The land is rising and I start to puff a little; my ribs protest the exertion. ‘I told you what would happen. Haven’t younoticed? How he’s slower?’
‘But it’s cold, we’re all slower.’
‘Haven’t you noticed, when he walks, how his feet adhere to the ground?’
She’s silent at that; she’s noticed.
‘That’s because he’s putting down roots. It always happens when they’re left too long. Why do you think I call them “summer husbands”? He’s well past his season, Rhea.’
‘But he’s barely beyond a youth!’
‘Time moves differently for one such as he. His life is… a gifted thing… a stolen thing… he’s not real in that way.’
‘But… I love him… he loves me…’
‘A voiceless husband is a tempting thing, isn’t it? No one to gainsay you, no one to give you orders. There are reasons, Rhea, why I’ve made most of them without speech.’
‘I wonder what he’d say, if he could…’
She’s prone to a child’s romantic imaginings. I think I know what he’d say too; he’s not looked at me the same since the day we came to blows. I know what he’d happily do to me but for the fact that Rhea forbade him from hurting me any more than he already had. I know what I’d happily do to him, but he’s notmyresponsibility. And if I take it out of her hands? She’ll only resent me more – it’s a matter of degree, it hardly matters now, but by the gods I will not clean up her mess!
We come to a wall of trees, old growth, very tall, almost impenetrable so closely they’ve grown together, but I find a break. Before I slip between I stop, wait for Rhea to catch up. The gap will be tight for her but there’s no choice, I’ll pull her through the eye of a needle if I must. ‘Let me show you…’
She struggles but manages to follow me, and we step into a clearing. There, in the middle,hestands.
‘This is what I did,’ I say, very quietly.
‘What? Where?’ Her tone is sharp, until she follows the direction of my finger to the thing that might have become a mighty oak, once, if I’d not interfered.
His face is rough, as rough as a first-time effort, ’prentice work. But you can still see it in the trunk of the stunted thing he’s grown into: half-tree, half-man, perhaps ten feet tall, anchored to the earth by years and deep-delving roots. I can still see, if I peer closely enough, the marks of my knives and chisels. He’s not pretty, just as I told her so long ago; he’s only primitively human-looking to be frank, just as he was when first made. But he wasmine. And I loved him and he loved me in return. He was a salve for a heart broken by Faolan. And because I loved him – because I had so much love that had to go somewhere or become entirely hatred and I didn’t want that – I did a terrible thing.
‘I let him live… let him live beyond his time until I had to pry his feet from the floor of my cottage and put him in a wheelbarrow to push as far away as I could. This was the copse I’d taken him from; I’d liked the oaks, how tall they stood, how strong they looked, how dependable they seemed. When I discarded him, I brought him backhome, into the depths of the forest so that I might not see him, might not stumble upon him. And in all those years I’ve never set foot here again. You need to understand that I made him, and I didn’t give him his proper end. I left him there.’
I don’t go too close, and I speak low, bite back the sobs.His wooden lids are closed, perhaps open just a slit beneath the lashes I’d carved so carefully.
‘But—’
‘Hush,’ I say, holding up my palm. ‘Don’t wake him.’
I can’t bear if he sees me, knows me, if he moans my name, or even simply tries with that mouth surely grown stiff with age, withtreeness.
‘I gave him a tongue – my first mistake – so that when I left, he called for me. I could hear it for the longest while even after I was finally beyond the range of his voice.’
Rhea approaches, tiptoeing across the sparse grass.Don’t touch him don’t touch him don’t touch him, I think but don’t say. Then she makes a decision, stops before she gets too close, retreats, coming to rest next to me. She puts a hand on her belly as if feeling queasy.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks breathily.
‘What I should have done a long time ago.’ Setting an example is the only way to convince her to do what she needs to do. I slip the hatchet from my belt, heft it, wonder if I can actually dothis—
—but I don’t get the chance to find out. I’m hit from behind by what feels like a plank. For the second time in three weeks I’m sent flying, along the dirt and grass; I feel the skin on my face graze, feel pebbles tear the canvas and flesh, feel blood blossom; I think I feel ribs crack this time, and I know at least one of the bones in my left forearm snaps. I cry out, forgetting my fear of being heard for it shrinks beside my fear of dying.
Arlo has followed us. Somewhere in his sleepy tree-brain he decided Rhea wasn’t safe with me. I imagine he’s brokenfrom the barn, followed Rhea with that unerring instinct, determinedly moving while his feet try to set down roots. I’d almost find it admirable, except for his expression, which is murderous to say the least. He moves faster, with less difficulty than recently, fired by rage. I look past him, past my fate, and see Rhea’s face and the terrible truth there. She might never admit it, but it’s clear: she told him to follow us. Was she afraid of me too? Did she slip the bolt on the drying-room door? The barn? Or could she simply not bear to be parted from him, even for a day?
Over my own whimpering I can hear two things: a sort of rhythmic grunt pushed from lips that no longer open properly, and Rhea screamingNo, no, no!
But her summer husband doesn’t listen, merely continues to come at me; I can tell from the way he’s balancing, measuring his steps, that he’s going to kick me, wherever he can. It will probably be enough to finish me. I take a shallow breath, the only sort my agonised ribs will allow, begin to curl in on myself in a feeble hope of minimising the damage, but then there’s a third sound.
Unexpected but not necessarily unwelcome.
