It was a hard winter, the hardest Tacit had known since he’d settled at the farm. Deep snow and driving winds buried most of the fields and the north face of the farmhouse. They’d warned him at the market, the old hands who gently mocked the Priest who had turned his back on the fruits of God to worship the fruits of the land. But the ‘foolish’ Priest had not been lazy or unprepared. The house was well shuttered and warm, the stores well stocked and the fires roared beneath well swept chimneys.
Nevertheless, Tacit couldn’t control the elements and word reached his ears that a tree had come down across a fence in the southern field and some livestock had escaped. Mila, heavily pregnant, had asked him not to go, but he knew he couldn’t leave the cattle to wander the night unhoused. Tacit, as well as anyone, knew what dangers lurked in the dark. It wasn’t far, just down to the bottom field. Three miles there and back. He assured her he wouldn’t be long, and he’d take the cart and a lantern, to speed his way.
As ever, he stowed the shotgun under the rug in the back of the cart, just in case, and waved back to her as he took the reins. The Church hadn’t returned since that short visit two years ago, but his memory was long and he knew their memory would be longer.
“Get back in the house!” he cried. “Keep our baby you’re growing, warm!”
She laughed and blew him a kiss before shutting the door hard against the elements.
He’d lost a bull and two cows in the blackness of the night and the storm, but the fence hadn’t taken long to fix. A good enough job with the tools and materials he had with him. Perhaps in the morning he’d set out and find the animals. For now, he’d take his cold whipped body home and warm it beside his love and the fire.
It was the light on the hill which first caught his attention, a blaze on the horizon, ahead of him, in line with the path up which he was driving. It took just a moment for the cold horror to creep into his soul. The farm! The farm was on fire!
He threw the horse forward into a gallop and roared up the hill towards the flames, weeping and crying out in anger and disbelief, as he leapt from the cart towards the raging building alight, staggering to a halt and dropping to his knees a few paces from the front porch when he saw her there. His hands tore at his face and hair, screaming against the wind in anguish and horror at the naked, bloodied figure prostrate on the stairs. They’d cut her from chest to pelvis, her entrails and unborn foetus spread about her in the blood stained snow, as if a specimen in some monstrous ritual.
He lunged forward and bound the frozen remains of his unborn child and Mila into his arms, his head turned skyward, a roar screamed to the heavens above.