5

Lea Beth

  “I’m sorry, Lea Beth,” Poppa said.

  “Sorry about—”

  He stopped me with a hand out. He wanted me to listen, not talk. I knew then whatever he had to say was important.

  “It’s been harder around here than I let on,” Poppa confessed. “I’ve been trying to doctor that horse for the past half year, and he’s still pulling up lame. I can’t go on doing my chores by hand, and we can’t afford a new animal. I’m only going to bring in half the crops by winter, and we’re not going to make enough from the harvest to buy much of anything. I’m selling the farm for twice what I paid to Patrick MacGregor.”

  “No, Poppa! No! We can do it.”

  “I’m to farm for him, with his equipment, for two years. You have to understand, Lea Beth, with what I owe the bank, he could have stole the land out from under us.”

  Poppa rose, scootched his chair in and left the table. He walked out the door, shutting it behind him. The contents of my supper bowl looked as sorry now as when I served it up. The sparse ingredients like life’s good times, watered down and almost too thin to be nourishing.

  We shared our troubles, Poppa and me. Momma died last winter on a cold February morning. She was fine one day, and the next day she said her throat hurt. The day after she was in bed with fluid in her lungs. Poppa told me he didn’t hear her that night, he just woke up and she was gone.

  We dressed her in her finest dress; a sky blue dress with the whitest lace. I prayed over her while Poppa dug the hole with a pickax. We covered the grave with all the river stones we could find around the yard, and clung to each other, remembering her soft voice and laughter.

  I left the cooking pot next to the fire and put the lid back on, everything else was put away where it should be. I felt worn to the bone. I climbed the ladder to the loft, slipped off my dress, and lay on my rag pillow with my arms folded over my head.

  Breakfast the next morning was three eggs I scrambled.

  “Here you go,” I said. We were out of coffee, and both missed our morning cup.

  “Thank you,” Poppa said. “Are you still mad at me for my decision to sell?”

  “No.”

  “You act like it.”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I guess we’ll find out as we go along. Right now I want my money, and he better keep to his word and see me paid.”

  “Will things be good for us, Poppa?”

  “I think so. My daddy sold hats until the day he died. It was the only thing he knew. He told me once, ‘If one dream falls out the door, find another dream and put your heart into making it work.’ One dream landed us here, and it didn’t work. We lost Momma. I’ll make this next one work.”

  “And what would that new dream be?”

  “When I get the money, I got a deal planned for a steam-driven wood saw. A little one. I can operate the equipment without help. Some company out of St. Louis.” And smiled for the first time in days. It was lopsided, designed to make me feel good.

  “A wood saw?” I asked.

  “This area will grow by the day, little girl. Settlers like us. But they’ll want a real house, not one made out of rough cut logs like we have.”

  “This house is just fine.”

  “It was the best I could do with what I had at the time, but we need a frame house. And the money I could make out of all the fine timber around us? We’ll do fine. You believe me.”

  “I’ll always believe you, Poppa.”

  He held my hand in both of his.

  “That’s my girl. Come on, we need to get a lot done in the next week. As much as I hate to say it, MacGregor will be here to look over what we have.”

  “He’s a pig.”

  Poppa laughed a big laugh, and I felt better myself.

  “Yes, sweetheart, he is at that, but he’s a pig with deep pockets.”

  We let more than a few things go with the spring planting. Poppa took an ax to the heavy growth of brush around the house. I swept, wiped, made do, and pitched what was trash.

  Equipment was brought to the farm a couple of days later, and stuck in the oversized tool shed Poppa built three years ago. It housed the horse and tools, and wasn’t much larger than what it had in it. Poppa kicked the horse out of the shed and put her in the lean-to. The rest was to be delivered sometime in the next week, which gave Poppa enough time to build another shed. I helped him carry some of the smaller limbs he used for the roof.

  The plow MacGregor sent down had two blades on it, and two horses to pull it. The men who delivered it all took some of the old equipment back with them to be sold at auction, from what Poppa said. It bothered him a little more than he thought, but he always rose to a challenge.

  “Choose your battles,” Poppa once told me, “and win the war.”

