“If you’re teasing, that’s really unfair.” He eyed the eggs hungrily.
“Honest truth.” I crossed my heart. “Minus the one you made me crush, we have enough.” I glared at him.
The kettle whistled beside me and I poured its boiling water into a pot on the stove. I slipped four eggs into the water and set it to boil. Silence stretched thin between us until I finally asked, “Do you reckon Father will be home soon? He said he’d be back before spring and now the season’s here. It’ll be winter again at this rate.” A tingle of fury rose up my throat like bile before I swallowed it back down, turning instead to slice the tough wheat bread I’d bought the previous day.
“Your father’s a man of his word, Ava.” Roan picked up the butter dish from our half-standing pantry. “Whether he’s a week late or not, I’ve no doubt he’ll be home soon enough.” He took the rough-cut slices of bread and buttered them as I rescued the eggs from the water.
We sat and ate in silence then. I certainly wasn’t in the mood to talk and Roan wasn’t most days, but perhaps a decent meal might help him feel more alive. I looked at him as I did every morning and he looked worse. The dark circles beneath his eyes had grown thicker by the day and his usually vibrant, green irises were dark and hollow. He pulled a hand through his scruffy auburn hair before returning to the last of his bread. To look at Roan broke my heart sometimes. He had always been handsome, but the features that made him him had been extinguished and buried beneath a mountain of grief.
It was only when we washed the dishes that he spoke to me again. “Daeus above, I almost forgot about breakfasts other than dry bread and field weeds,” he said, stretching out his arms and back. It was a lousy attempt at conversation but I bit.
“I’m sorry my skill in breakfast-making is so poor. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind a bit of dry bread if you take the day ploughing the eastern field. Otherwise I’ll let the baker know what you think of his work.” I smirked. “You know how he loves criticism.”
“Alright, alright.” He leapt to his feet and jumped into his work boots. “That was tactless, you devious creature.”
“Come now, get!” I thwacked him on the back of the legs with a dishrag. “Put your moping to something useful for a change.”
“Maybe you could bore the cows to death with your lecture – it’d save us some money in the long run and I won’t have to listen to it anymore,” he called back. My retaliation caught in my throat as I heard Roan’s laughter and I drank it in. It had been so long since I’d heard him laugh that I couldn’t help but laugh with him.
FOR AN EARLY spring day, the air was almost muggy by the time I’d finished the morning chores. The sun climbed higher overhead and as much as I tried, I couldn’t help but walk to the spot where I’d encountered the man the previous night. A dent stood out in the centre of the grass and my heart leapt into my throat. I stamped it out with my boot, removing any remaining evidence of the stranger before Roan came across it, and moved away in a hurry. He wouldn’t handle the news well.
On my way to the pen, I heard the sheep before I saw them; bleating and grunting, eager to be released. Apart from cleaning and organising, preparing the soil for sowing and watching over the animals during their birthing season, nothing much happened around the farm in spring. The gate's hinges were long rusted, causing it to open in a jittery, squeaking fashion. I caught myself just in time as the sheep barged their way out into the field, bounding and kicking their legs out joyously.
Once the herd had calmed down and committed themselves to grazing, I shut the gate behind them and strolled along the paddock, stroking the wool of whatever sheep raised their heads to greet me. From the sheer size of the ewes it was easy to believe that they’d start birthing their lambs by the Equinox festival a week from then.
“Good morning, Thief.” My favourite ewe baaed up at me as I scratched her behind the ear. She had white wool but a dark face: a mask of fur, ideal for coin robbers and burglars. Her wool was soft as I pressed my hands around her large, swollen belly and lowered my voice. “I don’t think you’re having just one baby, you know.” She baaed and quickly scarpered in the opposite direction.
“Today’s the day of freedom then?” Roan said behind me. “That one never did like me.”
“None of them like you.” I wished I was joking about it. None of the animals liked him, not even the dogs. Though, when the hatred started I had no idea; it just happened. He chuckled and I changed the subject quickly. “It’ll be nice to see the farm bustling with life again. It’s been such a dull winter.”
He was silent for a breath too long and I scolded myself. Of course it hadn’t been dull for him. His grandmother and his father, the last of his blood relatives, had been murdered not three months before. After that he was a changed man, suddenly stern, serious and distant, just like my own father had become after Mother’s death. I cleared my throat and tugged on his shirt.
“I think the cows might enjoy a taste of freedom. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
It was when we came in sight of the barn that the air felt thicker. Choking. Though it didn’t look like it on the outside, something was wrong. My head throbbed and the locket around my neck grew heavier before the noise hit me. The cows were crying out and screaming, trapped behind wooden bars. I ran to the lock, unbolted it and threw it open, barely managing to lunge out of the way as the cows stampeded past in a frenzy. At the other end of the barn I saw why.
The first thing I saw was blood. Bits of fur and tissue painted the walls and I held my breath as I noticed a handful of skin and viscera hanging from a hole in the back. I’d strung and gutted animals before but this…this was different. A slaughter. A cold-blooded kill. I retreated and doubled over outside the doors, my head spinning.
“What in Gehn-?”
A large, red stain running behind the barn caught my attention. I spat, wiped my eyes and moved towards it. The stain continued, running down the back of the wall and onto the ground before it moved – dragged – away. The blood was sticky as I pressed my fingers into it. Not fresh but not old either. Nausea took over as I remembered the creature that morning and the way it pressed its hand on the glass–
Roan called after me, his face a mask of disbelief, but I was already running. I had to dig my feet into the rough dirt to stop myself from ploughing into the side of the house, and scuttled around the bushes to reach the kitchen window. Through the clouded windows, the countertop and sink were visible, and there, in the dirty glass, was a handprint. Slowly I brought my hand up to the windowsill and wiped my finger across the wooden frame. It was tacky.
Blood.