Wood

“Hello,” I said, and then louder, “Hello!”—trying to get the attention of the woman with the bees. “It wants milk!”

I thought she glanced up at us through her veil.

“The kitten!” In case she’d forgotten.

She looked away again. It made me mad, her silence. Then it occurred to me she might not want to disrupt the bees. They were encircling her, moving about her body softly, like water, like drops of sun. The smell had changed. It was lemony now.

Oh the way she was at home with them. Oh the way they were at home with her. How they belonged to each other.

So we left her to her beekeeping and wandered around the outbuildings until something else caught my ear—a dull thwacking, which turned out to be the younger woman, around the other side of the goat barn. Splitting wood.

“Hello!” I called. “It wants more milk.”

“Mm.” She drew her forearm across her brow, balanced a new log on the stump. Swung the ax. Once to lodge the head, twice to split the log.

“I can get it myself if you tell me where to find some.”

She tossed the split pieces on the pile, then set a new fat log on the stump. Swung once, twice. Cast the halves aside.

“The pot wasn’t on the stove.”

“We’re not making cheese today.”

I watched her split seven logs, grinding my teeth from the effort to be patient. “I have to go,” I blurted at last. A feeling of urgency swarmed me and I stamped my foot. “I cannot dally!”

“Leave it here,” she offered.

The casualness of her suggestion horrified me. Leave it, as if it were apples and onions. As if it were part of the provisions and not a living thing.

“I’ll feed it when I’m done,” she added.

As if we wouldn’t care about being parted from each other.

“Where’s your baby?” I thought to ask.

“Fi? Asleep.” She jabbed her chin toward a pile of wood chips, on which sat a basket, its contents hidden by a pale blue cloth draped over the handle.