  Poppa said that MacGregor thought the more land he could farm, the more say he would have in the community’s affairs. Me, I was so busy tending the fire, thinking my thoughts, I didn’t know MacGregor had arrived until he came through the door.

  “Let’s take a look around here, girl.”

  He was standing just inside the doorway with one hand on his trousers, giving himself a good squeeze. I scooped up some hot ash.

  “I came a long way to see you, little girl,” he said. “Don’t you want to say hello?”

  “Get out of here, Patrick MacGregor. You want to see what you’re paying for, wait for Poppa outside.”

  “Is that any way to talk to your betters?”

  “Get out or I’ll throw you out!”

  “No need,” Poppa said, stepping through the door.

  That shook MacGregor up. He pulled his hand from his crotch, and I put the hot ash back where it belonged.

  “I was looking over the house, Nathaniel.” He turned back to me and said, “I’ll see you some other time.”

  “I doubt that,” Poppa replied. “I was headed for the field, MacGregor. Let me show you the crops for this year.”

  “How did the spring rains affect you?” he asked.

  “Paid them no mind,” Poppa said.

  With that said the two men walked out the door. It wasn’t long before I could hear MacGregor and Poppa arguing outside.

  “Damn shit hole is what it is,” MacGregor said. “I ought to tear the place down and start over.”

  “The house is sound, MacGregor.”

  “That roof looks like it needs new shingles. The grounds need weeding, and start clearing the north pasture for plowing next spring.”

  “You want me to start raising hogs? How about two fields and a barn we can all be proud of.”

  “Watch your tongue with me, Nathaniel Collins. I can hire a whole crew to run this place if I want.”

  “You’re too cheap.”

  “You just get the work done. I’ll see you in town tomorrow and we’ll sign the papers. I’ll give you your money. I’ll see you here again Thursday, the week after next. How much of this will be done by then?”

  “As much as I can get done.”

  MacGregor mounted his rig and left.

  I decided my time would best be spent fixing lunch for the both of us, but doubted Poppa would eat. Yet he walked in, washed up, and dug right in. I tried to eat some too, to make Poppa feel better.

  “You want some more, Poppa?”

  “Just one more bowl for me," Poppa said. "I got too much work to do.”

  “God, I hate that man. He keeps looking at me in a way I don’t like.”

  “Don’t profane our Lord, and yes, he yanks my pisser hard. Excuse my language.”

  “Momma would’ve took the broom to him, badmouthing the house like that.”

  “That’s done and over with, and we have our work. Let’s finish eating and get started. Next time you hear him badmouthing the house, you take the broom to him.”

  That made me smile.

  “Most of the house is done, Poppa. I need to get the wash started.”

  “You still need a new rinse tub?”


  “It wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Done. Tomorrow we go to Lund’s.”

  Lund’s Trade Goods was like magic to me. Hundreds of things tucked into every available space. While I gathered up the stuff we needed, Poppa snuck off to the bank and signed our claim over to MacGregor. It took no time at all.

  “Hey, Nathan,” Jerry Lund said when Poppa returned. “That tree saw you ordered last month came in yesterday, and since it’s now paid for, it’s yours. You pull your wagon over round back before you leave for anywhere else, and I’ll help you load it up. It’s heavy.”

  “Sure thing,” Poppa said to the tall heavyset storekeeper.

  I gathered the food for the next month: flour, salt pork, beans of all kinds, and a huge tin of jerky for more stews. I took what was necessary, nothing more, but it didn’t stop me from making moon eyes over a new dress Lund had on display. A pretty yellow felt gown, long pleated skirt, lace around the sleeves and collar, with a cream colored ribbon in front.

  Poppa said, “Let’s get this stuff loaded and go, sweetheart. Don’t mean my back won’t hurt when I’m done this day.”

  “Yes, Poppa.”

  “I’d better slide the boiler down a board right where I’m to set up the saw assembly.”

  “I’ll help as much as I can, Poppa.”

  “I know you will, sweetheart.”

  “One more thing, Nathan,” Mr. Lund said.

  They went out back. I took one last look at the dress, and then went out the front. When Poppa returned he had a box in his arms. Poppa had Mr. Lund box that dress for me. Poppa said I would be the prettiest girl at worship next Sunday. I cried.

