One
Corabeth
Corabeth saw the frost flowers blooming on her window and thought of her mother’s dead body. The crack of ice as she ran barefoot through a frozen puddle eight years ago, the ice slicing into her ankles, still echoed in her darkest dreams. The kind of dreams that had visited her just last night.
Sitting by her window, she was reminded of how all those years ago, she had woken up on a morning just like this and had instantly known that her life had irreparably changed. Each year, the first frost brought with it the knowledge that she would have to walk through a village that held nothing but painful reminders for her. The same pillory, the same muddy roads, the same disdainful faces.
Her bed remained unmade in the corner of the single room that made up the entirety of her house. There were days when even this small space felt too vast. On the table before her was the unwashed bowl of bland oatmeal she’d had for breakfast. Her back was warmed by the stove that still radiated heat, though the fire had gone out some time ago.
Hunched over, sitting on a stool, she threaded the needle and picked up a pair of boys’ trousers with their knees so threadbare they now needed patches. Minnie Weldon had three boys and two girls and was often so overwhelmed with her household that she brought the clothes that needed fixing to Corabeth. Which was lucky for her, because she very much needed thecoin. Winter was near, and she hadn’t managed to gather many provisions.
She still needed flour, root vegetables that would hold over the winter, and Butcher Will had mentioned getting a shipment of salt pork—
Corabeth jumped as she pricked herself with the needle, a bead of red gathering at the tip of her finger. She hurriedly stuck the finger in her mouth so no blood could get on the trousers. They were of a forest green fabric, but Minnie Weldon always inspected her work so meticulously, always pointed out some flaw to avoid paying the full price. Corabeth had taken extra steps this time to give her no reason for complaint.
Movement behind her window caught her eye. Amongst the black gnarled trees and dried up leaves, in stark contrast with the white of the snow and mist, jumped the figure of a single raven.
A small smile spread across Corabeth’s face.
She rose, rummaged around in her puny pantry until she found what she was looking for and, hugging herself for warmth, stepped outside.
Her small one-story house backed onto a patch of forest that ate up most of the natural light. She didn’t remember the trees being quite so close to the house when her mother was still alive. As if the forest was slowly trying to swallow her home.
Mist flowed between the trees like a splash of milk dissolving in water. During her entire lifetime, Corabeth had never seen the fog lifted, had never seen the clouds part to let in a single ray of sunshine. Her life, along with everyone else’s in the village, was spent in the muted light of overcast days.
The raven took flight as Corabeth’s steps crunched on the frozen leaves and landed on a branch, keeping its beady eyes on her. With a tilted head, it watched her approach.
“Why are you still frightened of me?” she asked gently and tossed a handful of dried apple slices on the ground. She fed the ravens of the forest at least a couple of times a week, as often as she could spare her own scraps.
“Sorry, I don’t have anything better at the moment,” she said apologetically.
Corabeth waited for a moment, although she knew the raven would not come get the treats while she was near. In her mind, she considered the ravens that frequented her backyard her friends. A kind of extension of the perpetually misty forest that no one in the village dared enter. She was frightened of the forest just like everyone else. But desperation drove her. She ventured deeper into the trees than anyone else dared in search of firewood for the winter. She could not afford to buy logs. And to quell her fear, she told herself that she was friends with the ravens, that they would protect her. At the very least, warn her when danger was near.
Feeling the chill of late autumn, Corabeth went back inside, a resounding raven cry accompanying her.
When she looked up from the second pair of trousers she was patching up, five ravens were feasting on the dried apples in her backyard.
She added the trousers to the pile of already finished work and stood with a groan, feeling the stiffness in her back and shoulders. She secured a knitted shawl around herself, placed the stitched-up clothes in a drawstring bag, and left the warmth of her house.
A monochrome world greeted her. Houses cut from the same wood, darkened by the same stains. The village of Gravebrook was a measly little thing. A single, wide road ran through it, a row of houses on either side. On the edges of the village, the black branches of the trees reached up towards the sky like the fingers of a starving person towards a meal. And above itall hung the heavy gray clouds, threatening to spill over any moment.
Corabeth did her best not to let her steps falter as she came closer and closer to the pillory. She refused to look at the wooden structure that stood indifferently in the middle of the village. Even still, she couldn’t help seeing it from the corner of her eye. Couldn’t help the echoes of that day that streaked across her vision, the jeering of the crowd that still haunted her.
A flash of a memory.
The stringy black hair of Corabeth’s mother hangs in front of her face as she bears her punishment in stubborn silence. A gloating crowd standing in a semicircle. Then, someone throws the first rotten piece of food. Others join. Corabeth runs up to her mother and does her best to shield her from the onslaught. The rotten food turns to manure, then to rocks. Corabeth feels a sudden pain in her head, and something warm trickles down the side of her face before the Marshal runs out and disperses the crowd.
Then the flash was over, and Corabeth had traveled past several houses without noticing. She had to blink away the tears that threatened to wet her cheeks.
Grief still hung around her like a heavy cloak, making every day just a little bit harder. She had learned to live with it, to drag around its weight. Over time, the edges of it wore away, but she never quite managed to shake it off. She still kept her mother’s hairbrush next to hers. The top drawer of the dresser was still filled with her mother’s dresses. That was everything that was left of her mother. A hairbrush, some threadbare dresses and memories that stung.
All the way on the other side of the village, Corabeth stepped onto the porch of the Weldon house, stomping the mud off her boots, and knocked. At two stories high, the Weldon house was nearly thrice the size of Corabeth’s.
Inside, the excited squeal of a child and soft trampling. A boy about eight years old opened the door and stared up at her with his watery blue eyes.
“Milton, what have I said about opening the door?” Minnie shouted, coming up from behind and walloping him across the head with a towel. Not hard, but enough to make the boy flinch and pull his head between his shoulders.
“Sorry,” he muttered and turned away, disappearing into the house.
