Follow Me to Ground(20)

I brought him into the kitchen and he went straight to the stove, shivering. The back of his neck shone gold and smooth in the half-light of the stove and I put my mouth there, my hands on his back, high on the balls of my feet. He turned his head a little and I rested my cheek against him.

–You all right?

–I just need to do one thing before we go.

I made for the patio door. He’d cupped his hands to his mouth and looked at me over his braided fingers.

–I want to say goodbye to the garden.

His eyes narrowed a little.

–It’s where I played as a child.

And when I put out my hand he took it, and together we went out the back door.

The rain was so loud, the wind so high, that he put his arm up over his face. We walked over The Burial Patch, stopped just short of the lawn with its grass thick and wet.





Jeremy Loan


One thing I do remember, and I feel silly bringing it up.

When I was young and my mother needed her ulcer seen to, we went to the house. Miss Ada and I looked to be ’round the same age then and we went outside and … Like I say. Sounds silly. She got me to lie on top of her. I didn’t know what she wanted right away, and when I realised I couldn’t – she’d nothing there. And … her eyes. When she realised. I got up and ran away. I knew by her eyes. She was going to eat me. I thought If I don’t get away she’ll eat me. If she can’t have me one way she’ll have me another.



When I pushed him, I couldn’t tell if he made a sound.

He fell to his knees and looked back at me, his face knotted against the rain. His hands and knees sucked a half-inch into The Ground, quickly turned black-brown.

He was irked, confused and cold. There was a quick stir in my chest, which was the urge to help him up. To stop it while I could. The jacket looked like an animal pelt draped over him.

And then, The Ground started taking him. It opened just enough to swallow his legs to his waist so he was upright, looking all around him, trying to put his hands down flat but of course he couldn’t take hold.

I could tell it liked the taste of him because it took him so slow.

I hopped onto a stone when he reached for me, and quickly he started reaching for the earth again, trying to pull himself out. Handful of mud after handful of mud, and his face, still so beautiful with the horror run through it.

–I can’t leave, and you can’t stay. The Ground will keep you safe.

His head back, mouth open. Screaming.

–And we’ll be better suited, once you rise.

His eyes going left and right, up and down. His face an almond-coloured pool in the black mud, his ears filling.

–She won’t find you here. And The Ground will take your hurt away, all the hurt she put inside you.

His curls. Flecked with nutmeg shavings. His cheekbones. The lips that had been on mine. I squatted, touched his face, said

–Close your mouth, close your eyes.

When I was a child, up in the trees.

There got to be a time when all the birds knew to stay away from me.

It’s a hard thing to get across; being that kind of alone.





Lydia Bell


No, none of the men went near her.

All sorts of reasons. Rumours, for starters – it’d get bitten off, she’d eat you after. All that nonsense.

But also, you know, she looked quite young.

Not like a child, to my mind, but not fully grown.

A young woman, I’d have said … or getting to be.

Most of us found it sweet, comforting, but a few found it … unnerving.



When I woke in the morning, I thought maybe I’d dreamt it all.

Or maybe he’d come for me and I’d slept through.

I went down into the kitchen and saw Father looking out at The Ground, stood safely on a stone.

I opened the patio door and kept it open with my hip, pulled my cardigan around me.

–How were the woods?

He half-turned around.

–Loud, he said. Loud and wet.

He hadn’t dressed yet and was covered all over with mud.

–Be doubly sure to stay off The Ground today.

When I didn’t say anything he looked at me full.

–That storm last night … it’s wakeful. Stay well clear.

He walked past me and I followed him, watched him wash himself down with a towel and sit at the kitchen table, letting himself dry. I was worried he’d catch some scent off me, some mischief-musk, but he seemed to have taken me at my word. Sitting across from him the day seemed like any other, only I’d a taste in my mouth that I knew was heartache.

–What time are we bringing up Miss Gedeo?

–You know what time. Eight.

His mug was on the table and I twirled my fingers ’round its rim.

–You’ve a Cure tomorrow.

I made a lilting, agreeable sound and watched the inside of the mug.

–You remember Lorraine Languid.

–Sure. Fred Languid’s widow, Mr Kault’s cousin. Lorraine of the lambs.

He ignored the laugh in my voice.

–The change is on her. She needs it eased.

I thought of Lorraine taking me into the barn and the lambs moving toward her. The womby smell come rich off their wool. I said

–It’s been on her a long time already. She must be almost done.