  The next morning was gray, possibly becoming wet before the morning was over. Poppa did his daily chores after sliding the boiler in place with a little help from me. He’d start setting up the rest of the saw if it rained. That gave him enough time to finish clearing the first tree for his new lumber mill.

  I worked my way through the day, getting my chores done, finding places for my purchases. I had only so much storage in and around the house. The buckets and stuff I sat out in the near shed, on the south wall.

  Poppa worked hard to keep his part of the bargain, and had half the roof shod in less than a week. I would join him sometimes, passing cedar shakes up the ladder if I didn’t have anything better to do. I still had to copy a page of the Bible each day, and read it to Poppa each night.

  Poppa stopped going to church. Too much to do and never enough time. I’d tell him about services later that night. He needed to hear all the latest gossip, and I had an ear full to tell him. The women doted on my new dress, and pulled me into their circle like they did for Momma.

  Poppa figured out how the mill setup would work best for him. He tried it out, and had a stack of Maple cut in one day. During the week he cut three trees, and had the wood drying before he had to stop and sharpen the blade.

  “I need to cut back some, sweetheart," Poppa said. "The pace I’ve set for myself is impossible to keep up for long.”

  “Did Mr. Lund give you the price you wanted for the first wagon load of wood?” I asked.

  “That’s what makes me want to do more. He gave me a great price.”

  “If I were a boy we could get more done.”

  “But I’d miss your dainty touch when it comes to the end of the day.”

  “I love you, Poppa.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  When he stopped it was because he had worked himself sick. His fever was high enough to worry even him. His lungs were full, but he was coughing it up, and I kept water boiling day and night to put moisture in the air. He was over it all by the end of the month, but it set him back.

  By then snow was on the ground, but it was thin and drifted wherever the wind blew. Poppa found that he could spend a week clearing and cutting; then a week hauling the branches in to stoke the boiler. He could handle the big stuff with a new set of block and tackle, and start all over again. He had to give some of his money to MacGregor for the trees, but that’s how business was done. The trees were his now, and Poppa had to buy them.

  Poppa didn’t come in for lunch that day. I used the time to write my page. Later that night I started to get a little fretful, but he liked to work late when he thought he was behind. I went to lie down and rest a bit. I’d listen for him to come in and serve up his supper, but fell asleep. I awoke the next morning just as tired.

  “Poppa?”

  His plate was just where I’d left it, and the food was where I’d left it the night before.

  I made him a good breakfast, and allowed it all to grow cold before I got up from the table and put on my coat. I knew where he was clearing a new batch of trees. I stepped into a world of snow, and a bitter cold breeze with clear blue skies.

  I walked down the southern lawn and into the timber Poppa had started to cut. The trees he’d been working on were scattered around like a spilt box of matchsticks.

  The horses were behind a brush pile, out of the wind. Their blankets were on the ground, and they were shivering from the cold. They must have rubbed them off during the night.

  I picked them up and noticed Poppa’s heavy coat. Then I noticed something else. Underneath one of the trees was Poppa.

  “POPPA!”

  “Lea Beth?”

  “It’s Poppa, Mr. Lund. A tree fell on him.”

  “He’s dead?”

  I nodded, and again tears washed my face.

  “ED! Let’s get you inside, and I want you to tell me what happened. ED!”

  “Jerry?” Ed said.

  “Nathaniel Collins needs help. Lea Beth, well, she says he’s dead. Tend to these horses.”

  Mr. Lund listened to me with the blood draining from his features.

  “Where is he now?” he asked.

  I managed to tell him.

  “You sit by the stove and warm up,” he said. “I’ll take care of things. I owe Nathaniel that much. Have you eaten yet?”

  “No, sir. I’m not hungry.”

  He handed me a sandwich and a cup of coffee. “You eat something. I’ll have Ed look after the store while I get the reverend to help me.”

  He was gone for the longest time, and Ed left me to do the store’s business. Ed never was one for talk. While Mr. Lund was gone I tried to eat the sandwich, but found it tasteless.

