17

The girl watches the woman dig. Not with her hands but with something shiny. It looks heavy and dangerous, and when the woman stumbles and falls, the girl jumps.

Something happened to brother last night. Something bad. When she woke up, she felt the woman’s big hurt, and she felt mother’s big hurt, but she couldn’t feel brother’s hurt at all.

Brother is asleep in the blanket now.

Blanket.

The girl knows the word, but her mouth cannot say it. She will practice more with brother when he wakes up.

The girl wanted to see brother this morning, but when she lifted the blanket, she made the woman mad. The girl doesn’t like it when the woman is mad, so she didn’t lift the blanket again.

She talks to brother, but brother doesn’t talk back. The girl hopes he hasn’t gone away forever.

The woman looks mad. Or maybe she looks sad. The girl can’t always tell the difference. She thinks maybe there isn’t such a big difference.

The woman lifts brother, and his foot slips out from the blanket. It is the color of the pale rain. Brother is cold. That must be why he is in the blanket.

The woman puts brother in the hole, and the girl stands. She asks the woman why she is doing that, but the woman doesn’t answer. The woman makes a sound at her, but the girl doesn’t know what the sound means. She knows brother sounds, not woman sounds.

Brother is in the hole now, in the square forest inside the forest. The girl screams at the woman, and the woman screams back.

The woman is hurting brother, making him go away forever, and the girl is not a mother and so the girl does not know what to do, how to stop her. Now the woman is putting dirt on top of brother in the hole and he won’t be able to breathe and the girl is screaming and the woman is crying and the girl wants mother to come quick and make everything okay.

The skies are darker now, and the clouds are growling, and the girl smells the rain before it falls and it is falling now and brother is getting wet. He is under the ground in the square forest and he can’t breathe and he is getting wet and the girl is yelling at the woman—bad things, mad things, sad things—but the woman isn’t listening.

The woman runs toward her, and the girl fights back, but the woman is so strong.

A voice inside the girl’s mind tells her to stop screaming, but she can’t.

The woman carries the girl toward the cabin and the girl doesn’t understand. Brother has not gone away forever—he is right there, outside, under the ground, and it is raining, and he is wet, and she doesn’t understand. But the woman is not mad, only sad, and she holds her like a mother, and the girl lays her head on the woman’s shoulder and whispers to brother to please get up. But he doesn’t.

The woman rushes inside and shuts the door, and the girl slides from her arms.

The girl pounds on the window and pounds on the walls, but the woman isn’t listening—she has curled herself into a ball on the floor, and it’s almost like she has gone away forever.

But the girl can still feel her. She aches with all of the woman’s hurt. It is never-ending, stretching on and on like moving water. The woman’s hurt is hot on the girl’s skin like the burning sun, and it fills the air like pale rain.

The girl begins to tremble, her fingers like small branches in a big wind. She’s never felt this way before, and the girl wants to scream. She wants to tear off her skin and pull out her hair so this feeling goes away. She wants to chew on her fingers and poke at her eyes and go back to sleep so she doesn’t feel the woman’s hurt anymore. Or her own.

The girl curls her fist and pushes it against her lips, suckling her knuckles. She looks up but there is no sky. Only a wood sky with no sun and no clouds.

Something is different today. Different from yesterday. She thinks tomorrow will be different, too.

Adelaide cannot feel her toes.

As she sits here now, on her sofa which has become stained over the years by so much dirt, tea, and sweat that it’s practically a new color altogether, Adelaide realizes she can’t feel her hands either. Her heart, it seems, is numb as well—finally, a blessing.

Something hums in her cabin, but it may be in her head. Her aging mind. Her witch soul. She pushes into the cushion and listens to River. The girl is napping in the bedroom, and though it is late in the day, Adelaide thinks that today, that is alright. Today, the girl watched Adelaide bury her brother. Sleep, child.

Adelaide wonders how much the girl understands. Does she realize her brother is dead, and never coming back? And if so, does she believe Adelaide caused him harm? Perhaps she did. Adelaide buffs her forehead to force the guilt away. She did not cause this. It was an accident. She couldn’t have known, couldn’t have prevented it.

