prowled round the outside of the pumping station, pushing and pulling at doors and windows. All shut tight.
If I was lucky, the explosion would spark a fire.
“Mistress!”
My hands jumped. They’re always the first to be afraid.
My thoughts followed more slowly.
“I needs must speak to thee, mistress.”
The voice splashed and slapped.
Not human.
I turned toward the estuary, where a wave stood on its tail, like a fish. You think it must fall, but no: It can stand as long as it needs. This I knew from the last time I’d seen it, which was also the first time.
“Two years I been waiting,” said Mucky Face. “I been waiting, but tha’ didn’t never leave tha’ dwelling. I been waiting to tell thee it broke my heart.”
“What do you mean?” I turned away from the pumping station. Best draw away: The station might explode.
“I misliked to strike tha’ stepmother like I done.” Mucky Face followed me along the estuary, beating the water with his tail. “The call, though, it come too strong.”
“But I was the one who called you.” My thoughts lagged behind the meaning of his words. “I told you to strike Stepmother.”
“No, mistress!” said Mucky Face. “ ’Twere an Old One what called me. ’Twere an Old One o’ the wicked, solitary kind. Its power were monstrous an’ catched me at ebb tide.” He paused. “That power, it kilt the minnows what be my friends.”
I shook my head. It was I who’d called him. I’d been angry, of course, and later, Stepmother and I worked out why: I’d been jealous.
Jealousy is never a nice thing to look back upon, but even in the nastiness, I remember the thrill of calling Mucky Face. I didn’t have a word for it then, but I do now: power. Such thrilling power we witches have—over the wind, over the tidal wave, over so many of the Old Ones.
I wish I knew what I’d been thinking. I’m nearly sure I meant only to frighten Stepmother, remind her I’m a witch, make her pay attention to me, not Rose. If I were a praying person, I’d pray it was just power run amok, helped along by the Brownie. Brownies are mad for practical jokes. I’d pray that I’d only meant Mucky Face to stand on his tail, to stretch his boiling strength over the Parsonage, over the garden. That I’d never imagined he’d smash himself upon Stepmother.
I remember it, all of it. I remember the gray water surging from the river, smashing itself to spray, washing over a blue dress. I remember my throat filling with acid, wanting to run to Stepmother, not wanting to run to Stepmother.
I had to save Stepmother. I couldn’t endure life without her. I couldn’t endure life with the guilt of having killed her. I’d barely left the house in a year, since Stepmother had told me I was a witch. Dr. Rannigan. I had to fetch Dr. Rannigan.
I had so many memories. My words couldn’t begin to do them justice. “I called you to crush my stepmother.”
“No, mistress,” said Mucky Face. “’Twere an Old One what called me, an Old One what were born o’ water. Tha’ doesn’t be born o’ water, mistress. I needs must speak direct. Tha’ doesn’t be near strong enough to call me. Tha’ doesn’t be near strong enough to draw me five miles upriver to tha’ dwelling.”
I wished I could believe him, but I am an Old One, I have that power. I called him and he came.
“Forgive me, mistress.”
“Don’t say that anymore!”
I remember running, running from Stepmother’s body to the Alehouse, where I found Dr. Rannigan. My memory now speeding into a jumble of people and voices, into the flooding of the Parsonage. My memory lingering on Stepmother, whom Dr. Rannigan and the Hangman lifted ever so carefully onto a stretcher—
“What do you want of me?” I said.
“I been wanting to come back into the story,” said Mucky Face.
The story, the story, always the story! “All the stories are burnt.”
“Can tha’ not scribe ’em again?” said Mucky Face.
“It’s too late for that.”
“But tha’ needs must scribe ’em, mistress! Scribing, it don’t never die, but a story what be on a person’s tongue—well, there don’t be no person what lives forever an’ aye. Scribe o’ my power that it don’t be forgot. Scribe o’ how I surges into the fringes o’ the sea. Scribe o’ how I dive—”
It was then that the pumping station blew up. Mucky Face tipped backward, exploding into foam. I tipped forward, exploding into a run.
You can run and run. You can run and grow fitter and faster. You can run so much and so fast, you turn back into wolfgirl, running endlessly, effortlessly, through the swamp.
I knew I’d called Mucky Face. I knew Mucky Face had injured Stepmother. But I was running, running like wolfgirl, outrunning my memories.
You can outrun your memories, but sometime, you will have to stop. And when you do, there will always be Stepmother, waiting to be remembered.
12
Wolf and Lion
Look at me, Briony, walking and talking with a boy-man. Tonight is the first meeting of the Fraternitus Bad- Boyificus. Eldric and I walk along the towpath. The sun sits on the river like a great orange yolk. Eldric and I admire it.
It feels as though it’s been months since Eldric arrived, but it’s been only five weeks. If you want to stretch out your life, here’s my advice: Look about for new experiences, lots of them. It slows down time. Here are the experiences I recommend: Sit down to breakfast with a person, actually sit and eat and talk. Plan the details of a secret club while your father reads the paper, and even if your father realizes what you’re doing, it’s all right, because you’ve kept the important thing secret.
No one knows about the fraternitus.
Pardon me: Fraternitus. It’s the sort of word that simply begs for a Capital beginning.
The Shire horses have marked the path with their great dinner-plate hooves. We put our feet inside their footprints, we laugh.
Briony feminina regularitatis est.
She is a feminina regularitatis who deserves a holiday, just for this one evening. Listen to what she did. Hark unto the extreme cleverness of Briony Larkin.
