FANG VEINS

He placed his small palms over his eyes.

"I’ll start counting."

"No, stop."

He lowered his hands and grabbed the bucket of water beside his legs. The reflection of the crimson moon trembled on the surface.

"Fine, let’s make a mud cake then."

"No… my mother will scold me if I’m late for dinner."

An owl flew above their heads, its cry fading as the huge crimson moon climbed the sky. They walked toward the cottage. In his mind he watched their shadows sliding beside them, and her hand—seven years old, small and beautiful.

He remembered Ron, who always said that if someone held a girl’s hand for twenty seconds, she would become his wife. He stared at her pink fingers and swallowed. Twenty seconds and she will be my wife. That means we will live in the same house, and we will play hide-and-seek forever.

His hand touched the pocket that hid his lucky charm: a paper with a white flower drawn before a cottage, a birthday gift for her. He had not shown it yet, but surely she would like it. Girls liked flowers, and this one would last forever, unlike a real bloom. Even after a hundred years, when they were both one hundred and seven, the flower would still be beautiful. And there would be no need for children—just the two of them forever, away from harsh adults.

He pointed at their shadows. ”Let’s make shapes with them."

"No. My mother will punish me and won’t let me play in the yard again." She pointed at his pocket. ”What’s in your pocket?"

His heart beat fast, his mouth dry, his hand on the fabric.

"In my pocket?"

"Yes, stupid."

Liam had not slept the night before, eager for today so he could show her his great gift. But what if she doesn’t like it? He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brown paper, wrinkled and crumpled as if a dog had chewed it and spat it out.

She took it and opened it, looking closely.

"This is for my birthday?"

"Yes."

She examined it in the moonlight. No smile. No widening eyes. He moved beside her and looked at his own drawing; the flower appeared ugly now, all crooked lines, and water had soaked and smeared the ink. She pointed at the smear behind the flower—the cottage they would live in when they married—now melted into a dark, joyless blot.

"What is this?"

He rubbed the back of his head. ”Our cottage… I mean, your home. Don’t you like it?"

Rory folded the paper and tucked it into her skirt pocket.

"Yes, but I don’t think it will be as good as the gift my father will give me. For my sixth birthday he gave me a red bicycle, and now I’m excited for today’s gift."

She turned toward the cottage and walked away.

"Your home is far, and you may be late. Won’t your father scold you?"

Liam remembered the graves of his parents and his mad uncle, who must be waiting now by the door with a stick in his hand. Pain flashed in his backside, as if already sensing the blows waiting for him. But if playing with Rory was the price, he had no complaint.

"No. They are used to it."

"You are lucky."

She climbed the steps and waved.

"Come tomorrow and we will play with my gift."

"Alright," he said, sinking into thoughts of what gift could amaze Rory. Maybe a puppy.

Rory went in, jumping and spinning, and her pregnant mother closed the door behind her.

Silence settled. The night air brushed his hair while the crickets sang; above, a bloody moon crossed the sky like a red drop sliding down its cheek. His feet stayed on the dirt and his eyes fixed on the cottage. What if they lived together? Why was her home so far from his?

A cold scent crept to his nose—jasmine, sharp and strong. He pressed his nose to his shoulder; only the bitter stink of sweat. Of course his aunt would not waste expensive jasmine on his dirty clothes. He turned in a slow circle to find who carried the scent… no one. Even the black stone road lay empty, except for a single carriage—Mr. Rick’s, Rory’s father’s—abandoned as always behind the cottage across from the dining-room windows, ever since the mare that used to pull it died months ago.

He looked at the dark fields that led to his uncle’s house, then back at Rory’s cottage. He knew he should return if he didn’t want regret, but today he hadn’t played with her enough; she had said she would stop, to grow up quickly and care for her sister when her mother gave birth. He imagined two Rorys beside him, both leaping and making mud cakes. He ran a hand through his hair, puzzled over which one he would choose to marry if there were two.

Rory’s laughter drifted from the cottage. Curiosity tugged him forward. He took off his sandals so his steps would make no sound on the dirt. He pressed himself to the wall and moved around the cottage until he reached the dining-room window across from the abandoned carriage. The shutters were open just enough for him to see.

They sat around the dinner table: Rory on her chair beside her mother, and across from them sat Mr. Rick—Rory’s stern father—arms folded as he stared at his daughter, while she patted her mother’s swollen belly. The fire in the hearth chewed at the wood, and the table was spread with dishes—from chicken broth to cake. Liam swallowed and tried to look away from the food, but the smell of bread teased his nose until his mouth filled with saliva.

The mother took her daughter’s hand and set it on her belly. ”Do you feel her?"

Rory laughed, looking at her father. ”Yes, I feel her! I feel her!"