  When Mr. Lund returned he wasn’t happy.

  “The reverend isn’t around today,” he said, “and won’t be back until tomorrow. I’ll go out and see what I can do. Ed’s bringing around your wagon.” He snatched two blankets off a shelf and walked me out the back door. “Your daddy was a good man, one of the best this town ever had. Up you go.”

  The trip home was made in silence.

  Mr. Lund had me tend to the house. He went down and brought up Poppa’s body.

  I helped Mr. Lund wrap Poppa up in a blanket.

  With a cup of coffee in him, Mr. Lund gathered the brush Poppa had lugged up for the mill’s boiler into a tall pile out back. When he thought he had enough he set fire to it. After the coals had died down, Mr. Lund went out to dig Poppa’s grave. He still had to use the pickax to get the hole deep enough.

  We placed Poppa in his grave that night. It was next to Momma’s. We covered Poppa, said our prayers, and went indoors.

  It was noon the next day when the reverend arrived. I had busied myself by gathering everything Poppa and me owned. Mr. Lund spent most of the morning loading the wagon with anything of value. The reverend made sure we had the family Bible.

  “I think,” Reverend Jules commenced, “your Bible should help us in finding you some family to live with. Mr. Lund has agreed to help me put your father’s affairs in order.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “But, I don’t think I have any family left.”

  “We’ll figure that out when we get to my humble home and warm up.”

  “Not much room for my clothes in your wagon.”

  “Let Mr. Lund follow us to the house. I?
??m sure the wife would love some company, and a little help with the women’s work.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Heya!” The buggy lurched from the pull on it. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.

  The next day Reverend Jules had pieced all he could out of the Bible, and the two photos Poppa had.

  “Daniel Collins was your daddy’s brother?” he said. “He died two years ago with the capture of the Packard Gang, if I remember right, and Nathaniel was a hard working, dedicated family man. Who’d of thought.”

  “The only thing I can think of that might help is Momma’s maiden name,” I said, “and that was Shilling. Momma never talked family. Poppa married her against their wishes. Her family was from Maine. Bangor is the name of the town, I think.”

  “Bangor, Maine,” he said. “We can contact the Church there and wait for an answer.”

  Mrs. Jules said, “Let’s get her into bed, Emerson Jules. I think you kept her up long enough. Work to do tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mother. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll speak to you again tomorrow, Lea Beth.”

  “After chores,” Mrs. Jules said.

  That woman had me up with the sun, and I didn’t stop working until the late evening, all the time her quoting scripture. The only break I had was when I spoke to Mr. Lund later that second week.

  “I resold most of the produce and tools that belonged to you, Lea Beth. MacGregor must have been hot on our tails the moment he found out about your poppa’s passing. The lumber mill was gone. I’ll have more than a few words for him when I see him next.”

  “What about the order he had cut for you?” I asked.

  “It was gone. I heard MacGregor sold it to a family up river.”

  “Did Poppa owe you any advance money on the order?”

  “No, child. That’s why I’m here.” He handed me a pouch. “Two hundred and sixty-five dollars here. This is your money.”

  More money than I had ever seen in my life. “Thank you, Mr. Lund.”

  Two days later word came that no family could be found, anywhere. I heard the Reverend and Mrs. Jules arguing about what to do. Mrs. Jules wanted me around for the hands I lent her while she sat, drinking tea, eating cookies, getting fatter. Reverend Jules wanted to see that I had the education to make it on my own when the time was right. Mrs. Jules said I could get married when I came of age. Then something was said about MacGregor that I didn’t catch. A knock at the door shut them up.

  “Yes?”

  All I could hear was Reverend Jules.

  “I’ll see she’s on time. Ten of the clock you say?”

  The Reverend lowered his voice and talked for a few moments more; then all retired for the night.

  “Judge Rice,” Patrick MacGregor said, “he owes me. According to the contract he owes me.” And gave the document to Judge T. W. Rice for review. I had no choice but to sit with my mouth shut. Tears, sliding down my cheeks.

  “He signed on to work the land for two years for the extra money,” MacGregor said, “and I request satisfaction. The money I gave him has been spent.”

