No longer would he be accepting. He would not take another blow from Father, nor the constant ridicule from Gabriel. Need not live in fear of the whispers and sniggers of those in the village. Only now was he learning that his life was not set, but that it could be forged according to his own will.

He would wait a little longer for Sarah, still hopeful she would come. But if she did not appear soon, he would seek her out.

Whatever I Have Become

The body I find myself in shivers. Someone has rubbed sand into my eyes, forced it down my throat. Pain binds my head.

Cool touch on my forehead. I reach for the hand that rests there.

‘All right, lass. Don’t fret. You’ll soon be fixed.’

It takes a will I don’t know I possess to scrape my eyes open. Nothing but shadow and shape.

‘Am I dying?’

‘No. You are reborn.’

Makes no sense. I cannot question. Everything in me is used up keeping still. Movement causes a stream of pain, a surge of sickness. I let the darkness swallow me.

Hot fingers taffle in my hair, soft mouth at my ear. Whisper, wet and warm. ‘Please get better.’

I shift, try to open my eyes. Cannot.

Sticky hand pushes hair from my head, pats my cheek.

‘Wake up. I bringed something.’

I try to lift my hand and touch her. Nothing.

‘Elderflower brew. I maked it myself. Open your mouth.’

The spoon rough against my lips, sweet liquid seeps in, gritty with dust and pap. Trickles down my face and pools in my neck. The hand pats my head.

‘Good lass,’ she says.

I am flung from sleep with my heart beating, quicker and quicker. Shaking. Skin soaked, mouth dry. I find myself on my feet, staggering as the room rolls.

Mam steps forward, catches me as I fall. ‘Stop, lass, lie down.’

I fight her off, struggling, but her grip tightens. My palm lands on her cheek with a crack. She cries out and I pitch forward, free. Gulping for air, knocking into the table and tripping over John’s mat, until I fall out of the door. Sea breeze lifts the hair from the back of my damp neck. Grass rough against my bare knees, threaded between fingers, soil under nails.

John walks past, carrying a bundle of wood under his arm, chewing a hunk of bread too soft to be meant for him.

‘Better, then,’ he says, waiting a little awkwardly. ‘That’s – I’m glad of it.’

‘Me too.’

He offers me the last of the bread on his way in. I push it away. Mam comes and kneels in front of me, shooing Dew-Springer away and cupping my face with her coarse hand. Red finger marks on her cheek, and I remember the smack of my palm against her.

‘Oh, Mammy.’ I cover my mouth. ‘I hit you.’ Throat full with tears. ‘I hurt you.’