Marc would have to gather all the little ones. An infinite number of them swarmed the hedgerows. He tried to picture a fence large enough to contain them all, but each time it materialized, the children would cross its boundary and force him to begin the exercise anew. This went on for several minutes until Marc could no longer bear the sound of their joy.
His cry was lost in the hiss of the wind-whipped field, but for the children it lingered on. He could see the fear in their eyes, and this caused a blood-rush to throb in Marc’s temples. He stepped forward and struck one of the children in the face with the bottom of his open palm, causing her to fall backwards into a sitting position. The flies had finally ceased their buzzing and Marc could think straight once more. From the child’s nose came a thin trickle of blood.
The others watched him in silence. Marc turned and began walking away. The others helped the child to her feet and they followed Marc in single-file along the hedgerow.
Sabine was prepared. Already she had spread the straw chaff in four rough circles on the floor of their home. On each of these plates she portioned moss and mud in equal quantities.
When she had finished setting the table, Sabine stepped outside and listened for signs of Marc and the children. Nothing. She sat with her back against the trunk of a beech and closed her eyes. She could hear the slow settling of the forest, the chirruping of birds in the branches. A memory surfaced.
Her mother was setting the table. Sabine was just a baby strapped into the high chair. Her diaper was hot and wet around her. Sabine’s lungs contracted and expanded with each aching sob. The kitchen was filled with blue smoke drifting from the boiling pot and up along the tile. Some of it reached the window and was pulled to wisps by the darkness.
Father entered the room and laid his hand gently on Sabine’s head. The low notes of his voice shook through her body. Soon Sabine ceased crying. Mother spoke to father in short rasps. Then everyone sat down to eat. Marc was in the other high chair, quiet and smiling. Mother and father’s faces were just grey smears moving up and down.
Marc looked back at the children to make sure they were keeping pace. One of them had blood down her shirt from wiping her nose. The others fooled around as they walked. Marc hissed at them and the children fell in line and sped up. He looked back a few more times until he was satisfied with their gait. Their learning only lasted as long as the blood did. Then the children forgot and it was time to remind them again. This tired Marc.
Sabine was standing at the entrance of the cabanne, face pale and strained. Marc could tell that she had been thinking. The children walked past her and entered the dank wooden structure. Careful not to disturb anything, they took their seats around the table. The siblings stood in the doorway, blocking the light. Marc smiled and looked at the children sitting in order. Their eyes shone in the semi-darkness and he could hear them sniffling. Marc and Sabine took their places at the head of the table. Then Sabine recited the prayer.
Thank you god for this family. Please protect our health.
One of the younger children rubbed her nose and stared at her grubby fingers in the dim light, checking for blood. The little girl’s parents had named her Gaëlle but she didn’t know this and neither did anybody else. She watched the others chew their mud patties. Their mouths were caked with mud and she could hear the wet crunch of tiny pebbles beneath their teeth. The children grimaced as they ate. Gaëlle knew she should eat along with them if she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. The two big kids with the yellow hair, they never ate. All they did was wait and watch patiently until the small ones had finished their plates. Gaëlle was just making it worse for herself by freezing up like this. She looked down at the patty and felt a warm dizziness. It was spreading from her nose to the back of her head. When the blonde boy had hit her, Gaëlle had been very warm, and the boy had pushed the warmth right into the back of her head where it had become wet and sick. Marc spoke joyfully.
Eat.
Now Sabine was watching her too. Gaëlle’s saliva tasted salty and she was finding it hard to swallow. She reached for a piece of moss and put it in her mouth. Her teeth felt hollow and electric as she anticipated the crunch. Gaëlle pretended to chew, hoping the moss would become wet and disappear a little. She left it on her tongue and moved her chin up and down. Sabine whispered something to Marc and he reached over to Gaëlle’s plate and broke off a piece of the mud patty. When he lifted it to her mouth, she resisted for a moment. Then Gaëlle remembered the shove Marc had given her. She opened her mouth and let him place the mud inside.
The back of her throat hardened into a knot and she was overwhelmed by nausea. Soon Gaëlle was floating up through the canopy and into the sky. There in the vaulted blue she looked over the wheat and colza running in gold and yellow strips, the scrabble of interstitial forests at the fields’ edges, the unhalted woodland to the north where the maples, birches, and elms grew green and lush over the horizon. Before she knew it, the sky grew black with the beating wings of barn swallows. They jerked and swept across the ether, circling the child in a growing frenzy. Outside the cabanne Gaëlle vomited a dark mix of moss and earth. Her ribs ached and her throat burned. She wiped the vomit from her nostrils and attempted to right herself.
It was on the short walk back to the cabanne that Gaëlle heard Florian’s shrieks reverberate through the trees. She turned to look but could not see the boy.
8.
Only seven children stood in the courtyard. Christophe counted them again, just to be certain. They formed a loose line, limbs restless and shifting, all waiting absent-mindedly for the old man to bathe and clothe them. But Florian was not present. Christophe looked over the squalid assembly of human shapes in his care, the reek of urine and feces, the dirty feet, the knotted hair.
Where is Florian? he said.
None of the children answered his question. He scrutinized their faces for signs of deception. Unlike these little liars, Florian had not been the product of one of Christophe’s searches. Three winters ago the boy had wandered onto the farm, half-starved and on the verge of losing his toes to frostbite. Christophe had been gathering fallen leaves in the garden when he first heard the commotion. He walked around the farmhouse to find the other children standing around a hunched, naked figure in the courtyard. Some held rocks in their fists, and the boy was snarling at them. He looked wretched. By spring Christophe had nursed him back to health and chosen a name for him, but the boy’s toes remained gnarled and misshapen. Soon Florian was walking again and Christophe allowed him free reign of the farmhouse. Despite the old man’s attempts at disciplining the child, Florian spoke no discernible language and could only be forced to wear clothes at meal time. This was one of Christophe’s inflexible rules, alongside these fortnightly washes.
The metal whistle was loud and its trill reached far into the fields and forests, but still Florian refused to appear. The old man’s face remained calm as he addressed the children.
I said where is Florian?
Finally Gaëlle stepped forward. The old man did not flinch.
Yes, she said.
He looked at her. Small spasms worked their way across the child’s face. Her teeth were dark with grime.
Where?