“Let’s break for supper and pick up later. Moon will be full, so we can work late.”
Back at the house, Lily cooked at the stove and Andrew knew a good midday meal was coming his way. She set the roast chicken and boiled potatoes in front of the men. Andrew picked up the serving spoon and it dropped from his fingers, the ting loud upon the table. Eveline caught a glance at his swollen fingers. “My word, look at your hand!” She turned on Wilhelm. “His hand is nearly raw to the bone.”
Andrew hid his hand under the table. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? Let me see you pick up your fork.”
“Let it go, Eve,” Wilhelm ordered. “Comes with the work. It’ll heal.”
“You let him drive the tractor until it does,” she commanded.
Wilhelm ignored her and stabbed into his potato.
“It’s too hot in here. Going to eat outside.” Andrew didn’t want the stares or the pity and carried the plate outdoors, sat on the granite slab. He used his tight and bloated fingers to pop the small potatoes into his mouth, his appetite nearly gone.
The screen door opened. Lily sat down, tucked her dress around her legs. The calico cat crawled from under an azalea bush and rubbed against her shins. Lily gave her a good scratch behind the ears.
“Rather you didn’t see me eat right now,” Andrew said. He stared at the food, gave a half smile. “Embarrassing enough I can’t hold my fork.”
She smiled and took the plate from his lap and gently pulled his wrist to her lap. From her pocket she removed a small, round tin and took off the lid to reveal a yellowy paste. Gently, she held the hand and opened the curved fingers. Andrew flinched, the scabs breaking with the movement. She took the cream and with a touch of a feather rubbed it thickly into the red and broken skin. At first the pain left him squirming, but soon the oils made the tight skin pliable and his muscles relaxed. “What is it?” he asked.
“Mutton tallow.” She watched her work as if she were playing a beautiful song upon the piano keys. “Found it in the root cellar. Doesn’t smell so great but will keep your hand from tightening.”
The pain was leaving and the feel of her fingers upon his skin came through; the rhythmic circles of her tender strokes left him mellow and sleepy.
“I heard what happened,” she said softly. “At the market.”
He didn’t expect the pang of humiliation, but it entered, hard and swift. He didn’t want her to know and yet he wanted her to know. He wanted her to look at him in that way that was at once gentle and urgent—that look that said all would be all right and if it wasn’t, she would still be there.
“How’d you hear?”
“Old man Stevens.”
Andrew stared into his plate, remembered the look on Will’s and Edgar’s faces. He remembered how Eveline had cried when she heard, remembered that white, deathly look on Wilhelm’s face.
Lily’s arched eyebrows narrowed and her forehead creased. “It’s not right. Not right what people are doing. What they’re saying.”
Andrew picked up a potato, long cooled, and chewed slowly.
“Were you scared?” she asked.
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. You were mad, though. Weren’t you?” She grinned. “Bet your blood was boiling.”
“Yeah.” But he didn’t grin, continued to chew slowly. “I’m still mad.”
“I know.” Her head nodded as if she were still saying it.
Andrew watched her. He pushed the words away, pushed the day of the market away and leaned in, kissed her on the cheek.
Her eyes sprung wide and she touched the spot, glowed. “What was that for?”
He wasn’t tired anymore. He wanted to lean her against the stones and kiss her neck until she squirmed and giggled underneath him.
She stared back at him. “I want to show you something.”
His veins ignited just with the tone. “And what’s that?”
“Finish your meal, then meet me by the woods.” She pointed to the row of pines that stood as a line between the deciduous trees. “I’ll be waiting there.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head, back to reality. “Got to get back to the fields.”
She laughed. “Mr. Kiser’s asleep on the couch. Passed out as soon as he finished gulping his meal. Think you have a little time. Besides, won’t take long.”
Her face was so beautiful, smiling as if all of nature were part of her skin, and his heart leaped to her. She picked up a dandelion and placed it behind her ear.
“No.” Andrew waved a finger in dissatisfaction and took the flower from her hair. “You’re too pretty to wear weeds.” He leaned back and plucked a yellow daylily and tucked it behind her ear. “That’s better.”
