Farthest South & Other Stories

by Ethan Rutherford

  And it did pass. In the mornings, she was herself. But tomorrow their father would return and they would have to be even more careful.

  He watched the woods until the cold drove him back inside. He would lie to his father about the chickens. He’d say foxes or some other animal had bent the wire, scattered the coop. He would not say he’d killed and buried them because they had frightened Annabel and he thought it would help. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he was resolved to accept it.

  He latched the door, made his way past the low fire, hung his coat, and slipped uneasily into the bed next to his sister. She pulled away from him, and he let her.

  He could not imagine sleep coming to him, though eventually it did. But before he fell fully he saw his sister. She walked in front of him, just out of reach, hands at her sides, her feet brown with mud. Do not let him see, she’d said earlier as he held her. When he comes back, please, you can’t let him see.

  WHEN ANGUS WOKE IT WAS EARLY—the morning light pressed flatly through their small bedroom window—and his sister was not in bed. His first thought was that she had left, and his certainty startled him. But where would she go? She was too young to leave without him; they had not been to town for months. He heard sounds from the next room, dressed quickly, and made his way to the kitchen. Annabel sat at the heavy wooden table, still in her bedclothes. Her brown hair was combed. She wore the white nightgown their mother had sewn—it was fraying at the hem and slightly discolored. She insisted on wearing it when their father was gone. She’d set out two bowls, and when she heard Angus at the door she looked up.

  —You slept in your boots, she said.

  —I did, Angus said.

  —What’s to become of us if we sleep in our boots?

  She was calm, perhaps still sleepy herself. She was making fun of their father.

  —You need to fold that away, Angus said and sat down. He’ll be back this afternoon.

  —I know, she said. You reminded me last night.

  —Did you dream? Angus said.

  —I did, but I can’t remember, she said. She shifted in her seat and smoothed the nightgown where it had wrinkled.

  —What will he do about the chickens? she finally said.

  —I don’t know, Angus replied and signaled with his hand that the discussion was over.

  Their morning routine was set. They finished breakfast and cleaned. Then, in the front room, they sat by the fire. Angus pulled down the one book they owned and handed it to Annabel. He jumped in only when a specific word gave her trouble, or a phrase needed correcting. She spoke with her chin tilted downward, her eyes calmly leveled on the page, lifting only when she was finished with a section, or was proud of working through a passage that had previously given her difficulty. She was small for her age, her thin body a bird’s scaffolding. Her reading voice was light and melodic, her dark brown eyes wide and, for now, in this early morning light, unclouded. She furrowed her brow, a model of young concentration. They were no longer schooled but they read every morning. And she was trying. This mimic of studiousness, her effort and care, her desire to remain still—all of this in the light of the morning, gave Angus hope. They would, he thought, get through this together.

  OUTSIDE, THE SMELL OF yellowing leaves hung in the air. They walked quietly through the stand of birch trees and passed the pond near the edge of their property. The autumn sun cut mid-sky and shone upon the cold grass. There was no trouble as they picked the apples, no trouble as they passed the elm. Annabel called out the birds as they walked: robin, tree sparrow, grackle, waxwing. Angus cleared the path of sticks. They were working to keep the lines of their property visible, to show their diligence while their father was gone. Their solitude was felt and welcomed and made space for them where they felt none before.

  When they reached the small barn, however, his sister stopped, and released his hand. Angus called her name. She didn’t respond. He reached for her and she sat down in the grass. He tried to pull her to standing, but she was limp and heavy and would go no further. He stepped away and watched her closely. He was used to this happening at night and had not been wary during the day.

  —I’m tired, she said. Don’t be angry.

  —I’m not angry, he said and shook his head. She studied the ground, cleared it of rocks. She pulled some tall grass and tied the pieces in knots. She moved slowly, but her eyes remained clear. He said her name again. She cleared her throat but didn’t speak. Soon she tilted her head toward the sky and sat rigidly alert, as though listening for something Angus could not hear. He knelt next to her, unsure what to do. Soon whatever it had been passed. She sighed. Angus sensed her relief. He stood, and moved behind her, scanned the woods in the light of day until he felt the danger to her was gone for good, and perhaps wasn’t coming. He gently stroked the back of her head. Her hair was greasy and brittle. He whispered to her until he felt he could waste no more time.

  —Do you want to go back? he said.

  —Come with me.

  —The cows will be sick. It will only take a minute.

  She stood and brushed her coat with her hands. Angus asked if she would be able to manage, and she nodded. He told her he’d follow shortly and watched as she turned up the path and walked slowly to the house. She paused at the elm tree, but she did not touch it. She looked small to him; she was small. He felt a panic rise in his chest but pushed it away. He waited until she was inside before continuing down the path.

  The barn was dark and smelled of the earth. The cows did not greet him, though each leaned toward Angus as he put his hands to their backs. It was only after he’d finished, once he’d pailed the milk and refastened the gate, that he saw the poppets—four of them, set carefully against the inside of the barn door, small sentinels of equal height, no faces, just a knot where the head should be.

