He covered his small eyes with his little palms.
"I'll start counting."
"No, stop," she said.
He pulled his hands from his face and grabbed the pail at his leg; the reflection of the crimson moon shivered on the water's surface.
"Alright, then let's make a mud cake."
"No… my mother will scold me if I'm late for dinner."
An owl skimmed above their heads, hooting as it rose into the sky before a vast crimson full moon. They walked toward the cottage while, in his imagination, he watched their shadows crawling alongside them, and her beautiful hand—seven years old. He remembered his friend Ron; he always said whoever held a girl's hand for twenty seconds would end up marrying her. He studied her rosy fingers and swallowed. Twenty seconds and she'll be my wife; that means we'll live in the same house and play hide-and-seek forever. He smoothed the pocket that hid his lucky charm: a paper with a drawing of a white flower before a cottage—a birthday gift for her. He hadn't been able to show it to her yet, but surely she would love it; all girls loved flowers. And because it was on paper, it would last forever—unlike a real flower; even after a hundred years, when they were both a hundred and seven, the flower would still be as lovely as it was beside them now. Of course there would be no need for children; just the two of them forever, far from the cruel grown-ups.
He pointed at their shadows. "Let's make shapes with our shadows."
"No. Mother will punish me and won't let me play in the yard again." She pointed to his pocket. "What's in your pocket?"
His heart thudded. He gulped and clutched the pocket.
"My pocket?"
"Yes, you idiot."
Liam hadn't slept the night before; he'd rushed the hours along just to show her his magnificent present. But what if she doesn't like it? He slid his rough hand into his pocket and pulled out the brown paper, crumpled and wrinkled as if a dog had chewed it and spit it out. She took it and unfolded it, staring. He said,
"It's for your birthday."
She studied it in the moonlight.
"For my birthday?"
He searched her face and saw no change—no smile, no widening eyes. He stepped beside her, staring at his drawing too; the flower looked ugly with all its crooked lines, and drops of water had seeped in and smudged the ink. She pointed at the ink-scribble behind the flower—the cottage that was supposed to be the one they'd live in when they married—before the water melted the lines into a dreary black smear.
"What's this?"
He rubbed the back of his head.
"Our cottage… I mean your house. Don't you like the gift?"
Rory rolled the paper and tucked it into her skirt pocket.
"I do, but I don't think it will be as wonderful as the gift my father will give me. He gave me a red bicycle for my sixth birthday, and now I'm excited for today's gift."
She turned and strolled toward the cottage.
"Your house is far, and you'll be late getting back. Won't your father scold you for being late?"
Liam remembered the headstones of his parents and his mad uncle—no doubt waiting by the door now with a stick in his hand. A sting bloomed in his backside, as if it could already feel the beating waiting for him. But if the price was playing with Rory, he had no complaint.
"No. They're used to it."
"You're so lucky."
She climbed the cottage steps and waved.
"Come tomorrow so we can play with my gift."
"Alright," he said, already drifting into the wonder of what might astonish Rory. Maybe a puppy.
Rory skipped inside, spinning, and her pregnant mother closed the door behind her. Silence settled. A breeze teased the hair at his forelock as the crickets sang and a blood-red moon sailed the night like a drop of crimson sliding down the cheek of darkness. He planted his feet in the dust and stared at the cottage, wondering. What if we lived together? And why is her house so far from mine?
A cold scent slipped into his nostrils—strong jasmine. He pressed his nose to his shoulder and sniffed; it reeked with the bitter smell of his sweat. Of course his aunt-by-marriage wasn't foolish enough to perfume his filthy clothes with expensive jasmine. He turned in a circle looking for whoever might be wearing jasmine, but there was no one; even the black-stoned lane had been empty of carts for hours, except the only one in sight—Mr. Rick's abandoned cart, settled as usual behind the cottage facing the dining-room windows. Since "Lori," the mare that had hauled it, died months ago, it had sat there in the yard.
He looked toward the dark fields that led to his uncle's house, then back at Rory's cottage. He knew he should go if he didn't want regret, but he hadn't gotten to play much with her today; she'd said she would stop playing and grow up quickly to care for her sister once her mother gave birth. Liam imagined two Rorys bouncing beside him, making mud cakes with him. He ran a hand through his hair, puzzled over which of them he would marry if there were two.
Laughter drifted out from the cottage. Curiosity tugged him. He slipped off his sandals so his feet would tread the earth without a sound. Pressing against the wall, he crept around to the dining-room windows opposite the abandoned cart. The wooden shutters were open just enough to peer through. He found them at the table: Rory in her chair beside her mother and, opposite them, Mr. Rick—Rory's father—sitting with his arms folded, glowering at his daughter while she patted her mother's swollen belly. The fire gnawed the logs in the hearth; the table was laid with many dishes—from chicken broth to cake. He swallowed and tried to drag his eyes from the food, but the smell of bread coaxed his nose and set his saliva flowing again.
