Lasher

Thirty-two

HE WANTED TO do it again. Emaleth didn’t want to stop dancing. The building was empty; no one else came this evening. And she wasn’t dancing, except in her sleep. She opened her eyes. There he was. The music was playing, she’d been hearing it in her dreams, and now he was so insistent. Do it. He wanted to take off her long pants again and be inside her. She didn’t mind it, but she had to be going to New Orleans. She really did. Look, it was dark again, positively late-night dark. The stars would be hanging low over the field outside, over the swampland, over the smooth highway with its silver wires, and its dreamy white lights. Got to start walking.

“Come on, honey.”

“I told you, we can’t make a baby,” she said. “It just won’t work.”

“That’s just fine, darlin’. I don’t mind at all about not making a baby. Come on, now, you’re my sweet little thing. What if I turned off the music? And here, I got you some milk? Some fresh milk. Said you wanted some more milk, remember? Look, I got you ice cream too.”

“Hmmmm, that’s good,” she said. “Turn down the dial on the music.”

Only then could she move. The music was little and tiny and thumping on her brain, kind of like a fish splashing in a tiny pool, trying to get bigger. It was grating, but it didn’t engulf her.

She tore open the plastic top of the big bottle and began to drink and drink. Ah, good milk. Not Mother’s milk, but it was milk. Not fresh and warm. But it was good. If only there had been more milk in Mother. She was so hungry for Mother. So hungry to lie in Mother’s arms and drink. This feeling became worse instead of better When she thought of Mother she wanted to cry.

But she had taken every drop she could get from Mother, and it had been enough. She had grown tall, and only left Mother when she knew she had to.

Pray the brown people had found Mother and taken Mother to a proper grave. Pray they had sung and dropped the red ocher and the flowers. Mother would never wake again. Mother would never speak. There wouldn’t be any more milk ever in Mother. Mother had made every drop that she would ever make.

Was Mother dead? She ought to go to Michael, tell Michael what Mother said. A feeling of love and tenderness came over her when she thought of Michael, and Mother’s love for him. Then go on to Donnelaith. What if Father was waiting there for her now?

On and on she drank. He was laughing. He had turned up the music again. Boom, boom, boom. She let the bottle drop, and wiped her lips. She should be walking. “Got to leave you.”

“Not yet, darlin’.” He sat down beside her, took the milk bottle and laid it carefully out of the way. “Want some ice cream? People who like milk always like ice cream.”

“I never had any before,” she said.

“Honey, you’ll love ice cream.” He opened the package. He began to feed her with a small white spoon. Oh, this tasted even more like Mother’s breast, sweeter and delicious. It made a shiver pass through her. She took the carton and began to eat. She was humming with the music. Suddenly the music and the taste were all she knew. She tried to shake herself back into the moment. The little building in the woods; he and she alone on the floor. All the dancers gone. His wanting to do it with her. And the spot of blood after, when she had reached down. “It just died like that.”

“What was that, darlin’?”

“The baby. I can’t make them with men, only with Father.”

“Ho, ho, honey! Keep that secret to yourself.”

She didn’t know what he meant. But he was happy. He was gentle. He thought she was beautiful. He didn’t have to say so. She saw it in his eyes. Music or no music, she saw his adoring eyes. And he loved the smell of her. It made him feel young.

He was pulling her up to her feet. The ice cream rolled on the floor. It felt good to be in his arms, swaying back and forth and back and forth. Like a bell swinging, calling all the people down into the glen. Hear the bell, that’s the Devil’s Knell? Hear the bell?

He held her close, and she felt her breasts ache against his chest. Strange, prickly feeling.

“Oh, you’ve made milk in me,” she whispered. She backed up, trying to clear her head of the music. “Look at it.” She reached in her shirt, tearing loose the buttons, and pinched her own nipple.

Droplets of thin milk. It would not do her any good to drink her own milk. She ached for Mother, ached to nurse. And look, because he’d made the tiny baby die in her, he’d made her have milk. Well, it would go away, especially if he would stop doing it to her. But what if it didn’t? It was all right. When she came together with Father at the Beginning, she would need milk, breasts heavy with milk. Out of her loins would come all the children, hungry, beautiful children, until the glen was filled once again, as it had been, after they were driven from the island.

She turned around and went down on her knees and lifted the milk bottle. The music almost knocked her over. Almost made her not know up from down.

She drank and drank until there was no more.

“Gee, honey, you sure do like your milk.”

“Oh yes, very much,” she said. Then she could not remember what he had just said. The music. Turn down the music.

He was pushing her down on the floor. “Let’s do it again, honey.”

“OK,” she said, “but I will just bleed some more.” Her breasts hurt just a little. But it was probably all right. “Can’t make a baby, remember.”

“Promise me that, sweetheart, why you’re the most precious little gal, the most precious little thing I’ve ever…ever…known.”