  Their mother had shown them how to make dolls like this when they were little. They were small stick figurines wrapped in torn pieces of sackcloth. He set down the pail he was carrying, careful not to spill. All sound seemed to leave the barn. He looked over his shoulder and then back to the door. The figures were spread with a foot between them so they covered the beam. He walked slowly over to where they lay and gathered them up. They were light, and hastily made.

  As he pulled them apart—first by unwinding the securing twine, then unweaving the small twigs (the cloth he put in his pocket)—he felt a close fluttering in his ears and he became even more deliberate in his movements. He scattered the twigs and let the tension out of his neck. When he looked up, he saw that the larger cow had stepped toward him. Both animals stared at him with their flat dark eyes; they swayed dumbly. Angus kicked the stool over, and at the sound both cows started and averted their gaze.

  At the house, his sister already had the fire going. He handed her the milk and she took it to the kitchen. When she sat back down, he could see her thoughts were elsewhere but that she was content. He did not wish to confront or unsettle her, not now. He did not need to know why she’d made them. What mattered was that he’d found them before their father had. He took the cloth from his pocket and laid it in the fire, but if his sister noticed she made no indication.

  —I like the leaves this time of year, she finally said. It’s like it happened overnight.

  —I do too, Angus said.

  The house was clean and ordered, as their father had directed. They were as prepared as they would be. Angus looked toward the window. Annabel sang quietly. The sun tracked slowly across the sky and they sat together for a long time without talking.

  THEIR FATHER RETURNED as the day was dimming, later than anticipated. Angus had gone outside to pull the evening wood, and as he stood near the shed, he felt his gaze drawn down to the southern edge of their property. His father was a tall man. Though he’d thinned, he was still imposing in his black town clothes, head bent as he turned up the long dirt path to their house. Upon leaving, he’d told them only that he was traveling to Boston to seek counsel. Now,
his hands swung freely, and though he wore the same clothes he’d left in four days ago, he no longer carried his satchel. Angus raised a hand in greeting, but though his father saw him, though Angus saw his head tilt and glimpsed, even from this distance, his drawn expression and sunken gray eyes, he did not break stride nor raise his hand in acknowledgment of his son.

  He called to his sister and she came to the door. They received him side by side, wordlessly, and parted as he drew near. At the threshold he stopped and looked down at his children. He did not smile, he did not endear himself, but Angus thought he saw some of the firmness leave his shoulders. From his outer pocket, he pulled two small, bound books and held them carefully.

  —This is my greeting, he said. You are to put them under your pillow. And read them when you have time.

  Angus asked if there was any news. His father gave no answer. They took the small books and their father entered the house. Near the fire he stopped.

  —I feel as though I’ve been walking for days, he said. For a minute or two he warmed his hands. Then he announced his intention to rest and locked himself in his bedroom.

  They had no dinner. Night descended, a heavy curtain, and their father did not emerge from his room. Angus sat with his sister near the fire. He watched her carefully for any start or sign. She sat perfectly still, gazing intently at the slow-burning wood. Since their mother had passed, their father demanded a rigor of them they could neither understand nor anticipate, and they had practiced their silence in his presence. Eventually, Angus opened the small book his father had handed him and read enough to ask his sister for hers. She gave it to him without complaint.

  —I’m thinking of her now, Annabel finally said.

  —You shouldn’t, Angus said. He knew he should reach for her, but he did not.

  —I just wanted to tell you, she said. She laced her fingers in front of her chest and brought them to her lap. I don’t feel sick, she said. I’m just thinking of her.

  Angus pressed his palms together. Soon he felt her presence in the room and could not push it away. Her illness had been a spiritual one, and this was their mother now: an impression, a flickering—a feeling to be hushed. When the doctor arrived, brought by their father, they’d watched him administer his thick fingers to her body as she cried out. They’d been told to wait outside. Later he’d questioned the children about what they’d seen, and Angus had looked into his strange face and answered honestly—he’d watched as she’d become anguished at the sight of animals or was otherwise touched by something he could not see. She spoke of dark figures, of a mist that came from the woods. Pain entered the room, passed through her, brought a heaviness to her bed. Their father was frightened, and from his sternness they took their cues. They stood by her side and winced at her touch as she called for them. My children, she’d said, then stopped speaking altogether. They could not deny the bruises on her body. This is not uncommon, the doctor had said. One hopes it does not spread. Their father, a strange light in his eyes, had said nothing as they removed her from the house. Two members of their church had come the next day to help their father dispose of her belongings. They’d looked both sorrowfully and fearfully at the children.

