Chapter One -- StellaA Chapter by marjorie noble each chapter is a part of the story and is a third person narrative from a different character's point of view
(The Book of the Goetia of Solomon the King, ed. by Aleister Crowley) STELLA
REDHILL, OHIO
DECEMBER 1900
1
She first saw the boy when he and his accomplice appeared on a Saturday in mid-December. It was a mild December for Redhill, Ohio, a small community--home to less than 400 souls. Little Phil had pointed to a man pulling a cart as the family reached their customary stop, the post near Arthur’s barbershop. Waving at passersby, a gray-haired man of fifty made his way along the road that served the town’s center. His wiry frame harnessed to a two-wheeled cart, he whistled and called out to those that paused, inviting all to “take a look-see”. Several open burlap sacks spilled over when the cart’s wheels encountered a dip. A variety of woodcarvings, including several toys fell out, prompting “oohs” and “ahh”s from a number of folk who barely noticed the shabby boy of ten or so trailing behind. The cart itself displayed images of birds and trees carved into its sides. A burlap cap hid the boy’s face. Still, she could see that his blondish hair needed a cut. Her maternal eye caught his oversized trousers, and the rope that did as his belt. His shoes flapped and shuffled as he walked.
When little Phil started jumping as he saw the toys, she knew they mustn’t linger. Arthur and eight-year-old Mary Kate gave her a hopeful look. Stella felt uneasy as she watched the man stop. He’s putting on a show so we won’t see. The salesman, his silver hair slickly combed, slipped out of the harness. With a touch of drama, he plopped a small table on the dried mud. People were crowding in to look. Run, she thought, before…what? Silly—they’ll go as soon as they… She closed her eyes and wished them gone.
She opened them quickly, scolding herself. Stella Bella, stop being foolish, what did you think would happen—they’d disappear? Poof--like the genie in Aladdin’s lamp? There was laughter as more people gathered. The man performed a magic trick, pulling a coin out of a child’s ear. Nonsense, anyone can learn that one. Too much to do-- time to leave. She turned to go and discovered Arthur and the children watching the man as he placed samples on the table—intricately carved toys, exotic animals, clasps for shawls, hairpins. Where are the knives? The thought crept into her mind and she pushed it away.
The cart’s handles rested on the dirt; the boy sat in its shadow, hugging his skinny knees, not looking up as the man began to speak.
“I bring the world to you good people—America’s Heart.”
The gathering crowd grew quiet. His creased face fixed in a wide smile, the salesman charmed his audience. She saw that his clothes could use a wash.
“Crispin Baker, at your suhvice,” he said.
“Foreign.” She heard a woman whisper.
His hand moving in graceful circles, he touched his chest, as he bowed. She noted how his apprising eyes stayed on the crowd. Young girls cupped their faces, exchanging smirks. He had been handsome once. His smile said he still was.
Something’s not right!
She knew what was wrong. The dread she felt was just her typical holiday gloom. “No one greets our Lord’s birthday with a long face, but you missy,” her mother often said. True, Stella hated Christmas. She whispered to Arthur that it was time to go; Phil began to stamp his feet and cry. Arthur and Mary Kate waited, knowing the effect of Phil’s tears. When Arthur promised not to buy anything, she agreed Arthur and the children could stay.
As she began to edge through the onlookers, a shiver ran through her—as if ice chips were in her feet—sharp, cold—through her legs, hips and breasts, before creeping into her arms and hands. Her hands shook as she buttoned her coat. Were clouds coming? She felt the warm sun on her face—the ice feeling faded. A breeze? Was the weather about to change? Arthur must pay attention. If it turned, he should button the children’s coats. She signaled Arthur--watch for the cold wind—SNAP! Above her head…slap slap…crack—like a whip—A large crow rested on a bare tree branch—its red eye fixed on her. Turning away she saw the ragged boy hunched over as he sat on the dried mud—his face a blank under the cap’s shadow. Get away—the thought came unexpected. The coats forgotten, she hurried away.
