‘Lorrie,’ her mother said wearily, ‘you’re growing up. And there are certain things, unfortunately, a girl can do that a woman can’t. One of which is keeping up with the boys she grew up with. You can do that as a child. But when you get older, sometimes . . . those same boys, when they get older—’ Melda sighed and looked her daughter in the eye, ‘—want things.’
Lorrie rolled her eyes. She was a farm girl and had seen animals mating since she could crawl. ‘Mother, I know about those . . . things.’
‘That’s why it’s dangerous! You think you know about the ways of men and women, but you don’t, and it’s not about watching a bull and cow or a cock and hen. It’s about going all crazy inside when a lad smiles at you and forgetting what you think you know. You’re a good girl from a good home, and some day when the right lad asks for your hand, you’ll be glad for this. I’m your mother, and it’s my duty and your father’s duty to tell you what’s right and what isn’t. And until you’re married and moved out, we’ll keep that duty.’ She took a deep breath, anticipating an explosion.
But Lorrie was icy in her response. ‘So what you’re saying is that from now on I can’t go hunting, which I’m very good at and which I love, and which I’ve been doing since I was younger than Rip; but I can stay at home and do all the messy, smelly, dreary chores you can think of just because I’m a woman? Is that right?’
‘You’ll do the chores I tell you to do because you’re my daughter and that’s your place in this house. Your hands are needed here today and I don’t want to hear another word about it. So finish that up and get going down to the pond.’ Melda glared at Lorrie with her arms folded across her ample chest and hoped that she wouldn’t hear any more argument. She probably should have dealt with this before; but Lorrie loved the woods so. As she had herself when she was a girl. Melda had never forgotten what a wrench it was to give that up. All that freedom, she thought wistfully. With an effort she suppressed a sigh. Well, she was dealing with it now.
With a long last glare and a pout Lorrie knelt down and went back to work, but with her stiff back, brusque movements and unnecessary clatter she let her mother know exactly how she felt. At last, with a last clunk of the wooden shovel, she stood up and silently bore the ash bucket from the kitchen.
No more hunting, hmm? she fumed to herself. We’ll see about that.
The flax would be safe in the pond until tomorrow. Her mother would be angry with her she knew; very, very angry. But fresh meat, especially if she brought home some pheasant, would go a long way toward soothing her.
Lorrie dumped the ashes in the barrel where they waited to be leached and the potash used for soap, and brought the bucket back to the house. Then she marched to the barn and gathered the peg-toothed rake for mucking out the bundles of flax and the tarp for carrying them to the drying field. She also tucked her sling and bag of stones into her waistband under her apron, then headed for the retting pond.
The packed earth of the farmyard was littered with things—a broken plough-handle, an old wheel, foraging chickens that scattered clucking from around her feet, bundles of kindling—but she walked among them without needing to consciously use her eyes. They were as familiar to her as all the smells—smoke-house, the outhouse, the manure-heap. Too familiar; right now it all seemed like a prison.
Lorrie could sense her mother watching from the house through the warped boards of the closed shutter and knew her mood. Annoyed; that was how Mother felt. These days she and her mother struck sparks as often as not.
But how can I help it? Lorrie asked herself. It’s always, ‘you’re almost a woman’ or, ‘you’re almost grown up’. Then they treat me more like a child than ever! Who wouldn’t lose their temper? And now, suddenly, no more hunting! Not even, no, especially not with Bram! That just isn’t right.
As she walked along the hedge-bordered path, brooding, Lorrie slowly became aware of her younger brother’s presence and sighed. This strong awareness of family was a gift inherited from her great-grandmother, who was secretly a witch, or so her mother said. She could always tell when her mother was thinking about her, or was nearby. But she was especially aware of her little brother, Rip. Right now Lorrie sensed he was as focused on her as an arrow speeding toward its target.
Wonderful, she thought, a wry twist to her mouth.
Her brother would be seven on the next Midsummer’s Day but he’d already discovered the benefits of blackmail and he was disturbingly adept at it. She supposed she could work on the flax until he got bored or disgusted by the smell and went away.
But if I start then I might as well finish, she thought. Once you got that smell on you only soap would take it off. And the stink could drive off rougher creatures than the birds and hares she was after.
Maybe even the robbers and murderers her mother was so frightened of. So it wouldn’t be worthwhile to go into the woods.