by Paul Finch
But she cannot go there.
So she gets on her bed and sits up the rest of the night, staring at the regular dark.
I guess now I don't sleep , she thinks, but I need to learn to pretend.
****
It's morning, bright and cheerful. The Jones family has breakfast in the family dining room-waffles, and Katie eats three.
"Because I'm growing," says Katie. "That's why."
Then Governor Mr. Henry Jones goes off to meet with the assistants and secretaries, the maids clear the table and leave, and Katie and Miss Sheila Dunn who is now Mrs. Henry Jones are alone.
"Welcome," says Sheila.
"Of course," says Katie. "You killed my mother."
"Of course," says Sheila. "How else could I be here?"
"Of course," says Katie. "What now?"
"Nothing now," says Sheila. "Later you will marry-a senator, or a governor, or a president. As I did. Sometime we will be everywhere. The dollhouse is yours, to bestow in turn."
"If my child is a boy?" asks Katie. "A fort instead, with toy soldiers?"
"Of course," answers Sheila.
"Of course," says Katie.
SUGARED HEAT
Lisa L. Hannett
They's building the bonfire in a field on the forest's southern fringe, a two minute trudge from camp. They's piling fuel high-if there's one thing they got in abundance 'round these parts, it's wood-close enough to the tree-line to make a point, far enough not to set the whole woodland ablaze.
Huffing and cursing, cousins Bren and Gerta, skirts hitched high, roll fat logs with crooked feet, their arms too stunted for lifting. Cousin Willem's reach is longer'n both twins combined, but his legs is useless stumps that flop below the hip; he's parked on a wheeled crate next to the kindling, baling fagots. Soon as Wil's knotted the twine, a herd of young 'uns runs the parcels over to a large stone-ringed pit, tosses 'em in, darts back for more. On a trail off to the right, Clint and six or seven other cousins is approaching, each hauling bigger, thrashing bundles across the dry grass. Dark boys, the lot of 'em, fit-bodied from working the slaughterhouse-but, far as Mert can tell, somewhat lacking inside the noggin.
"Vicious fucks," he whispers, watching the butcher-boys sneer and drag broken dryads behind 'em. When the ladies trip or fall, tangled in the ropes binding their branches, the cousins turn 'round and stomp on 'em with glee. Soon the trail is littered with busted twigs and leaves. Streams of glistening sap.
Pastor says these tough fellas ain't never used the good sense God gave 'em, Mert thinks, but who's he to judge? No doubt Kaintuck's holyman is off in the icebox, drowning his disgust with cold gin, leaving Mert's own ma to take charge of the burning.
Not that she's unsuited for the task, mind. Dirra's wider than she is tall, but every round inch of her is plumped with know-how. To be seen, she has to climb atop one of the benches planted 'round the fire pit-but even hidden in green shadows a hundred yards away, Mert can hear her short, sharp commands.
"We oughter go," he whispers, cuddled up to a trembling sugar maple. Gently he tugs at her straight waist. "C'mon, Sammie."
Around 'em the forest shivers. Birch, alder, oak, slender beech-all manner of gorgeous dryads copsed together, all crowned autumn red, all reaching for the sky. All open-mawed, gaping. All shaking like his own sweet gal.
Mert rubs a scaly palm against the maple's rough bark, then scratches the back of his blistered hand. It takes all his willpower not to chafe the sores on his forearms against her coarse trunk. There's no time to peel off overalls and flannel, nor grind cracked, weeping skin against the incredible balm of the dryad's syrup. Later, Mert promises hisself, when Sammie's safe.
When no-one else can harm her.
"C'mon, darlin. Let's git."
Sammie's gnarled locks twist in the wind, leaves flailing. Grackles and nuthatches chatter in her auburn canopy; the birds hop and flap, snipping 'copter-keys with their beaks. Mert presses close, wriggles. Looking way up, gazing on the dryad's mottled features, he catches a falling seed in the eye. Vision blurred, he thinks for one crazy second that his gal is dead. That her slack face-so hollow now, so skinny-her blank stare, her immovable trunk, means she's fixed to this spot. That she's up and lost her soul, traded it for permanent roots.
****
It was the boars and goats what led Mert's kin to the dryads.
