Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [3]
Then I went to see Long Boy. When I arrived at Dora’s cottage, I found him crouched in front of the fire wrapped in blankets. His eyes, large and round like his mother’s, were swollen from crying, and his tangled mass of dark hair stood on end. In his hand was a loaf of bread, and on the table more loaves were piled of various shapes and sizes, together with plates of meat, gifts from the women of the village. His appetite was legendary; his mother often joked that he was the only male in the village whose hunger she could not satisfy. He took great bites of bread, chewing rhythmically, absently, his eyes glued to the fire. The act of eating seemed to calm him.
I was surprised to find him alone. What had become of the four men who returned with him, I wondered? And the others, the ones with plates of food? Where were they, now that she was dead? The cottage had been emptied not just of her, but of all of them, for I sensed that they could no more tolerate his presence than do without hers. He was a strange child, unlike other children: he would appear from nowhere, and disappear just as suddenly. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was to ask a question, often an unsettling one. When I entered the cottage he looked up at me for an instant, then turned back to the fire. He was accustomed to seeing outsiders enter his home. I laid my things on the table with the others: some hard-cooked eggs, a knuckle of bacon, a lump of butter. I drew up the only other chair in the cottage, and sat down next to him. He bit off another huge bite of bread from the loaf in his hand, his jaw working hard up and down, the cords of his long neck bulging as he swallowed. I sat with him for several minutes, and when he’d finished the bread, he stared down at his empty hands.
“Johann,” I said, leaning forward. He did not respond, so I waited a moment, then tried again. “Long Boy.” He looked up at me and blinked, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands, then his eyes wandered toward the pile of food on the table. “What will you do?” I asked.
He reached for another piece of bread.
“Will you stay here? By yourself?” I said.
“Who will stay with me?” he asked. I looked at him a moment, then shook my head.
“There is no one,” I said. “But there are places you could go. You could find work. You’re nearly grown.” My words were ridiculous: he was almost twice my size. He shook his head and took another bite of bread. We sat for a few minutes in silence. He continued to eat, and only when he was through did he turn to me, his eyes blurry with confusion.
“Why did she fall?”
I looked at him and hesitated. Why indeed, with all her strength and grace and spirit, why would she succumb so easily to death? I closed my eyes and in an instant she appeared, shaking free her lion’s head of nut-brown hair. When I opened my eyes, Long Boy was staring at me, mouth wide with waiting.
“I do not know,” was all I said.
Chapter Two
I stayed with him until he slept, curled like a cat, in front of the fire. Then I set out for the Great House, traversing the length of the village with its disheveled row of farmer’s cottages. The Great House sits atop a small hillock on the outskirts of the village. Its grounds are neatly marked out by a low stone wall that I used to straddle as a child, my eyes trained on the house’s imposing facade for signs of life within. To the rear of the house are formal gardens, which descend in graceful arcs until the ground levels out in a sort of boggy meadow, ending in a small stream that often overflows in spring. To the right of the house are the outbuildings, including a small stone chapel that is built into the hillside; to the left is a small orchard of apple and pear and elderflower.