BONE HOUSE (9 page)

“Mother,” I say. She stops and looks at me.

“The baby,” I say. “How was the birth?” She pauses for a moment, then returns once again to the dough, flipping it over and reaching for more flour.

“It was still,” she says, her voice as flat as glass.

After a moment she finishes her kneading, placing the dough on the stone hearth to rise. She brushes the flour from her hands.

“Stay with the boy,” she says. “I have some business to attend to.”

“At this hour?” I ask. “Can it not wait until morning?”

“It is best done now,” she says with a weary sigh. She puts on her wrap and then crosses to the fireplace, taking up a small iron shovel. “I won’t be long,” she says. I follow her to the door, and just outside she pauses, picking up something lying to one side in the dark.

“Mother?” I say, from the doorway. She turns to me. My eyes
drift down to the burden in her hand: a lumpy, dirt-stained sack of cloth.

“Where are you going?”

“To bury the child,” she says.

I look at the cloth, see now that the dark stain upon one side is the color of dried blood. “The child is here? Why?”

“I made a promise to the mother . . . to give the baby a proper burial.” She stares at the sack lying heavily in her hand, cannot meet my eyes. “She had concealed the pregnancy. It was a bastard child. That is all.”

“Where will you go?” I ask.

“To the clearing behind our house. I’ll not be seen there.” She is right: the clearing behind our house is well concealed and rarely entered by anyone but ourselves.

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“No,” she says, much to my relief. “Stay with the boy.” And with that she turns and goes, never once meeting my own bastard gaze.

I close the door and return to the fire, taking up the iron poker and prodding it absently, the bloodstained sack like a stubborn weed planted resolutely in my brain. It is not the first time I have seen her with a sack of blood: the other night in my dream it was much the same. But I know that the real image, the seed, is from another, earlier time.

When I was eight, I secretly followed my mother in the dead of night to Dora’s house. Her time had come, and I was determined to unravel the mysteries of my mother’s nocturnal life, with or without her permission. And so it was I came to witness my first birth. I followed my mother through the cold, damp night, and perched outside the cottage, peering through a chink in the rough-hewn walls. When we arrived, Dora was already deep within the throes of labor. Her hair was wet and matted, her face an unearthly pink in the glow of the firelight. She wore a simple
nightdress, pulled up to reveal the cream of her large thighs, and was crouched by the bed on all fours. I watched as my mother coaxed her onto the bed. She took out a cone-shaped instrument from her bag, one that I had seen her use countless times before in her examinations, and pressed it hard against Dora’s abdomen, her face taut with concentration as she listened for the life inside. Dora moaned, and my mother laid a hand upon her shoulder to silence her, and then there was nothing but the spitting of the fire. I watched my mother’s face, the look of intensity in her eyes as she strained to hear the life within. After some moments, she shut them tightly, as if to block out everything, and both women remained frozen for what seemed an eternity, Dora scarcely daring to breathe. And then her body jerked with a spasm of pain, and her deep moan split the silence. My mother opened her eyes, and I saw at once the uneasiness they held. Dora rolled over onto her stomach, her haunches slipping to the floor. She stretched her arms across the bed, her face buried in the bedclothes, her upper body heaving with the effort. And then I saw the blood spill forth from between her split-wide legs.

My mother crouched below her, one hand reaching up into her womb, the look of concentration still heavy upon her face. After a few moments, she removed her arm, now stained with blood, and moved round to face her. She took her by the shoulders and spoke directly to her with some force.

“The baby is sideways,” she said. “There is no sound of life.” Dora panted and blinked and then once again was gripped by pain. My mother released her shoulders and stepped back, and I watched in horror as Dora squatted and pressed down with all her might. The sounds coming from her throat made my blood run cold: a deep, low growl that was more animal than human. The blood spurted forth anew, and I thought for a moment that she would lose her insides. Instead, a tiny hand appeared between her legs, small and purple and limp. My mother leaned forward again, and grasped her shoulder.

“The baby is dead. I must act quickly. Do you understand?” She said, her voice rising to a near shout. Dora nodded, blowing and puffing, her eyes wide, and then she threw her head back and roared, the sound reverberating in my ears for days afterward.

What I saw next I have since tried to forget. I saw my mother pull the arm as far as it would come, and then taking up a knife, I saw her cleave it from the body. It fell loose onto the floor, like a tiny stick of kindling, then she reached both hands inside the womb and pulled forth a mass of blood and bones and membranes, quickly stuffing all of it into a sack of hemp which she had ready at her feet. After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up the arm and dropped it in the sack. She crouched in silence by Dora’s side. After another minute, she reached again between her legs, and I thought another child would emerge, but this time it was only blood and membranes. These she stuffed as well into the sack, then bundled it tightly and carried it to the door, depositing it just outside, only a few feet from where I crouched in the darkness.

