Lapvona(10)

Years passed like this—babes born and brought to her with varying regularity according to the success of the harvests. Another ten years gone. And then ten more. Lapvona grew. The northerners had mixed with the Lapvonians. More cottages were built, with their small croft gardens, but otherwise every last bit of land was growing something to be exported for the lord’s profit—wheat, barley, oats, pulses, fruit, root vegetables, nuts, and rapeseed. The manor on the mountain doubled, then tripled in size. Guards protected the roads leading up there. No longer were travelers permitted to pass through. Only the guards were allowed to leave the province to haul the harvest and honey to the sea, where they were sold for a great fortune. A few more decades passed. The lord died and his son, Villiam, took over.

Now Ina was as old as a person could be, a wrinkle of waxy skin and a nest of white, brittle hair. Marek continued to visit her. Ina felt sorry for him, for his twisted body and strange mind. She felt somewhat responsible for his malformation, as she had been the one to counsel Agata when she was pregnant and wanted to destroy the baby. Ina had tried to abort the baby herself, even, a hand up the girl’s sheath, clawing at the tiny thing inside, but the baby had persisted. Ina thought maybe Marek was something like her, attuned to a different nature. So as a babe, and long after, he was allowed into her cabin to nurse. He had been the last babe to taste her milk. Now there was no milk left, and Marek was grown, but he still came to suck. Ina could smell his manhood stink up from his loins when they lay on the small bed, but it didn’t trouble her. The time they spent together was peaceful for both of them. With Marek sucking her nipple, they drifted off into a realm of quietude, like being adrift on the sea, although neither had ever seen the sea. Marek did some chores around the house in exchange for time at Ina’s breasts. His sucking did not restore her vision, but by now Ina was tired of looking at things anyway. She had seen it all.



* * *




*

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.