  Mr. Lund could have told the Judge about Poppa’s stolen wood mill, but I don’t think anybody told the big shopkeeper about this “action,” as they called it.

  “What would you have me do?” Judge Rice asked.

  “I want the girl to work for me for two years—”

  “Never!” I shouted. “You’re a pig! A thief! You took Poppa’s new saw mill and sold—”

  “Quiet!” the Judge bellowed. “Or I shall have you removed!”

  “I’ll see to it that she’s trained for the life of a school teacher,” MacGregor said.

  “How old is the girl now?” Judge Rice asked.

  “She’s thirteen,” MacGregor said.

  “Can you guarantee this court Lea Beth Collins will be properly provided for?”

  “My mother, Agatha MacGregor, will take her under wing and see to her needs. She taught school for fifteen years, and was well regarded.”

  “You all speak like I’m not here!” I said. “I will not—”

  “This court does not recognize your right to speak,” the Judge said. “Very well. Rather than make her a ward of the state, she is to become a ward of the MacGregor household under the direct supervision of Agatha MacGregor. There she will remain until the age of sixteen. She will then be responsible for her own person. Lea Beth Collins will be provided for in her education, and that requirement will be fulfilled to this court’s satisfaction.”

  “Thank you, Judge,” MacGregor said. “I’ll see to it she is treated fairly.”

  “You do that," Judge Rice said. "I’ll have the papers drawn up in the next hour, and I want to see the girl here in my chambers with your mother in six months time. We’ll see then how she’s doing.”

  The gavel came down but once.

  Later that day a broken stick-woman, buttoned up head to toe in a shapeless gray dress, ashen hair pulled back into a tight bun, took my bag and ushered me into the MacGregor house.

  “Call me Agatha,” she said. “I’ll have discipline in this house, and expect you to do as you are told. I had no idea about this arrangement until I was told about it last night.”

  “I’ll do my best, Agatha.”

  “Yes you will, or you will be punished.”

  She escorted me to my room, and left me alone to put my things away.

  Agatha spared no time putting me to work. She had me in the kitchen doing every dirty job you could think of and then some. She spoke about the rules of the house, which boiled down to she was always right, and never speak unless spoken to first. Agatha also instructed me how the table was to be set. Each dish and utensil had a placement order that was not to be confused.

  She finished her cooking and had several of the main courses cooling. Food here had so much butter cream and lard in it, no wonder MacGregor was fat.

  A table was set in the kitchen for myself and the rest the small staff. A childless couple that did the outside chores.

  I knew the best thing for me to do was shut my mouth and do the work, but things were about to get worse.

  “The girl will dine with me each night!” Patrick MacGregor bellowed.

  “I thought the girl would dine with the rest of the house in the kitchen,” Agatha said.

  “You don’t think,” he said, grabbing Agatha’s thin arm. “I think around here. She’s to dine with me.”

  Agatha stood her ground, and looked him in the eye. “The Judge said I was responsible for her, and responsible I’ll be.”

  He slapped her across the face, bloodying her nose. “You best remember who the master of this house is, Agatha.”

  He let her go and dug into his plate like nothing had happened.

  Agatha returned after taking care of the nose bleed, and ate with the rest of us in silence. The old couple didn’t look up from their meal.

  “BRING ME MY BOTTLE!” MacGregor bellowed from the sitting room.

  Agatha went to one of the cupboards, and left with a dark bottle in her hand.

  When she returned, I asked, “Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s time to work.”

  She turned to the counter and worked the pump, drawing the dishwater into the tub for the stove, adding some store-bought soap powder. I went into the dining room to gather up the fat man’s dishes, afraid he was lurking about.

  Agatha later said, “That man has a mean streak more than a mile long. It’s in the blood.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “He’s not of my flesh, girl. His real mother died in childbirth. I married his father when the boy was two. We were soon expecting, though I lost the child. A girl. When I didn’t conceive again his father became abusive. Patrick learned that from him. He has you here for himself. He hated your father, and if he can take it out on you, he will.”

  I knew then what she meant.

  “I have to leave,” I told her.

