Zoe Cramoysan

Extract from The Night Folk

The Beginning.

We’re all born mewling. Margot’s Mother used to say that, as though it were some great equaliser. The memory comes back as she hears her baby cry. Mewling. There was something nasty about the way she had said it. Detached, cold. A pause between each word, as if a knife had sliced the gap. 

Voices carry. It is hot. Dark. Candlelight flickering. The room around her is blurry. There is sweat soaking her forehead, burning her eyes. The child is quieter now. Then loud again as water trickles, cleansing.

Baby. She has a baby. A daughter. She is a mother now. Husband’s hands on her, on her arm. On her forehead, squeezing her wrist. Baby. She wants to see her baby.

Margot has never felt this weak. Pain, tight. Bruising over fragile skin, like crushed berries. The blood is slick between her legs. Something about this kind of hurt makes her feel outside of herself. As though she is floating somewhere above her body, severed, and watching. A cool flannel now, on her temples, administered by Jonathan. Gentle. There we are. You did it, Margot.

Was it supposed to be like this? The tearing. Midwives are talking amongst themselves – Doctor Clarkson is – something is wrong – she’s not supposed – Jonathan – darling, perhaps you should take some laudanum now? No, no, her baby. Words are flickering, failing, falling out her mouth all wrong. Thick and clotting in her throat. They aren’t her own. They scatter. 

Ba…

J…

Mno…

The world swims before her eyes.

It is night.

Jonathan’s face is flushed and concerned. Wrinkles around his eyes, just fine lines but emphasised by worry. And candlelight. The upward cast of flickering light makes all his features more severe. Brush of his beard against her forehead, whisper of a kiss. He dabs her face so gently, his hands shaking. His fear is tangible, it shows in his tremors, his tenderness. Oh god. The baby. Was something wrong with the baby?

Then it happens. Child. In her arms. Heavy. Perfect. A little hair grows on the top of her scalp. Like the skin of a peach. She is big. Bigger than expected. She is healthy. She screams. 

Nose. Cheeks. Eyes. Chubby wrists. Small curious fingers, gripping hers. Toes. Five, five, makes ten. Present and correct. She smells like the earth, like milk and salt.

She would call her baby Blithe.

There we are, there we are.

It is day.

She won’t latch. The Midwife is firm, disapproving. Hold her like this. No she won’t suckle. Jonathan – there’s a quiver in his moustache. Crying? Looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. Milk. There’s plenty. Hold her to your breast like this, that’s the way. Nothing. It’s all wrong.

It doesn’t work.

Try again.

Try again.

Try again…

It is night.

Margot is so tired. Her body aches. She reaches her hand downwards, to her pelvis, to touch the mess of bandages and stitching. It stings. The dressings are sticky. She lifts her fingers to her nose and smells rust.

She is not alone. Jonathan sits on the stool by the vanity, their daughter in his lap. He hasn’t noticed she is awake now. Blithe is crying, always crying. Her mouth is an endless O. Margot tries to sit, but her body is too heavy. Her limbs sink. The blanket feels heavy, weighted. She is vaguely aware that she ought to be scared, frightened by the weakness of her body but she is too sedate to feel fear. The world has a hazy, unreal quality and if it wasn’t for the pain, it would be easy to think this is all a dream. She finds all she can move is her eyes. So, she watches.

Shhhhhh. The hush is gentle, he holds the baby to his chest, rubbing her back in circles. It is a tender, private moment, one that Margot feels she isn’t supposed to see – yet seeing it makes her heart swell. She feels like she is a liquid, dissolving. Blithe wails. She is hungry. She has beautiful blue eyes, and they are scrunched in rage. Shhh, my darling girl. Margot smiles. It is hard to watch them, vision blurry, everything is melting together but seeing her husband like this, so delicate with their child, provokes feelings that are hard to describe, hard to pinpoint, hard to…

Silver. A flash of it. Like moonlight. The knife is in his hands, the child in his lap. Fear in her heart, in her chest, a hammering. She tries to sit, tries to cry out. Jonathan what are you… Her husband draws the knife across his wrist. Margot hears her heartbeat in her ears. Panic. Red. Ribbon. Gushing. He gives it to the child. Presses it to her lips.