The mother's hair was yellow and curly like her husband's; there was no comparing either to their daughter's hair, black as coal, falling over her neck and cheeks like silk. The mother took Rory's hand and placed it upon her belly. "Do you feel her?"
Rory laughed and looked at her father. "Yes, I feel her! I feel her!"
Her mother stroked her cheek. "I visited Mary today, and for some reason she hardly spoke to me."
"But we didn't play near her cornfield."
"Then why is she acting that way with me?"
"Mother… do you want me to cry?"
"No, no. I believe you. I was only wondering. Don't worry—no one dares make my little Ree cry while I'm here."
Rory lifted her brows at her father with a smile—a little move she did whenever she wanted to boast. Her mother added,
"Mrs. Mary says I might give birth to a girl… but what if the baby is a boy?"
Rory shook her head.
"No. How would I play with him if he's a boy?"
"But you always play with that boy—the one who comes from far away to play with you. I thought you liked playing with boys."
"I used to like playing with him, but our games have become boring. They aren't wonderful anymore like they were."
Liam clenched his fist. His breath quickened. He'd thought she liked playing with him. Hearing her talk about him like that made her feel out of reach, as if he'd never get to play with her again.
Rory pulled a brown, crumpled paper from her skirt pocket—one Liam knew too well. He swallowed as she handed it to her mother.
"He said it's for my birthday."
Her mother opened it and turned it over until she smiled. Rory added,
"He didn't draw the flower as well as you do, Mother."
Liam pressed his lips together against the urge to cry. She didn't know how many hours it had taken him to draw it that way.
"It's a lovely gift," her mother said. "Is he used to drawing?"
"No, Mother."
"Then he must have spent a long time on it, and all for your birthday."
Rory turned to her father. "But it isn't as great as Father's gifts."
"Rory, gifts don't have to be fancy. Think only of the time that boy took out of his day to give you something beautiful."
"But why would he struggle if he knew it wouldn't be wonderful?"
The mother sighed and set the paper aside. She pushed a white cake toward her daughter and began planting red candles in it.
"Wait, don't light them yet," Rory said, staying her mother's hand.
"Why?"
"Put the presents on the table first."
"This is my present," her mother said, striking a match.
"The cake!? That doesn't count, Mother. What about Father?"
The father stared at his daughter, distant. Her mother said, "Your father is busy all week… very busy. He spends his days at the tavern and at night he stares at the ceiling for hours, dull-eyed, not speaking. No one knows what's wrong with him. Perhaps it would be better for him to go back to work instead of spending his leave at home if the house angers him so much."
Mr. Rick rubbed his brow and stared from where he sat at his wife's belly.
"You've reminded me of that day—when I was fixing the cart last week." The mother rattled pots and spoons; he paused, watching her for a moment, then went on. "Some men from the village came to help, them and their boys. John—who lives at the far end—came with his little son to help me. We were setting the wheels and laughing, and John pointed at his boy, asking whether there was any resemblance between them. The likeness was clear—both had blue eyes and brown hair… even the hooked nose the boy had was the same. He was pleased when we told him they looked alike, and he kept teasing about how his wife always says she's the one the boy resembles, not him. We bickered and laughed for a long while." He drew a long breath. "When we finished the cart, we went to the village market, and I found myself, without knowing it, studying the families there—fathers and sons, mothers with their daughters in their arms, boys chasing one another in the lanes—trying to see the resemblance in their eyes, their hair, their walks." He stared at the ceiling and smiled weakly, then lowered his gaze to his wife, face flushing. "I discovered something that day I'd never noticed before. Do you know what I found?"
Rory's mother sipped and stared into her cup, as if uninterested. Her husband continued, "Everyone in the village had blond or red hair. Me and you and every woman and man here—we all share the same color. I sat there two more hours, just to be sure out of curiosity, to see if anyone had a color other than blonde. Nothing. And when I stood to leave, something made me turn back—and my eyes fell on someone's hair. Black hair. Short." He clenched his hands. "A handsome man. A familiar man." He flicked his eyes east. "Our bachelor neighbor… George himself."
Rory's mother set down her cup and leaned back into her chair. She looked at her daughter, then at her husband. Her voice came hoarse.
"I don't understand what you mean."
"Wait—let me finish. I'm sure the next part is more exciting than it sounds." He smiled at Rory. "Don't you think so, Rory?"
"I do, Father," Rory said.