She returned then to Dora, who squatted silently against the bed, chest heaving, her face turned toward the wall. She had not seen what I had seen, though I have no doubt that she must have known. My mother picked up a cloth and began to wipe the blood from between her legs, and when she was through she eased her up onto the bed. Dora’s hair was matted with sweat and when she turned over I saw that her eyes were dull and lifeless. My mother covered her with bedclothes and within moments she had closed her eyes and fallen into sleep.

I looked down at the bloodstained sack lying just outside the door and felt my stomach heave. I stood and backed away from it, turned and ran as fast as my legs would carry me to the cottage. Once home I climbed into bed and lay awake shivering in the darkness, my throat bone-dry, my body taut with memory. How had she known the baby was dead? I asked myself over and over. “I must act quickly,” she had said. Had she sacrificed the
child for the mother? And would she have done the same to me, in order to save herself?

When she returned I feigned sleep, scarcely breathing as she readied herself for bed. Once or twice when her back was turned I opened my eyes to look at her. I do not know what I expected: a mark or sign of what had happened, I suppose, but I saw nothing other than the usual weariness. In the morning, she went about her business as usual. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I asked about the baby, and she told me only that it had been born dead. She said nothing of the other: the dangling arm, the bloodstained cleaver, the roar of anguish, the bag of hemp. Nothing of the things that mattered, the things that plagued my mind.

It was some days before I saw Dora, and when I did she too bore no trace of what had gone before. She was splitting logs with an ax in the clearing behind her cottage, and I approached slowly, cautiously, as if she was a creature too delicate to behold. But of course, she was not, and as she turned and caught my eye, I saw nothing of her previous anguish. She stopped immediately and laid the ax to rest, extending a hand toward me. I moved slowly, my feet sluggish with the memory.

She must have sensed my unease, for she planted herself upon a thick stump of wood and pulled me onto her knee, her great arms wrapped round me in the kind of embrace my mother never gave. I buried my face in her neck and breathed deeply of her smell: strong and mossy, the damp, wild scent of the forest. She held me there upon her for a long time, rocking me slowly to and fro, and for those few minutes I imagined that it was I, not the other, who had sprung from between her legs.

I never heard another word about that baby. It lived and died within me only.

A
fter my mother returns I go in search of Mary at the alehouse. When I enter, the room is full and noisier than usual. Mary is behind the bar filling jugs of ale as fast she can. She catches my eye and nods toward the kitchen, and I go within where it is warm to wait for her. It is some minutes before she is free, and I occupy myself with a joint of mutton that is roasting on the fire, turning it and basting as I go.

“Lord, they drink like fools tonight,” says Mary as she enters, her hands full of empty wooden platters. She deposits them on the table and wipes her hands on a grease-stained apron. “If you ask me, it is fear that makes them thirsty,” she says.

“Fear,” I say. “Of what?”

“Of her,” says Mary. “Or her ghost, whichever be the source of the stories.”

“What stories?” I ask.

“Have you not heard?” I stare at her uncomprehendingly. “She’s been seen,” she says. “In Chepton town.”

“When? By whom?” I ask.

She shrugs. “ ’Tis only a rumor. But it has them drinking like a herd of horses,” she says with a toss of her head toward the other room.

I frown. Can it be that my mother is wrong?

“He is there as well,” says Mary, interrupting my thoughts. “Your friend, the painter.” She begins to scour the platters in a
bucket. I go to the door and peer within. He is alone in the corner by the fire, once again sketching, a tankard of ale by his side. “Does he speak to anyone?” I ask.

“I did not know he had a voice,” she says with a laugh.

I think again of his questions: they were not asked in idleness. It interests him, this business of Dora’s disappearance:
she
interests him, though I do not know why. Truly her allure extends beyond the grave.

“What does he draw?” I ask.

“People,” she says with a shrug. “Rough sketches only, as far as I could make out.”

“This business of Chepton. When did you hear it?”

“This night only. From some farmers who’d been to market.”

I shake my head. “ ’Tis nothing but a fancy tale,” I say. Mary picks up a tray and heads for the other room, pausing just before. She turns to me with a piercing look.

“’Tis a tale
she
might have told,” she says, and disappears behind the door.