&
nbsp; “Tomorrow,” Agatha said, “if it doesn’t storm. I can hide you with a very nice woman I know. She lives alone now, and would love having someone young to talk with. He’s coming. Get back into the kitchen, and head for the Kotter’s shanty if he comes after you. Go!”

  “Come here, you old bag!”

  I stood just out of sight.

  Agatha almost lost her footing from the force of his first blow. She turned half way around and grabbed the table top for balance. MacGregor slapped her across the other cheek with the back of his fat hand.

  “You ever get in my way again, woman, I’ll kill you.”

  Agatha picked herself off the floor, blotting at the blood on her cheek.

  “I took that garbage from your father, but not from you.” She stared him down. “I’m too old to care about myself, but I’ll kill you or die myself before I let you harm her!”

  Deep inside the coward in him believed, and took her for her word. He cleared the table’s centerpiece in a gesture of pent-up anger, and stormed out the front door.

  I saw a lot of blood from the newest gash on Agatha’s face, and wet a cloth to place on her cheek.

  “Get away from me!”

  I ran crying for my room, and bolted the door behind me.

  I fell to bed wishing with all my heart I was dead. I truly didn’t want to live. Nothing mattered. I wanted to be with Momma and Poppa, and prayed over and over for my death, not realizing that sometimes you get what you pray for.

  A door slamming jarred me from my prayers. I could hear him clomp around, bashing into stuff, cussing everything that got in his way. Agatha was downstairs, trying to calm him, but she fell silent.

  I didn’t bother to undress, and once again prayed for the Angel of Death to take me.

  When I heard Patrick MacGregor climbing the stairs, I hoped he was too drunk to figure out the door was locked.

  It didn’t stop him. He pushed the door in with his weight.

  He held the door knob with one hand, himself with his other hand. He was pumping himself into his fist with an evil look in his eyes.

  “I watched you, girl. Ain’t enough material in any dress to cover that sweet little ass. It’s a good thing the old man died like he did, huh?”

  “Don’t you come near me,” I pleaded.

  “Little girl, it’s going to happen whether you want it to or not.”

  He grabbed me, twisting my hair hard. I opened my mouth to scream, and he thrust himself past my lips. I think I bit him.

  He yanked me to one side and slapped me hard.

  “Stupid, stupid, bitch! I’m gonna fuck you hard!”

  He forced my face into the bed coverings, and yanked up my skirt. His finger forced its way into my bottom. I tried to squirm away, but his weight had me pinned.

  I felt the finger tear out of me, and his other hand tore a hunk of hair out of my head, but his weight was gone.

  A man, dressed in fine clothes, held Patrick MacGregor by the neck. MacGregor seemed frozen, arms dangling, knees on the cold floor.

  With golden eyes the gentleman looked at me with love and kindness. A chirp came from MacGregor. He turned his gaze from me and toward the fat man. He said, “Look at this man as he perishes, child. Know death for what it is.”

  He raised MacGregor to his feet with that one hand, and pulled him close.

  The beautiful man’s teeth seemed to glow in the darkness, and I watched without thought as they tore into MacGregor’s neck. The gentleman drank his blood, spilling a drop, maybe two, but no more.

  When he was done he held MacGregor’s head in both of his hands, and grimaced as he squeezed.

  Patrick MacGregor’s head exploded like a stomped on melon.

  The man who saved my life was standing by my bed, watching the brains and body of MacGregor fall to the floor.

  “No one is alive here but you,” he said. “What is your name?”

  His voice was kind and soothing.

  “Lea Beth Collins.”

  “Is this your father, Lea Beth Collins?”

  “My father is dead. My mother, too.”

  “Who is this that defiles your young body, and makes you wish for death with such force, I could follow that secret desire and find you here, waiting?”

  “Nobody. My father sold his farm to him, and then he died. I was placed here by the court.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter that he’s dead. Please arrange yourself, and have no fear of me.”

  I pulled up my bloomers and pushed down my dress. And though it hurt, I reached for the brush on my night stand and smoothed my hair.

  “Are you an angel?” I asked him.

  “Here to grant your wish?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am an angel of death, and of life. You remind me of a daughter I had long ago.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off of his.