Blithe feeds. She settles. No tears. That’s it. That’s it.

Her daughter drinks her husband’s blood, her daughter drinks her husband’s blood, herdaughterdrinksher…

Margot is tired. She is dreaming. This is nothing but an awful phantom, a nightmare that will end.  When she wakes, she will have her daughter, and this will all be over.

Visitant.

 When Blithe arrives home, it is nearing dawn. It is that precious window of time where the mist swirls, the grass is drenched with dew, and yet the sun has not yet broken into the sky. The stars above are fading, their brilliance gradually overtaken by the growing light on the eastern horizon. There is little sound, aside from the rattle of her coach and the beating of hooves; the birds are just beginning to rise. 

 She peers through heavy brocade curtains, leaning close to the window. The glass is dust-beaten, grey. Blithe exhales, watching her warm breath condense on the pane. She rubs the droplets away with her handkerchief. The road ahead is poorly managed, with a thick line of grass in the centre, the hedgerows overgrown, and branches occasionally smack the roof of the carriage. In the darkness, it is hard to gauge their location, but she spots a familiar tree, wizened, and with broken branches. Once they reach the top of this upward slope the gates of her estate will come into view.

 She is unsure how she ought to feel. Anxiety is rooting in her stomach. It makes her bite her lip. There’s anticipation, excitement, a degree of fear. She is keen to settle, to pour through old memories. But it will be a bittersweet experience. The house will be empty and silent, and she will live without company. 

 The latch on the gates has rusted – the coachman hops down from his station and grunts as he tries to budge it. He is young and strong, but his struggle is evident. It is beneath her station to help him, but Blithe is impatient and considers it anyway. She won’t. Her title defines her. 

 Once he has prised the gate open, they progress onwards. The drive winds around a small lake; the sky is reflected as a pool of blues and oranges. Rushes grow thick on the banks. Blithe had once seen a kingfisher here. It was one of her earliest memories. The iridescence of its wings, the way they shifted from cobalt to green as they moved, dazzled her. Father had an interest in ornithology – she had seen the taxidermied specimens in his office, with their dull glass eyes and stiff postures. They seemed false, hollow somehow, completely different from the vibrant, living creature before her. Fluttering so delicately, so quickly, movements precise, it swept down towards the lake’s surface, breaking it into waves to snatch a silver minnow. Pointing with chubby fingers, Blithe had squealed in excitement, Ma, look, pretty bird! That had scared it – there was a plop as the fish hit the water – the bird had dropped its prey and flown off. The memory makes her feel both warmed and nervous. She takes off her gloves, folding them neatly in her lap, then begins to bite at her cuticles. Mother used to scold her for this, but she had never tried to break the habit. As the drive curves, the trees thinning, Blithe catches her first glance of the manor – weathered greying limestone, windows glinting like eyes in the low light. 

 She begins to assess the damage to her estate. She has lost count of the years. Some level of deterioration was inevitable, but it is worse than she had anticipated. Several windows are broken. There are roof tiles laying in the driveway, shattered to pieces. The weeds are thick, more luscious, and plentiful than the shrubbery that had been so carefully planted by her mother so many years ago. A large oak has blown down and landed on what used to be the croquet lawn, flattening the unruly grass beneath it. There must have been a storm. It can’t have been recent; the trunk is rotting. Surrounding the doorway are climbing roses, unpruned, dense and thorny; the flowerheads sparse within the mass of foliage. Once, there had been a brass knocker on the door – Blithe remembered it because it was shaped like a lion’s head. As a child it had frightened her, until Mother began to make up stories about friendly lions who liked to protect little girls and guard houses. The two of them named him Quincy. They would stroke his mane each time they passed through, a tradition that had carried on long enough to wear the brass gold. Blithe hopes his absence is not due to thieves. 

 The coach halts and she hears a crunch of gravel as the coachman leaps down, opening her door with a flourish. Whilst putting her gloves back on, Blithe notices a small bead of blood on her nail bed where she has bitten to the quick, which she swats away. She ensures her hat is tied tightly beneath her chin, her parasol close to hand. Then, gathering her skirts with her spare hand, she stoops to avoid the door frame as she descends from the coach. 

