It was a large farm and Tacit was surprised to find the woman worked it alone.
“My husband died springtime. Typhus,” she said, addressing him on the steps to her farmhouse. She admired the size of him, his broad shoulders and strong back, visible beneath his long black coat. “You don’t look like any Priest I’ve ever seen,” she continued, sweeping a black curl from her face. “Are you sure you’re from the Church?”
Tacit ignored the question and turned to look out across her fields. “You work all these alone?” he asked, placing a boot on the step above where he was standing.
“Not alone. I have farm hands.”
“No children?”
“We were only married a few months.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, looking at her. She was dressed in black trousers, patched at the knees, a white cotton smock hanging loose over her body and hips. Her beauty came to her naturally. There was a pragmatism about how she looked, dressing for the fields and for work but not hiding the woman she still was. He’d never seen anything so lovely. He forced his eyes aside. “So, I’ve been told you have a poltergeist?” he asked, looking at his boots. He waited for an answer, which never came. He looked up and found she was smiling at him, her head tilted to one side.
“You have handsome eyes,” she said, and Tacit could feel his face redden. He coughed nervously and played with the handle of the bag in his hand. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t say such a thing to a Priest.”
“Probably not,” Tacit replied, but a smile came to his mouth and he tilted his capello hat back on his head.
He realised he was staring at her captivated, their eyes locked together in an embrace. He shook his head and cleared this throat, stepping back to put some distance between himself and the woman.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling at the lapel of his coat. “I … I suppose you should show me where the activity has been happening.”
She pushed herself away from the post at the top of the stairs and told Tacit to follow her inside.
“It’s in the main house?” he called, climbing the three steps onto the porch and dabbing his dry tongue on the roof of his mouth. “I thought it might be in one of the barns.” He looked back one final time to the fields outside and then stepped inside like a man condemned.
“Yes, it’s the room at the back of the house. I think it used to be the bedroom of my husband’s grandfather. I never go in there. There’s no need. There’s never been any need.”
“When were you first aware of the activity?” asked Tacit, stepping after her. His eyes fell upon the open doorway to her bedroom and a charge of excitement spun through him. He swallowed and looked straight ahead down the dark passageway he was being led. It turned right and ended promptly at a closed door.
“It’s always been there,” she said, standing across the corridor from him, a foot away, “noises, bangs and occasionally moans. Sometimes sounds of things being thrown.”
Tacit could hear the sound of her breathing. He could feel the sweat on his brow. He surreptitiously moved back, as she fiddled in a pocket of her smock and produced a key.
“We’ve always kept the door locked. Here.” She handed it to him. Tacit noticed how long and graceful her fingers were but that her nails were short and had dirt under them. Hard working hands. Honest hands.
He looked at the key and then at the door. He felt muddled and confused. He couldn’t understand why he wanted to lean forward and kiss her. The urge terrified and shocked him but he felt charged and alive, as at no time before in his life. Not even when the lights had picked him up in their glare. He looked back at her and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Are you going in now?” she asked.
“I am. I’m sorry,” he asked, “I don’t know your name.”
“Mila,” she replied.