After finishing her errands, she frowned as she made her way along the narrow path to the edge of town where Arthur and the children waited. The children sat in the back of the wagon while Arthur shifted from foot to foot. As she handed Arthur the few purchases on the family list, he started blinking and sweating. They had been married fifteen years and she sometimes wondered if she had three children, rather than two. Little Phil’s cowlick of white-blond hair bounced up and down as he began to squeal, waving a toy boat in the air while Mary Kate sat quietly, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice the new doll. The doll, whittled out of soft buckeye wood, had movable joints and dark buckeye knobs for eyes. Phil was inspecting his boat, his fingers exploring its details. He laughed when he saw the small wheel turned. Mary Kate, her plain face a small copy of Stella’s, gave her mother a pleading look.
“Becka insisted”, said Arthur defensively, “She came back for the peaches while you were gone.” He hesitated, stuttering, “Sh-sh-she in-in-invited them back to the church. Sh-she said it was the l-l-l-least we could do—f-for the homeless boy.”
At the mention of the boy, she found herself in a rage.
“Since when does my sister tell you what to do, Arthur Calkins?”
Arthur flushed--his balding forehead turning red and his eyes, large behind thick spectacles, looked away. Little Phil clutched his sister’s waist. Ashamed at her outburst, she removed the scowl from her face and smiled at Arthur.
“Next time, we’ll make such decisions together. We needn’t mention this to Becka, now…” Arthur sighed and nodded. His relieved smile reminded her of a puppy eager to please. She knew he was dreading Becka’s return to the wagon and the ride home. She decided she would deal with her sister later.
She turned to her daughter. “Missy—let’s wait and see what old Saint Nick brings, shall we? I know many a poor little girl who’d love such a doll.”
Mary Kate smiled bleakly. Phil could keep the boat--at least until he lost interest--the doll must be given away. Stella couldn’t bear the sight of it.
2
After her conversation with Arthur, Becka retrieved the basket of canned peaches and walked the mile back to the First Christian Church. On Saturdays, a homemade welcome sign directed travelers or those in need to the church basement where she and Mayanne West served hot sandwiches and coffee. Stella planned to confront Becka after supper. Her younger sister was trusting--too much so, and should not interfere in family matters that did not concern her. Becka, who loved romantic novels, was a plump five feet two. With lank blonde hair that resisted the most determined curling iron in an effort to create tendrils, Becka twisted her hair tight against her nape, except for a narrow swathe several inches long that rested limply on her right shoulder. Meant to soften and suggest a romantic nature, it instead drew attention to her short neck. Despite her best efforts, she, like Mary Kate, resembled Stella. Becka’s gray-blue eyes gave her round face a guileless beauty, but Stella knew they rarely saw the world as it was.
White lace curtains covered the window of Becka’s small bedroom. Each morning as the family rose, the door stood open. Stella could see how the sun greeted her sister’s room through the window’s lace. The forest that began a few miles beyond spanned the horizon, its outline often caressed by a soft haze. Occasionally, a disturbing image came with the rising sun, as if created with daubs of paint—still wet—forming a shifting landscape where something waited for you to lose your way.
Her bedroom walls held Becka’s romantic dreams--small paintings and embroidered images of lovers walking in the wilderness, meeting along wooded paths. The largest and most recent purchased while Becka shopped with Mayanne in Cleveland. It hung on the wall opposite her window. Stella was thankful that she could avoid looking at it—a watercolor showing an expanse of beach under blots of angry purple sky. Two figures, a blond boy and a dark haired girl, their faces barely visible, sat on the shore near swirling white capped waves that pushed against the rocks. The viewer could see what the two were looking at—a pale three-story building sitting—almost floating above the edge of a cliff. A hint of someone standing in the dark windows—specks of red…defining...Something there wishes you harm.
