spoke, he crossed himself, smearing mud upon his brow. ‘The Pope tells us so.’

  ‘No. It is the gypsies have brought it down on our heads. Everyone knows this.’

  ‘The Jews.’

  ‘The gypsies. For their thievery and filthy habits.’

  ‘The Jews murdered Christ,’ replied the first with slow emphasis. ‘That was the greatest sin that ever was. Am I not right, Father?’

  ‘What?’

  I had so long closed my ears to their bickering that I realised too late he addressed me. I wondered if Eve’s sin was the greater: at some point in my studies I had been given a clear answer, but what it was, I could not remember.

  ‘There are no Jews in Brauntone,’ I said confidently, but my hesitation cost me dear. They glanced from one to the other and I heard their thoughts, loud as if spoken. He does not know. He is a fool.

  ‘There are no gypsies, either,’ I continued, hoping to win them back. ‘Our Holy Brannoc will hold back all those who would creep in and poison us.’

  They chewed on this notion awhile, until one of them gave the child a shake.

  ‘All the same, Father,’ he said. ‘What if it is carrying pestilence? Will we be so foolish as to let it in?’

  ‘It will breathe on us and we will die.’

  ‘We should burn it, as they have burned all the Jews of Germany.’

  ‘Just to be sure.’

  They nodded, hopeful that I might say the word and let them cut the child’s throat and be done.

  ‘The Saint will protect us from all ill,’ I declared.

  ‘Will he, Father?’

  ‘Did you not see miracles of healing? At this very Feast Day just passed?’

  If I hoped for agreement, I was disappointed. I looked into their faces and saw the darkness in their eyes, the wolfish blades of their teeth, how they would rend this pitiful wight into shreds if I turned my back for but one moment. I cleared my throat and raised my hand.

  ‘Enough!’ I cried sternly. ‘It is clear. He is a child. Nothing more.’

  ‘Is it a boy, Father? He has no pizzle,’ cackled one, waggling his finger in the space between the creature’s legs.

  I looked closely. It seemed to be true, although it was difficult to tell. By God’s good mercy there was a puddle at my feet. I dipped my sleeve and wiped it over the child’s brow, though it struggled mightily and would have torn itself free had not the men’s hands become used to catching fish on dry land. The dirt sloughed away and the skin showed pale.

  ‘See,’ I said, and very loudly so all might hear. ‘Girl or boy, these are no devil’s scales. It is dirt. Look at your own legs. Are they not the same colour? You are muddied just the same.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ they muttered, looking at their knees and sighing their disappointment.

  ‘The Saint has always protected you. He will not withdraw his protection now. Unless we fall into sin,’ I added heavily. ‘Remember what our Saviour Christ said unto the people. Suffer little children to come unto me.’ I pointed at the creature. ‘Like this child,’ I declared, hoping that my voice did not shake overmuch. ‘It has come to us by the grace of God, so we will treat it well. God protect us!’ I cried.

  Protect us, they mumbled.

  I did not know if they understood me fully, and was too tired to care. One man, less contentious than the rest, smacked his hands together, and all turned to him. Anne’s father. His name came to me after only a few moments: Stephen.

  ‘Very well,’ he roared. ‘We shall spare it. We have many of our own children,’ he continued. ‘So we shall give this one to you. He – or she – will be safe in your house. And if he turns out to be a bag of sickness, then he will burst under your roof. You are closer to God, and He will hear you pray for healing a lot faster than He will hear us.’

  They accompanied me back to the house, dragging their prize. The rain was full of splinters that dug through my cloak. Only yesterday I had been cudgelling my wits for a way to divert Anne’s womanly desire into a more befitting direction. I was no fool; I had noticed her female leanings and far too many of them leaned towards me. Of course she desired a mate: it was the function of woman. Woman was the field, man the plough and seed.

  The Lord had answered my prayer: a child upon whom to heap her motherly affections. I rubbed my hands together, pleased with myself. Not only had I done a charitable act, but had found something to bring peace to my household. And if it turned out that this was no more than a runaway thief, then the Sheriff would deal with the matter, not the villagers. I would prevent murder, and provide food and shelter until the law took its course.

  So were my thoughts that first day. I was a fool for thinking the course of my life would run so simply. God had other plans.

  ANNE

  ‘What have you brought?’ I sigh.

  ‘A child,’ Thomas replies, looking proud as a cat that’s dragged in a dead pigeon.

  ‘Sir, I can see that.’

  ‘Mistress, do not be ungenerous. A child sent out of the storm. By God, perhaps,’ he adds hopefully. ‘A girl-child, I believe. Would you have her sent elsewhere? William would be most welcoming.’

  The creature writhes, desperate to be away, but Thomas’s hand is clamped firmly round her wrist. Her struggles grow more and more hopeless until she droops, worn out.

  He lowers his voice to a pious purr. ‘It is our duty.’

  ‘Sir, indeed.’

