Black Spot — Part 4
It was supposed to be my turn.
I must have been twelve the next time we saw Black Spot. It was my turn. It had been my turn for the past year. I counted the weeks, the months, birthdays come and gone and still nobody dared mention him to my face. I knew they talked amongst themselves, even caught Fionna whispering together with Ciara by the fire. Fionna was braiding her hair and speaking low and soft, like she used to. She must have been telling her a story.
Fionna’s vocabulary was growing again. Escaping from the two- and three-word phrases little by little, she was only quiet when she went out to the market. She seemed more excited on market days, even going by herself sometimes. I grew to envy those journeys, remembering the one I had made myself that night. It felt like too long since then, and even I was growing restless.
I wasn’t jealous. My turn was next, and I was going to find out everything. I was going to get out again.
I kept my hands and face clean and my hair combed, and looked over the tops of the fields every chance I got, on the lookout for a reaper clad in shadows — a shadow itself drifting through the golden mornings.
Day after day, chore after chore, it was only birds skimming in and out of sight. I kept it in my heart that last time was not the last. I could feel it in the earth when I wandered near the edge of town, when I trod barefoot to my parents’ graves when that field was left fallow, and when, at night, I peeked through the gap in the curtains and watched up the road. I could feel it calling to me, promising me that one day I will walk that road again. I will see the world again, and it will be bigger and more wonderful than I remembered.
And then I saw him again.
It was winter.
It was midnight.
I saw him block out the stars, one by one, sweeping black as the wind into town, bringing silence with him, silence so deep it woke the entire village.
I’d gotten into the habit of sleeping with my shoes near my bed, and everything within reach. So while the younger kids were swarming me, I was busy lacing them up, fingers shaking and skipping over the knots.
Ciara braided my hair as Phillip tried making up a fire with no matches in sight. I ended up getting ready in the dark, when Fionna entered with a candle in her fist. She had a thick robe wrapped around her, made this autumn by the younger kids, that I envied more than anything.
“Hetty, come with me,” she said, chest heaving with hurry. Her shoes were slipped on but untied, and her hair still hung loose around her shoulders, free of the habit she usually wore. Under the glow of the candle I could almost call her pretty, she was certainly younger than she acted. She could have been my sister. My real sister.
I hurried out into the untrod snow with her. Black Spot was standing to attention atop his horse. Great wads of steam blew from the beast’s nostrils, weary from the effort of his quick journey. Tendrils of steam also snuck out from under the man’s black mask, and his eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. He was getting older.
I was running out of time to solve this mystery, but I wanted to take it all in, the muscles of the horse, the fresh snow over the fields, and on the road peppered with tracks. I wanted every memory, every detail, to stick. I wanted —
Fionna shoved the candle into my hand.
“Take care the littl’uns get back to bed,” she said, as Black Spot reached a hand down to her and pulled her into the saddle. My mouth fell open, teeth still chattering. The snow was up to my heels as the two rode away, and the heat of my fury melted every snowflake that dared land on my skin.
It was supposed to be my turn.
It was meant to be me.
Curses and promises of what I would say to Fionna in the morning ran through my head hot as the coals in the hearth once the other kids were back in bed.
I couldn’t sleep now; the least I could do was stay up. Fionna’s bed was in view, I was bound to see her return. My eyes were heavy, my feet sore from how tight I tied my laces, and the candle was just a stub, near dying when she finally returned.
The snowfall had been heavier since she left, so the hoofprints and my footsteps were mere dents in the white sheet, and I heard the fresh, heavy crunch over the crackling fire. Slowly, I pushed myself out of sleepiness, out the door again.
I stood solid on the porch though the wind was heavy enough to push her from behind. Her feet dragged and left long skids in the snow, but she managed the stairs.
Neither of us said a word as she ambled up, then sat in the doorway, sheltered and gasping for warm air. She reached between us to close the door, but I shoved my foot in it. The icy air now beat at my back, but I held firm, staring her down. Her cheeks were pricked and red, and eyes half-lidded in exhaustion.
“Close it,” she gasped. “Please.”
“It was meant to be me,” I said, my voice wavering as a fresh blast hit me, blowing the hair off my neck, sending a sharp chill over it.
“I know,” she mumbled. “Please, let’s talk.”
“It was going to be me.”
“No.” Frozen hair clung to her neck, splitting and crackling like the flame when she turned her face away from the cold. “No, it wasn’t. Let me explain… Hetty — ”
She tugged at the hem of my skirt, imploring me at last to close the door. I let it fall closed, swinging shut between us, leaving me out in the black winter. Leaving me in the silence.
Hot tears carved ravines down my face, but the cold was nothing.
I looked up the road and it blended into the fields, into the sky, into nothing. It didn’t exist anymore.
I was never leaving this place.
Amalia Cotovan