Stella urged her sister to return it and get her money back. Becka refused, “My room is my room.” The more Stella insisted—the more Becka enjoyed refusing her. At the end of each day, Stella avoided her sister’s bedroom. Near twilight, the forest no longer seemed swathed in mist; the trees became a rustling blur against the dark sky and if she wasn’t careful, a melancholy threatened to overtake her—carrying her away from all she loved and protected.
After dinner, as Arthur and Mary Kate did the dishes, the sisters relaxed in the parlor—Becka with her novel and Stella, her sewing. Little Phil was at their feet—his boat cast aside in favor of an old rag doll. Before Stella could begin her lecture, Becka burst into tears.
“Oh, Stella, it’s so sad—that poor boy.”
Becka’s transgression forgotten, Stella listened to her sister’s encounter with Crispin Baker and the boy, Bernie.
“They came to the church for sandwiches.” Becka blotted her eyes. “At first he was
charming enough. He’s English, the only truth he told. You’d be amazed at what some in that basement believed—I’m not as gullible as you think!” Her voice rose as Becka defended herself.
Stella decided to humor her. “So what did he claim?” Becka’s eyes swelled with indignation.
“After hinting that he was related to royalty, he talked about his life at sea, and how he came home to England to ‘take care of this here angel after the drink took the misses’. He said he decided to seek their fortune in America—something to do with his stolen inheritance--by the duke of something. He hinted for donations--to tide him over, ‘while Scotland Yard looked into it.’ His greasy hat sat next to the coffee until I moved it. He flirted with all the women, including me. He was full of compliments. Did he mention his boy needed a mother? I found him repulsive, but you know Mayanne. She’s desperate to marry.”
Stella said nothing—Becka’s unmarried status at twenty-seven rarely discussed.
“He’d eaten several sandwiches and then, we realized he was quite drunk!”“He must have had a flask, though no one saw. He began to blubber and sob about how hard it was to be a slave to ‘him’.” Becka’s eyes clouded with tears. “Stella, he meant that poor
little boy. The poor baby, he just sat there, spinning his little wooden top. Oh Stella, my heart nearly broke! We must do something!”
Stella felt no pity for the boy. He terrified her.
“Absolutely not—it is not our place to interfere.”
Becka shook her head, disbelieving—her sister couldn’t be so cruel. Stella gave her a look that said there would be no further discussion. Little Phil put up his arms. “Uh Becka, uh uh Becka…” Becka swooped up the boy —the happy Phil waving enthusiastically at his mother as they left the room. Stella sat with her mouth open—struggling for an explanation—Becka must understand… How though, when she didn’t understand herself? What awful thing was it about the boy? That night she knelt and prayed she’d never know.
3
It snowed on Monday morning. She liked the stillness—as if God covered the sleeping ground with a white blanket. Arthur had hitched the wagon early, taking Mary Kate to school and Becka to work at Miss Amelia’s Millinery and Ladies’ Apparel before opening the barbershop. At seven in the morning, she was alone, as she sat at her mother’s oak table. The table was large enough to seat twelve—its planks flush and even—the surface kept smooth with ceaseless care. It sat in the middle of the kitchen, the largest room in the house. The gray house was a two-story L-shaped structure. A one-story addition of a sewing room and extra bedroom extended the lower floor. Built by Bobbo, the addition was a wedding present for her and Arthur, but Becka claimed the new bedroom—its privacy appealing to her need for an existence, separate from her sister’s. Bobbo’s bachelor days were ending, much to Stella’s relief --he was marrying Dora, Sheriff Gibbs’s niece, a match she approved. Dora, a dark-haired girl of twenty-five, had a reserved manner, much preferable to Mayanne, Becka’s choice for their brother. Mayanne’s giddy laugh irritated Stella.
