The wedding took place with little ceremony.
They were unofficially banished from the compound.
They were granted a little plot of land, far from the tobacco fields.
The soil was rocky.
That summer was the most miserable of his life. How many hours did he spent breaking his back with the human-drawn plow? Sweating under the scorch of the angry, dry sun. Not once did she leave the shade of the house to offer him a cool drink of water. And in the evening, after he had cooled his body with healing water from the pail, did she offer her body for comfort.
She did not cook.
She did not clean.
Nor did her body betray that hideous act in the woods, now four months past. He began to think that he had been fooled. By his father, he could not blame her. He could not blame her, and it made the hatred for her seethe.
An image of those times haunts him years later: Fish Face standing in the doorway watching him. He had never felt such discomfort as when his back was turned to her and he knew, deeply, in his bones, that she was still staring. Staring.
They were unofficially banished from the compound.
They were granted a little plot of land, far from the tobacco fields.
The soil was rocky.
That summer was the most miserable of his life. How many hours did he spent breaking his back with the human-drawn plow? Sweating under the scorch of the angry, dry sun. Not once did she leave the shade of the house to offer him a cool drink of water. And in the evening, after he had cooled his body with healing water from the pail, did she offer her body for comfort.
She did not cook.
She did not clean.
Nor did her body betray that hideous act in the woods, now four months past. He began to think that he had been fooled. By his father, he could not blame her. He could not blame her, and it made the hatred for her seethe.
An image of those times haunts him years later: Fish Face standing in the doorway watching him. He had never felt such discomfort as when his back was turned to her and he knew, deeply, in his bones, that she was still staring. Staring.
September. Now harvest time. He would really need her help from now on. She could not stare sullenly out of windows and doorways for the next few crucial weeks. But he knew not to raise his voice to her--he knew the noneffect that would have.
No, it was time to take her again.
"Sarah, it's time for you to help with the harvest."
No answer. She was a mute thing in the doorway. All eyes and stiff mouth.
He flew at her.
She knew.
He chased her through the house, out the back door, into the brush separating them from the compound. He tackled her to the ground and she ceased movement. He tried to turn her over to face him, but she hung limp. He thought, again, that perhaps she was dead, that he had killed her. He laughed at himself for thinking such ridiculous thoughts.
"Fine, have it your way."
As he rutted her from behind, it suddenly occurred to him what the end result of all this would be. Perhaps she is not with child yet. Perhaps it is not too late. It's been so long and, still, a belly as flat and barren as this field. But, so soon...
He ejaculated on her dress.
He gazed down at her. Limp but alive, she was. What was she looking at?
We are tied together.
And again, he felt the urge to weep. This time he did not conceal the urge, but bellowed openly, hysterically, like a mother who has just lost a child.
Fish Face did not cry. She did not blink. Those eyes, those black liquid squid eyes, stared past him, past his point of vision, into some beyond, some unfathomable chasm that would never merge, never heal.
Finally, he threw a hoe at her. The sharp end struck her face and she started.
"The harvest," he blubbered.
