The third child of the third daughter fell asleep beside a lake at the edge of a forest. Although the woods were ancient, thick and dark, the third child wasn’t afraid. As soon as night came she fell asleep just as she always had.
The spirit that lived on the edge of the lake and that carried the memory of the old world within it saw the third child sleeping, and without hesitation ate her.
For weeks her belly as wide as an ocean. It ripples. Time spent checking the packed bag, cleaning the prepared room, folding clothes.
Cooking then eating a curry. Its golden flavour rich rolls around her tongue, and the spiciness brings beads to crown her head, but the ocean is calm. Boiled eggs with crumbling sunlight yolks.
Even the clock ticks slow. Count these moments
before
the clenching. Sea-sickness, a tempest.
Her chair is on its side. There is blood on the towels cleaned just this morning. Thrown to the floor in the room cleaned just this morning. The packed bag stays shut. There is ringing. She screams.
Emerging from the eye of the storm, he arrives squalling.
Up above, the sky is open blue. Down beneath, the grass is living green. Kelly watches as the smoke from his mouth curls out into the blue. Near to him, in a group to his left, a girl plays bongos. She is wearing a tan fringed jacket. She has feathers in her hair. This morning she gave Kelly a flower. Someone else is playing an acoustic guitar. Maybe it’s Dan, muting the chords with his fat fingers. Reedy voices that have been up all night and into today attempt to keep pace with the stumbling guitar.
Somewhere off to Kelly’s right, away from his people, he can hear the thunk pause thunk of a cricket bat. Spattered clapping. There are families over there. He saw them arrive, before his come-down made him lie-down. The June sun sinks – into Kelly’s face, exposed arms, feet in sandals.
A shadow touches his right leg, nearabout the ankle. Kelly looks.
One day you climb up the scaffolding of a water tower with Oskar. From there you can see across from his compound to yours. ‘Look,’ says Oskar. Goldie, the huge yellow labrador who lives with you, runs across your compound, gaining speed. She reaches the tall wall and, this is unlikely, she clears it. You’ve never seen her do this before. You didn’t know that she could.
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In the afternoon. Air too still in the house to breathe. Blood stopped in veins, backing up, thickening. Go into motion; push through. Fingers into fist. The muscle doesn’t rise like it used to. Moles slide along skin under which a bicep is now less visible. Push through.
Boyd managed to get away after tea. Fishfingers, frozen peas and oven chips made a warm lump in his stomach. Johnny and Fraggle were meant to be meeting him on the corner of Main Road and Hill View. Boyd touched the cans of pop he’d stashed in his hoodie’s front pocket. He’d had to walk like a crab to avoid shaking them up. His mam had nearly caught him.
‘Why are you walking like that?’
‘I dunno,’ he’d answered and she just said, ‘I don’t get you kids’ and let it lie. He managed to swipe a packet of rich tea biscuits from the kitchen cupboard before he legged it.
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