With those tusks and that pungent meat, them hairy pigs was a good supplement to Kaintuck trade. Them beady-eyed buggers made a person work for their hides, mind. Faster than the nannies folk raised for milk and wool, and they was daredevils in the scrub to boot. Snouts down, hoofs trotting, they led gun-toting hunters on a wild chase through the trees. Even with rifles primed, Bren and Gerta was lanky enough to slink through the hogs' narrow tunnels; legless Wil was low and right quick, powering through the undergrowth on his wheel-board, spear rigged and ready. Wielding pistol and lasso, Mert hisself had a go-though he was much happier crawling directionless through the scritch-scratchy bush than he was killing. Still, him and the cousins bagged a fair amount of bacon before Dirra ever joined the party, and showed folk what true bounty was in them woods.
All summer, hogs nosed truffles and mushrooms 'round the base of poplars, hornbeams and hazels-but Mert's ma raised everyone's sights, lifted it from the scrub 'round fleet dryad ankles, focused instead on the rich moss of their clefts. While folk craned their necks, awestruck at the timber-gals' beauty-their firm curves and placid whorls, their impenetrable calm-Dirra squinted, taking stock. Acres and acres spread green 'round 'em. Near and far, saplings sprang up fierce, regardless of season. Never mind how quick some folk were with an axe.
"These chicks is damn fertile, ain't they?" she said.
The others grunted and nodded, reaching to pat dryad thighs and papery rumps. But with sacks full of warm hog, their attention again drooped to the path, and turned campwards.
Next day, in no mood for shearing, a randy buck bolted from Dirra's goat pen. It skittered between tents, dodging cook-fires and guywires, clip-clopping across the wide field, long gone fallow, and into the woods.
Mert's ma belted him into fetching the dirt bikes; soon the two of 'em was revving through the gloom after their best cashmere, worried he'd be gored by oinkers. As they churned grooves through the brush, pigs squealed away from their tyres. Crows screeched blue murder overhead while boughs creaked and thwapped up a storm of leaves. Dryads never was fond of the hunt: the flying knives and zinging bullets, the engines fuming, the dogs pissing on territory what ain't theirs to claim.
Turns out, though, the gals was fond of dairy.
Sure enough, upon riding into a clearing Mert and Dirra found their rascal goat rutting hisself empty on a sweet little pine yearling. The dryad was splayed on the grass, calm as a pail of water while the buck had its way on her. From the looks of things, she were lulled senseless by the stench of nanny-milk on its coat, the gentle tickle of its pointed beard.
Before winter had full-melted into spring, the young pine creaked and moaned her way out of the drowsy woods. Gait thrown off-kilter, due to the lopsided bulge at her middle, she shuffled a path through the snow, into the circle of trailers and tents. Stinking of panic, the dryad lumbered up to Dirra-who were busy fixing porridge over the communal hearth-and squatted.
As she pleated her limbs, needles showered from the gal's lofty head. Squirrels clung to her quaking shoulders, but she paid 'em no mind. The owl-hole of her mouth sucked in air, expelled gusts of feathered breath. Grunting like a spooked hog, she bore down once, hard, conjuring up an almighty crack .
"Give her some room," Dirra said needlessly. Folk were none too keen on approaching the pine madly swishing her nethers, scraping the distended gash, flicking sap. All stood, unblinking, or sat well back.
A minute later, a steaming wet bundle plopped on cold earth.
It had took Mert's ma nigh on three days to push her own bub out, nearly losing him with half her life's blood, but this gal made birthin' look
easy. There were no cord to sever, no placenta, just a coating of amber goo to wipe clean. The kid was small, sure, but well formed. Goat from nipples to cloven toes, everything upper were made of the most darlin brown-skinned girl Dirra ever seen. She had a set of lungs on her, no doubt about it, and a kick with plenty of spring. One strike of her tiny hoof took a chunk of pine from her ma's shin, which slowed the dryad not one iota as she rose to her full height, raised her arms to the clouds, and returned to her grove. Pulp still sludging from her split. Sap slicking her inner thighs.
"What kind of mamma would do such a thing," Dirra cooed. "Leaving a teeny babe afore it's even dry."
Bending, she scooped the grizzling child. Lightly bopped its upturned nose. Kissed its matted hair. Holding it at arm's length, Dirra took a solid gander at the little doe's condition, and nodded. "With teats like yers, kid, bet you'll make the sweetest cream for miles."
