Anyway, moving on…
The second thing that meant the world to me was once we’d mastered the alphabet together, Ren left me at home one mid-spring afternoon and returned with his arms full of books.
Picture books.
Baby books.
Bibles.
Encyclopaedias.
And literary classics.
I’d spent the night curled around the musty delicious pages, stroking their pretty covers, gawking at the words I desperately wanted to know.
When he’d finally dragged me to bed, I’d clutched at a picture book about a lost little puppy trying to find his parents. Instead of a bedtime story made from truth and fact, I wanted Ren to read fiction to me.
I wanted the luxury of listening to his husky, throaty tone. Even before his voice dropped, I’d been addicted to it, and now that he sounded like a man and not a boy, I was obsessed.
Sometimes, and don’t judge me for this, but sometimes, I would do something naughty just to have him yell at me. I know it was wrong, but when Ren yelled, he drenched it with passion.
He vibrated with the need to scold, and it thrilled and terrified me.
He’d bring that same passion to the tales he told while snuggled in bed. He’d regale how he’d helped birth baby lambs and how he’d once seen a foal being born. He was fluid and crisp and told a mean story that kept my attention for hours.
That wasn’t the case when he cracked open the picture book and bit his bottom lip in panic. There was no husky voice. No story about a puppy finding his parents. Instead, there was a stutter and a pause and an attempt at sewing together the letters we’d learned into words we hadn’t.
It’d been the first time I felt sorry for him. The first time my juvenile heart had the ability to think of him as hurting or helpless and not the invincible, magical Ren I adored.
It made me love him even more.
That night was the first night of many when we stayed up late and slowly learned how to read and not just parrot what the kid programs tried to teach.
And as we learned to read, we took turns stumbling over simple sentences until one of us would smooth it out and repeat it again and again until it was as effortless as speaking.
And finally, the third memory is a strange one. You’ll think me mad for even mentioning it, but something about that night firmly fixed Ren as not just my father-figure and brother, but also my idol.
An invincible, immortal idol who I never ever wanted to be away from.
That first winter at Polcart Farm was bad. The icy freeze taught us that we might be able to live in the wild in summer but when the snow hit…unless we were able to grow fur and hibernate, we would die. That became even more apparent when I’d fallen sick with a simple cold the night we’d found the farm.
Due to the icy temperatures and my young age, it took weeks for me to come right, even with medicine Ren stole from the local pharmacy. He couldn’t read the label so who knew if what he poured down my throat was the right dosage or the even correct drug, but he did his best, and I survived.
For days, he fed me stolen soup and cuddled me close so I could benefit from his body heat. Whenever I woke, he was ready with warm milk, medicine, and a story or two about life on a farm with sixteen children.
He didn’t leave my side for longer than a few minutes, and when my fever finally broke and my chest no longer rattled with cough, he bundled me up in every clothing I had then carried me outside wrapped in the sleeping bag.
Snow covered everything, muffling sound and sight and senses. We could’ve been in a world completely uninhabited. We could’ve been the only two creatures alive, and I wouldn’t have been happier because the boy who was my everything held me close and showed me the farm we’d borrowed.
He murmured how in spring he’d plant vegetables so we’d never have to risk getting caught stealing. He’d pointed out snow-softened bric-a-brac and said he’d transform rubbish into furniture and make us a home for as long as it took for me to grow strong enough so I was never sick again.
Like I said, that first winter was hard.
But the third winter at Polcart Farm was worse.
The fire never seemed to warm us, the mattress stayed damp from chill, the thrill of TV and learning—when we had electricity from meagre sunlight—was muted under the very real need to stay alive and not freeze to death.
One night, a blizzard blew so hard a window in one of the bedrooms shattered, spilling snow flurries all over the floor. I followed Ren upstairs, needing to be near him but trying to stay out of his way so he could fix it.
“I have to go to the barn to get wood and nails.” He brushed past me, stomping in the boots that’d become too small for him and shrugging into his jacket.
“I’m coming too.” I clattered down the stairs behind him, yanking on his beanie and wrapping his scarf around my tiny neck.
He grabbed me by the scruff as I went to dart past him into the swirling snow. “You’re staying here, Della Ribbon.”
“Nuh-uh. I’ll help.”
“You’ll help by staying out of the cold.”
“It’s cold in here.” I pouted. “No different.”
“Della.” He growled. “Don’t argue. You know you won’t win.” The familiar angry light in his eyes pleased me. I enjoyed annoying him because it made him focus more on me than the many tasks and chores around the house.
Nodding once, I backed over the threshold and watched him vanish outside amongst eerie silver shadows and crunchy snow. My plan was to wait until he was too far away to throw me back into the house, then chase after him.
That was before a loud bellow echoed across the pristine white. My heart kicked and my little legs charged down the porch steps after him, tripping in the snow. “Ren!”
I fell splat on my face, scrambling out of freezing flakes to come face to face with a black and white monster. “Ren! Ren! Ren!”
The beast bellowed and nudged me with a shiny black nose.