She touched the petals, gave him a slight wave before heading toward the woods. “Take your time and eat,” she reminded him. He watched her thin yellow dress flow with the breeze, and if he hadn’t been suddenly starving he would have chased her into the clouds.
* * *
“So, where are we going?” Andrew asked as they weaved through the shady pines.
“A spring.”
“A what?”
“A magic spring,” she insisted as if he should know it.
“Think you’ve been reading too many fairy tales, Lily girl.”
“You’ll see.” She took off at a run, her long wild hair trailing. She was like a tree nymph, made of the land and all the colors of nature. He did his best to keep up as she darted through the browning needles of the forest floor. Down a slope, the air cooled considerably as if in a cloud.
Lily slowed and finally stopped. “Listen,” she directed quietly.
Andrew listened. The sound of tiny trickles of water came from the distance like raindrops in a meadow. When she saw that he heard them, she beckoned him with a curved finger. Around the bend, a wide pool glistened deeply at the base of the hill. The rock wall was covered with wet moss, the individual rocks deep black and shining as they filtered each drip of mountain water into the spring.
She peered into the black water. “Don’t know how deep it is, but it’s so clear, like you can stare into it forever.” Lily reached her hands into the water and took a long drink, wiped her lips with her sleeve.
There, among the moss and the shade and the canopy of chirping birds, she was a woman from another time, another existence. A fairy or a flower. She blended into the forest, belonged within the magic of the place. But it was the woman who made it magic, who made the world seem as if it shimmered from the heavens.
“Give me your hand.” She took his injured hand and slowly placed it on the surface of the water, the cold instant and chilled throughout his body. She gently pushed the hand and fingers into the ice-cold water. “Is it all right?” she asked.
He nodded. The pain melted into the cold, disappeared, and all the while her eyes were on him, flooding him with warmth even while their hands chilled beneath the water. Their fingers intertwined, the palms pressed, skin upon skin, warmth and cold that left his senses reeling.
He tugged her hand closer, the movement causing ripples in the smooth surface, and her body followed, pressed against his chest as their hands had done. Her eyes were wide and scared, but her lips parted and he bent his head to catch them before they could speak. He melted into the delicate lips, found the tip of her tongue against his own. He withdrew their clasped hands from the icy water and let go, placed his wet fingers against her back and etched the buttons of her spine. Her hands found his hips, held on with clenched knuckles as if she might fall into the pond.
The ground held them. The birds surrounded the air and drowned out all thoughts so only senses lived, breathed. He traced the curve of her mouth with his lips, moved his hand up to her neck and kissed her fully, felt her body bend to his, grow limp in his arm.
He wanted to know her. He needed to know her just as he needed to touch her. The woman in his arm, against his chest, against his lips, was something wild, something that dies slowly
in confinement—a hummingbird in a cage. And he wanted—needed—to know her. He wanted to watch her sleep, wanted to hear her heartbeat beneath her skin, to carve into his memory every word she had ever spoken.
Andrew pulled back, stunned momentarily by the beauty in his embrace. Lily’s hair blew around her face, long and unbraided like that of a woodland goddess, and the sun drew to her as if she were the only figure worthy of its rays. The fingers laced in his were where they should be. Skin atop skin. Her palm against his. He saw his life in advance. Saw him aged and walking forward with this woman. He wanted to take Lily into the future—a future where their touch would never separate. The tiny green stone sat in the deepest corner of his pocket and he felt it intensely and with new significance.
He moved closer. Her body rose to meet his. His thighs pressed against the thin fabric of her dress. Her hair swayed slightly and tickled his cheek. His palm moved from her hip to the small of her back and her lips parted completely. He bent his neck, found the lips with his own, melted into the ground with their touch. Her hands inched up his back and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. He leaned into her; she leaned back for support, leaned back to raise her hips to his. He turned his lips to her neck, rolled slowly into the bend, into the length of it. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, her breathing quick in his ear.
