Tirzah and the Prince of Crows

by Deborah Kay Davies

  Tirzah is struggling to breathe evenly. Brân, she calls, Brân! He steps into the clearing and looks blindly at her. Columns of sunshine tower around him. His hair is bushy, like a long, ragged mane around his shoulders now. Brân, it’s me, Tirzah, she says again. But Brân is stooping, and when he stands upright again he is holding a stone, big as his fist. He raises it and takes aim. No, Brân, Tirzah calls, holding out her hand. Don’t. Brân is alert, still holding the stone. She sees he is wearing tattered shorts tied with string at the waist, and broken black shoes. His skin is dark brown and his face bony. She licks her dry lips, but before she can say another word, Brân leans his shoulder back and expertly hurls the stone. It hits Tirzah heavily in the middle of the forehead and she drops to the earth, eaten by the dark.

  And I Will Bind Up That Which Was Broken

  (Ezekiel 34:16)

  Tirzah wakes and realises she is being carried by someone. She tries to remember where she is, vaguely recalling Brân surrounded by bolts of sunlight. Her eyelids are coated with something sticky, the lashes caked together so she cannot open them properly. For minutes she droops in what must be Brân’s arms, her head hanging heavily like a turnip in a string bag. He is going downhill towards the stream, almost running, his arms trembling with the effort of supporting her. When they are near the water, he tries to lower her to the ground and falls to his knees. Tirzah lies motionless, surrounded by his smell. She senses she is alone for a moment and sits up, rubbing her crusted eyes. Then he is back, holding in his cupped, dirty hands a few drops of stream water and a bunch of some weed. His chest is still heaving as he leans forward and tries to clean her eyes. Tirzah pushes him away and struggles to stand. Take me to the stream, she says. And Brân helps her through the undergrowth.

  She sits at the stream’s edge where the rough grasses grow and dabbles her hands and cleans her eyes. The clear water, lively with minnows, refreshes her a little. Brân drops to the ground beside her. He is doing something to her skirt. Get your paws off me, she cries, pushing him away. I hate you. He snatches his hands back as if she has burnt him, and she realises he had been trying to smooth down her clothes so that they cover her thighs. She has a tissue in her pocket and she wets it. The bunch of weeds lies in her lap, and he points to it, and then to her bleeding face. The scent of cut celery rises from the torn stems. Tirzah grabs the bunch and hurls it into the stream. Investigating her forehead with her fingertips, she feels a swollen lump forming. In the middle of the lump she can detect a spongy wound. Pain radiates from it. Brân is still silent, and she studies his averted face. He looks nothing like the boy she knew only a few months back; his eye sockets are deep and bruised, his cheeks collapsed. Bones seem to be about to break through his skin, they are so sharp. His body is covered in scratches and scabs, some old, some fresh.

  The throbbing of Tirzah’s wound intensifies when she tries to stand, making her stumble. I’m going now, she tells Brân. So don’t try to stop me. I will never set foot in these woods again. He keeps his eyes lowered and seems utterly spent. Looking at the blood-soaked ball of wet tissue in her hand, sadness for him congests her chest. What is going to happen to you? she asks. You are a wicked, wicked boy to throw that stone at me. Brân is still silent, but when he lifts his eyes to hers briefly, she can see immediately how unsure he is. His ankles are ingrained with dirt, and one big toe, its nail long and jagged, pokes through the open flap of his shoe. Where are your crow friends now? she asks. And as if she has conjured them, high above, the hoarse cawing of birds saws the green air. Brân gazes up to the treetops, an expression of dread in his eyes. Tirzah is afraid. I must never tell him about the baby, she thinks. Now, you go away, back where you belong, she tells him. He makes a move as if to touch her hair, but she shrugs him off. Then, in an instant, he has vanished.

  When Tirzah arrives home, her mother raises her hands to her cheeks. Whatever’s happened to you now? she asks, shooing Tirzah into the kitchen. Every day it’s something. I don’t think my heart can take much more. She reaches up for the first-aid box from the top of the dresser and gets out antiseptic cream and plasters. Tirzah sits at the table, her head aching, and watches her mother rush around. Into an enamel bowl she puts a few drops of TCP and some warm water, and brings it to the table. The clean, medical smell of the antiseptic rises in a vapour and bathes Tirzah’s face. She hardly makes a sound as her mother washes the cut. When a big, square plaster is in place her mother clears away and puts the kettle on. Now, she says, coming to sit beside Tirzah. What happened this time? Tirzah is silent. I’m going to get cross with you in a minute, her mother says. Come on, tell me everything. But Tirzah will not say a word, even when her mother begins to cry. I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me, she says, tears slipping across her flushed cheeks. I promise not to be angry. Tirzah leans to put her arms around her mother’s shoulders. I had a little accident, that’s all. I’m sorry, Mama, she whispers, and gives her a long kiss on the forehead. Then she leaves her mother hunched at the table and goes to her room to rest.