****
The dryads spook as flints strike steel.
"Git a move on," one slaughterhouse cousin snarls, veins in his thick neck bulging. A lithe oaken gal struggles against the leash knotted 'round his right hand. From afar, Mert can't tell if the guy's talking to the writhing tree or to Gerta and Bren, who's both kneeling by the pit a few feet away, shooting sparks into dry tinder. The twins is usually skilled fire-starters-they both cook a mean hot-stone bannock-but with the butcher-boys stomping close, the girls fumble. The lighting-kits slip from their stubby fingers, forcing 'em to belly on the dirt like salamanders to gather 'em up again.
Meantime, the timber-ladies is giving their wranglers a hard workout. The beech and aspen thrash like they's caught in a cyclone, near tearing the arms off the tattooed men holding their restraints. The poplar trots to and fro like a penned billy goat. Nostrils flared, she tips her crown and attempts a head-butt; her mate dodges, weasel-slick, hooks an ankle 'round a loose root, and throws her down.
"Hang onto this bitch," says Clint, hair black as sump oil, passing the hazel's lead to his brother, before running back to camp. Already burdened with the beech-a fine pale lady like Mert's never saw-the younger cousin sets his feet wide, digs in his heels. Holding the two ropes like reins, he whips the dryads 'til both he and they's frothing, only stopping when Clint returns. Over his shoulder, a canvas tarp is slung like a hobo's sack.
"Take a couple." He opens the satchel, holds it out like it's filled with autumn candies. Moving from butcher to butcher, he doles out iron tent stakes, their points still mucked with dark soil. "Use one to hammer in the other-got it?"
At the forest's edge, Mert dances from foot to foot like he gots to piss. "Sammie," he mewls, clutching the bole above her hip. "Sammie, please…"
His gal blinks with each clank of iron against iron. She leans forward as the cousins crouch to drive the long pegs into the ground, as they try to tether the dryads' ropes to 'em, as they fail. The leash-twine is too thick for such slender rods; the loops keep sliding up over the nails' heads, threatening to loose the frenzied dames.
"Fer fucks sakes," says Clint, snatching a picket from his pal. Quick as, he kneecaps the closest dryad-the youngest, gentlest birch-and when she buckles, he clomps on her shin, whacks her leg 'til she timbers. Soon as she's down, he drives the stake through her mashed limb. Hammers it home.
"Got it?" he asks again, chest heaving.
The clamour of nails being pounded through wood echoes across the field.
"Babe," Mert says, pulling and pulling on his sweet maple. "Jesus Christ."
At last, Sammie rouses, takes an unsteady step forward.
****
"You still climbing atop that Lellie-girl every other day?"
Dirra tipped a barrow next to the stock pen, spilling a great pile of brambles and blackberry greens she'd trimmed from the forest that morning. On a three-legged stool nearby, Mert flushed, half-dropping the kid feeding on his lap. The tree-goat was a healthy little eater; she slurped, sucking back the bottle jammed 'tween her gums.
"Not so much," he managed, hot to the very tips of his bristles. Felt like months since he'd last had blind Lellie Horner flat on her back, bruised legs spread, calico dress unbuttoned to the waist. Last time he'd gone calling at her Winnebago, the goat-sprout had only just dropped. Proper riled from the kid's birth-the opportunity it promised, the possibilities-Mert had gone to Lellie's to unwind. Once he got there, it'd been hard to relax. What with the girl singing stupid songs and gabbling rot while he was in her, biding the minutes 'til he spurted. What with the image of that pine's sap-dripping nethers clear as new ice in his mind.
The bub had plumped from infant to toddler since Mert and Lellie'd quit their wriggling sessions.
"Good," Dirra said, a grin in her tone. "Save yer juices. Reckon you'll need 'em, my boy."
Whatever plan she'd cooked couldn't of been worse than the jellied red blob he and Lellie'd once made together, so Mert listened to her thinkings, listened close.
Took no longer'n burping the kid to convince him.
"Worth a go," he said.
Mert followed his ma a-knocking from trailer door to tent flap to hammock. He watched her honey ears with talk of propagatin' the future-that's what Dirra called it, fancying up her lingo to impress-and proliferatin' our root stock. He seen the clever hook of her idea pierce she-folks' hearts, and tug at he-cousins' loins.