He rocked his pelvis between her thighs. Small, futile thrusts against the clothed parts, but they both fell into the rhythm, moving into each other with pounding hearts.
A bell clanged distantly, muted the birds. Lily closed her eyes, lowered her head so that her forehead rested against Andrew’s lips. She sighed, tried to ignore the noise that rose again.
Andrew grunted, dropped his forehead against her neck as if in pain. He could live in her veins and he’d still miss her.
Lily’s chest rose and fell. Her eyes closed and she swallowed hard. He smiled, etched the line of her cheek with his cool fingers. “Guess you’re wanted back home.”
“I hate that bell,” she said in anguish. “Makes me feel like a five-year-old.”
“Or a wayward cow.”
She dropped her head into his chest and snickered. Then turned her face again to find his lips. Playfully, he flung his arm around her shoulder. “Come on, Bessie. I’ll lead you home.”
CHAPTER 39
A week later, little Will’s cries wafted from the road. Lily was going to Widow Sullivan’s and heard him first. She put down her egg basket, then sprinted, her dress held above her knees.
The boy ran to her, hid his face in her skirt. She pried his hands from the folds and knelt upon the gravel to see his panicked face. “What’s wrong, Will?”
“I have to get Andrew,” he huffed, the shallow grip of air closing his throat. “My legs can’t run anymore,” he cried, and buckled. “He’s gotta come!”
Will had seen something awful, the look of terror scratching upon her own childhood memories. A belt to her sister. Claire’s pleading, silent call to her to run, to hide. And yet she had stayed, rooted, a witness to the brutality that mirrored her conception. And when it was over, the tethers broke and she found the strength to flee, to run into the woods and vomit within the curled leaves.
A prolonged flash of heat washed over her body and congealed in her skull. Bile rose to her throat. She should have stopped it, but she hadn’t known how to kill an abuse she couldn’t comprehend. The sour of her stomach stung her mouth as she pushed against the dross. Will shook in her arms. No. Not this time. She straightened—ascended as a woman who would no longer hide. “You go to Mrs. Sullivan’s,” she ordered fiercely. “I’ll get Andrew. You stay there until I come back. Understand?” He nodded.
Lily ran hard, the gravel spraying behind the hammering boots. But she didn’t flee from the terror; she ran into the heart of it. The cows dotted along the Kiser property line and she knew Andrew wouldn’t be far beyond. “Andrew!” she yelled. She pulled force to her lungs and called out again, “Andrew!”
The sun reflected off the white shirt as he started at a trot from the low field, his hat held in his hand. She bent under the fence, her legs wobbling with the exertion. “It’s Will,” she panted as he came into earshot. “Something’s wrong. I don’t know what, but something’s happened.”
Together, they took off over the crest of the road, down to the widow’s house. Will sat on the step of the front porch, Mrs. Sullivan’s bowed figure holding him against her fragile bones. He scratched at his tears, saw his cousin coming. “Andrew!” He broke from the old woman and ran to Andrew’s side, clutched his thigh.
“What is it, Will? What’s happened?”
“We were walking home and these boys came. Except they weren’t boys. Not like me. Older ones. I don’t know,” he groaned. “They started cussing at us, pushing Fritz.” Between gasps of air, he snorted, his nose running. “They took Anna’s hair right off her head!” he screamed. “Ripped it all up, pulled it between them like tug-o’-war.” His face crumpled. “Hair was floating everywhere. Flying up to the sky. They tore it all to pieces.”
“Is she hurt?”
Will shook his head. “No. But she was all curled up, crying. Her head all bald and white.” He started to wail then and he squeezed Andrew’s hand. “Fritz tried to stop them. He tried to stop them and they hurt him bad.”
The land spun, the dread sinking to Andrew’s knees. “Where are they now?”
“Down by the creek past the school. Anna’s hiding. She’s crying so hard. Never saw somebody cry so hard. Won’t come out with no hair. Just hiding so nobody sees her. The boys chased Fritz, ran into the woods and hurt him real bad. Could hear him screaming.” His eyes turned up to Andrew, wide and shining with guilt. “I didn’t want to leave them there. I swear it, but I didn’t know what to do.”
