Hide The Gun.

I am crouched down beside the window, rifle in my shaking hands, hoping he can’t see me in the crack from the curtains. Why do I have the gun? Can I use it? What to do? Saints preserve me, be with me now, tell me what to do?

A sharp flash in my head. ‘Hide the gun well, Angelique, and the ammunition, tell them your husband is out hunting.’

Get up, drop the gun in the special hole, shove the ammunition boxes in quietly, so quietly, slide the floorboard back in place. Look around to make sure there are no traces, ah! Cleaning kit, a thin steel box that will look interesting to any man out here, any native. A peek through the curtains, still just the one, thank goodness, and he no closer. Yet. Bury the box in the woodstove ashes, wipe my hands clean on a rag.

What next?

Cover my hair, put on an apron. Think of the knives in the drawer, imagine them at my throat, leave them there.

My husband is out, he will want supper when he gets home, start some biscuits. Form the dough into a ball, sprinkle flour on the tabletop, hear the quiet knock on the door. Heart leaping up, stomach sinking hard, I pick up the bowl and open the door.

There he is, larger than life, dressed in their outlandish skins, two braids, longer than mine, I  stare at them. So long, so carefully braided, tied with thongs that have blue beads sewn on them. A sweet and simple thing, but it means a great deal, I know this instinctively. My eyes rise upwards slowly, taking in everything on their way, that’s how I am, I have to see things thoroughly.

Up to his eyes, shocked to find him doing the same thing, seeing me carefully. His gaze lingers on the bowl in my hand, I understand this. I turn suddenly and point to a chair by the stove. Ignoring him now, I spread the dough out on the table, dusting it with more precious flour, like I have an endless supply. He scorns the chair but comes to watch me. Breathe now, slowly and normally. Cut the circles, cover them with a towel to rise, go to light the stove to cook them, freeze in horror. A bead of sweat, think Angelique, what to do?

See the water bucket, dare I? What choice do I have? Pick it up, turn to him, show him my dirty hands, point to the bucket, point outside, cross and put it down at his feet. Will he go? No doubt I surprise him, he picks the bucket up and goes out the door. I watch him walk straight for the well, already knowing where it is. A shiver.

Rush to the stove, scrape the ashes, tin and all, into the ash bucket, push it deep so it can’t be seen. Throw the scraper behind the stove, grab a handful of twigs with my doughy hands, just in time. He comes back in with the bucket full and sets it on the table. He looks at me, wanting what, some kind of reward? I have no idea. I smile a bit, and that seems to do it. Rub the dough off into the scrap bucket, turn to scoop a bowl of water out of the bucket and find him silently making a fire in the stove. How does he move without making noise? I stand still for a minute, watching him, his lean brown hands arranging wood expertly, the rest of him crouched like an animal in my house. A shiver I can’t supress, put the bowl down and wash my hands in it. It takes a while, the fire is roaring before I have all the dough bits out of my fingernails. When did I cut them last?

Another flash in my head, my husband cuts my nails while I’m laughing. I have scratched his back one too many times, he will keep them short if I won’t. A slow, sensual thing, with his sharp knife, we have to stop and test my nails to be sure. Ah, how it hurts. Hide it now, or it will betray you to this strange man and he will think differently about you. A long, slow breath, my shoulders fall, I fill the kettle and set it to boil with some kind of calm. What will happen will happen, all I can do is try to play it the way I was taught.

Grind some coffee beans, another dwindling treasure, see his nostrils quiver, I count it a win in his expressionless face. Keep playing, go to the window and look out, both sides of the house, do I see my husband coming? No. Cross to the stove, open the door and check the embers, poke around a bit, I need glowing red not flashing flames. A quick look at him, he’s just standing there, will he never sit? Get the pot and steep the coffee, a fragrant cloud of steam rising into the space between us. Do I see just the hint of an eye roll?

Something in me bonds with something in him, just like that. I recognize a fellow sensualist. My husband would say I wasn’t in love with him, I was in love with feeling. Both right and oh so wrong. Our eyes meet and for a minute I think he can read my mind. Lower my eyes and turn to the cupboard for a mug, feel his gaze on my back like a sunburn. Ignore this as best I can. Place the griddle to heat and find my last jar of fat, try not to look like it’s my last anything, spread some and wait for it to start sizzling.

