But now, Theo and I stand just outside the circle—outside the ring of light from the bonfire—both of us afraid to speak to the others. Fearful that our mouths might betray our minds.
Theo went past the boundary.
Down the road.
And he might have the pox.
Still, when I peer at his skin, the sharpness of his eyes when they glance at me, there are no threads of dark in them.
Night bugs descend down from the trees, and Ava’s three young girls—all tightly wound coils of long black hair and big crescent eyes just like their mother—run figure eights around the adults’ legs, then loop over to the Mabon tree at the center of the circle. In spring, we tie ribbons to the branches of the old oak to celebrate the planting season, and again in the fall to celebrate harvest. And sometimes, the tree is used for other, darker things: to determine if illness resides in a body.
Now, the girls dart around the trunk of the tree, shrieking, “Rot, rot, you’ll soon die of the pox. Rot, rot, they’ll bury you in a coffin box.” Then they sprint out into the rows of corn before anyone can yell after them.
Theo clears his throat, his eyes on the stage, waiting for Levi—he looks as if he’s barely keeping the lie hidden at the base of his throat—and I think of Bee, standing so close to him inside the kitchen, whispering words I couldn’t make out. But when I strode up from the pond and entered the house, Bee was gone, and Theo stood at the sink pretending he had nothing to hide. He thinks I don’t see.
There are trenches in my mind, diverging lines of betrayal and confusion, but mostly fear. I want to trust that he won’t go past the border again. But something in his eyes reveals the curiosity that lives there still.
From our left, Ash and his wife Colette—seven months pregnant—move toward the gathering. For weeks, Ash has been doting on his wife as if she might break, as if the child inside her were a fragile piece of glass. They pause near us, surveying the open benches for a place to sit, and Ash rubs a hand along Colette’s neck. She closes her eyes briefly, tilting her head forward. I can see the weariness in her curved posture—her pregnancy has been difficult, plagued by morning sickness and bouts of dizziness, and she rarely leaves their home at the north side of Pastoral, except for the gatherings.
“Evening,” Ash says softly, giving Theo and me an exhausted look.
“Evening,” Theo responds in kind, nodding. “How are you feeling?” He directs the questions to Colette, keeping up the pretense of normalcy.
Colette turns only slightly, her rounded stomach limiting her movements, eyelids swollen at the edges. She is a slight woman, short in stature and small-boned—even in pregnancy—with glossy brown hair that drapes to her tailbone, and a gentle, uncomplicated way about her. Every movement feels as if she’s gliding through water.
“Well enough,” she replies, circling a hand around the globe of her stomach. “It already feels like I’ve been pregnant a whole year.”
I’ve always liked Colette, and I feel the need to say something comforting, to assure her that it’ll all be worth it once you hold your baby in your arms, or I’m sure most women feel the same as you. But I would also like to avoid any further conversation, any risk that she or Ash might see the secret tucked neatly behind my eyes.
“Let us know if we can do anything to help,” my husband replies, but I can hear the strain in his voice—he wants this conversation to end as quickly as I do.
Thankfully Ash nods and they walk toward the circle, finding a place to sit near the back, talking softly between them—of baby names perhaps, of the crib that Ash has been building, or if they’d prefer a boy over a girl.
We just need to get this over with, I think. Avoid eye contact, keep our heads down, and we won’t have to lie to anyone. But from the corner of my vision, I see Birdie edging her way toward me.
She does it slowly—no loud greetings or outstretched arms to draw me to her. Instead it’s a clandestine effort, and when she reaches me, her head is low. “Warm night,” she says, her flat, terse lips drawn down. Birdie and I have an easy, quiet kind of friendship. She’s taught me how to stitch Theo’s old shirts into sacks for storing flour and grain, the best way to layer compost, and how to can wild blueberries in lemon juice so they don’t turn into lumpy syrup. It’s a friendship of little burden or necessity.
But now, something seems off, and Birdie’s eyes skip around the gathering circle to those standing near us, then touches the old scar on her left elbow, like she could worry it away—some years ago, she sliced it on a metal scythe during the wheat harvest and it healed jagged, a serrated uneven line of pink flesh.