Andrew hugged him. “You did the right thing, Will.”
Widow Sullivan stepped up. “Take my buggy,” she directed firmly. “I’ll see to it the boy gets home safe.”
Lily hurried to the barn, hitched the small wagon to the draft horse, brought it to the gate, then climbed onto the seat and waited for Andrew. They rode in silence, each with their own thoughts of a world spiraling out of control, wondered how a land filled with flowers and vibrant green had soured and turned rancid.
As the schoolhouse came into view over the ridge, Lily put her hand on his arm. “Park it there.” She pointed. “I know where the creek is from here.”
Andrew and Lily ducked into the woods under lowered limbs, dodged spiderwebs and knobby roots. “Anna?” Andrew called. “Anna, you in here?”
A sniffle emanated from behind an old oak. Andrew curved to the tree until two small arms stretched out. He put his arm around the little girl and hoisted her to his hip, her bald head white and pale, the tiny blue veins prominent near the temples. Remnants of her wig settled in piles of ringlets along the ground, rose and floated in low bursts of wind. The tiny girl cried into his shoulder. “I’ve got you now, Anna,” he whispered into her ear, rocking her gently. “You’re safe now.”
Lily hid her face, the embrace so tender, so protective, that she leaned against a thick tree for support. “Lily.” Andrew’s appeal was nearly inaudible, as he did not want to startle the child in his arm. She looked up and he motioned with his head for her to come closer. “It’s all over now, little one.” He comforted her, repeated, “I’ve got you now.”
Anna sobbed. “They hurt Fritz.”
“Where is he, Anna?”
She pointed to the woods and Andrew could see the shadow of large shoulders and curved back as it rocked between the thorny bushes. He handed Anna to Lily, the little girl wrapping her legs around Lily’s waist.
Andrew ducked deeper into the brush, the thorns catching his shirt and drawing him back. With effort, he reached the giant man who had buried himself within the nasty prickers. Fritz’s shirt was ripped in lines across the back, the bloodied gashes slim and curved. The weapons, a few dripping willow saplings, lay cracked ar
ound his hips.
Andrew touched Fritz’s shoulder with no response and inched around to face him. The amount of blood stopped him cold.
Andrew steadied, tried to keep his voice calm. “How bad are you hurt, Fritz?” As if out of a dream, Fritz put his head up, looked at the new face as if he couldn’t put the voice and image together.
“I not hurt.” He shook his head fiercely as he rocked. The body moved back and forth while his head turned from side to side in opposition. “Fritz not hurt. Anna hurt.”
Andrew inspected the bloody face, sighed with relief. The blood stemming from a cut at the forehead hadn’t been wiped away, just left to spread down his eyes and cheeks. Besides that, his lip swelled and a front tooth was missing. Andrew knew it could have been much worse.
“I need you to listen to me,” Andrew said sternly but with compassion.
The man shook his head, rocked into his internal dream.
“Anna is all right,” Andrew assured Fritz. “But she’s scared for you.”
He put his head up. “Fritz not hurt.”
“I know.” He fixed on the man’s eyes so he would understand. “I know. But you have a lot of blood and it’s scaring your sister. Come to the creek and wash up and then we’ll show Anna and she’ll feel better.”
“Make Anna better?”
“Yes.”
Fritz unfolded like a sleeping giant and plowed through the twisted bittersweet to the creek. He plunged his face in the water and shook it hard, reared up and then submerged his face again. He turned to Andrew with dripping face. “Better?”
Andrew nodded. Fritz looked much better, didn’t even seem pained by the lashes on his back. The cut above the brow line began to bleed again. Andrew scanned the low limbs and found one covered in tent worms. He pulled the webbing off and shook off the tiny caterpillars.
“I’m just going to stop the bleeding, Fritz. Might hurt for a second.”
But the man didn’t flinch as Andrew stuck the webs across the cut, clotting the crimson flow instantly. They walked up to where Lily and Anna sat.
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