The following day my mistress is unwell, and she elects not to sit for the painter. She is disappointed by the process: it does not hold her interest as she thought it would, or perhaps it is his manner that puts her off. She sends a message via Rafe that he will not be needed in her chamber that day, that he may attend her son instead, if he is willing. Then she sends for Lucius, and I am kept occupied with Scripture reading for the remainder of the morning, as we await his arrival.

Eventually she dozes off, much to my relief, for I find I do not have the patience for Scripture these last few days. I take up my sewing, but before I can progress Alice comes to the door, saying that my master has requested me to attend him in the library.

“For what purpose?” I ask her, a little startled, for he is not in the habit of sending for me.

“I know not,” she says with a sniff. “Only that the painter is
there with him. Perhaps my master desires your good opinion of his likeness,” she says in a teasing voice.

As I make my way toward the library, I can think of only the money and the vial, the two things that tie me to him. When I arrive I find them taking wine, apparently awaiting me. The painter sits to one side, his satchel at his feet, his easel standing to one side, a blank piece of paper pinned to it. My master jumps up nervously as I enter, and ushers me inside with unusual politeness, adding to my growing sense of unease. He thanks me for coming so promptly and offers me a drink, which I decline. Then he gives a little cough and glances over at the painter.

“I have asked the painter to carry out a private commission,” he begins self-consciously. “It is a portrait of sorts . . . though not my own,” he adds hastily. “It is my great desire that he undertake a portrait of
her,
and he has kindly agreed to oblige me.” He stops then and regards me hopefully, almost as if he is awaiting my approval. I say nothing, dumb with surprise, and in a moment he turns away, crossing over to the window.

“I thought that using my description, I could assist . . . or enable him to render her likeness, but I find that I have not the facility, nor the heart, for such a task,” he says, looking out upon the grounds.

“Had the body not been taken, it might have been possible . . . if only for a few moments, for him to catch a glimpse . . .” His voice drifts off to almost nothing, then he coughs and clears his throat. “But such a course is not available to us, so we must seek other avenues. You have proven that both your loyalty and your discretion are beyond question. You knew her well, I believe, and you are capable of fine expression. I would be extremely grateful if you could assist us in our endeavor.”

He pauses, awaiting my answer. I look from him to the painter and back again, speechless.

My silence he interprets as acquiescence, and with a sigh of
relief, he clasps his hands together. “I cannot thank you enough,” he says fervently, his relief almost palpable. “And I shall remain forever in your debt.” He looks from me to the painter, and a taut triangle of silence stretches out between us. Then he limps slowly to the door, where he pauses, his hand upon the door. “You will have no need of me,” he says. “My presence here will only serve as a distraction. If you’ll excuse me, I shall leave you to your task.” He nods to the painter, then turns back to me. “I shall go directly to my mother, to make your excuses, so that time will not constrain you,” he says, and then he lurches from the room, and we listen in silence to his labored gait upon the stair.

I am almost numb with surprise and disbelief. The painter clears his throat, awaiting my response.

“He wishes you to paint her?” I ask finally.

“Yes,” says the painter.

“And I am to . . . describe her?” I cannot keep the incredulity from my voice.

“Yes,” he says, almost matter-of-factly.

“Is such a thing possible?” I ask.

“That depends on you,” he says. “Your master was not . . . equal to the task.” I stare at him. There is a glimmer of amusement in his eye, as if he secretly relishes my master’s incompetence, as if he is taunting me to display my own.

“And you are?” I reply.

“I believe so, yes.”

“But your success depends on mine.”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says with a shrug.

I smile: he cannot say it. “Then you are in my hands,” I say.

His affirms this with a slight nod. “I suppose I am.”

I rise and cross to the window, just as my master has done before me. The day is cold and gray and lifeless: the death that is winter. The grass in the orchard is dotted here and there with patches of icy snow, and in the distance, a farmer leads an ox
along the road, his body doubled over to avoid the icy wind. I try in vain to conjure up her face, and like a willful child, it eludes me. After a moment I turn back to him.

“The other day, your questions . . . you knew of this before?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“And my mistress?”

“She knows nothing,” he says.

“And if I refuse?” I say.

He shrugs. “Then he must learn to live without her,” he says, seemingly indifferent. I presume he is not indifferent to his commission.

“Just as the rest of us must do,” I say. We regard each other silently for a moment, and then I turn back to the window, search the fields once again for her face. This time she comes to me in fragments: I see her eyes, and in the next instant, her hands, their long slender fingers stretched in front of me. But try as I might, I cannot see the whole. I shake my head from the effort, turn and cross the room to pour myself a glass of wine, which I stand sipping quietly for a moment. I do not for a moment believe that such a thing is possible, that through my memory and my words I can bring her to his canvas. But something in me wants to try.