Allowing herself a few moments of doing nothing before she heated the iron and began the morning’s first chore, she sat quietly—her arms extended, her hands resting on the table’s surface, as if to embrace the memories that lingered in the faint grain. She remembered the arch of her mother’s back as her mother stretched over the oak’s planks, rolling out an expanse of dough. When she was little, Stella’s place was on a stool, where she would wait until it was time to carve out the rolls or biscuits using a round glass, carefully placing the circles of dough on the metal sheet. The day that she first used the rolling pin, smoothing out an even plane of dough, her mother clapped—puffs of white flour shooting from her hands—like magic. Her mother took the rolling pin and lightly tapped Stella on each shoulder.
“I crown you Queen Stella Bella.”
She was eleven at the time, and frowned. “But Mama, that’s for a knight—a queen has a crown.”
Her mother, whose beautiful face at thirty-one was marked by fine lines that would soon deepen into creases, laughed, saying, “Never mind, Stella Bella—we earn that crown, and God sees to it that we get it when we go to heaven.”
Bobbo looked more like their mother—tall with light brown hair. She had her father’s blond hair, broad features and stocky build, as did Becka. Becka, however, inherited her mother’s optimism and good nature. The oak table and its memories of her mother were enough for Stella. Her mother’s table was Stella’s refuge.
While she sat in the kitchen, in the parlor white sheets protected the settee and new winged back chairs from mud and sticky fingers. Phil sat on the parlor’s braided rug.—the noisy pans and spoons replaced by the soft cloth animals Becka had sewn for him. The cloth turkey was especially detailed with its individual tail feathers crafted from different colored scraps Becka saved from her work as a seamstress. Stella relaxed and admired the newest addition to her collection of thimbles, a delicate white China with blue windmills from Holland. Raps sounded on the kitchen door—three raps—Mrs. Collins. Sighing, she placed the thimble on a small shelf with the others and lifting the latch, pulled on the door. It stuck for an instant. She gave it a swift jerk, causing it to pop open. Bobbo promised to fix it before Christmas; she must remind him.
“Soooo you’re t’home—made some fudge last night.”
Mrs. Collins trilled the words as she handed Stella a bundle of crocheted blankets. Stamping the snow from her unlaced boots, the old woman tossed her frayed overcoat on a hook before placing a covered dish on the kitchen table. Inside the bundle was Pal, an ancient terrier and the neighbor’s only companion since the death of Davey Collins—a merchant marine and her remaining child and last living relative. Mrs. Collins removed her hunter’s cap freeing strings of white hair drooping from an indifferent wad pinned high on the back of her head. Stella saw that her mouth was trembling—there was something to tell. Mrs. Collins pulled up the rocker with the side of her boot, and flopped into the seat and spreading her knees, shimmied in to get comfortable. Stella heated water for tea while the old woman rocked, her arthritic fingers stroking Pal, who rested in the crook of her arm, his paws quivering limply. Tipping the chair gently back and forth, the octogenarian delivered her gossip. The two drifters, she announced, were staying.
“Where are they sleeping?”
Stella’s heart sank; she had hoped they moved on to the next town. Pal gummed a cookie and the crumbs fell to the floor. She had the dustpan ready for use the moment they left. Ignoring Pal’s dribbles, Mrs. Collins continued.
“Well sir, I don’t know, but I heard that they turned down several invites of sheds and porches.”
The old woman loved a mystery. Seeing a willing audience in Stella, Mrs. Collins leaned forward, revealing gums as toothless as Pal’s—mouthing each word to emphasize their value.
“The story I heard… is that him and the boy don’t want to feel obliged lest it lead to “mis-under-stand-ings”.
Her filmy eyes glistening with expectation, she leaned forward in the rocker, waiting for Stella’s reaction. The limp strings of hair vibrated as Mrs. Collins, waiting for an answer, or at the very least, a reaction to her news, was frustrated—some folks were just slower than others.
“What do you think he meant?” Her trilled question went flat with impatience.
Hopelessness came in waves as she steadied herself, gripping the edge of the table while her other hand held the kettle. Mrs. Collins frowned. Stella shook her head, unable to utter a word. Pal broke the impasse with a feeble whine.