Her father returned to his wife. "You see? She finds it exciting. But do you know what's truly exciting? When, having searched and searched and found no one with black hair except damned George, I came home and knocked and my daughter jumped into my arms to hug me—her hair black, running like silk between my arms."
The mother snatched up her cup and hurled it at him. It brushed his cheek and shattered against the wall; his eyes didn't even flinch or widen with anger. She screamed, "What do you mean by that!?"
Rory trembled, terrified, and Liam panicked—almost bolted—if not for his worry for Rory. The husband stretched his legs beneath the table and pointed at her swollen belly.
"I don't know. Or why don't you say the thing in your belly has black hair too!"
Liam saw Rory's mother wipe at her tears and scream, "You're vile."
He shook his head and held his palm out in the air as if measuring someone short.
"How I miss the little girl you were when I married you. You always smiled—pure and innocent—gliding through the house like a cool breeze. Who would have thought that girl would grow into a wanton woman? Tell me—how does it feel when you see me leave for work and you're left alone?"
"Shut up! Shut that filthy mouth! Me? I do that? Me?" She pointed at her daughter. "And you could find nothing but to accuse me in front of my girl? All this over black hair?"
"Why are you so tense if you're as innocent as you claim? Huh? You run to him, don't you, you—" he spat a slur, "—as soon as I leave, isn't that right?"
"Listen, you—close your mouth in front of her. I didn't do it—I swear on my daughter I didn't. But how could you believe me when your rotting mind is worm-eaten with drink?"
He slammed his fist on the table, and the cups spilled over the cloth.
"Don't drag liquor in here to paint me a reprobate. Yes, I drank and drank—but I never touched a woman. Never. Except one. The one who claims to be chaste but behind the curtain is nothing but a faithless whore."
Rory's mother snatched the bowl before her and flung it at him, then another, until Mr. Rick's clothes were soaked and filthy.
Her lips shook. "You know what? I hate you. You have no idea how much I hate you."
He pressed his mouth thin, shaking his head, wiping his waistcoat.
"Good. Good. You couldn't stand the sight of me from the start—and I don't blame you. How could I, when I keep ruining your chance to meet him every time I come home? As they say, a single heart can't hold two people at once."
She grabbed a knife and raised it to throw, but her hand froze at the sound of Rory's sob. Liam watched the tears shine on his beloved's cheeks before she burst into crying. Something scorched in his chest—he had never seen her so… small. He wished he could hurl rocks at them, or be brave and take her hand and lead her away from that cottage.
The parents noticed their daughter. The mother let the knife fall and wrapped Rory in her arms, patting her back.
"It's alright, sweetheart. It's alright. I'm sorry. Please, my love—don't cry."
"You're fighting."
"I know, darling. I know."
She turned on her husband.
"Do you see what your vileness does?"
The father reached out his hand.
"Come here, my dear. Come—don't be afraid."
She rose from her chair and went to him; he put his arms around her.
"My darling… you know I can't live without you. Never. Your father just lost his temper a little." His eyes filled and he turned away from her—and cried.
"What's wrong, Father?"
He shook his head, looking down, sobbing; the lock of hair on his brow trembled.
"You're crying?" Rory asked.
He gasped, screwing up his face as if swallowing a shout that had almost escaped. He sniffled and wiped his reddened eyes, and pointed at the candles, their wicks nearly spent on the cake.
"M–my darling… why don't you blow the candles so your gift can reach you—like always?"
Rory stepped toward her cake and blew them out, her gentle smile returning. No sooner had the flames died than someone knocked at the door. Liam startled; he hadn't sensed anyone outside but himself. He wanted to see who it was, but feared the scolding if her parents saw him, so he stayed where he was.
The parents stared at one another in silence while the firelight danced its shadows in their eyes.
"My love," the father said, frowning, "it's your gift."
Rory ran to the door. Her mother stared at her husband. Mr. Rick, weeping, told his wife,
"You're the reason for all this."
Her eyes widened. She turned to her daughter.
"Don't open the door!"
The little girl stopped, hands on the latch, staring at her mother. The mother fixed her husband with a trembling voice.
"What am I the reason for? Rick, I know you—and I know you're planning something. Please, my dear… tell me what you intend. Who is at the door?"
He shook his head, pressing his lips to hold back the obvious urge to cry.
"Mary told me today that I'm sterile." He gasped, covering his face with his palm, then nodded to his daughter. "Open it."
The girl slid back the bolt. "Rory, don't—!" her mother cried, but the hand was faster than the warning. The door swung, and there in the frame stood a towering man with eyes burning red as embers and a white cloak. He drew his fingers through the air, vertical before Rory's face, as if slicing a sheet of nothing.
"If you'll excuse me," he said.
