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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

It happened on a Friday, the boys in their last rhythm of the week, me trying to stay steady for them, a ship in dock, something you could hardly see the end of. I picked them up from school, administering snacks, absorbing shreds of their days, the wrappers from their sweets. It was almost midwinter: the sun was setting as we walked home, dying down against the playing field at the back of our house. Birds flew away from us, crayoned lines across the colours.

Back then, I was always hearing flocks of geese over our roof, feeling as if I lived on a marsh instead of at the edge of a small, rich town. I would close my eyes and feel it: the green ooze of the earth’s water, rising through my skin.

~

If anyone ever finds out, I know what they will conclude: I am an awful person. I am an awful person, and they – the finder – are a good person. A kind, large-­hearted, pleasant person. Attractive, with a nice smell. This person – this woman, perhaps – would never do the things that I have done. She would never even try.

~

2

2

The boys were happy that day; there were no dramas, no small children lying in the middle of the road.

When they were younger, I was constantly picking them up from the pavement, facing the possibility that I would be stuck on the journey for a minute more, an hour more. A week. The eldest, Paddy, never got over the birth of his brother, and when he was younger he raged daily, making it seem as though we would be stuck in that moment forever.

Just before I found out, I had started to feel that the children were creatures I’d released from a cage. They were suddenly free, agile beings, looping around me. Paddy, especially, had a new internal quiet that I had come to recognize as a self, thoughts that were beginning to form dense and mysterious places, whole worlds I would never know about.

That afternoon he was being kind to his little brother, his gentleness a relief like a blessing, Ted so keen at every moment to stay in his good light, the almost mystical clearness of it, like sunshine at the bottom of a swimming pool. They were collecting sticks, fir cones; Ted had rolled up the bottom of his school jumper, was placing them in the bunched material, his little fingers pink with cold.

Put your gloves on! After seven years the phrases had long become empty, but I still used them. It seemed odd, that I had to monitor the children’s discomfort, rather than simply accepting that they did not care, that they maybe even liked the sensation: flesh turned to ice, numb and tingling.