Page 7 of Finding Her Heart
When something was fine, it was cream. She had memory after memory of her mother sitting back in her chair in the sun with a satisfied smile."Now, that is cream,"she would say and rub her belly as if she tasted something delicious.
When the boys showed her their good school marks, it was cream.
When Benjere had the fields planted and finished on the home farm, it was cream.
When Mama went to bed at night with the house clean, not a thing out of place, it was cream. When Annabell cleaned her room, made her bed, and washed her face and hands until she turned pink, it was,"You are my daughter."
"That fine, childless family of his and his tavern keep him busy. And Mac Hessy won't sell to me unless Kejere, the councilman, is there because I am your daughter. Papa died under two red moons, and you slipped away to go to him while the Child played. And all of that means trouble for me," Annabell told the empty room as she stood up and pushed the chair back under the table just where it belonged.
To avoid handing Bossiest Benjere another chance to go on and on about the risks of solitary farm life, Annabell decided she'd walk to town and visit Kejere or Vejere for help.
The bossiest hadn't bothered to cross her fence line for weeks, not since Daisydoo birthed her calf. Annabell liked the absence. Often, she wanted to throw her boot at him rather than listen to him remind her of all the things she couldn't do right.
Less bossy, just as opinionated, her brother’s Kejere and Vejere were both on the town council. If she accompanied one of them, even Mac Hessy's suspicious and anxious wife wouldn't stand in the way of Annabell buying what she needed.
Getting up early to tend to her animals and double-check all her gates and doors, Annabell kept good time. She stood at the rise overlooking her personal little valley before the rambunctious Child's bright light eclipsed his Mother and Father. Hidden behind silverleaf trees and the peach orchard, her farm didn't get the morning light in its windows as most did. It always felt like it was under a shadow.
She loved the morning sun, full of energy on clear sky days, the air crisp and cold, an apple crisp out of storage. No matter what she met in town, she wouldn't let it ruin the day. She had things to do, and the unsettled feeling hovering on the horizon at the edge of her thoughts like a foul smell, would not ruin the day’s sunshine.
"Let the gloom find its own. There are enough rats in the barn."
"I'm not looking for gloom or rats today, Mama," Annabell said to the Child in the blue sky.
"There are no treats for wicked girls who don't do their chores,"Mama's ghost answered.
"Wicked pays its place," Annabell said. Counting fence posts as she walked, she picked out familiar landmarks like touchstones. It was a good day to walk into the village, yet she couldn't shake the ill feeling. Hidden rats indeed, rustling unseen in the back of her mind. Had she left something unfinished at home?
The odd wrongness nagged her.
As family land, Mark earned his farm after saving enough money to buy it from his father. He'd placed the house in a deep valley next to a ribbon of a creek flowing into a pond. The terrain of the land gave the impression of being flat. At one time, the creek had been a tributary of the river, carving its way into the soft, loamy dirt. People often said if they didn't know the farm was there, they'd never be able to find it.
After Mark's death, Annabell found herself out of sight and out of mind. His family never once visited. His parents hadn't approved of her, and the brothers and sisters followed the example.
As her nearest neighbor, Benjere was up the road, the buildings of his homestead painted white and red—seen for miles. Beyond him, the road led to Boat-Station, the smallest town along the river filled with boat makers, fishermen and a single little tourist inn. From the mountains, her village of Righteous Way was the first stop on the river for any visitors to the Peace Valley Refuge.
Her neighbors in the opposite direction were the Johssons. They blamed her for the death of their old patriarch. Their large family lived in the original settlement shack, a one-room cabin with add-on’s built by the Elder Johsson rather than craftsmen who knew what they were doing.
Before they got superstitious, the Johsson boys helped Annabell three times a week, earning pennies or food. Mama's memory nagged."Decent boys who know more about farming than you do, Annabell Roe. All that time at your father's heels, when you should have been with me."
"Papa was always sending me back inside, away from him. I was too young. And you would make me dust, sweep, or scrub the tin-tub," Annabell answered back, remembering the daily chores of her childhood she tended to when she wasn't in school.
The Johssons kept their sheep in a field close against the main road. Every new season at least one lamb escaped. Who didn't love the lambs, even if sheep were not the smartest creatures. Their frolicking made everyone smile. Even a jaded old farmer like Benjere. In better times, when Annabell owned her early mornings, she took walks just for the opportunity to watch them.
Despite not being the season for lambs, habit turned her head in that direction to look for them.
Where usually green and yellow grasses grew, black scarred the land like a wound. For a breath of a moment, Annabell thought the color caused by a patch of fire—until the smell hit her. As if seeing the marked sheep pasture made gave the smell shape and reality. Empowered it. Filled it. The putrid smell of death punched her in the face, her eyes watering as she choked on it.
Caused by blood, bone, and sinew, the black stain represented death, not fire. Death. Absence of life. Something feasted days ago, leaving a mess behind. Ground foxes, scavengers, or coop weasels, or bigger, one of the rare shaggy graybacks from the mountains, come down to feed. Annabell was looking at and smelling all that remained of the sheep, torn apart in their own field. Their bones scattered over the land like broken toys, except for the heads. Carrion-kissed heads faced the road, lined up in a crooked row, watching her from empty eye sockets.
Annabell gagged. She needed air, but there was nothing breathable to be had. Instead of oxygen, every inhale was a sticky, noxious smell. The cloud of death insects rose and settled as if they knew she was standing there, watching, and they didn't like the attention.
No wild animal, big or small, would line up the leftovers of its supper like that.
Had she been smelling this wrongness all morning?
The strange sight confronted the wall of her practical understanding.
"These are the Peace Lands and the humble life. Nothing happens here but farming, fishing and gossip,” Mama’s voice whispered.