  Thomas loosens his grip and the girl falls to her knees, gasping. I hold out my hand to set her aright but she shrinks away. Her gaze bucks and dives about the room, resting nowhere. She is so covered with mud as to be more beast than girl. And she stinks. Thomas watches as I drag the wooden tub from its corner.

  ‘Will you help, sir?’ I pant. ‘I shall need more water bringing from the well if I am to get her clean.’

  ‘Me?’

  There is a brief silence.

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bsp; ‘Sir,’ I continue, patiently. ‘If I go, the child will run away. Unless that is what you wish. Perhaps, on this one occasion, you can help.’

  ‘I am always willing to labour for others,’ he replies primly.

  He picks up the bucket, after I have pointed out where it is stored, but still does not leave, staring at the girl and myself.

  ‘Sir. The water.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  At last he is gone. I dip a towel into the pot on the hearth and drag it across her cheek. At first she struggles, but with gentle cooing and murmuring I bring a semblance of calm. Each swipe makes her wince, as though to be touched causes pain. I stroke more and more gently until I barely brush her skin with the cloth. By and by her frame undoes its knots a little.

  ‘You see?’ I murmur. ‘No need to fight. Whoever your enemies are, I am not one of them.’

  She mews and tucks her fingers into her chest like a squirrel. From the size of her, anyone would be forgiven for thinking her a child. Anyone save myself. I am a small woman too and I know signs men do not. There’s a sprout of hair under her arms and a feather between her legs, so pale as to be almost white. Her breasts are no more than a whisper of skin, but the swollen nipples betray her womanhood.

  I can count every bone in the basket of her ribs. She is gap-toothed, her teeth ridged with brown stripes, her nose cracked by some hand long ago. And there, running up the centre of her back, across her shoulders and chest is downy fur. So pale it can barely be seen, it is the silver-grey you find on the inside of a beanscod.

  ‘If you were a dog, I’d say you’d been beaten, chained up and starved half to death,’ I remark. ‘Fur or no fur, you’re no pup, and I’ll not treat you as such.’

  She glares at me, eyes big as oysters, and lets out what sounds a lot like a warning growl.

  ‘Don’t you worry about him. What I’ve seen here is none of his business.’

  In my mind I see Thomas discovering her dusting of hair. How he’d straightaway declare her a wonder, the same as when the Saint transformed a wolf into a man to be his servant. He’d make her his miracle: dress her in golden robes and parade her round the church. She’s been in this house for less time than it takes to boil a cabbage, but he’ll have to put me in the pot and boil me along with it before I let him do any such thing.

  ‘What passes between you and me goes no further,’ I declare, and surprise myself with the fire in my voice.

  I am so carried away that I think I see the cloud of unknowing lift from her expression for an instant. But it is nothing but my fancy: her mouth droops, lips gleaming with spittle, her eyes pond-water dim.

  As the days lengthen into summer, so does my delight grow that I am blessed with this maid. When I first came to Thomas’s house I chattered away to myself, but the sound served only to remind me that I was on my own, and I stopped. My voice no longer dribbles into emptiness, now that it has another pair of ears to pour itself into. It is an unhoped-for pleasure to have a companion, even if she neither understands nor answers.

  I begin to recognise the sounds she makes: mewling when she hungers, only quietening when I feed her. I learn her odd ways: how she looks in my direction, yet not quite at me. The moment her gaze and mine meet, she slips away, as though her eyes are greasy in their sockets.

  And by the Saint, how she runs: wild as a vixen. She starts the day in the stable, for she beds with the mare and will tolerate no other cradle. It was sufficient for the Blessed Virgin and our Lord so I have no complaint. As soon as she wakes, she’s off, I know not where, nor can she tell me. She could race to Jerusalem and back again for all I know.

  I tell her not to stray too far; tell her the forest is full of bears. She heeds me not. I could speak in tongues for the difference it makes. In my heart I know the selfish truth of it: I wish to keep her beside me. But you can’t tell a fat baby not to fart. In the end, I let her flit to and fro. The easier I let her go, the faster she flies back to this little ark. By and by she stops longer, departs less and I believe I learn a lesson about love.

  The weeks go by, and the feast of Saint Etheldreda is passed by that of the holy martyr of Canterbury. It is the season to fetch laver from the beach.

  We tramp through the dunes: Bet, Alice, Isabel and myself. And of course the Maid. She sniffs at every clump of gorse, wrinkling her nose at its sweetness, only to leap away with a wail when the breeze whips thorns into her face. I too was caught out as a child, thrusting my hands into the bushes to pick those yellow flowers. Her scrapes are soon forgotten. She stoops, pawing at the bones of a rabbit picked clean long ago by a fox and scoured bright by the sand. She lets out a small whimper.

  ‘One of your four-legged brothers ate him,’ Alice tells her, and laughs.

  ‘Ah, she’s hungry, that’s what it is,’ says Bet. She cries, ‘Here, Vixen!’ and pats her thigh.

  The Maid scampers over and is rewarded with a scrap of cheese. We trudge up another sandy hillock and at last catch sight of the sea.

