Countless Haints, Pt. 1

Her earliest memories were of the taste of freshly turned earth and the bleating of goats.

* * *

"Pa?" Madrigal asked.  "You know what tomorrow is, don't you?"

"Of course."  Her father settled back in the creaking chair and placed his opened Bible upon his knee to hold his place.  He drew deep on his pipe, and the sweet-smelling smoke plumed around his bald, sun-spotted head.  "Can't say as I'd rightly forget."

Madi sat upon the hardwood floor, her legs drawn up close, her chin resting upon her knees.  The house was silent, except for their voices, the groan of Pa's chair, and the ticking of the wall clock as it counted the seconds until …

"I'll be almost a woman grown."

"Almost."  Pa's eyes glittered in the lamplight.  "You in such a hurry to grow up and leave your old father alone?"

"I ain't planning on leaving any time soon.  Where would I go?  You reckon I should march down to Ahmen's Landing and marry me the first fisherman's son I fancy?"

"Say you won't."

"Don't fret."  Madi smiled devilishly.  "I'll go at least far as Nag's Head before I find me a fella."

"That's good."  Pa nodded and returned to his Bible.  "A girl ought to have standards."

Madi rolled her eyes at him, but let the matter drop.

The quiet rushed in to flood the house.  The quiet.  Madi sometimes thought of it as a living, breathing thing.  And while the girl usually enjoyed being alone with her thoughts, tonight she felt as if the silence might smother her.  The room, the house, the entire farm seemed too small.

Tomorrow, she would be seventeen.  There would be no celebration, no gifts or cake, but Pa would wish her a happy birthday come sunup and, if he followed suit from previous years, let her skip her chores for the day.  Maybe she would take a walk into town, but probably not to look for boys.  She wanted a love like she read about in her books—something straight out of Wuthering Heights or Pride and Prejudice or Romeo and Juliet—and she doubted any one of the dirt- or salt-crusted young men from around these parts would be able to oblige.  But she wouldn't mind seeing the sights Ahmen's Landing had to offer.  She knew there were bigger and more exciting places in the world, but to a girl who almost never set foot off the farm on which she was born, even a tiny fishing village seemed exotic and fanciful.

But she knew better than to entertain the thought for long.  Joking aside, Pa would never let her go into town by herself.  She doubted he would approve of her going into town on any occasion or under any circumstances.

She watched him from across the dimly lit room.  His face was lean and weathered, with deep creases in his flesh that seemed to snare the shadows and hold them prisoner.  His eyes were deep set and weary.  His lips trembled as he quietly read his scriptures, just as he did every night before bed.  Sometimes, when Madi looked at him, she barely recognized him, as if she couldn't believe she was his own flesh and blood.

Her mother, on the other hand, had died when Madi was only a baby, and the girl didn't remember her at all.

"Pa?" she said, "I've been thinking."

"Yes?"  He placed the Bible upon his knee again.  "What is it, Madi?"

"I been thinking … about a name for the new calf."

"Unh huh."

"I like the name Hanan."

"What's that now?"

"Hanan."  Madi smiled.  "The name's kinda…"

"Where'd you hear 'o that?  Ol' man 'Riah been talkin' on?"  He was off his seat—his face pale and his hands knotted into fists—and the good book fell to the floor with a thump.  "Well, out with it!"

Madi's eyes lingered on the fallen book.

"…The Bible.  It's a name from the Bible, Pa."  She looked down and fell silent.  She didn't know why her father, normally so soft-spoken and gentle, had grown so angry.  She'd certainly seen him agitated on occasion. It was a hard life, a farmer's, and sometimes it took its toll, but never before had his ire been directed at her.

"The Bible."  He, too, looked at the book, and a splash of mottled red washed his cheeks.  His shoulders slumped.  His voice softened.  "The Bible.  That's it?"

"Yes, Pa."

"Well—"  He licked his lips and spoke carefully. He was obviously embarrassed by not recognizing a name straight from the pages he read so often.  "—that ain't the point. The point is, ya gotta stop naming every blessed, livin' thing on this farm. A cow don't need a name, especially a bull.  You wouldn't go a-naming the grape vines, would ya, nor the shrimp we net, and them things are a sight more important to us than a cow or a hen.  Sometimes creatures are best left to their ways. No sense in making 'em out like something they ain't."

"Yes, Pa. I didn't mean…"

"It's done and over now."  His bones popped as he leaned over and grabbed the Bible from the floor.  "Let's not worry on it any longer."

*  *  *

Madrigal dreamed of the tree upon the hill.

Shrouded in runaway scuppernong vines, the tall, grey oak cast its bent shadow across the valley and scratched with spindly branches at the sky.  Years ago, or so Madi had been told, the oak had been struck by lightning during one of the summer squalls that blew in from the east.  The tree had not grown an inch since, and a rotting hollow now yawned in the trunk.  The cavity had been filled to keep the blight from spreading, but the effort had proven futile, the decaying wood pulling away from the concrete filling like gums receding from old, blunted teeth.

In the dream, the maw trembled and smacked, the tree groaning and spitting out mouthfuls of crumbling cement.

In the dream, Madi tried to gather up the bits of rubble, all the while muttering, "Oh no, no, Pa will be so angry."

But the tree, its mouth no longer gagged, did not care if the old farmer was angered or not.  The draping grape vines rustled with a sound like whispered secrets; the oak's grit-encrusted lips quivered; and the mouth, running up and down rather than side to side, opened and closed and growled.

"Lies," the tree said, "Lies."

In the dream, lightning sizzled across the blackening sky, bright as witch's fire.

*  *  *

Madi woke and sat up in bed.  Even though the night was warm and the cramped room was stuffy, she drew the patchwork blanket up close.  Moonlight trickled in through the bedside window, painting the room in an eerie blue haze—the color, or so she'd always thought, of haints.  They were all around her, crowding close to her bed, watching her.  Countless haints.

She looked out the bedside window and gathered the covers even closer.

The vineyard's wire trellises, already heavy with leaves and grape clusters, climbed the hill.  At the summit stood the crooked oak in stark silhouette, its black branches spread out and vanishing into the night, as if growing into the darkness itself.

She hated that tree, and she feared it, too.

Feared its secrets.

An echo of the dream rattled around in Madi's head, and she spoke the words in a hushed whisper.

"Lies."