They turn, cowards, and flee to their solid walls, thinking they shall keep me out.

‘And at the end,’ I yell at their retreating backs, ‘the hands of my brother, pouring his own blood, shall reach up from the earth and draw you into it.’

They are gone.

Nothing else to see. I am forced to look upon John’s pulped and twisted body. Mam hunched over him, her tears falling on to his face as she holds him to her. Oblivious to all else.

Bett, with her hands clasped together as though she prays, steps towards me.

‘Oh, Sarah.’ She reaches a hand out, slowly, as though I might break or burst into flame. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. What can I do?’

‘You can leave.’

‘I want to help.’

I kneel by Mam, put my arm around her heaving shoulder, look upon John’s face.

‘Your kind have done enough,’ I say, and after a little time hear footsteps as she does my bidding.

His skin is split, lips and cheeks swollen and misshapen. But still so much himself that I know his spirit remained his own till the end. A quiet about his closed eyes and softened mouth so that I could almost, even now, believe he is but sleeping.

Mam is wrapped in grief, and no use at all. I drag John back to the house, a long and painful process that smashes him against roots and stones. I know he’s past reach, yet I fear to hurt him. Twice he slips from my grip and his head falls to the ground. Mam follows, wringing her hands and weeping.

I wash him as best I can and lay him behind the house, where the earth is soft and looked upon by the empty windows of our home. Mam kneels at his side, resting her cheek against his and whispering a mother’s love into his deafened ear.

Later I shall bury him. If it takes all night to scratch a grave with my bare fingers.

His Own Hand

Annie’s tears had stopped. She sat on the riverbank next to him, pulling her hair over her face and whispering. He could not hear what she said. Did not know what to do.

‘Shall we look for moon fish?’ he asked. Hoping she could not hear the strain in his voice.

She spread her fingers and yanked them through her hair, tugging at the tangles until clumps broke off and gathered in her hand. Whispered.

He opened his mouth to tell her all would be well, but could not bring himself to. All he thought he knew of the world was lost and he could not grasp his place in it, much less offer Annie a comforting account. He should have kept Sarah away, protected the brother. Spoken out and spoken louder. Yet here he hid on the riverbank, grateful for Annie as his justification and ashamed of his gratitude.