  ‘Still a fair stretch,’ sighs Alice, with an air of great suffering.

  ‘Hardly any distance,’ scoffs Isabel.

  ‘We’ll be there in no time,’ I add brightly.

  I set off down the slope, ploughing through the soft ground, the Maid yipping and turning somersaults. Alice puffs the hindmost, red-faced with the effort of remaining on her feet and not on her backside. She trips and falls: I reach out my hand.

  ‘Can I help you, cousin? You are quite out of breath.’

  She shades her eyes against the sun, unsure if I am laughing with her or at her. But she takes my hand in any case. I haul her upright and we set to beating the sand out of our skirts. I pound her gown energetically. The Maid hops around us on all fours like a giant hare; arse in the air and kicking out her heels.

  ‘I declare,’ says Bet. ‘I can’t tell what she is sometimes: coney, vixen, girl.’

  ‘She is a girl,’ murmurs Isabel, but neither Bet nor Alice pay any attention.

  ‘Maybe she’s a swan, for she came from the marshes,’ muses Alice. ‘Or a fish, for she came out of the storm.’

  ‘Fish don’t fall out of the sky, silly.’

  ‘My uncle says he heard of a shower of fish in Ireland.’

  ‘You believe that gobshitery?’

  I let them rattle on while we climb the next dune. When they have tired themselves out with disagreements, they fall back into accord with one another. Bet tugs my sleeve.

  ‘What do you think she is?’ she asks, shyly.

  ‘The Maid?’ I ask, pretending I don’t know what they’ve been bickering about.

  She nods. ‘She lives in your house.’

  ‘And has done since my father found her,’ caws Alice.

  ‘It was my brother Richard who first laid hands on her!’ declares Bet.

  They look set to start a fresh round of squabbling, but Isabel calls silence. She’s a head shorter than me, but burns with a fire brighter than the rest of us put together. I always found her unremarkable as a child. I wonder when she changed; what else I missed along the way.

  ‘You know her best, Nan,’ she says to me, using a pet name I’ve not heard for a long while. ‘Whoever was the first man to find her,’ she adds, casting a stern glance at Bet and Alice. ‘What is she?’

  The Maid is leaping from tussock to tussock of marsh grass, yipping surprise when she finds each is as full of spikes as the last. I regard the serious faces of my companions and it strikes me how far I have grown from them.

  I turn and look out to sea. The sun pierces the clouds and throws down beams onto the waves. Adam once told me that this was God pushing the clouds apart for a better look at His people. I used to love the idea of God watching over us. Now, as I look at the shafts of light moving over the face of the waters, it is as though He is seeking me out for all the wrongs I have done.

  I turn about quickly and look back towards the safety of the village: smoke curling from thatched roofs, a pot of peas bubbling on every hear
th, the forest stretching away to the north. In a sudden fancy I see the Maid standing on a treetop and beckoning. I stand between land and ocean, neither at home nor away from it.

  ‘Nan?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘You were miles away,’ says Isabel, gently.

  ‘Careful now,’ snipes Alice. ‘The Vixen is making Anne addle-brained too.’

  I sigh. ‘She cannot help how God made her. Father Thomas has instructed me to care for her.’

  Alice giggles at the mention of Thomas’s name, but I fix her with a glare and she swallows the laugh.

  ‘Come now, you must’ve seen more. Is she always like this?’ Alice points at her, where she is digging with the furious passion of a dog that’s scented a rat.

  I smile. ‘She is unlike anything I have ever seen. Anyone I have ever met.’

  ‘Oh,’ gasps Bet. ‘A marvel, then. Is she—’ She lowers her voice ‘An angel? My brother said his hands went right through her when he grabbed her. Like she wasn’t really there.’

  I laugh. ‘She’s flesh and bone, all right,’ I say. ‘No more celestial than the shoes on my feet. Maid!’ I shout. She cocks her head, leaves off her burrowing and comes barrelling pell-mell, rubbing her face into my apron. ‘There’s my clever lass,’ I coo, rubbing the straw of her hair affectionately.

  ‘She comes when you call,’ says Isabel, impressed. ‘I thought she didn’t understand anything.’

  ‘Everyone calls her a halfwit,’ snickers Alice.

  ‘No more than you or me,’ I laugh. Alice pouts. I might be insulting her or myself: she cannot tell.

  We come at last to the beach, a wide tongue of sand with barely as much as a shell upon it. We ignore the barren strand and head for the rocks, long dark fingers clawing the water’s edge. The tide has brought up enough laver for us all to fill our baskets twice over. The salt breath of the sea makes us lively and we set to with a good will.

  As I gather the sea’s harvest, I think again of Adam; how he used to carry me on his shoulders when Ma sent Cat and him to collect laver. He told tales of the great dragon who lived under the dunes; how the cliffs were its shoulders, these rocks its talons. We spent far more time playing games than collecting seaweed. He chased me up and down the beach, roaring how he was the dragon and was coming to eat me, while I screamed with terrified delight. I remember also how Cat grumbled that she had to pick the laver on her own.