  “She died,” he said, “by my ignorant hand, and regret again fills me this night, as it has night after night for as long as I can remember.”

  I could hear the pain for the loss of his daughter in his deep voice, and from those eyes, feel his pain.

  “I can and will grant you a better life,” he said, “if you ask me for it. Only once in my immortality am I allowed to do this. A life free from the concerns of the mortal world. A life in which you will choose from a position of power. I am most like God. I can take your life and leave you dead, to sleep for eternity, or I can give you life after death.”

  I said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Dwell with me as a creature of power, never to feel sickness, to live for hundreds of years if you so choose, to be forever young and as beautiful as you are at this very moment. Never have I seen a more lovely young woman such as you.”

  I wanted death.

  “Please give me my death,” I said. “I want to be with Poppa and Momma.”

  “I cannot give you your father or mother, but if I do this for you, and I give you life after death, will it please you if I am your father?”

  “Father.”

  I could feel the joy in his black heart as he tenderly pulled me to him, and I smelled freshly turned soil.

  He pushed back my hair, exposing my neck, and kissed my lips like he was sending me to bed for the night. He pierced the flesh of my neck without pain. I could feel my blood pump out of me with each beat of my heart.

  “You will die soon,” he said. “Drink from me and live.”

  My face pressed into his bare chest. A warm fluid from a hole he’d made over his heart with his finger oozed past my lips onto my tongue. I tasted a sweetness.

  He pulled my mouth from above his heart. The wound closed and healed before my eyes. It was like it had never been.

  The center of me grew as cold as Poppa’s frozen body. I could hear my heart slow with each beat.

  Everything became dark.

  My breath stopped.

  My heart stopped.

  I died.

  My vision was the first to return. It cleared from the blackness of death to the brightness of life. The near-total darkness took on a sepia quality. I consciously had to expand my lungs. My first breath held new flavors for my tongue, and delicious scents for my nose. I think it was the blood in the room.

  It was hard to keep my chest full, to consciously think about breathing, but it soon became second nature again. I said, “I never felt my heart when it was moving inside me, but it’s stopped, and I can’t feel it. I notice it not moving. What am I?”

  “We are Vampyre,” he said. “A predatory race. Once was human, now is so much more. We live on the rich red blood of the living, and feast on their dying souls.”

  The wind whispered to me from the outside, carrying with it hundreds of beating hearts. The tiny hearts of mice and birds, the large thumps of horses and cattle. I could feel the youngness of their lives, or the oldness, and those close to death.

  I could feel him, my new father. With my current awareness I understood why he felt my wish to die.


  I peered around the room again and said, “Take me from here, please. I never want to see this house again.”

  “That wish I can also grant, but not this night. At the setting of the sun tomorrow we shall leave. Move yourself and your things to another room, and find a chamber pot. The contents of your stomach will soon be expelled.”

  Downstairs I saw Agatha. She was dead.

  I bent over her cold body and looked at her face. She died fighting for my safety.

  “She tried to help me,” I said. “Stop him from touching me in a way he wasn’t allowed. He killed her. He killed her to satisfy something sick inside him.”

  I didn’t have time to think about it anymore. My stomach cramped like it did when it was my time of the month. I dashed out of the room, and spent the better part of the night dominated by the last of what made me human.

  So tired. The gentleman whose name I did not yet know, was waiting for me. He placed me in a clean room with the curtains drawn, and tucked me in.

  “Sleep now, little one. Time enough in the next night. I will gather your things. We have a long way to go.”

  My eyes closed, and the sleep was dreamless.

  We left the old couple to rot. MacGregor had killed them, too. Agatha was placed on a bed and covered. She deserved better for her kindness, but this was all I could do out of respect. It was sad to leave her as alone as she had lived her life.

  Any coin in the house we took for ourselves. The dead don’t need money. I felt strange doing it, like a thief, but I had no trouble justifying it to myself. When I went to get my money it was gone. Flat river rocks filled my pouch.

  MacGregor, he had a thin purse, and the old couple didn’t have anything but the roof above their heads. Agatha had no need with MacGregor providing. That left the Reverend Jules and wife. Our first stop.

  We left the house of my worst pain behind.