But the simple truth remains: if Adelaide had left them in the woods with their feral mother, Little Bird would still be alive.

She glances to the child slumbering in her bed. River’s arm drapes over the side, and from her fingers dangles the butter-yellow knitted cap. Clasped tightly to her chest is the small gray elephant. Little Bird’s elephant. If Adelaide had thought of it earlier, she would have buried it with him. But maybe this is better.

Adelaide walks past the fireplace that once fascinated Little Bird. She walks past the rug and remembers him peering beneath it, always the curious one. She fingers the weave of a basket like Little Bird might be doing right now, if he were here. And then Adelaide opens her front door and sits on the cabin steps.

The chickens are about, but Adelaide has no words for them today, and she shoos them off. They flutter away from her, but not without one last cursory glance from Henry, letting her know she’s become neglectful. She nods as though the words were spoken aloud, and then Henry ushers Zelda past the garden.

Adelaide looks to the mound of earth that is now Little Bird.

But Little Bird is not alone.

The wild woman is there, running her hands lightly atop the dirt. Adelaide watches in silence. She should leave them—this moment does not belong to her—but she cannot bear to move.

The wild woman does not scream or snarl. She is collected and docile. It’s clear to Adelaide that the wild woman has already experienced death in her young life. Unlike River, this woman is not confused. She knows her boy is not coming back.

The wild woman makes sounds at the earth—a grunt that carries a languishing note at the end, followed by a low thrumming whine which has the feel of a question. Adelaide has spent many nights picking apart the sounds of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Most nights, the sound of the bugs and the trees and the water and the wind all blur together into a feral kind of white noise, one sound indistinguishable from the next. But these sounds are something different. These sounds are wild, untamed. They are designed to rise above the cacophony.

Once the wild woman has smoothed the dirt into a fine tapestry, she begins to howl. It is gentle at first, and the hair on Adelaide’s neck bristles as she watches the woman on all fours, her back arched, face lifted to the sky.

The wild woman pauses, takes another breath, and once again bays into the night.

A smaller voice joins hers from inside the cabin. Adelaide turns to see River at the window, her little face pressed to the glass, her hair damp and strewn across her cheeks. The child’s eyes are angry and fierce, but Adelaide is not afraid. River takes a breath and joins her mother in mourning, their two voices merging into something solid, singular, a structure with doors and walls.

Adelaide knows that if she were ever to describe what happened here, words will surely fail her. And so she will never speak of it. This moment is only for the girls—all three of them.

Adelaide straightens her body, takes a deep breath.

The wild woman howls. River howls.

Adelaide howls.

The next morning, Adelaide wakes beside a slumbering River and strokes the girl’s hair. She places her forehead against River’s and tucks the blanket around the child before slipping out of bed, out of her cabin, and into the clearing for some fresh air.

Adelaide expected the forest to feel different, look different, but the trees are unchanged, bearing no marks of grief from the night before.

Her throat hurts, and Adelaide marvels at what she has become—a crazy old lady howling into the night. If only Catherine could see her now. Adelaide laughs for just a moment before realizing she will likely never see her daughter, or granddaughter, again. They are ghosts to her now, and Adelaide wonders where she went so wrong. Perhaps she should have learned to howl a long time ago.

The cabin is quiet when she returns, and River stands in the kitchen, still covered in garden dirt from the day before. The butter-yellow knitted cap and the gray elephant lay strewn in her wake.

Adelaide cannot decode the look on the girl’s face. Her eyes are dark and bewitching, her hair stringy and wild. It seems River is regressing to her more feral tendencies, as evidenced by her hollow stare, her filthy skin.

“Good morning,” Adelaide says to River, but the girl does not answer. “Are you hungry? Yes, I suppose you are.”

The thought of breakfast makes her stomach churn, but she must feed the child. She may not be able to console her over the death of her brother, or convince the child to wear clothing, but goddamn it, she can feed her.

Adelaide appraises Catherine’s grocery stash. She chooses a bag of apples that are just starting to turn, the honey, some cinnamon, and grabs a cast-iron pan for the fireplace.

