The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(4)

He could take my teddy and candy, but he couldn’t take the kind smiles from the nurse or the gentle tutting of the doctor as they’d made my finger all better.

Not that I had a finger anymore, just a useless stump that itched sometimes and drove me mad.

I should’ve run that night.

I should’ve run a week later once I’d finished my antibiotics and no longer flashed with heat or sickness.

I should’ve run so many times.

The funny thing was that out of sixteen children at Mclary’s farm, the sea of faces constantly changed. When a girl or boy grew old enough to harbour a certain look in their eye or gave up the fight after years of struggle, a man in a suit would come, speak pretty words, touch trembling children, then both would vanish, never to be seen again.

A few days later, a fresh recruit would arrive, just as terrified as we’d all been, just as hopeful that a mistake had been made, only to learn the brutal truth that this wasn’t temporary.

This was our life, death, and never ending all in one.

My thoughts skittered over the past in spurts, never staying on one subject for long as the dawn crept to morning and morning slid to afternoon.

I didn’t touch the baby.

She didn’t cry or fuss as if she knew her fate was still fragile.

Halfway through our staring contest, she’d fallen asleep, curling up in my backpack with her tatty ribbon in a tiny fist and her head on my crumbling block of cheese.

My stomach rumbled. My mouth watered.

I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning, but I was well-versed in withholding food from angry bellies. I had to ration myself if I stood any chance of surviving.

I knew that at least.

Mrs Mclary called me stupid. And I supposed she was right. I couldn’t read or write. I’d been hidden away in some dark and musty place with my mother until I was sold and brought here.

However, I knew how to talk and use big words, thanks to Mrs Mclary calling herself a well-read and intelligent woman who liked to decorate her vocabulary because this town was full of simpletons.

I got the gist of what she said some of the time, but most of the time, my brain soaked up the word, sank its baby teeth into it, and tore it apart until it made sense, then stored it away to be used later.

I forgot nothing.

Nothing.

I knew how many hammers Mr. Mclary hung in the tool shed and knew one had gone missing two weeks ago. I knew three of the four cows he had planned to slaughter were pregnant to his neighbour’s bull, and I knew Mrs Mclary skimmed money from the pig profits before telling her husband their tally.

All stuff that was useless.

The only thing I knew of value was my age because according to Mr. Mclary, I was the same age as his prized mare that was born ten years ago during a mighty lightning storm that cleaved their oldest apple tree in two.

Ten years old was practically a man.

Double digits and ready to conquer a new existence.

I might not have traditional schooling and only been taught how to work the land, how to skin game, or drive a tractor using a stick to compensate for my short legs, but I had a memory that rivalled everyone’s in the barn.

I might not know how to spell the months or seasons, but I knew the flavour of the sky when a storm was about to hit. I recognised the fragrance of summer compared to winter, and I remembered the passing of days so well that I could keep a mental tally even if I couldn’t count.

I also remembered the night my stowaway arrived into the world.

Mrs Mclary’s labour had been long and I’d been woken by a screech the evening after returning from the hospital, standing on my cot to peer out the barn’s only window as the farmhouse lit up and a car spun into the driveway.

I didn’t know why Mr. Mclary didn’t take his wife to the doctors, but eventually, the screams stopped and a thin wail pierced the night, sounding so young, so small.

My finger throbbed with its stitches and phantom itch as I listened to the baby’s arrival, my feverish mind tangling with pictures of sheep giving birth to lambs and sows giving birth to piglets until I collapsed back on my cot, convinced that the baby Mrs Mclary had delivered was part animal, part human.

I narrowed my eyes, inspecting the napping girl in front of me.

Her ears were cute like a human, not floppy like a cow. Her nose was tiny like a fairy, not shiny like a dog. Her skin was encased in a pink onesie, not downed with fur. She was as girly and as rosy as the well-cared for kids on that TV program, and it only fuelled my hate more.

*

Dusk stole the sharpness of the undergrowth, making shadows form and worries fester.

I’d been here too long.

And I still had no answer.

I’d left the baby an hour or so ago, slipping silently through the undergrowth to check out the river gurgling happily in the distance. I’d sat on its mossy banks for ages, staring at the ripples, imagining myself plucking her plump infant body from my backpack and shoving her beneath the surface.

Of the pressure I’d need to hold her under.

Of the ice I’d need to kill her and not falter.

And as try as I might, I reverted to the same conclusion I’d had this morning.

I couldn’t kill her.

Even though I wanted to.

And I couldn’t leave her to be eaten.

Even though I wanted to do that, too.

And I couldn’t take her back because even though she was loved by the devils who hurt me, she could never be permitted to grow up to be like them. She couldn’t be allowed to trade in lives or make money from unlucky kids like me.