Devotion(80)

‘Do not dare to talk to me about faith. I am not Heinrich Nussbaum, drunk with God.’ Friedrich’s chin trembled. ‘Our daughter nearly died.’

There was silence.

‘I know,’ Anna Maria said, anger draining from her voice. ‘But the good Lord preserved her.’

‘The good Lord, or your witchcraft?’

Anna Maria’s hands rose to her mouth.

Friedrich shook his head. He glanced wearily to Thea, the anger fading from him. ‘You heard me,’ he muttered. ‘You and your goddamn book. You think I don’t see the way some of the others look at you? Anna Maria, we cannot afford to fall out of the fold. We need this settlement.’

‘That book is Godsent.’

‘You forced it on her,’ Friedrich said.

Anna Maria lowered her hands and stared at her husband, eyes cold. She turned to her daughter. ‘You know I did no such thing.’

Thea stood. ‘I’m going to sleep now.’

‘Did she ask for it? You were creeping about in the middle of the night. Pulling it from your bag, hiding it in your clothes.’

‘I hardly wanted others to see me!’ Anna Maria protested.

Friedrich tilted his head. ‘Why not? If it is such a Christian book.’

‘Friedrich . . .’

‘I’m going to sleep,’ Thea repeated, turning her back on them.

I followed her to the shelter built against a cluster of stringybarks and lay down next to her on the ground with its smells of dry leaf. The first stars could be seen in the gaps between the bark. Faraway keening.

I could hear Anna Maria and Friedrich arguing in the dusk. ‘Your father is afraid,’ I told Thea. ‘Love and fear. The only reasons anyone does anything.’

Thea lifted her hands to her ears.

There was silence, then eventually Anna Maria crawled into the shelter and sat next to Thea. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that,’ she said finally.

‘Mm.’

She stroked her daughter’s arm. ‘I didn’t force the book onto you. You accepted it. It was your choice.’

I felt Thea hold her breath. Ribs filling with air and held words.

Anna Maria hesitated. ‘I had tried everything else. It was the only way I could save your life.’

‘At what price?’ Thea shrugged off her mother’s hand and sat up, head brushing the bark above her. I could feel the anger coming off her.

‘What do you mean?’

Thea’s voice was strangled. ‘You pushed the book onto my chest. You made me accept it.’

‘I didn’t . . .’

‘I was unwell! I was in the grip of a fever. Mama, I was dying and you pushed it on me.’

From somewhere in the cooling forest came a scuffle. Chirrup of insect.

I waited for Anna Maria’s apology. None came. The Wend’s voice broke through the gloom after a silence, serrated with barely suppressed irritation. ‘One day, Thea, you will have a child. And you will love that child so much you would do anything to protect it. You would give your life for it.’

‘You didn’t give your life for mine.’

‘No,’ Anna Maria replied, ‘but I am saying that you will do anything to keep your child al—’

‘You didn’t give your life for me. Hanne did.’

Quiet, then. Only pitched cricket pulse as my heart filled with a deep and feral ache.

An owl called into the dark.

‘Thea . . .’ Anna Maria was careful. ‘Thea, Hanne died because she was sick.’

‘I was sicker.’

Breathe, I urged her. Breathe.

Thea looked at her mother. ‘I should have died. But you gave me your Book of Moses and because of that, because death couldn’t touch me, it took Hanne.’

‘That’s not . . .’ Anna Maria sighed. ‘No. It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Really? Because it feels as though that is exactly what happened.’

I shuffled closer behind Thea and wrapped my arms around her, felt the reverberation of her voice in the soft-leanness of her belly.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ said Anna Maria.

A hurt, broken laugh. ‘Do you remember telling me I came so close to death I looked upon the face of God?’

‘On the ship?’

‘You told me you saw a – a stillness in my chest. Only then I was restored to you. You said it. “You looked upon the face of God.”’

‘I remember. I thought you had gone. You did go. For a moment.’

‘Well, I never saw the face of God.’

‘You might not remember such a thing.’

‘I saw Hanne’s face.’ Thea stared her down. ‘I looked upon her face.’

‘Thea,’ I whispered, and tears filled my eyes.

Anna Maria was silent. She looked up to the sloping bark above her. ‘I know you miss her.’

I buried my face in Thea’s shoulder. She smelled of fatigue and fear and sap.

Thea put a hand to her heart. ‘It hurts.’

Anna Maria closed her eyes. ‘I know.’

Thea exhaled. ‘It hurts so much.’ She seemed on a precipice. I thought again of the embroidery fluttering in the wind, dangling above the ocean.