One day, I followed him into Nyossa.
He was inelegant in the forest, despite knowing the territory along the farm well. He did not step with caution, and his progress was so loud he didn’t even begin to hear me, twigs cracking beneath his heavy tread. His skill was for a forge, not stealth in the wild.
He took a winding footpath that I rarely went down as it never yielded to anything but stinging nettles, which were abundant in other parts of the forest. And because I had never ventured far down it, I had never found that past several bends in the path sat a shed in a small clearing made by two felled trees and a tributary of the river.
The shed was shabby, but the roof was packed thickly with vines and moss, and someone had planted flowers along the edges of it.
I squatted between two knotted trees and watched him.
He called out a greeting and the door, which was a flap of cloth, was pulled back. A slim woman that seemed to be several winters younger than me stepped outside, a smile on her pretty face.
“I’ve your needle and thread, lady of the fish,” he said and handed her something small I could not make out.
“Oh thank you,” she sighed. “I don’t know what happened to my needle. Was it hard for you to obtain?”
“I acted like I was on an errand for my wife.”
The woman nodded.
“You should be ashamed,” I said aloud, a frog in my throat.
They did not hear me because Avery had put his hands on his hips and said he had never had trout and that, as he was nearing forty, he’d like to at least try it, and could she get some trout for him?
The woman said, “I only can take what the goddess gives me in the rivers. I cannot custom fish for you.”
“Well, I’ll have to wait for trout, then. What did you give me last time?”
“Pike. It’s apparently a favorite freshwater fish in Tintar.”
“Well I can see why. Me and the wife enjoyed it very much. You know you don’t have to give me a fish as payment. I’m happy to make the sale at the butcher and run your errands. It’s no bother.”
“Well. It is no bother for me to catch one more fish.”
As they bid each other farewell, Avery took one of her hands and kissed the back of it, bowing over it dramatically.
I stood and whirled on my feet, crashing through the brush, not caring what noise I made. At a run, I returned to the farm, too angry to cry, too shocked to speak. I had seen and accepted some of my husband’s flaws, particularly his love of drink, but a wandering eye had never been one. I was at my courses, my cycle’s pains having just begun. It was a day away from my blood. Had I not caught my husband kissing another, younger woman’s hand, I would have still been in a foul mood that day.
I let myself in the gate and stood in the garden, my palms crossed over my chest like Magda had once taught me, as I tried to breathe. A quarter of an hour later, when I heard his approach, graceless and unskilled, I turned towards the tree line and shouted, “Who is she?”
He startled, eyes wide, and then his face fell. “It’s not what you think.”
I began shouting.
Avery stood on the other side of the fence, looking stricken and unsure of himself. He put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
“Robbie. Robbie!” he hollered over me. “I’m not seeing anotherwoman. I’m not breaking my wedding vows. I can’t believe you would think that of?—”
“Why wouldn’t I think that of you?”
“Because I amme,” he cried. “I’m your man. I’ve been your man for—what? Five? Six winters now? My gods, woman.”
“You can’t even remember,” I said wildly, hands flung out in vindication.
“Oh for gods’ sake,” he seethed. “Robbie, I am insulted.”
“Who is she?”
“It’s not my story to tell. I cannot say.”
