Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [76]
“How goes your mother?” she asks tentatively.
“As well as one might expect,” I reply. She shakes her head and sucks in air through her teeth, then slowly extracts her hands from the pullet, her fists clutching entrails. In a flash I see the image from my dream: that of the crooked boy spilling forth from the riven belly of the mare. And all at once I know what I must do.
My master is an early riser, and I am not surprised to find him already seated at his desk in the library. As I enter the room it strikes me that perhaps he has remained rooted there throughout the night, for it is clear from his demeanor that sleep has barely visited him these past few days. He reminds me of Long Boy, for his eyes hold the same restless look about them. My unannounced visits no longer take him by surprise, and I do not feel trepidation in his presence, only urgency, as if the burden of my mother’s story should not be borne by me alone.
I speak slowly, cautiously, choosing my words with precision. I tell the tale in its entirety, just as it was told to me, and as I do, am taken aback by the pleasure I feel to see the look upon his face. For he is truly horrified, just as I knew he would be. Indeed, his embarrassment is so acute that I can nearly touch it: his crooked spine seems to contort with shame as I speak, so much so that as I near the end of the tale he is bent so far to one side that his face nearly rests upon the desk. It is as if all the sins of his father have somehow lodged themselves within his very bones. When I finish there is a long silence during which the only sounds are that of the timepiece ticking in the corner and the rise and fall of his own labored breath. At length he straightens, unfolding himself as best he can, and looks at me.
“I was that child,” he says quietly. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “And the image of my father . . . drunken, half-clothed, a bloodstained knife within his hand, has never left me. I did not see the woman, your mother, though I heard her screams. They too have stayed with me . . . it is not the sort of thing a child easily forgets.” He pauses then, his eyes brimming with pain, then clears his throat.
“My father hated me,” he says in flattened tones. “I suppose my . . . infirmity was too great a disappointment. Or perhaps I was simply made to pay for his mistakes. Sometimes I think my whole life has been lived entirely in atonement for his own. Does that sound self-pitying?” He looks at me and I slowly shake my head.
“At any rate, when he died I felt relief . . . though little else had changed. At least I no longer had the specter of his anger to confront.” He gives me a small half-smile. “Only its memory.”
He looks away then, lost in that other time. I consider whether I should reveal the final chapter of my tale. My mother’s voice comes to me: what purpose would it serve? But something propels me forward, like a wave sweeping across the shore.
“My mother fell pregnant afterward,” I say. “She never married. There were no other men . . . neither before, nor after,” I add, lest my meaning be unclear. He stares at me, his eyes widening with realization.
“I see,” he says finally.
“You must help us,” I continue. “You must help her.”
“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course.”
“You must go at once to the magistrate. And you must tell him what you saw,” I say.
His face fills with confusion. “But I did not see him cut her. Indeed, I did not see her at all. I saw only him . . . and the blood upon the knife.”
I trap his gaze firmly in my own. “Then you must lie,” I say.
He nods then, slowly.
And then, in minute detail, I describe the scar and its location.
I leave him stunned, and go directly to my mistress. As I enter her bedchamber I can think of nothing other than her husband, my father. The knowledge lies deep within me, like a coiled snake. If she suffered under him, then she has cloaked it well, for nothing in her passing references has ever led me to suspect