A red light flared before her, tossing her locks; then another beam exploded like a blade at her face with a cracking report, and beautiful Rory flew back, cleaved in two from the crown of her head to the parting between her lovely legs, her pieces raining across the table before the eyes of her parents and Liam. The mother shrieked like a madwoman, shaking the halves of her daughter upon the board.
Liam lost his breath at the sight of her bloodied cheek and splayed fingers on the table. She looked like an offering to a demon. His jaw trembled; his tongue tied; he didn't know how to scream or even breathe. He stared at the hood of the awful man at the door, at the glow of his eyes. He took two steps back and bumped into something. Terrified, he turned—and found another tall man, white-cloaked, with a red glow for eyes inside his hood. A smile tugged the man's lips. He set a hand on Liam's head and turned his face toward the window, like ordering him to watch what would happen inside. The man's hand was huge—white, bloodless, lifeless. He whispered in Liam's ear, and the boy's skin prickled.
"Stay where you are… and don't move."
He took Liam's right hand and scratched around his wrist with a nail, drawing a ring of little cuts. Then he set that sharp nail against Liam's throat and drew it slowly.
"Don't move… or you'll hurt a lot."
Liam let his bladder go, soaking his trousers, and didn't dare look away as he'd been ordered. The man released him and went in with his grim companion while Rory's mother keened.
The mother hurled herself at her husband, knocking him down; she fell beside him, hammering him with her fists and screaming,
"Damn you, damn you, damn you!"
A shadow fell across her. She turned and saw her daughter's killer towering behind. She stared up at him, cheeks quivering. He was truly enormous, as if just crawled from a nightmare. He reached a hand toward her. She scrambled backward, sobbing, pleading,
"Please, sir—stop. Please."
He slid his fingers through the air like a knife.
"I won't spare her belly… will I?"
Sprawled on the floor, Mr. Rick shielded his face with his arm.
"Just… do it."
His wife turned to him.
"No! Please, my love—tell him to stop. Rick, I swear I didn't—"
The man drew his fingers straight down through the air, and the mother—and her belly, and the wall behind—split as if made of butter. Liam's eyes flared as a pool of blood spread around Rick's splayed body. I'm going to be killed soon—without a doubt. He cast his eyes toward the fields behind him. I have to run! The neighbors' lights were far. No matter how fast his feet were, he would never make the next house for help. He panted. What will he do to me when he comes back? I'll be killed for sure. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't move. I can't do it.
He searched under the moonlight and found nowhere to hide except the abandoned cart. He bolted, tucked himself behind it by the wheels. His legs trembled; he dropped to his knees and vomited. From beneath the cart he saw two pairs of legs step out of the cottage; his breath went ragged—as if all the air of the plains were not enough. The feet stopped. Panic speared his heart. Why did they stop? They… they didn't notice me, right? He clamped a hand over nose and mouth to muffle the wild breathing. He looked again under the cart—the feet were gone.
The cart shuddered. It lifted. It flew, crashing down far away, rolling and tumbling like an empty tin, then struck the trunk of a great tree. The impact boomed. Liam raised his head. One of the white-cloaked men stood before the crimson moon, dusting off his hands, his eyes blazing in his hood like an angry devil.
"Didn't I tell you not to move?"
Liam ran for the open fields—for his uncle's house—bare feet grinding stone, grass, thorn. He panted. Mud spattered from his steps. The world rocked with every stride. He panted. Heat flared at his wrist and neck; he glanced down and saw his wrist reddened, blistering, the pain mounting.
He dropped to his knees, sobbing; he couldn't bear it. He gasped and looked back at the man.
"Sir, it hurts… s–sir—ah—please—ahh!"
The pain doubled, like a knife of fire forced into his neck and wrist. He fell, smacking his face into the dirt, screaming. He raised his eyes toward the man. The man moved his middle finger to touch his thumb, bringing them together.
"What a pity… I wanted to take you with us."
"S–sir—"
The man snapped. Pain detonated in Liam's neck. The world spun in his eyes. The far yellow lights of homes smeared with the red of the moon—and a great deal of red liquid. He collapsed face-first. He rolled like a ball and came to rest at the man's feet… everything was slow: his eyes crawling, the white owl flapping in the sky, a red drop sliding over his pupil, and the man's steps toward a small body sprawled in the dust… everything.
He tried to raise a hand to wipe the red spot from his eye… but it didn't move. He tried to stand… his legs wouldn't answer. He tried to open his mouth to scream… it wouldn't open. He felt himself choking and found his gaze settling on the man cradling the body of a boy without a head. He looked at the boy's filthy clothes.
How familiar those clothes look.
He stared at them while the red world in his eyes faded and faded until everything became a page of light.