Cook biscuits, look out the window, watch him drink three cups of coffee. Watch it make him start pacing around the room, touching things. The bed, with its handmade quilt, he picks up an edge and examines the stitching. A sideways look at me. Finally he stops in the open doorway and looks out. The sun is slanting now, shadows long across the yard, the forest becoming something else at the edges.

I know what he’s thinking, I point to my husband’s hook on the wall, with his night shirt hanging, then the door. I mime a man shooting a rifle, a pair of antlers, a knife cutting something. He slowly smiles, a serious thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. The slightest nod.

Despite myself, I blush, turn and get the can of fat, a knife, pile some biscuits on a plate. Put it on the table, push the plate in his direction. Pull out a chair and step back. Think about a napkin, think again. Look at him, go to the window and pull the curtain aside. Almost twilight, will my husband come back in the darkness? No. My guest knows this, somehow. He steps to the table and picks up a few biscuits, biting one as he walks to the door, is he leaving? So easily? No. He squats down just outside the door and eats his biscuits. No grease, just plain like that, they’re gone so fast I hardly have time to react. His head turns around to me, I see his profile sharply outlined, the nose powerful, the jaw a perfect match for it. A noble face, by any definition, he catches me looking at him. Pick up the plate and bring it to him, add wood to stove and fill the kettle. Don’t look in his direction.

The house is growing dark, I clean up in shadows, husbanding my lamp oil. The night creeps up around him, what is he thinking? So still now, having left me some biscuits, pushed the plate across the floor in my direction and turned away. Too anxious to eat, I cover the plate with towels and leave it on the table.

What to do? Will he stay there all night? Will he come back in? Will he want something more of me? What can I do about it? Nothing, if my husband doesn’t come home. Both of us know this. Crickets now, a deep darkness settling in, the moon lost somewhere. I can’t bear the tension, I can’t bear the not knowing, I can’t take the silence, I can’t ta- ah!

I snap. To the bed, strip off the quilt, grab my husband’s pillow, go to the door and step out. I feel his eyes on me, no doubt he can see better than I can. I drop the blanket and pillow at his feet and go back inside, shutting the door behind me. I don’t lock it, no need to provoke him. Make my way back to the bed, throw myself across it and wait. The minutes crawl by, my heart has no intention of slowing down, my head is a maelstrom of everything I can conjure that isn’t about fear. Keep the thoughts clean, never panic, panic clouds the judgement. How did my husband know so well?

After a while, I realize he probably isn’t going to come in. Can I trust in it? Do I need to stay awake and on guard? For what? Do I imagine I can fight him off? A good foot taller than me, as hard as nails, no doubt. Understanding my very real helplessness in a new way. I can’t help myself, I cry, shaking silently, trying to not make a sound as spasms of pain wrack my body. How to be terrified quietly, this one cannot learn. Muffle my face in my pillow, curled into a tight ball, rocking.

A touch on my shoulder, I start and cry out, the hand is warm, gently pressing me back into the bed. Long slow strokes down my arm, over and over, my heart frees itself and screams inside me. A storm of pain, of fear and loss, of the hand on my arm, a storm that tells him more than enough.

That slow stroke, it becomes my anchor at some point, I don’t know how or when, my mind clings to it and a new, urgent need is formed. Let the hand continue its long, careful movements, if not forever then until I fall asleep. Let the hand demand no more of me, let it  be something else entirely, repeat this in my head.

How good it feels. A brief stop to cover me with the quilt, then back to the soothing strokes. Try to look at him, a dim outline, crouched on the floor beside the bed. Watch him fade from sight.

In the morning I am alone, a fire burning in the stove, a pile of fresh wood against the wall. Sit up slowly, listen carefully, hear the sound of the sharpening stone. Not alone, then. Is it my husband, come home in the sweet light of dawn? Look out the window, see a native man running his thumb along the blade of the axe. Not good enough, he goes back to it. I step away from the window, Heaven help me, what do I do? I can’t imagine he’s stocking my wood pile out of the kindness of his heart. Who does that? Not without expectations anyway.

Think, Angelique. What did your husband say about them? What have I heard from others? Crouch on the floor, find the memory, we were making wood shavings to smoke some meat, mine tiny and thin, his curled like a leaf, so fragrant, ah, there it is.

