The Coppice

Dim room. Crash of wood and wind. The door slams open like the sound of God’s malediction. Icy morning air grabs into the cabin as if savage ancient poltergeist hurl angry thoughts toward uninsulated cracks. Indoor snow swirls. Stove fire flickers behind cast iron. Crackles hollow. Lamps gasp lambent.

She raises her freckle face from the ancient resin log table. Ginger. Wears a rag of long sleeve, mock neck ruffle. Peers. Eyes widen. Hands grasp at knots of hair braids. Shivers in the shadows. Blinks like Kavan ice.

A man stands in the open door. Snow flies around him. Stares upon her like a Wallachian statue. Stomps the entrance floor boards with mukluk feet. Clumps of snow fall from his fur clothes. Slams the thick gray wooden storm door. Air around him echoes hostile and then abruptly silent. Black beard frozen white. Confusion whispers in rasps of breath. Numb lisps.

“Where’s he?”

Her bottom lip drops. Memory slaps her consciousness. Closes her mouth.

“Where’s he, woman? Where the fuck’s he?”

Outwardly calm. Eyes him like a raven in a tree.

“I don’t know. Out in there somewhere.”

She shrugs with high well worked shoulders.

“Why’d you leave em out in there this long?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know…long? What is it that you’re saying? There’s no sense to this. To you. To him, sometimes. He goes outside all the time as if wild. Just like you. You know this.”

“It’s long since yesterday. Night time’s gone. Colder than Cocytus. You don’t look for em? You didn’t look? Out all night?”

Her countenance registers a look of broken time. Memory like sand beneath snow.

“No. It’s like I forgot. I couldn’t remember him until now. Just now. I remember just now. It’s the night that’s not in me. I can’t find it within me. A curse is to blame. A spell. Like I was under a spell. I was working at it.”

Silence. Wind rattles the cabin. He watches her like Eschaton. She continues.

“Where were you all night? Why are you home only now? What spell are you under?”

“Been lookin fera lost friend. Found ‘em. What’s lef. Bear of old took em. Now, where’s the fuck’s our son? I’s told he was spotted where I’s avoiding by more than one witness. And late.”

She moves bare foot. Knicks smooth glass with her big toe. The sound of a bottle rolls out toward him from under the shadow of the table. He listens to it halt in the fissure of a floor board. Looks down. Eyes its meaning. Its intention.

“Witch.”

“No. No. I’m of the truth. That’s an old one. That’s not new. I wasn’t doing that.”

“You drunken witch.”

Looks at her like he’s spotted her soul. Memorizes her face and remembers how it looks when she fibs. She trembles. Red pale ginger face. Slight tears form and mix into the chilling winter sweat wetting her forehead.

Pulls his olden hewing axe from its wishbone holster. Twirls it like congealing ghosts. Walks toward her.

Swings violently.

Slams the axe into the table. Cracks the top into a heave of two. The table wrenches apart in a splintering collapse.

She stands abrupt. He pulls his axe out of the breaking. She waits for what he’s about.

Grips his fingers between her legs. Sinks callous depth into vermilion crotch. Pulls her to him. Blade against her throat. More anger than fear in the gravity of her eyes. She still screams.