“Ren!”
My scream tore through the night, bringing my saviour leaping over snow drifts and skidding to a stop in front of me. He shoved me behind his back, facing the monster on his own.
He’d be hurt.
Eaten.
Killed.
“No!” I scrabbled at his back, desperate to help but his dark laughter filled my ears.
His hand came up to land on the shiny nose as his voice lowered to a soothing murmur. “Hey, girl. Where did you come from?”
I couldn’t stop shivering as Ren twisted to look at me over his shoulder. “It’s a cow, silly Ribbon. It won’t eat you.”
A pink tongue lashed from its mouth, licking around Ren’s palm.
“You hungry, girl?” Ren stood, reaching down to help me up while keeping his other hand extended to the cow. She didn’t run off as I climbed to my feet and brushed away cold slush.
The black and white animal shivered same as me, her ears quaking in the blizzard.
“She doesn’t have a brand,” Ren said, searching her flanks with experienced fingertips.
My eyes fell to his hip where, beneath his many clothes, his own brand was a permanent link to my father.
Pointing at the house, he commanded, “Go inside before you freeze, Della. I’ll be back soon.” Not waiting to see if I’d obey, he nudged the cow with a soft hand and guided her through the storm to the barn.
Now, I know what you’re thinking…I really should have obeyed and gone inside, but this was Ren—my idol. I couldn’t let him out of my sight, not for a moment.
So I followed with soaking socked feet that quickly became numb as I trailed in the snow, falling over again and again until I entered the dark hay-smelling barn and watched Ren guide the skinny cow into a stall.
There she bellowed and shoved her face into past seasons bales, shaking off snowflakes and accepting Polcart Farm as her new home.
Ren closed the gate over her stall and jolted when he spotted me.
“Goddamn
you, Della Ribbon, what did I say?”
I didn’t care what he’d said because I was completely obsessed by the glossy-eyed black and white beast.
He scooped me from the shadows, tore off my ice-sodden socks, and kicked off his own boots to replace them. Once he’d jabbed my feet into his warm boots, he stood barefoot and glowered with the same black look he always gave me, and the look I always loved because it meant he cared for me fiercely even when I drove him mad.
“Do you want to die?” He waited for me to reply, and when I didn’t, he huffed. “If you get sick again, I’m leaving you behind when it’s time to leave. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I threw my arms around his neck and nuzzled him close.
He froze, permitting my hug but not returning it, his worry and anger keeping him stiff and unyielding.
But I didn’t mind.
I never minded when he didn’t return my affection because he loved me in other ways.
I was his, and he was mine, and through that bond, I felt things he never said aloud.
I mean, just the way he looked at me?
Wow, I wish I could draw instead of just write so you could see what I saw and feel what I felt.
The way Ren looked at you made you suffer beneath his expectation and glow beneath his praise. He touched you deeper than any hand could reach. He affected you harder than any spoken word ever could.
He cared with his entire soul and committed with entire being.
I might have been raised differently from so many kids. I might have missed out on things and probably lived through events that others would baulk at, but I was luckier than anyone because I had Ren.
I was never lacking for love.
I never felt unwanted or hurt or scared.
He was my entire universe, and he treated me like I was his in return.
Walking with bare ice-block feet toward a hay bale, he placed me down and commanded me not to move. I kicked my little legs and plucked prickly grass from beneath me and nodded with solemn promise to obey.
Muttering something under his breath, he left for a second but returned from another stall with a dinged up metal bucket. With a stern look, he entered the stall with the hay-chowing dairy cow and squatted down beside her.
“She’s bruised from too much milk.” His voice carried through the hushed barn. “She’s wandered from her herd and hasn’t been milked in days.” His strong hands latched around her teats, and I hopped from my ordered spot to tiptoe closer.
Like I said, everything Ren did was magic.
Watching him milk a cow with strong sure pulls made my mouth fall open in awe. Hearing the slosh of fresh milk land in the pail made my tummy gurgle and thirst spring from nowhere. And bearing witness to that cow as Ren took away her uncomfortably full udder and left her empty and eating made me realise that Ren didn’t just care for me with the fierce passion I recognised in his eyes.
Nope, he cared that way for every creature.
Every mammal, reptile, and beast.
He would bend over backward to protect, tend, and soothe.
But never humans.
Never people.
I was the one exception.
And that made me special…just like him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
REN
* * * * * *
2005
I WANTED TO do something special for her.
I had no clue when her birthday was, or mine for that matter, but they fell sometime around summer. So far, we’d had a couple of weeks of perfect sunny weather, and I figured it was close enough to celebrate.
This time of year was the hardest for me.
Winter kept me grateful for the farmhouse we’d borrowed for the past few years, but summer made me hate it.
All I wanted to do was burn it to the ground and run away from its ashes.
The packed and ready-to-leave backpack mocked me for not having the guts to grab it and return to the life that lived and breathed in my soul.
If it was just me, I would have vanished the moment the nights turned shorter and the days became warmer, but it wasn’t just me.
