(no subject)
Her sister’s ghost hangs at her heels like a shadow.
Eat your bread, her mother says, and slaps her when she refuses. It is the only bread of the day they have, but she refuses it like a wee one for it has been in the shelf with the rat droppings.
She’s not allowed to play by the river, but she does so anyway, sinking her tiny feet into the pebbles and looking for frogs with the village boys.
There’s something in the woods, says Thomas. Martine doesn’t much like Thomas: he has a split lip left from when she hit him for calling her a girl. She is a girl, but she doesn’t need to be reminded. Donatienne was a girl, too.
There’s nothing in the woods, Martine says.
There’s something in the woods, it’s going to get you, Thomas says, grinning through his split lip. It’s going to eat you up and spit you out because you’re so rotten. Martine Martine, the little witch queen.
Martine makes his cheek bleed. That night she doesn’t get any bread anyway, and she’s happy about it.
What is happiness like? she asks the rafters.
Lonely, says the something in the woods.
She is a pale and cheerless child. Those who knew her parents know her as the one who came after that-poor-child; those who didn’t know her as the girl-from-down-the-wood-whose-sister-died.
Sometimes she’s glad Donatienne died. Other times she wishes that Donatienne were the one born after, and that she had died instead.
What is death like? she asks.
Cold, says the something in the woods.
Every morning she braids her sisters’ hair and does her chores, braving the cold to feed the animals. The animal hut is warm and safe. Sometimes it snows so hard she can’t see where she’s going and trips and spills the milk.
What is real pain like, she asks.
Sweet, says the something in the woods.
I want more, she tells the woods.
I know.
Eat your bread, her mother says, and slaps her when she refuses. It is the only bread of the day they have, but she refuses it like a wee one for it has been in the shelf with the rat droppings.
She’s not allowed to play by the river, but she does so anyway, sinking her tiny feet into the pebbles and looking for frogs with the village boys.
There’s something in the woods, says Thomas. Martine doesn’t much like Thomas: he has a split lip left from when she hit him for calling her a girl. She is a girl, but she doesn’t need to be reminded. Donatienne was a girl, too.
There’s nothing in the woods, Martine says.
There’s something in the woods, it’s going to get you, Thomas says, grinning through his split lip. It’s going to eat you up and spit you out because you’re so rotten. Martine Martine, the little witch queen.
Martine makes his cheek bleed. That night she doesn’t get any bread anyway, and she’s happy about it.
What is happiness like? she asks the rafters.
Lonely, says the something in the woods.
She is a pale and cheerless child. Those who knew her parents know her as the one who came after that-poor-child; those who didn’t know her as the girl-from-down-the-wood-whose-sister-died.
Sometimes she’s glad Donatienne died. Other times she wishes that Donatienne were the one born after, and that she had died instead.
What is death like? she asks.
Cold, says the something in the woods.
Every morning she braids her sisters’ hair and does her chores, braving the cold to feed the animals. The animal hut is warm and safe. Sometimes it snows so hard she can’t see where she’s going and trips and spills the milk.
What is real pain like, she asks.
Sweet, says the something in the woods.
I want more, she tells the woods.
I know.