As sweet fragrances fill the cabin, Adelaide wonders what she would say to River, if it were even possible. She scoops a small amount of shortening from a jar and drops it into the pan. The apples darken, and the honey melts into a lacquer, the cinnamon blooming into the melting fat like bronze lily pads.

A scratch and a clatter.

A click and a rattle.

Adelaide turns toward the sound and freezes, honey dripping from the spatula and onto her feet.

River stands beside the sofa, shaking the amber bottle of pills.

The room spins and the spatula clatters to the wood floor. A dozen images flash through Adelaide’s mind at once, as if they have already happened: River swallowing pills; vomiting, seizing; eyes rolling back in her head; Adelaide screaming, wake up wake up!; River, limp, carried from the cabin; a second mound in the garden beside Little Bird.

And Adelaide, alone. Forever alone.

Adelaide rushes toward River, and the girl shields her face. As much as Adelaide does not want to strike the girl, as much as she simply wants to wrap River in her arms and protect her from every bad thing in this world, the sound of the slap cleaves through the room as Adelaide strikes the pill bottle from River’s hand. They stare at each other in stunned silence as the bottle rolls across the floor, little white disks tumbling within.

There are no tears for River. A few for Adelaide. Adelaide smothers her face with one hand and extends the other to River, who recoils against the sofa, baring her teeth.

Adelaide slowly backs away from the child and snatches the pill bottle from the floor. She walks to the kitchen and holds it up to the window, examining the pills in the sunlight. Oh, how she wants the pain to stop. But these pills won’t touch the kind of pain Adelaide feels inside. Not anymore.

She looks to River, the tears finally streaming down her scared little face, and Adelaide knows that everything has changed between them. She must make it right because the girl has nobody else.

Adelaide pours the pills into her palm. These pills were to be her exit. Her deliverance. The end to her farmer’s life. But everything is different now, and Adelaide is no longer allowed to die.

She drops them two by two into the drain and turns on the faucet.

Tonight, the only thing that moves in the cabin is the fire in the hearth.

River is asleep in the bedroom, but there will be no rest for Adelaide this night, and so she pushes into the sofa, her breath forming a cloud despite the heat from the fireplace.

Adelaide listens to the soft, steady breathing coming from the bedroom. River is okay. For now. And for that, she is grateful.

Adelaide reaches for a match on the side table and lights the small lantern she keeps there. As if in reflection, another much smaller light glows outside her window. It is red, like the cherry glow of a cigarette. Her breath catches in her throat. She and River are not alone.

Through the window, she sees him. The old man with the dark, bewitching eyes. He leans against a tree, smoking a cigarette and watching her cabin. His white shirt glows like a buoy in the waves of a nighttime sea. How long has he been watching her? Was it he who was trailing her from the other side of the frozen river, just yesterday? River at her side. Little Bird in her arms.

What does he know?

Adelaide swallows a boulder, feeling more isolated than ever before. With River under her care, Adelaide’s life is no longer one of solitude. But she, alone, must stand for them both. She considers exit routes, hiding spots, potential weaponry. The old man’s gaze pierces her like a line of stitches and Adelaide is shocked she didn’t notice it earlier.

He does not approach, but he may as well be inside her cabin. Still, he is too close. She trembles not with fear, but with anger. How dare this man. How dare he intimidate her like this? On her own goddamn property. Never again will he step foot in her home.

Adelaide grinds her fists into the sofa and stands. Although he is older now, she is as well, and she stands no better a fight against him this night than she did all those years ago. He had been strong. So strong. And he carries that strength with him still. She recognizes it in his hands, his face, his eyes.

She was afraid back then. And she’s been afraid ever since. But starting now, in this very moment, she will be afraid of him no longer. She will show the old man strength. Opposition. For River.

And he will come no closer to her cabin.

Adelaide steps out of her front door and into the cold, wrapping her coat tightly around her shoulders.

The old man brings the cigarette to his lips.

Adelaide’s mouth is dry, and words do not come. Strength, it seems, is harder to express than to declare. But she wants to be the first to speak. She must be the first to speak.

“What do you want?” she manages.

“My boys think you know somethin’ ’bout our crops.”

