The first time Grinnan did me, I could imagine that it didn't happen. I thought, I had that big dump full of so much nervous earth and stones and some of them must have had sharp corners and cut me as I passed them, and the throbbing of the cuts gave me the dream, that the old man had done that to me. Because I was so fearful, you know, frightened of everything coming straight from the mudwife, and I put fear and pain together and made it up in my sleep. The first time I could trick myself, because it was so terrible and mortifying a thing, it could not be real. It could not.
I have watched Grinnan a long time now, in success and failure, in private and on show. At first I thought he was too smart for me, that I was trapped by his cleverness. And this is true. But I have seen others laugh at him, or walk away from his efforts easily, shaking their heads. Others are cleverer.
What he does to me, he waits till I am weak. Half-asleep, he waits till. I never have much fight in me, but dozing off I have even less.
Then what he does-it's so simple I'm ashamed. He bares the flesh of my back. He strokes my back as if that is all he is going to do. He goes straight to the very oldest memory I have-which, me never having told him, how does he know it?-of being sickly, of my first mother bringing me through the night, singing and stroking my back, the oldest and safest piece of my mind, and he puts me there, so that I am sodden with sweetness and longing and nearly-being-back-to-a-baby.
And then he proceeds. It often hurts-it mostly hurts. I often weep. But there is a kind of bargain goes on between us, you see. I pay for the first part with the second. The price of the journey to that safe, sweet-sodden place is being spiked in the arse and dragged kicking and biting my blanket back to the real and dangerous one.
Show me your boy-thing, the mudwife would say. Put it through the bars.
I won't.
Why not?
You will bite it off. You will cut it off with one of your knives. You will chop it with your axe.
Put it out. I will do no such thing. I only want to wash it.
Wash it when Kirtle is awake, if you so want me clean.
It will be nice, I promise you. I will give you a nice feeling, so warm, so wet. You'll feel good.
But when I put it out, she exclaimed,
What am I supposed to do with that?
Wash it, like you said.
There's not enough of it even to wash! How would one get that little peepette dirty?
I put it away, little shred, little scrap I was ashamed of.
And she flung around the room awhile, and then she sat, her face all red crags in the last little light of the banked-up fire.
I am going to have to keep you forever! she said. For years before you are any use to me. And you are expensive! You eat like a pig! I should just cook you up now and enjoy you while you are tender.
I was all wounded pride and stupid. I didn't know what she was talking about.
I can do anything my sister can do, if you just let me out of this cage. And I'm a better wood-chopper.
Wood-chopper! she said disgustedly. As if I needed a wood-chopper! And she went to the door and took the axe off the wall there, and tested the edge with one of her horny fingertips, and looked at me in a very thoughtful way that I did not much like.
Sometimes he speaks as he strokes.
My Hanny, he says, very gentle and loving like my mother, my goosle, my gosling, sweet as apple, salt as sea. And it feels as if we are united in yearning for my mother and her touch and voice.
She cannot have gone forever, can she, if I can remember this feeling so clearly? But, ah, to get back to her, so much would have to be undone! So much would have to un-happen: all of Grinnan's and my wanderings, all the witch-time, all the time of our second mother. That last night of our first mother, our real mother, and her awful writhing and the noises and our father begging, and Kirtle weeping and needing to be taken away-that would have to become a nightmare, from which my father would shake me awake with the news that the baby came out just as Kirtle and I did, just as easily. And our mother would rise from her bed with the baby; we would all rise into the baby's first morning, and begin.
It is very deep in the night. I have done my best to be invisible, to make no noise, but now the mudwife pants,
He's not asleep.
Of course he's asleep. Listen to his breathing.
I do the asleep-breathing.
Come, says Grinnan. I've done with these, bounteous as they are. I want to go below. He has his ardent voice on now. He makes you think he is barely in control of himself, and somehow that makes you, somehow that flatters you enough to let him do what he wants.
After some uffing and puffing,
No, she says, very firm, and there's a slap. I want that boy out of here.
What, wake him so he can go and listen at the window?
Get him out, she says. Send him beyond the pigs and tell him to stay.
You're a nuisance, he says. You're a sexy nuisance. Look at this! I'm all misshapen and you want me herding children.
You do it, she says, rearranging her clothing, or you'll stay that shape.
So he comes to me and I affect to be woken up and to resist being hauled out the door, but really it's a relief of course. I don't want to hear or see or know. None of that stuff I understand, why people want to sweat and pant and poke bits of themselves into each other, why anyone would want to do more than hold each other for comfort and stroke each other's back.
Moonlight. Pigs like slabs of moon, like long, fat fruit fallen off a moon-vine. The trees tall and brainy all around and above- they never sweat and pork; the most they do is sway in a breeze, or crash to the ground to make useful wood. The damp smell of night forest. My friends in the firmament, telling me where I am: two and a half days north of the ford with the knotty rope; four and a half days north and a bit west of "Devilstown," which Grinnan called it because someone made off in the night with all the spoils we'd made off with the night before.
I'd thought we were the only ones not back in their beds! he'd stormed on the road.
They must have come very quiet, I said. They must have been accomplished thieves.
They must have been sprites or devils, he spat, that I didn't hear them, with my ears.
We were seven and a half days north and very very west of Gadfly's camp, where we had, as Grinnan put it, tried the cooperative life for a while. But those boys, they were a gang of no-goods, Grinnan says now. Whatever deal he had tried to make for Freckled-Milk, they laughed him off, and Grinnan could not stand it there having been laughed at. He took me away before dawn one morning, and when we stopped by a stream in the first light he showed me the brass candlesticks that Gadfly had kept in a sack and been so proud of.
And what'll you use those for? I said foolishly, for we had managed up until then with moon and stars and our own wee fire.
I did not take them to use them, Hanny-pot, he said with glee. I took them because he loved and polished them so. And he flung them into the stream, and I gasped-and Grinnan laughed to hear me gasp-at the sight of them cutting through the foam and then gone into the dark cold irretrievable.
Anyway, it was new for me still, there beyond the mudwife's pigs, this knowing where we were-though I had lost count of the days since Ardblarthen when it had come to me how Grinnan looked up to find his way, not down among a million tree-roots that all looked the same, among twenty million grass-stalks, among twenty million million stones or sand-grains. It was even newer how the star-pattern and the moon movements had steadied out of their meaningless whirling and begun to tell me whereabouts I was in the wide world. All my life I had been stupid, trying to mark the things around me on the ground, leaving myself trails to get home by because every tree looked the same to me, every knoll and declivity, when all the time the directions were hammered hard into their system up there, pointing and changing-but-never-completely-changing.