Defeated, the woman sighed, “Dear lord, baby has to go.”
The old white terrier groaned. Ignoring the kettle, Mrs. Collins splayed her feet and planted them firmly on the kitchen floor. She rose from the rocker with a grunt and grabbed her cap, twisting it onto her head, the strings of white clinging to the dark flaps. Pal’s head covered, his black nose was poking out of the blanket as the old woman left, oblivious to the stricken look on Stella’s face. The crumbs forgotten, she sank down on a kitchen stool. Despair overwhelmed her.
4
As Christmas drew closer, Becka became obsessed with the boy’s welfare. Silent at dinner, she went to her room afterwards, saying a terse “Good night.” Mary Kate took Becka’s place in the parlor, painstakingly working on her pillowcase—an embroidered image of a farmhouse with chickens and a small girl feeding them in the foreground. Becka’s absence wasn’t discussed, but Phil would knock on Becka’s door every evening and the door opened to let him in. At seven thirty each night, Arthur waited as Becka handed the sleeping boy to him. Drawing the quilt over Phil as the two-year old snored, Stella often remembered being alone—a sixteen-year old caring for her small sister and twelve-year old Bobbo. Becka’s four-year old face— the blue eyes filled with loss… grieving was a luxury. Keep her safe—hadn’t she always?
Finally, Stella agreed to attend a special event, hosted by Desimone’s, where Mr. Baker would display items, designed especially for the coming holiday. Of course, the boy would be there too, and despite her efforts to dismiss her fear, she dreaded seeing him. At ten on the Saturday morning before Christmas, Bonnie, their patient mare pulled the wagon along the muddied road into town. Her arms folded around a box containing a fresh baked cake, Becka sat on the padded seat next to Stella. Unlike other trips into town, Becka did not chatter in her customary guileless manner that Stella found annoying but endearing—so like their mother…
Neither woman spoke as the wagon’s wheels rolled steadily toward the town, seen only as wisps of smoke from the other side of a hill where Redhill lay—its name the result of a brief but deadly property dispute between farmers a hundred years earlier. Becka fixed her gaze on the pines of the distant woods, while Stella focused on the old mare’s deliberate gait. Besides their lonely wagon, the only sound was the wind, low and mournful, then wailing with intensity. The strong gusts caused both women to grip their seats. Now and then, she heard the moos of cows as the animals searched the ground for what was left of autumn.
With the first glimpse of Wilson’s Blacksmith & Carriages—a cluster of sheds and stables on the edge of Redhill, the wind roared in an assault so fierce Bonnie neighed and shuddered as the sisters braced against each other for balance. The frigid air pummeled the barriers of woolen scarves, coats and mittens, seeming to warn--turn back. You’re making too much of this, she whispered. Wrapped in her gray coat and knitted scarf, Becka sat quietly. Why do I fear him? Stella kept turning the question in her mind as the wagon slowed.
Halting at the barbershop, she heard laughter as several yards away the door to Desimone’s opened. Becka gathered her skirts, slipped her arm under the boxed cake and left the wagon without a word, disappearing into Desimone’s before Stella reached for her purse. Reluctant to follow, she saw a hint of sun teasing the edges of clouds that were dusting the muddied streets. Soon, a layer of new snow would hide the deep tracks.
Pinecones and cinnamon, coffee and tobacco—peppermint, the mix of pleasant fragrances was one of the few things she liked about the Christmas season. She followed two older women as they hurried in, lest two much heat escape from the potbellied stove warming the recently enlarged store. Surprising, she thought, the Desimones’ allowing Baker to use their store. The Desimones discouraged competition.
Dozens of eager folk milled about, inspecting the newest merchandize, including a family of ceramic ducklings, following their mother to a ceramic puddle. There were beautiful red and gold tins of oolong tea, and from Europe, canisters of cocoa showing delicate pink and red roses on their glossy lids. There now…she could see the back of the boy’s blond head—the hair curving over his frayed collar—the jagged strands still in need of a cut. He sat cross-legged in a corner, among sacks of white flour. The child was staring at a wooden top, cocking his head as he turned it in his hand.