 The scent of the air brings back memories and a sense of home. She had missed it. In the scrublands of California, she had forgotten about how green Ireland was, and how the cold could bite the skin. 

 The coachman seems in awe of the size of her home, as well as surprised by its state. His mouth hangs rudely open, though he shuts it when he notices Blithe is watching him. He straightens his posture, smoothing a crease from his coat.

 “Perhaps you’ll come inside for a spot of tea?” Blithe’s own voice surprises her. It isn’t a practical suggestion as she has no milk, rats will have gotten to any tea that might be left, and the stove will take a long time to heat. But it’s only polite. He has ferried her a long way, going without sleep. She ought to offer him rest.

 “That would be grand, my lady.”

 “I’m sure I could also find a spare room suitable for you to stay in if you would like. You’ll have to excuse the state of the house though, I have been abroad for quite some time.” 

 “That’s alright my Lady. How long were you away?”

 “Two years.” The lie feels thick in her mouth. But it is necessary. 

“Jesus Christ. The house fell apart in such a short time?” 

 “My servants resigned, and the weather has been poor.”

 The man looks surprised but not sceptical. Blithe knows that he has no reason to doubt her, yet she suddenly feels afraid that she will be caught out. 

 “My late Father owned a gold mine,” she offers, immediately regretting it – the coachman’s eyes light at the word ‘gold’. “After he passed, I had to make arrangements for it to be sold. But it got rather complicated.” 

 “Surely that’s the sort of thing you should hold onto?” 

 “And why’s that?” 

 “Well, my lady, you’ll pull up more from the ground than you will make from the sale.”

Blithe laughs. It is light and musical enough to hide her annoyance. “That’s what my buyer thought.” 

 “Well, in that case why did you sell it?”

 “Because he was quite mistaken. There’s not nearly as much gold out there as the papers would have you believe.”

 The man stares at her as though she is an idiot. Stood so close to him, she notices for the first time the foulness of his breath, the roughness of his skin. He is not unattractive, but something about him is unnerving. Blithe realises that it has nothing to do with his appearance and everything to do with the way he is looking at her.

 “The stables are just around to the left if you’d like to attend to the horses,” she says, “And if you could bring my bags inside for me.”

 “Of course.”

 Blithe retrieves her keys from within a pocket of her bag. There are many, on an iron ring. The largest is for the front door, but she does not remember what the rest are for. The branches of the climbing rose block her path, so she snaps one, tearing her silk glove in the process. The thorn leaves a gash across her skin, from which her blood wells up, purple and brown. She sucks upon it; it tastes stale. 

 Inside, dust coats every surface. It clings to the wallpaper, gathering on the velvet damask. There are cobwebs, long abandoned by the spiders that made them, the beautiful Persian runner has been partially eaten by moths. The house is draughtier than Blithe had remembered. Her heart sinks – there is so much work to be done.

 Mother and Father would be mortified. Their portraits, by the entrance, watch her – the brushstrokes make them both look more stately and severe than they really were. Blithe can feel their disapproval. She truly hadn’t meant to be away for so long – but it had been at least fifteen years. The sale had proven more complicated than first expected. There’d been a lawsuit, then money problems, then a collapse inside one of the mines. The fates were against her.

She finds the kitchen is no better than the rest of the house. Whatever scarce provisions she had left behind in the cupboards are long gone. The rats have gotten to everything; she notices tooth marks on the candles. Their droppings are mummified on the countertops. She fills the kettle before building the fire with the little coal she can find. 

 Outside, next to the back door, her mother had a kitchen garden. A small plot, just a few flowerbeds, maintained with the help of the gardener. It is smothered by weeds, but there are enough herbs left that Blithe could improvise. There is lemon balm, chamomile, and a few sprigs of lavender. It is not ideal, but it will do. 

Time passes – the water is slow to boil. Blithe waits. She is thirsty.

Suddenly, she feels contact against the small of her back, at the point just above where her bodice meets the skirts. The touch is light at first but builds in pressure. A hand, unwelcome. The coachman. Blithe turns. His eyes are raking across her. She has seen that look before. It is the look of a starving man who has just been served a plate of meat.