“How do we proceed?” I say finally. He regards me for a moment, then reaches down to his case and retrieves a lump of charcoal, the sort I have seen him with at night, when he sketches in the tavern. He reaches for the easel, repositions it closer to him, turning the blank sheet away from me.

“Tell me everything,” he says. “Everything that you remember. Start at the beginning.”

And so I do.

As I speak, he begins to draw, his hands moving rapidly, fluently across the page. From time to time he reaches for a clean sheet,
pinning it atop the others, and begins to sketch anew. I tell him of my earliest memory: the feel of her drum-tight belly against my brow, the color of her speckled eyes. I tell him of her stories, and of the light in her face when she told them. I tell him of the others: the ones that came to see her, the look of them as they entered, and the step of their gait when they took their leave. I tell him of the boy, her son, and of his appetite, and of his endless, gaping loyalty to her. I speak for what seems like hours, but contrary to his request, I do not tell him everything. That is my prerogative: I pick and choose from my memory as one might from a banquet table. I do not speak of the money hidden beneath her floorboards, nor of the tears of blood upon her death-dress, nor of the reach of the tiny arm from deep within her. These things I keep to myself, though they come to me frequently, hovering about my mind like moths worrying a flame.

At length I pause, regarding him, and eventually he lifts his eyes from the page.

“What do you draw?” I ask.

“Your words,” he says. “Your stories. It helps me to concentrate. And to remember.”

“May I see them?” I ask.

“If you wish,” he replies, his eyes meeting mine in a sort of challenge.

But something in me does not wish to see it.

“Perhaps later,” I reply.

If he is disappointed, he does not show it.

“Is there more you wish to tell me?” he asks. It is an innocent enough question, but it unsettles me, for I realize suddenly that what I have told him is not the story of her life, but the story of my life with her. And in that instant I am aware that my portion of her life was like a tiny crumb out of the whole—and the idea that I was not privy to it all leaves me with a deep feeling of resentment.

I cannot tell him that I do not mourn her death, but the lack
of her in my life—a thought which strikes me as unbearably selfish. The painter peers at me.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I look around and see that darkness has fallen outside. I feel as if I have been drained of her—and am tired from the effort of remembering. My head has begun to ache, and my throat is parched and sore.

He lays aside his charcoal with a sigh, and I sense that he too is tired.

“We will stop now,” he says. “Tomorrow we will begin in earnest.”

I watch him remove the pages from the easel, wondering what excuse my master has given to his mother. He carefully rolls them up, securing them with a string. Then he removes a blackened cloth from his satchel and wipes the charcoal from his hands.

“I suppose you find us rather curious,” I say.

He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. “All people are curious,” he says. He does not even grant us the distinction of oddity.

“These past few days . . . my master has been greatly affected,” I say. “He is not himself.”

“I envy him,” he says with sudden intensity. “I envy his devotion.” His eyes have deepened somehow and his cheeks have filled with color. And then he coughs and looks away, his embarrassment evident. Though I have talked for hours, my words nearly filling up the room, he has said almost nothing, except this last, lone utterance. It has escaped him, like a loose page fallen from a book, and as I watch him cross the room, I can already read his regret.

When he reaches the door it dawns on me that I have forgotten about the portrait in her cottage. “Meet me at the tavern this evening,” I say. “There is something I must show you.”

He turns to me and nods, and then he is gone, leaving me to face the falling darkness.

*        *        *

That night I return to Long Boy’s house to collect the miniature. As always, my mother is there when I arrive, but she is bone-tired and needs little coercion from me to return home. Long Boy’s fever has abated but there is a glassiness in his eyes that I find disconcerting, as if the illness has left a residue behind. He does not speak, merely lies in bed and stares at the wall. I offer him food but for once he declines, though after a time he accepts a cup of warm broth.

I wait until he falls asleep, then remove the miniature from its wooden box and hide it under my kirtle. I hurry along to the alehouse, thinking I will only stay a short while, long enough to meet the painter and show him the portrait. But when I arrive he is not yet there, so I go to the kitchen to await him.

Samuell is on his knees tending the fire when I enter, his face reddened from the heat and his hands covered in ash.

“What news of Chepton?” I ask him straightaway.

“I saw no ghosts, if that is your meaning,” he says, standing up and brushing soot from his legs. “Nor corpses either,” he adds with a smile. I think of his face the other night when he burst into the room: the whiteness of his pallor and the look of fear within his eyes.