Vixen. Rosie Garland
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Then, one spring, just after Candlemas, he was called to fight in France and we did not see him again. We lacked his body to grieve over, and mourned an emptiness that was without solace. I howled fit to tear the sky in half. I wanted God to tumble through the rift and fall to our patch of earth so that I could stick out my lip and demand, face to face, that He bring Adam back from dust. I was greedy with misery and believed none other felt it but me. No one slapped me out of my selfishness, not even Cat. I wept and wept until, just as suddenly, I stopped.
I woke that morning and watched my soul quit my body, slipping across the sea to join Adam. I became a girl without a shadow, a half-girl. I ate, I slept, I crouched over the bucket and squeezed myself empty, but was as lacking of life as the wooden saints in the church. My hands made gestures, my feet moved when commanded, but I was stiff, carved from some tough material that was no longer flesh.
When I placed myself in the path of the new priest, Father Thomas, I reasoned that it was out of desire and affection, rather than a hunger for possessions to fill the empty place in my soul. I thought to find consolation. Not raising up to an estate I had no right to, but some peace. I wanted a mild man who lifted his hand only to bless me; a modest house to call my home; a son who toddled on fat legs to bury his face in his mother’s lap. I did not start making sense of the world until much later.
I lost the better part of myself when Adam died and did not get any of it back until the Maid came to the village. My Maid, if I may make so bold – and I do, for I have grown courageous. Of all the folk who have burnished my life, she is the one I wish to see the most. She was flint to my iron. Dull as I was, she struck fire and I have burned bright since that first spark.
I think of her always; yet she comes rarely to my mind. It is a conundrum and I apologise. She was never fenced in, not with words and certainly not by any effort of man. I fear I will not capture her, either. But that part of my tale must wait a short while. There is more to tell, and there is time.
Must I speak?
Must I stand here, say my piece? Make my words dance to the cramped tune of quill and ink? Must I squeeze myself onto the scored lines stretched tight across this page of parchment? I have no time for books – not that the likes of me can read them. Wear out my eyes squinting at scribbles when I could be lying on my back looking up at the clouds? I’d rather read their restless journey from lands where no man has set foot, and what they saw there.
I need no one, I want no one and no one wants me. That is the finest way to pass through this world, running so swiftly even the air cannot stick. I shake off everything as a fox sheds its tail when the hounds take hold. I’ll skip through this world tailless rather than not at all.
I scratch my scars: the ones on my back, the ones between my legs, the ones between my ears. They itch, particularly when the wind has a mind to change. This year is such a wild turnabout that the earth creaks with the upside-down, pitch-and-toss of it all. What’s at the end I know not, but a topsy-turvy world suits me. It opens new doors to slide through and leap out onto a different side.
Through it all I sing and dance and keep a step or two ahead of Death. Of course He is always there, but for the most part keeps His distance: playing His pipe on the roof-ridge of the next church but one, supping ale in the tavern I was in yesterday, banging on my neighbour’s door all night. The rat-tat-tat keeps me awake but I do not care, for it is not my door.
This year He draws too close for comfort.
I’m the first to see Him. I’m on the quayside, watching ships come in. He stands on the prow of the largest, waving. I’m the only one to wave back. Even from this distance I can hear Him piping out the mortal tune that is playing across the world, from Jerusalem to Rome and all the way to this slack lump of muck.
A woman at my elbow, head bundled up against the winter, says, ‘Who do you see? Who’s there?’
‘Don’t you see Him?’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘The pestilence!’ I cry.
‘Don’t say that!’ she hisses. ‘What are you trying to do; bring it down upon us?’ I laugh until she twists away, making the sign of horns with her fingers.
The moment the ships tie up, it begins.
I see three ships come sailing in with wine and glass, bolts of cloth and spices, things I may name but never dream of owning. Mooring ropes are thrown out: hands catch them, loop them tight, sew the hulks to the hem of the harbour. Rats skitter down the ropes and into town. The gangplank sticks out its tongue and the hold breathes out. I smell what’s on the air. These ships are spewing out the taste of Death.
I know the truth as I know the lines on my hand: this is the Great Mortality come at last. I see Him: strolling down the walkway, trailing rotten robes, worms tumbling in his wake. He steps on to the quayside, licking His lips, for He loves the savour of man and woman, old and young, rich and poor. I look Him in the eye and He grins.
‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’ He growls, and only I am shrewd enough to hear. ‘Aren’t you fearful of my bony fingers, ready to snatch and snuff you out? Of the smile that stretches to my ears? My wormy guts, the sores and scars and scabs I’m studded with? Doesn’t it make you want to piss yourself and run?’
Of course I’m terrified. Only a simpleton would not be. But I fix His hollow eye with mine and shrug. I’ve seen worse painted on church walls: seen bloodier, blacker, harsher.
‘Let others run, and scream, and fall,’ I say. ‘If it’s really you, I’d rather dance.’ I smile. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. About the fever you bring this year.’
Oh, how He picks up his heels and rattles them along the street! Elbows clattering in and out, knees up, knees down, fingers snapping, clapping His great jaws together, arms a frantic windmill.
‘All fall down!’ He sings.
There’s never been anything so fit to make you roar: we two capering fools, skipping along the harbour wall. I laugh until I ache. Of course, He falls in love with me and I have to dodge His kisses.
‘Marry me!’ He croons. ‘I’ll give you such a dowry as will snatch your breath away! Make you the richest bride in seven kingdoms!’ He promises. ‘I’ll furnish a feast that goes on seven days and seven nights! Silk for your sheets! Wine till you burst!’
But dancing is all I want. So I dance, and watch others die.
The harbour-dwellers are first to sicken. They say it’s foul air brought СКАЧАТЬ