 Blithe draws away. Shocked. Even now, with space between them, the pressure, the feeling of being touched lingers. She feels sick. Angry, scared. She doesn’t know what to say.

 “Are you having trouble?” he asks.

“There isn’t much coal left. The fire is taking a long time to grow.” The fear shows in her voice. Blithe feels angry and ashamed of herself, frustrated to have let her weakness show.

 “I can take a look at it –” He kneels and pokes at the fire inside. For a second she imagines shoving him in and shutting the door. His attempts to stoke the fire are quickening its demise. It has turned from a gentle flicker to nothing but embers. His effort to help her makes her feel further slighted, in some subtle way that she can’t quite understand.

 “I can manage the fire.” 

 “I suppose you’ll be hiring staff? Someone to do this for you?” 

“You’ve done an excellent job there,” she replies, finding it difficult to keep sarcasm from leaking out. “It was a long journey, and you must be tired.” 

 “Indeed.”

 “Perhaps you’d like to wash before we have our tea?”

After seeing him to the washstand, Blithe becomes aware of a sense of numbness creeping over her. She tries to push it away, distracting herself with the fire. It soon springs back into life; the kettle begins to bubble. She wipes her soot covered hands on her black skirts, the scent of smoke clings to her dress. Blithe readies the parlour; she draws back the cotton sheets that cover the settee and armchair, unleashing a whirl of dust. It makes her throat tighten. A moth flutters in the turbulence.

 Blithe thinks of her carpets and considers crushing it. But this is not the kind that bears larvae that eat fabric – those are smaller and silver. This moth is larger, the biggest she has seen. It is pretty. There is a flash of lurid orange on its lower wings that surprises her in its intensity – it is the same colour as the belly of the kingfisher. On the upper wings, there are flecks of slate, bands of white breaking up tortoiseshell. The antennae remind her of leaf skeletons. The markings are distinctive, as though the moth has eyes at the tips of each wing. The creature looks so out of place in her dim parlour, a bright speck of autumn amongst the grey. Blithe commits its appearance to memory – she will consult her books later to determine its species. 

 The silverware needs polishing, but Blithe manages to find a set that is less tarnished than the rest. She sets these out, along with her best china. It is important to be a good host. Although Blithe begins to wonder why she is bothering. That numbness is growing. This man is foul. There is a risk that he will take her continued hospitality as an invitation to try again. The touch to her back had been charged, his gaze was on her breasts. It felt like a threat. 

A single, young woman, alone in a house and two miles from the nearest village, inviting a stranger inside. It is a fantasy. Her actions were read as a proposition. The realisation that her hospitality has been interpreted as an invitation angers Blithe. She should have been more careful; for all she knew the coachman might be dangerous. No – she will not blame herself. She had no way to know that he would have such ill intentions; she will not hold herself responsible for another person’s thoughts. There are options now. Getting help is not one of them – even if it was, she wouldn’t know who to ask. Or how. She could throw him out, though she is conscious that may escalate the situation. Or instead, she could pretend nothing is wrong and play the part of the dutiful host. 

He cannot hurt her. She will see to it that he won’t. 

Fetching the tea, she places the pot in the centre of the table and straightens the tablecloth. It is unbelievably satisfying to see everything so neat. She will fetch him now.

When Blithe finds the coachman, he is fresh-faced. A few stray beads of water cling to the hair on his chin. He desperately needs a shave but there is little she can do about that. It doesn’t matter. He smells more pleasant now, still a little sweaty, the lingering pungency of the horses reduced. There is something else too, mellow like wine and slightly spiced.

 “The tea is ready,” she says, “I’m afraid I have no food to offer you, but I hope you’ll enjoy my hospitality, however humble.”

 “Tea and bed will be grand.”

 “Of course. The parlour is just through this way.”

Strangely, when she returns to the parlour, now with the coachman in tow, not everything is how she had left it. The lid of the teapot has slid off. It lies on the white tablecloth, leaving a ring-shaped stain. Blithe frowns, picks up the lid and puts it back in place.