  Gazing at the ceiling, Tirzah thinks about Brân. There is the lump again in her throat, and she knows it is made up of all the secrets she is keeping. She can’t imagine how life will be in the future, and as for Brân, she senses something terrible will happen to him before long. I suppose what he needs is the Lord, she thinks. Only He has the power to change people. But even as she thinks this, she is doubtful. God is irrelevant to Brân. He is a worshipper of other powers, and Tirzah isn’t sure what they are. She wonders if what Brân says about the gods of the valley is true; after all, the world is stranger than she ever realised. She remembers her visitation in the twilit field, her sense of the presence of something that was both part of the evening and the woods. The huge, white-winged owl which sat with her briefly, sharing the dusk. Who had that been? She tries to imagine Brân coming to chapel. Pastor is always telling the fellowship stories about hardened sinners repenting and changing. Why couldn’t this happen to Brân? It would be a miracle. She tries to picture a neat, clean-haired Brân sitting in a pew with his Bible open. Please help Brân, she prays, just in case God is listening. You say you care about the outcast and the lost, but where is the evidence? Amen. Then she is asleep.

  Tirzah’s mother has arranged visits from the district nurse. Betty Palfrey and I were in school together, she tells them one evening later in the week as they eat. You remember her, don’t you, Gwyll? Good as gold, she is. I’m sure you will like her, Tirzah. But Tirzah doesn’t want to listen. I’m not poorly, she says, putting her cutlery down and folding her arms. Why do I need to see a nurse? I will not dignify that with an answer, her mother says. Eat your nice food. Tirzah looks at her father. Dada, I don’t want to see the nurse, she says. I don’t have to if I don’t want to, do I? Her father frowns over his cup. Enough, child, he says. Your mother and I don’t want to do many things. And some of them are as a result of your actions. Grow up, now. Exactly, her mother adds, pointing with her potato-laden fork. Your father didn’t want to inform Pastor of your situation, but he did. There can be no hiding from this, you know, not any more. She pops the potato in her mouth and goes on:You have to think for two these days, my girl. At least have some meat, before it gets cold. Tirzah picks up her cutlery and starts to eat again. Everything is becoming more and more vexing. She knows her parents are dreading chapel on Sunday. That’s something else they have to face. The fellowship will be sure to have heard the news by now. Pastor always tells his wife everything, and that’s as good as telling the Western Mail. Tirzah looks at her parents as they chew. Poor little dabs, she thinks.

  On Sunday morning, Tirzah’s mother briskly rips the plaster off her forehead. Ouch, Mam! Tirzah exclaims. You did that on purpose. Oh, deary me, her mother says under her breath, biting her bottom lip as she inspects the bump. There’s a sight. Like a prizefighter, you are. Tirzah looks in the bathroom mirror. The bruise has flowered all the way down to her eyebrows and up into her hairline. At its centre there sit
s a vivid, puckered rosette. I can’t go out like this, Mam, she says, flushing. I look hideous. Nonsense, her mother says, don’t be so vain. Get dressed and come downstairs. Life goes on. In her room, Tirzah tries to arrange her hair so that you can’t see the marks, but it’s no good. Even with a side parting the scab looks like a squinting red eye in the middle of her discoloured forehead. Bugger and bloody, she says out loud. How do these things keep happening to me? Now I look ugly on top of everything else. And I’m cursing like a navvy. Already, most of her clothes don’t fit the way they used to, even though her belly is only showing a little. It’s as if her shape has redistributed itself embarrassingly. She decides on a smock dress, but her breasts are looking for a way out. It’s a little shorter than she remembers it. Dada won’t like the way her knees are on display.

  Her parents are waiting in their Sunday best. They both turn to look as she stands at the bottom of the stairs. A blush moves up from her chest to the top of her head. There is a brief silence. Pity it’s August and not November, her mother says eventually, surveying her. Then you could at least wear a coat and cover up. I always say a good coat hides a multitude of sins. Now, Mair, I’ve heard you say some silly things, and that is up there with the silliest, her father says, trying to remain calm. And, as such, hardly worth wasting breath over. He points to Tirzah’s exposed knees. I would mention something about those, he adds, but Tirzah has bigger fish to fry than her legs. They watch as Tirzah nervously flexes and unflexes her knees so that they do a little dance. Surely now is not the time for such levity? her mother says. Stop that at once.