‘Remember my love, these aren’t white men, don’t expect them to act like it. So far from it, you have no idea. The ones I lived with were decent, civilized people, but that doesn’t mean they all are. Best to be prepared.’

Keep my eyes closed, feel the light breeze as he passes me silently. Open my eyes to find him looking at me. Stand up slowly, cross to the cupboard, take out the grinder, the tin of coffee beans. The kettle is already full, so is the water bucket. He earns his food. Is this how they are? What do I know?

‘They’re hunters, trackers, better naturalists than we could ever be. From what I could see, the men rule, they hunt and fight, the women work, silently for the most part. At least when the men are around. They put their kids to work, that seems natural, we do too. You need to remember their strange code of honour, strict, clean, I liked it, easy to understand.’

Grind the beans, put them in the pot, pour the boiling water in. He watches my hands like I’m performing an important ritual, it starts to feel like it. He takes his full mug and some biscuits outside, where he sits by the door. I leave it open, go to my chest and find the last strip of bacon, wrapped in its corn leaves. Add wood to the fire then unwrap the meat and start to cut it in thin slices, still good, it will be smoky and salty, he should like it. What else do I have? Oats, raisins, some precious hazelnuts, lots of dried beans, a chunk of salt pork, really he can take it all if he wants, I hear they usually do.

Put the pan on the stove and wait for it to heat. A peek at the door, his head is tilted back against the wall, knees drawn up in front of him, eyes closed. The sun on his face, how dark his skin is. If I stayed in the sun forever I could never come close. My husband’s skin as white as mine, only our faces and arms getting the light. This is how we are.

If I long to be naked out of doors, if my skin begs for a sharp wind or the sting of rain, I know better than to tell him. I know better than to try it when he is away, I know better than to bathe in the river, on impossibly hot days. All these things are dangerous for a white woman out here. For any woman, probably. My husband a man who feels himself too vulnerable without clothes, too exposed in a river naked, with the gun on the bank. Who can blame him? Thick woods hide anything.

They hid the man outside, who left the sharp axe in the corner by the wood stack, the stone on the shelf where he found it. The bacon starts to brown, I arrange the slices, a shadow across the floor. He is behind me, just like that, a sudden presence, a sudden force of presence. I stand still, the fork in my hand, the meat curling and spitting. Time stretches out unbearably, what does he want? Nothing, it seems. He just stands behind me, closer than I can take. I might explode, such tension. He breaks it by stepping away, looking out the window, thinking foreign thoughts in a foreign language.

The bacon is cooked, I use a rag to take the pan off the stove and place it on its legs to cool. He watches me, I wipe my hands on my apron, what do you want from me? He holds his hand out, I step back, a pang, a punch, a short step to something I’m not ready for. He comes to me, takes my hand and pulls me outside.

The sun blinds me, blink and follow him through the woods, my stomach clenched like a fist, my heart hammering. In my head the bells start ringing. Help me, Saints, help me out of here, I don’t want this walk, I can’t be here, doing this. Dizzy now, faltering, he pulls me gently, almost there, impossible. No. There it is, a mound of wood and sticks, cleverly arranged and stuffed with debris like any other pile of dead wood in the forest. Invisible. Drop to my knees, choking, tear away the grasses, tear away the branches, tear it all away and collapse on the dark, damp earth. Face down into it, clutching it in my hands like there are pieces of him in it, shake and retch, curl and cry, feel again his hand in mine, weak and cool, all its meaning leaving with its warmth. Cry and cry, I will never stop, I will die like this, let me lose my breathe in this earth, so hard to loosen, so quick to claim. Let me die here now.

Something on my arm, warm and firm, stroking downward, back up and down again, what is that? A hand, feel the fingers, the rhythm, count the strokes, no, feel them only, let them never stop. How long do I lay there? So long, I won’t move in case I lose the hand.

Do I remember being laid like a child in my bed, covered and left alone? No.

I remember waking up and knowing everything is different. A man in my house, he has brought something, a rabbit, I think. The fire is lit, he crouches on the ground by the door, sharpening my knives. I sit up, he turns and looks at me, a strange face suddenly made familiar. Something new in me, what will I do with it?