  The next few months had been desperate, bleak, and silent at home. Their father, always stern, became remote and hard in his practice. In the house, he took to new habits: squaring the furniture in each room; scrubbing the mantle of soot upon waking. They felt his anger growing. He showed them neither attention nor kindness. His punishments became erratic and severe. He’d forbidden them to leave the property, and when he was home, he hovered over the two of them like a heavy sky that opened and flashed without warning. He took to retiring before dark so that he might wake in the deepest part of the night to read and pray. Angus had heard him from their bedroom, silently reading and writing, the turn of a heavy page, a sigh, a small plea. Occasionally a harsher sound had come under the door, a sharp and erratic whispering that kept both him and his sister pressed firmly to their beds, waiting only for morning, when the house, no longer of the night, returned to its recognizable shape.

  Without being instructed, they knew not to ask of their mother and to bury their accusations. They missed and spoke of her only to each other. In dreams, they understood what they had done; but upon waking it was less clear what was required of them now. They had failed to go to her. Their father had brought the doctor, and then she was gone. She had never been happy, but she was theirs. Now their father was the only person they saw. He left the house during the night, and came back in the morning, bringing with him no news, only a torment that clung to his dark coat like dew frost.

  Now, near the fire, with their father home, Angus tried to remember his mother’s face and he saw only Annabel’s.

  —If you look closely, she said, in the embers you can imagine a small village. Lit up at night, during the winter.

  —I see it, he said. There are people everywhere.

  Eventually, the fire quieted and neither child reached for wood.

  That night, Angus held his sister’s hand and spoke softly to her in bed until she fell asleep. No visions came. No disturbances, no kicks. He woke only once, hours later, to the sound of his father pacing the room outside their bedroom door, slow footsteps that whispered across the wide, cold boards and gathered themselves at the foot of his heart.

  THE NEXT MORNING BROUGHT RAIN. Their father sat with them as they read, eyes closed, as still as a painting as they recited the chapters, passed the book, and recited again. Watching him, Angus wondered if he was sleeping, or was even there in the room with them at all. But when Annabel stuttered a phrase or asked a question, his eyes fluttered open and he issued a correction or a terse answer, his sternness returned. Angus had told him upon waking about the chickens, and about the foxes that must’ve taken them, and quietly, in the night, but he’d only nodded, calm, unsurprised. Was she frightened? he’d asked. And Angus had said they both had been, but not overly so.

  After he put the book away, he sent them to the barn. When they returned with the milk, he stood in the door and instructed them to go to town for eggs, since they now had none of their own.

  —We haven’t been for months, Angus said.

  —You’ll remember the path, his father replied. Then, more softly, he said: You will be welcomed. I have done good work.

  To be back by nightfall they would have to leave now. Angus retrieved his coat from the back of the kitchen door and brought his sister’s as well. Their father said nothing upon their departure, but Angus felt his eyes on them as they made their way down the narrow path that led away from the house. At the veer, Angus quickly turned, and saw their father had disappeared inside and closed the door.

  The path was narrow and cut through dense growth. In the summer, the light shone through and cast brilliant shadows, mottling the dirt underfoot, but now the yellowed leaves had begun to fall, and the gray sky, and the morning’s rain: the path was black mud, and suckled their boots. When they could, they walked adjacent, letting small finger branches brush and whisk over their coats. They did not speak much. Annabel, walking ahead, picked a blade of tall grass and tucked it behind her ear.

  —I’ve missed this, Annabel finally said.

  —We shouldn’t linger, Angus said. But he felt at ease too.

  The trip usually took an hour, but it felt to Angus, upon breaking through their path to the main road that led to the village, as if much more time had passed. The sun was not visible in the sky and cast no shadow, but the wetness had returned, and it seemed as though a low fog was settling. He took Annabel’s hand, a cold touch. A carriage approached and they stepped aside. They followed the road until they found themselves in the wide square that gave shape to the village. They made their way past the small buildings and houses. Angus wondered if they would see anyone they knew, but even as the few people they passed stopped to stare at them, he saw no one he recognized.

  —They’re looking, Annabel said.

  �
��I know, he said, and instructed her to put her hood up. He did the same.

  Windows were covered with cloth; storefronts stood empty. Very few people walked outside. A brown horse, tied up, unsaddled, jerked his head against a post. They found the store they were looking for and knocked. A young girl opened and let them in.

  Inside, it was warm—a full fire cracked the air, drove the wet out—and Annabel cupped her hands near it as Angus collected the eggs. At the counter, he mentioned his father’s name. The man quickly snapped the ledger closed.

  —Take what you need, he said. He was looking intently and unkindly at Annabel, who, Angus could see, had heard and was working to keep her eyes on the fire. The girl who had let them in had disappeared.

  —Thank you, Angus said. He bundled the eggs and tucked them under his arm. The man made no reply, but looked at Annabel as if she had stolen something.

  —What’s under your coat? the man said.

  —We’re leaving, Angus said, and Annabel followed him out.

  —That man was afraid of us, Annabel said when they were back on the road.

  —That’s not true, Angus said. He pulled her close, but she shrugged him off.

  —It is, she said.

  —Don’t think about it, Angus said.

  They walked a different path through the village on the way home, one that took them past their old school and the church. A richness of swallows banked overhead, black dots; the sound of a hammer on steel sharpened their ears.