  For a moment they all stand looking at each other, reluctant to go outside. Her father nods. You are right, Mair, he says. Thank you. Dignity in all things. He turns to Tirzah. This is not the time for horsing about. Remember that, facetious child. Tirzah’s mother rummages in her Sunday handbag and brings out a packet of Polos. They all take one. Come along, Dada says, sighing a minty sigh. He squares his shoulders and declares in the words of the hymn: Forward be our watchword, steps and voices joined. They file down the hall. At the front door, he stops and they gather round him. Tirzah has begun to dread this little area and its bristly mat. She’s hovered on the threshold of too many nasty surprises here already. Now then, mind what I say, he says, opening the front door to the silent, sun-filled morning. Heads up, and off we go into the lion’s den, so to speak.

  Let Not Wickedness Dwell in Thy Tabernacles

  (Job 11:14)

  By the time Tirzah has walked up the hill to chapel, her forehead burns and the wound feels as if it is pouring fresh blood. Mam, she gasps when they get to the graveyard, I don’t think I can go any further. People skirt around them, and no one greets them with a Good Sabbath, brother, or Good morning, sisters, as they pass. Familiar splotches of purple surface high up on Tirzah’s mother’s neck. She bustles back to where Tirzah is sitting under a mossy angel, her best handbag banging against her thigh. Well, charming, she says. I can’t say I’m surprised. Whited sepulchres, the lot of them. And they don’t fool me. Her father stands by Tirzah’s side. Mair, he says, shut up now, please. Tend to your daughter. He fans Tirzah with his Bible. Pastor’s wife is coming up the path, shooing the twins in front of her as if they were two little geese. Quick, quick, Tirzah can hear her urging the boys. But they stop to have a look. Good morning, boys, Tirzah says. They stare at her with unblinking eyes. Boo! she shouts, and turning in perfect formation, they run up the path to the big, half-open door.

  Now, that was most uncalled for, Pastor’s wife says, tucking her chin in. And, I might add, unladylike. Though why should that surprise me? Really! Tirzah feels a surge of nausea forcing its way up into her mouth. Just as her father starts to apologise on her behalf, she is sick, the sound of splattering magnified on the chapel path by the still, hot air trapped amongst the gravestones. Pastor’s wife makes a quick hopping movement but is not in time to prevent a few blobs hitting the buckles of her black patent shoes. Tirzah watches her mother get a lace-edged hankie from her bag and stoop to wipe them. Leave it, if you please, says Pastor’s wife, backing away. For shame. She walks briskly towards the chapel door. That girl should not be out amongst decent people, she adds over her shoulder. Tirzah is unmoved by the things Mrs Thomas said; in her head, as silently and imperceptibly as far-off planets in the night sky, the old ideas about sin and guilt have been moving into new positions. Then the three of them are alone amongst the birdsong and the washed-blue butterflies and the motionless, dark-hearted yew trees. Tirzah’s mother is pale now. Mair, her father soothes, pray for strength. Put them on the altar and leave them there. He pats his wife on the back as if she were a troubled pony. That is not helping, Gwyll, her mother says, twitching away from his hand. What I am experiencing is righteous anger.

  Tirzah’s strength is returning; she’s better in some ways, and much worse in others. She looks from her father to her mother. Even with her fresh insights, it’s still daunting to face the whole of the congregation. We don’t have to go in there, do we? she asks in a trembling voice. The fluty sound of the organ drifts out. I would much rather go home. Look at the state of me. What do you think, Gwyll? her mother asks. Her father’s lips are drawn up mirthlessly at the corners, and between his eyebrows there is a new frown mark. He drops down to where Tirzah is sitting beneath the angel, and she pushes her hand under his elbow. Oh, Dada, she says, blushing. I am responsible for your difficulties today. This is all my fault. He seems to wake up. Yes, you are, he answers. But never mind that now. I told you this was going to be difficult. It will be a test of us all. We will see if the hundreds of fine words we hear each Sunday are actually true. Gwyllim, dear, her mother says, taking off her jacket and folding it neatly. I will not give that lot the satisfaction. In we go, surely? Certainly, he says. Gird your loins.

