There’s just a small stone for Da. It was all I could pay for. I lie down on the green shoots of grass over his grave. My shift sticks to the back of my legs, and my cunny is wet with dirty ditch water. I lie for a long time. The sky above me becomes dark and cold. Stars come out through clouds that look like carrot tops. Lying above Da’s bones like on a bed, I understand why sin eaters were made. Carrying such feelings is too much for one little heart, too much for one body. There must be some hope of shedding regret, grief, sorrow, sloughing them off like a skin and going into death free and light. Else we’d never be able to live.

Night airs bring fever. I’ll wait for them to seep into my nose and eyes and ears. They’ll dry up my life, and I’ll leave this world. Whether I’ll go to Eve or the Maker, I don’t know.

The moon passes above me, lighting a beech tree thick with new leaves. I wait. But nothing happens. After days of filling my belly, I’m coursing with life, warm and sound, and itching to move. The Makermen wouldn’t help me. Now death won’t either.

I roll over so I can see Da’s stone. I stick my finger in our etched name. O-W-E-N-S, I trace the letters over. Grey grit gets caught in my fingernail. I trace the letters again. The wide O. The doubled-up W. The E and N. The S to finish. I do it again. And again. Over and over until my thoughts get plain. If I’m to live, then I need to fix this mess. I fold my hands.

Ruth, I pray, I vow to make this right.

I will prove myself Da’s daughter and repair things.

May it be.

May it be.

May it be.

11. NEAT’S TONGUE

IT’S WITCHING HOUR. Even the whores are tucked away when I walk down tavern row towards home. I feel a swell of relief when I smell the first stink of Dungsbrook. Soon I’ll be tucked away in my home too.

I turn onto my lane. I pass the path to the woad yard and the Domus Conversorum. For a moment, I think I hear a flute coming from the old, stone ruin where Jews had to live until they converted to the new faith. My guts get light thinking about unconverted souls that might be trapped in the building, but it’s not spirits I hear, just wind passing through its crumbling chimney.