Mass-milkings started that same afternoon.
Shallow bowls and tins was filled to sloshing with the goats' whitest and brightest, then gently laid, one by one, on the grass. By the dinner bell's clang, a dotted line of saucers connected camp and woods. By dusk, the first dryads had took the bait.
Aspen and beech, birch and hornbeam. A robust, budding maple.
"That gal there's for my Mert," said Dirra, watching the ladies wake, and walk. Foliage rustling, sun-licked orange and red, they emerged from thickets of dozing relatives. Slowly, like as though they was caught in a dream. Heads tilted, they come on over the field with a crunching, creaking tread. Nostrils twitching, sniffing cream on the air. "Reckon he'll take a fancy to them samaras her boughs is wearing-shaped like perky arses, ain't they just."
"More like cock 'n' balls," muttered Bren.
"More like Bren's jugs," said an acne-scarred cousin, cupping invisible tits to snorts of laughter.
"Dumb as deer, every last one of 'em," Willem said when the ruckus died. Whistling through his teeth, he squinted as dryads knelt to drain each dish. "But twice as pretty."
After a moment, he wheeled hisself over to a timid sprig of an oak. Dipping a callused hand into the milk, Wil paddled his fingers to catch her focus, then flicked. Pale droplets splashed the gal's face, dribbled down grooves in her cheeks. She giggled, drunk on musk and butterfat. "She's a real looker, this one is."
Dirra smiled. "Take her, then. She's all yers."
****
At last Bren and Gerta's got the sparks flaring. All the logs is coned like a grand teepee, fattest boles angled 'round stacks of kindling, slenderest sticks poking at heaven. It's last year's timber, mostly dry, laced with hunks of fresh spruce. Perfect flame-swiller. Plenty of heat and crackle and pop.
While Dirra circles the fire-checking for what, Mert can't rightly tell, but she's intent as a spaniel sniffing out a shot duck-Pastor staggers on up the road. Smirched with mud or shit, the old man's cassock is unbuttoned and slung on crooked, his whale-gut bulging over wide-waisted jeans. Heedless of thorns, gravel or embers, he goes barefoot. He heads straight for the clearing, a puckered-arse look on his face.
Sammie lurches, pulling Mert forward.
"C'mon, darlin," he says, yanking one of her many elbows. "This way. Follow me."
The dryad shakes him off.
Pit-side, the twins is doing their utmost to haul Pastor off a quivering birch. The rector's holding firm, though, hugging the tree's mashed thighs, blubbering into her crotch. His prayers is muffled and whiskey-slurred; the only word Mert can make out is Sin! Sin! Sin!
"Enough is enough," Mert says, more growl tha
n anything. Ain't no great Almighty looking down on Kaintuck folk, he thinks, digging into Sammie's ridges. Tugging and jerking, he grinds the raw rash on his palms into the maple's trunk. The scratch of her rough bark is so fucking good, he can't help but stiffen. Ain't no one fit to judge or save no one else, he thinks, rubbing and rubbing, while Pastor grovels on the far away ground like a hog. No sense getting worked up about it now.
Soon the bonfire is roaring, smoke seething upwards, oily grey streaks untroubled by wind.
"Let's go, Sammie-girl." For one stupid second, Mert thinks of cartoon injuns. Shirtless red men in buckskins, hunkering beside the fire. Flapping wool blankets over the flames. Sending signals ain't no one can read.
"Let's go."
****
"Reckon she's excited to meet you proper," Dirra said, ushering Mert into the goat run behind their shack. The enclosure were chicken wire roofed in places with corrugated tin, the walls so tall even the springiest billy couldn't over-leap 'em. Not quite high enough, though, for Sammie. Pacing the narrow pen, the maple bent like there were a fierce wind a-blowing, head bowed so's Mert could scarce see her face. Her canopy were squashed, new buds and unfurled foliage alike jutting in all directions, snapped branches scraping metal with a god-awful screech. Dirra clicked her tongue, shooed miniature angoras away from the dryad's wandering feet. "She near tore my arm out the socket, what with her eagerness to get going."
With a thick-knuckled hand, Mert's ma massaged shoulder, bicep, forearm, then paid special mind to her rope-burnt wrist. Frowning, she tried slackening the twine tying her to the maple; but with the gal's fussing, the cord was soon stretched taut and chafing once more.