  They wait for her mother to blow her nose. Now, remember, she says, wiping Tirzah’s cheeks. All sins are the same before God. He is merciful. And I believe you are truly repentant. She gives out another round of mints and settles her hat. Then they walk towards the chapel door, her parents hand in hand. The first hymn is under way as they get to their pew. Ahead, Tirzah can see Osian standing between his parents. She doesn’t think he will look round, but he does, an unreadable expression on his face as he briefly meets her eye. She has difficulty finding the hymn, and when she does, her voice comes out in a bleat. The service rolls on: scripture reading, short prayer, children’s Bible verses, announcements, collection, long prayer. Tirzah barely notices the usual Sunday morning pattern. She wishes she was at home, lying on her bed, smelling the scent of roasting meat rising from the kitchen. But even pretending to be at home in her imaginary room, she would know that the eyes of the fellowship were swivelling to look at her.

  Soon the sermon starts. Tirzah cannot understand a word Pastor is saying. He looks like a little puppet up there in his wooden box, and she is struggling to hold on to her seat. The pew is so hard and slippery she has to brace her feet against the rungs of the pew in front. Surely I didn’t always have trouble sitting in chapel, she thinks, wondering if this is another sign she is not welcome any more. In spite of her dazed state she becomes aware of a disturbance outside. People begin to look round. Tirzah thinks she can hear pop music, but that is so unlikely she dismisses it. Her mother nudges her. What’s going on? she mouths. Tirzah shrugs, although she thinks she can guess. Someone is kicking the chapel door now, and there is a havoc of shouting and scuffling outside. Pastor is ignoring the situation, or maybe he is too caught up in the Spirit. Dread settles on Tirzah like fine dust.

  Suddenly, the big chapel door is flung open, and the unmistakeable sound of a pop song tumbles into the shocked room. Tirzah forces herself to look round. There, in front of a depleted group of his boys, Brân stands. On his shoulder he is carrying a blaring cassette player. He wears a headdress of ferns and feathers, and his face and bony bare chest are streaked with mud. The boys cluster round him, laughing and pushing each other. A dog is jump
ing, its barks like gunshots. Brân steps forward and for a moment Tirzah thinks she feels a blast of air laden with dead leaves and something else she can’t quite make out. Could those be crows sweeping into chapel, skimming people’s heads? She thinks she can hear, over the music, their squawking laughter. She is cold and shaking. It is as if Brân is the living proof of all her secret wrongdoing. She hides against her mother’s side and covers her eyes, afraid he will see her and shout out that she is a slut and a hypocrite. This is her own fault: she’s gone on, nagging him about coming to chapel enough times.

  Brân stalks down the aisle, the music throbbing. Behind him, the boys dance and squabble. Pastor still doesn’t seem to have noticed what is happening. Where is God, dear ones? he is shouting from the pulpit, his glasses glinting as he waves the big Bible above his head. I ask you, brothers and sisters, where is He? Brân has reached the area where the four elders sit on tall chairs. God is up my arse! he shouts, wiggling his backside and turning the volume on the cassette machine to maximum. Tirzah looks over to where old Mrs Hughes-Edwards usually sits, and sees her pitch forward, hat lifting as she faints and drops into the space between the pews. Pastor’s twin sons are standing to get a better look. After a few frozen seconds people start to jump up. Someone wails and is hushed. Pastor finally has grasped what’s happening. Dear boy, he shouts over the barking dog and the beat of the music, stretching out an arm, you are troubled. Let us help you.

  Brân steps over the chains that edge the elders’ seating area. He is dancing to the music, whooping and waving his free hand in the air. Fuck off, you religious nutter, he yells, his eyes scanning the rows of people. Tirzah is sure he is looking for her. She crouches, still watching everything, but it is too fantastical to take in. She is fighting down an urge to scream with terrified laughter. Soon he will spot her and try to do something. Oh, Mama, she whispers, shaking her mother’s elbow, someone must stop that boy. Gwyllim, her mother says, shift yourself, for the love of God. Tirzah’s father stands and walks quickly to the front of the chapel, and on his way, other men join him. Tirzah doesn’t want to see, but her eyes are locked on the scene. The elders have scattered, and Brân is dodging her father, but not for long. He is grabbed, and her father switches the cassette player off. Sudden silence, like a huge white cloud, fills the room. Then they manhandle Brân out into the vestry. The dog follows, snapping at their heels. His boys are left to sit uncertainly on the long front seat. The slamming door cuts off the sound of Brân’s curses. Those in the congregation who are standing drop back into their pews.