It hadn’t just been me for four long years.
And although I felt trapped some days, although life would’ve been easier and simpler alone, I would never trade the little girl who trailed beside me as I guided her into town.
She blinked up at me, her blue ribbon tied in her hair today, keeping blonde curls from her eyes. Summer always made the blonde turn almost white, and her blue sparkling eyes seemed to grow in wisdom every day.
“Why we here, Ren?” she asked in her soft, childish voice. She glanced fugitively at the shoppers around us, some with supermarket bags and others with gift shop junk in their arms.
I hadn’t taken her into town in almost a year.
We had no need to, and I preferred to stay as far away from these people as possible to avoid any disruption to our invisible world on their fringes.
But today was special.
And I wanted to do something special. If that meant something out of the ordinary and something we’d never done before, then I was prepared to do whatever it took to make this day stand out.
“It’s our birthday.” I squeezed her small hand in mine. “I think we deserve to eat something that we don’t have to skin and scrub first, don’t you?”
She slammed to a stop. “It’s my birthday?”
Pulling her into the shadows of a bookstore—the same store where I’d stolen the books we’d studied and learned from—I nodded. “Yours and mine. Or at least…we’ll pretend it is.” I shrugged. “I don’t know the exact dates but figured we should at least celebrate something.”
A giant smile cracked her face. “We’ll have cake like that TV show did when it was their birthday?”
“If you want.”
“With candles and balloons?”
“Probably not.”
Her face fell, then instantly brightened. “I don’t care. This is the best day ever.” She danced on the spot, her hair and ribbon bouncing. “Oh, wait…” She studied me, deadly serious. “How old are we?”
I fought the urge to tug her golden curls and pulled her back into walking. “Not sure but I was ten when I ran, and you were about one or something, according to the news reporter in the town I left you.”
She scowled a perfect imitation of my scowl. “Yeah, don’t do that again.”
I chuckled. “I promised I never would, didn’t I?”
“Huh. You might if I annoy you too much.”
I chuckled harder. “You annoy me all the time, and I’m still here.”
Her eyes widened with worry. “I do? I annoy you?”
“Yep.” I spread my arms to incorporate a huge amount. “This much. Constantly.”
Her lower lip wobbled. “But…you won’t leave me…right?”
The barb of her sadness caught me right in the heart, and my joke no longer seemed funny.
Crouching to her level, I pressed my palm against her rosy cheek. “Della Ribbon, don’t you get upset over something silly like that. You know I’m joking. I’d never—”
She shot off, squealing in laughter. “I win. You lied. I don’t annoy you. You loooove me!” She spun in the street before I grabbed her bicep and dragged her sharply back onto the pavement.
Wild little heathen.
I ought to have been stricter on the rules, but somehow, I’d failed at creating uncrossable boundaries. I did my best to yell and bluster, but for some reason, my temper seemed to amuse and soothe her rather than scare the living daylights out of her.
Keeping her glued to my side with tight fingers, I muttered, “When you act like this, I second-guess that promise.”
She blew raspberries at me, and for a second, two images slid over one another.
An image of a little girl with blonde hair and distraught eyes limping painfully from Mclary’s farmhouse and crying herself to sleep, and then Della with her vibrant soul and fearless confidence.
Mclary lived to tear children apart.
I lived purely to ensure Della became everything she ever wanted.
It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I’d figured out what Mclary was actually doing with his ‘special tasks.’ That form of education came from a tatty, well-read magazine I’d salvaged from a dumpster.
I’d never seen so much nakedness in one place before and never naked adults.
And the things they were doing?
It made me sick. At least…the first couple of times I sneaked a peek. The first time I’d cracked open the glossy sun-bleached pages, I’d slammed them shut again, disgusted.
The second time, I’d been curious and looked at every graphic image cover to cover.
The third…well, by the third time, my body felt different—tighter, harder, strange.
After that, the sickness turned into more of a sick fascination, and my body burned with heat and need, swelling uncomfortably between my legs.
Over the past few years, my voice had dropped, I had hair growing in places that embarrassed me, and now an undercurrent of hunger and searching for something I didn’t understand lived deep in my belly.
It didn’t happen overnight.
The familiarity of a boy’s body slowly faded into foreign lands of a man.
Even though it took a few years to fully understand what the heavy ache in my groin was or why my heart beat faster when a pretty girl came on TV, it didn’t mean I accepted it.
I hated not having control of my own body.
I hated having dreams of skin and touching and things that the magazine portrayed in explicit detail.
When I was younger, I’d woken to wet dreams with pleasure coursing through my body and not understood what happened. These days, I understood enough thanks to memories of helping Mclary breed his stock and watching bulls with cows and stallions with mares.
I’d come of age to reproduce, and I got the principal of why I hardened.
But I despised it.
I despised the complications it brought with it. I hated the random rage filling my blood and loathed the nasty demands, desperate for ways of releasing the pleasure lurking inside.
The Boy and His Ribbon Page 9