* * *
*
The day after the hanging, Jude woke up before dawn and stood over Marek, who was asleep on the floor, bruised and wheezing from the beating. Jude went out to relieve himself and marveled at the low reach of stars that shone over the manor at the top of the hill. He imagined his cousin was stressed, enraged. Each time the bandits came through, Villiam must suffer a great blow to his pride, Jude thought. He believed that he was lucky to live so close to the manor, because the guards would surely protect him from invasion. They had a clear view down to Jude’s pasture from so high up. But of course, nobody at the manor cared about Jude and his lambs. The clearing of the pasture was only a convenience of security. The guards would see anyone trying to sneak up the side of the mountain from Jude’s land, but they would not protect it. They had no reason to. The bandits would never storm the manor. If they did, they would be met with open arms.
When Jude went back inside, a noxious smell had been loosed in the cottage. Marek had shat his pants. Enraged at this unruliness, Jude shook the boy awake, told him to go wash himself in the stream, and was thus relieved again in his heart—thank God—that he had been right to act with violent hatred against the boy the night before: Marek was a pest. His mother had been smart to abandon him, and God knew it was Jude’s great sacrifice to allow the creature to live out his meaningless life. As usual, Marek was heartened by his father’s renewed disdain, as this made God love him more through pity. But he was weakened in his body. He stumbled in the dimness out toward the stream and washed himself in the cold water. He felt he needed to be restored somehow that day or else he could grow ornery and act out in a way that would displease the Lord. This happened from time to time when his suffering clawed at his inner darkness—he acted savagely, kicking at the lambs and trolling around the village, wishing ill on people. At times like those, Ina was the only one who could ease his spirit.
So later that day, while Jude was out in the pasture, Marek made his way through the valley to her cabin.
‘Come in, Marek,’ Ina called out, detecting the strange rhythm of the boy’s feet on the path. She could hear his breathing was not quite right. She was glad that he had come. She could soothe him and he could do her some favors. She liked to be demanding, and Marek liked to be subservient.
‘Fetch some water from the well, Marek. I’m thirsty,’ she said, not moving from where she’d been perched on the floor, counting out her potatoes. She had reached sixteen potatoes, had them lined up in front of her, and then had lost track of her counting. At her age, in her loneliness, her mind was like a memory of a mind, echoes of birdsong. She’d done everything so many times in her life, she drifted between now and then, often getting lost in between. Her need for food and water was almost trivial, but not quite. She liked to believe on some level that she was inhuman, that God had granted her life after death with one caveat: she might live forever. The slow hell. Marek’s visit broke up the monotony of this timelessness.
He fetched the water, set the small pail down next to Ina, and dunked a cup for her to drink. He held the brim of the cup against her lips.
‘What’s that smell?’ Ina asked.
‘I was sick at night,’ Marek said, unashamedly.
‘No, I smell blood.’
‘Father beat me.’
Ina sipped and sighed and stretched her legs slowly out on the floor. Marek moved the potatoes out of the way.
‘Will you rub my feet, Marek?’
Marek rubbed her feet. It hurt to crouch down. He was sure a few of his ribs had been broken, and his busted jaw made it hard to move his mouth to speak clearly. His tongue was swollen so that when Ina asked, ‘Will you cut me a piece of the bread you brought, Marek?’ and he answered with a woeful lisp, ‘Sorry, I didn’t bring you any bread, Ina,’ she understood that he had been brutalized sufficiently to deserve her comfort. Of course, she already knew he’d brought no bread.
‘Bad boy,’ she said. ‘Help me up.’
Marek lifted Ina up off the floor as best he could. They shuffled together toward the bed.
‘Take off my dress,’ Ina said, standing before him. Marek lifted the scratchy brown fabric, revealing the old woman’s small, childlike legs, her swollen knees, her crumpled torso. ‘Tell me, Marek,’ she said. ‘Why did your father beat you this time?’
Marek liked to make a better story than the truth for Ina. ‘I kissed the bandit in the pillory.’
‘And why did you do that?’