The man leans against a tree and crosses his legs. Getting comfortable.

There is quite a distance between them. His words are little more than a whisper but sound carries easily in the forest.

Adelaide snorts. Like she gives a damn about their crops.

“But now I see,” he says. “It’s not what you know. It’s what you got.” The old man spits into the snow.

Adelaide thinks of River, fast asleep, alone in the cabin.

“What I’ve got is none of your business.”

The man pauses, smiles, and spreads his arms. “It’s all my business.”

Adelaide prepares her response, hopes to sound threatening. She speaks low, almost a growl. A little bit feral. “You will not step one foot on this property. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever again.” Adelaide holds his gaze before adding, “I remember you.”

He smiles. Most of his teeth are still intact.

Adelaide feels sick. He’s taunting her with his silence.

“I guess mountain lions aren’t the only monsters in these woods,” she says.

The old man smokes, stares.

Adelaide needs to move this along. He is a trespasser on her land, and she wants him gone. There is nothing left to say. But the old man seems relaxed and in no particular hurry.

“Now speakin’ of monsters,” he begins, “my boys are damn near convinced you’re a witch.”

Adelaide counts her breaths to calm her racing heart.

“They say you got some creature in your house. Maybe a wolf, or hell, I don’t know.”

Adelaide swallows the knot in her throat. Did he take a step closer, or is that her imagination?

The old man flicks his cigarette into the snow. “Yes, ma’am, my boys are damn near ’bout to light the torches and run you right on outta these mountains.” He shrugs. “They aren’t the brightest. But they’re good boys, and they’re loyal to their family.”

He pauses, waiting for a response. When Adelaide does not speak, he continues. “So now I figure I gotta come down here and see for myself. And what do I see? Tell me witch, what did I see last night?”

Adelaide owes him nothing. Less than nothing. A shovel to the skull is what she owes him.

“Honestly, I don’t much care ’bout the damage to my crops.” He trains his gaze on Adelaide. “Now that I know you’re hidin’ my kin.”

The snow burns Adelaide’s eyes. “They are not . . .” She can’t even say the words. “They are not . . .”

“I may be old but I ain’t senile. One remembers a woman like that. Skinny, pretty enough. Didn’t say much.” He winks at Adelaide.

Adelaide cannot speak, cannot think. The image of the wild woman, growling, spitting, biting while pinned down by this beast is too much for her to bear. She hopes it is a lie, tells herself it is a lie.

She looks to the old man, her mouth open, her voice mute.

“It’s in the eyes,” he says.

The old man points to his face and then to the cabin. He smiles, and Adelaide knows the truth of his words. She’s seen it herself.

The old man straightens and clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is soothing, businesslike. “I’ll let you play house a few days more. I’m a reasonable man, and I s’pose you’re enjoyin’ their company.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette, shifting it to the other side of his lips. “But I expect you’ll deliver them to me.”

The old man removes his hat and wrings it in his hands, as if the breeze has suddenly become warmer, and he no longer needs such protection.

Them. He doesn’t know about Little Bird’s death, and she won’t correct him. He doesn’t get to know.

“I will do no such thing. Get off my property,” she says, barely a whisper, her conviction slowing. “Get off my goddamn property.”

“I’ll give you one week, witch. One week to get ’em cleaned up and ready. And put some clothes on ’em fergodsake. Goddamn animals. And if you don’t deliver ’em by then, I’ll come for ’em myself. You won’t like it.”

“They’re just children.” Adelaide wraps her coat tightly around herself as though it is armor.

“My children, you best remember. Pretty little girls, ain’t they?”

Adelaide is frozen, unable to step forward and rush toward him, unable to step back inside her cabin.

“One week, witch.” And he points at her to make it so. “One week from tonight.”

The old man smiles, and Adelaide nearly collapses.

“And now,” he says with a flourish, “I will get off your goddamn property.”

Adelaide stands at her door until he’s walked back to a car she hadn’t seen parked by the road. She stands there until the taillights disappear behind the trees. She stands there until she can no longer tolerate being so far away from River. And then she rushes inside, bolts the door, and lodges a chair beneath the handle.