“If you saw how he neglects him…” Becka had said.
Stella began to doubt herself. What she felt had no logic. She would combat her fear with reality. Hot apple cider, tea and holiday cookies were being served by the pastor’s wife. As the woman passed by, she saw Becka whisper to her. Wearing a smile of Christian charity, Carol the Pastor’s wife made her way around the guests, who clapped sporadically as Baker displayed a variety of finely crafted toys, ladies’ accessories, knickknacks and keepsakes. Drawing as close as she dared, she found herself watching the wooden top in the boy’s hand as his thin fingers caressed it, than turned it, then stroked it. He seemed to be listening to…Was he cooing like a dove?
The top began to spin—images of birds appeared, perched in trees, flying off, returning, and then flying off again. The boy’s head went up. She panicked and looked away as she saw Carol moving toward him. She caught the joy on Becka’s face as Becka poured cups of tea. Becka glanced at her, defiance in her eyes. She decided she would pretend she didn’t see…better not to acknowledge it—so unlike the sister she knew. Turning away, she caught a glimpse of Carol pressing a ginger cookie into the boy’s hand.
“Thankee, ma’am,” he said.
Carol patted his head—the crosshatch in her face becoming ropes as the smile spanned even wider between the knots.
“You’re welcome, little man. Remember, Jesus loves you.”
Carol returned to the counter where Becka was refilling the sugar bowl. Stella saw them exchange glances, Becka’s face flushed with excitement. Approving laughs broke out as Baker demonstrated a wooden monkey climbing a ladder. He had already sold several model ships—exquisite replicas of those on the Great Lakes. His ingratiating voice irritated. She began to think of excuses…maybe a cold coming on, or a headache. She would have to find some way of distracting Becka. Make her leave. Keep her safe. Keep her safe? She searched her troubled mind. Why did she think Becka was in danger?
A feeling—shards of ice surprised her, slicing through her breast, making their way to her hands and feet. Alarmed by the pain, she steadied herself. Melt, she said. The pain left; familiar hopelessness gripped her, deeper than when it had announced her mother’s coming death. She looked toward the corner where the boy, Bernie sat. Only for an instant—I’ll merely glance and look away… The boy was studying the cookie, nibbling its edges. He looked up. His eyes—why hadn’t she noticed? His eyes were an odd yellow—almost colorless—cold. He smiled, his face pale and soulless, as he turned to meet her gaze. I hate you, his eyes said.
She elbowed through the crowded store and taking Becka’s arm, insisted they leave. Becka began to protest that she, Becka was needed.
“I need you more right now.” Stella whispered as she handed Becka her coat.
A terrible headache, she later explained. While pressing a cold cloth to her head, she forbade Becka to go near the boy. Becka tearfully demanded a reason. Stella would give none. Keep her safe. I’m afraid of him, she thought. Christmas was coming. She forced the fear from her mind.
5
Christmas Eve morning, mixing bowls, pie pans and long metal baking sheets for cookies and rolls crowded the oak table. She planned to complete the baking and to give the kitchen a scrub before preparing the evening’s meal. A ham, courtesy of the West family and two laying hens, well past their prime, were waiting for their turn in the oven. She and Arthur had presented the Wests with several jars of excellent peaches, a mince pie and four dozen chewy oatmeal cookies. At a little after six a.m., Becka finished mixing the cookie dough and wrapping herself in her old gray coat, she hummed “O Come All Ye Faithful”. Her attitude had much improved and Stella was relieved to see her sister’s sweet disposition come back to her.
“I’ll be just a few minutes, Stella Bella—going to check on Mrs. Collins”.
With no family left but Pal, Mrs. Collins became a Calkins at Christmas-time. She was puzzled when she saw Becka take a covered plate of cookies, and tuck them inside her coat. She opened her mouth to ask when a kitten ran into the kitchen, little Phil close behind. She called for Mary Kate to fetch her brother and the cat. Closing the kitchen door behind her, Becka was gone.
As her sister shut the door, her heart sank. Why? It was six a.m. She had been in the kitchen for over two hours. Arthur’s breakfast eaten, he relaxed with his favorite catalogue, wistfully viewing the latest selection of men’s boots. The children played with the new kitten, a stray Becka discovered the day before, as it shivered near the outhouse. Her anxiety regarding her sister found an outlet in preparing for the day ahead. She rolled the dough for piecrusts, making a mental list of all there was to do. More than the usual number of chores—pies to bake, an elaborate meal to prepare--not to mention the chickens. At 8:30, Becka had not returned.
She began to panic. She hurried to the Collins home, a half mile away. The door of the small white house swung back and forth, the wind unable to close it-- blocked by the old woman’s blood-soaked body. Oh Becka, she thought, as a flood of unwelcome possibilities began to wash over her. Stepping over Mrs. Collins, she rushed into the parlor.
Family portraits torn from the walls—the broken oval frames smeared with the blood. Someone had tossed Pal’s body onto the small settee--a lace doily wound around the little dog’s neck. Figurines that Mrs. Collins’ dead son Davy, a merchant marine, had brought her back from the Orient were shattered against a wall, papered with tranquil images of spring bouquets. She discovered Becka’s coat, streaked with blood, discarded on the upright piano.
As she ran out the door--- her mind reeling with desperation--- focused on organizing the search for Becka---she saw something in Mrs. Collins’ dead hand—a small wooden top, intricately carved, with strange symbols and birds.
6
Dec. 25, 1900
The Cabin
Her husband Arthur huddled on the edge of a bench--his hands covering his face, while Sheriff Gibbs gave instructions to the two older deputies. The younger pair, barely out of their teens, waited nervously, the urge to flee on their faces. Naked, the man was sprawled at their feet--his face bloodied by a wound that had taken the top of his head. Near the dead man, in the middle of a crudely drawn star, lay Becka. Around the star’s five points, a circle and symbols scrawled in blood on the splintered floor. Arms bound, feet tethered--her body, chalk white against the planks--except for its center. The red cavity oozed.
Stella sank to her knees. Becka’s heart? Why not some other girl’s? Why not someone else’s sister lying here—murdered, not able to string popcorn or rock a little one to sleep? She drew a breath and began to shriek. “Nah-nah-nah” she insisted, shaking her head. Tears dropped steadily onto her sister’s hand. Waving them away as Bobbo and the sheriff tried to pull her from the dead girl, she began to rock herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her own body in an embrace. “Nah-nah-nah!” she moaned.
“Oh yes…,” sighed a voice. She opened her eyes to see the boy. He sat cross-legged, his crimson hands resting on his lap. A glistening pool had formed from Becka’s blood as it spewed, hitting the tousled hair of her murderer. Red streams followed a path from his brow to his chin, where they hesitated before falling on his small chest. His eyes snared her—holding her. This boy, whose wretched state drew pity from Becka’s soft bosom…
Becka’s coat gave the hounds her scent—led them to this place. She struggled to break free of the boy’s gaze. His eyes, the pupils swelling, becoming…Becka! There’s Becka! She saw her sister’s face. The boy was saying something…his thin arm raised like a warrior, he brought the knife within an inch of Becka’s naked breast. Becka was pleading—her mouth moving in a silent prayer----the boy’s eyelids flickered. She pulled away and—his eyes opened wide showing the dripping heart, held in his hand like a prized baseball.
Stella--crushed, as grief pressed its claim-- fell gently into madness, where Momma, Pa, little Bobbo and Baby Becka waited for her on a spring day. As she drifted, she thought…there is magic in the world….and it is dreadful.
© 2009 marjorie nobleReviews
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