Her mother stroked her cheek. ”Today I visited Mary, and for some reason she hardly spoke to me."

"But we didn’t play near her cornfield."

"Then why is she acting like this with me?"

"Mom, do you want me to cry?"

"No, no… I believe you. I was only wondering. Don’t worry—no one here would dare make my little Rory cry while I’m here."

Rory raised her eyebrows at her father, smiling—a little show-off gesture she made when she wanted to boast.

Her mother added, ”Mary says it may be a girl… but what if the baby is a boy?"

Rory shook her head from side to side. ”No. How will I play with him if he is a boy?"

"But you always play with that boy," her mother said, ”the one who comes from far away to play with you. I thought you liked playing with boys."

"I used to like playing with him, but our games have become boring. Not as wonderful as they were."

Liam clenched his fist, his breathing quickening. He had thought she liked playing with him. The way she spoke now pushed her far away.

Rory drew a crumpled brown paper from her skirt—the very paper Liam knew too well—and handed it to her mother.

"He said it’s for my birthday."

Her mother opened the paper and turned it in her hands, then smiled. Rory added, ”He didn’t draw the flower well, not like you, Mom."

Liam pressed his lips, fighting back the urge to cry; she did not know how many hours it had taken him to draw it like this.

"But it’s a wonderful gift," her mother said. ”Is he used to drawing?"

"No, Mom."

"Then it must have taken him a long time to draw it—just for your birthday."

Rory turned to her father. ”But it is not as wonderful as my father’s gifts."

"Rory, gifts don’t have to be fancy," her mother said. ”Think about the time that boy took from his day to give you something nice."

"But why would he suffer if he knew it would not be wonderful?"

The mother sighed and set the paper aside. Then she pushed a white cake toward her daughter and stuck red candles into it. Rory said, ”Wait, don’t light them now."

"Why not?"

"Put the gifts on the table first."

Her mother lit the candles. ”Sweetheart, this is my gift."

"The cake!? That doesn’t count, Mom. What about Father?"

Her father stared, absent, and her mother said, ”Your father has been busy all week… very busy. He spends his days at the tavern, and at night he stares at the ceiling for hours with empty eyes, saying nothing. No one knows what’s wrong with him. Maybe it would be better for him to go back to work instead of spending his leave at home if sitting in it doesn’t please him."

Rick rubbed his forehead and stared at her belly. ”You reminded me of that day—last week when I was fixing the carriage." He paused while she moved the pots and spoons, then went on. ”Some men from the village came to help me with their boys. John came—the one who lives at the far end of the village—with his little son. We set the wheels and laughed. John pointed to his boy and asked if there was a resemblance between them. The resemblance was clear: the same blue eyes, the same brown hair… even the same bent nose that the boy had. He was glad when we told him they looked alike, then he kept teasing us about his wife who said the boy looked like her, not him… we traded jibes and laughed a lot."

He drew a deep breath. ”Later we went to the village market, and I found myself, without meaning to, studying the families there—fathers and sons, mothers hugging daughters, boys chasing each other in the lanes—trying to pick out the similarities in their eyes, in their hair, and in their gait." He stared at the ceiling, a wan smile on his face, then lowered his gaze to his wife, cheeks flushed. ”I discovered something that day I had never grasped before. Do you know what I found?"

Rory’s mother drank and stared into her cup, as if she didn’t care what he was saying.

"I found that everyone in this village has either blonde or red hair," he said. ”You and I, and all the women and men here… all of us have the same colors. I sat there two more hours to be sure—out of sheer curiosity—whether anyone had hair of another color, but nothing. Then, when I stood to leave and turned back on a hunch, my eyes fell on someone… black hair, short black hair." He clenched his hands. ”A handsome man. A familiar man." He glanced east. ”Our bachelor neighbor… George himself."

The mother set down her cup and leaned back in her chair. She looked at her daughter, then at her husband. ”I don’t understand what you mean."

"Wait—let me finish first. I’m sure what comes next will be more exciting than it sounds." He smiled at Rory. ”Isn’t that right, Rory?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He looked at his wife again. ”When I searched and searched and found no one with black hair but damn George, I came home and found my daughter jumping into my arms to hug me—her hair black, running between my hands!"

His wife snatched up her cup and hurled it at him. It flew past his cheek and shattered against the wall of the cottage. His eyes did not flinch or flare with anger, while she screamed, ”What do you mean by that!?"

Rory shuddered, terrified, and Liam panicked—he nearly fled if not for his worry about Rory. The husband stretched his legs under the table and pointed at her swollen belly.

"I don’t know… or perhaps, why don’t you say that the one in your belly has black hair as well!"

Liam saw Rory’s mother wipe her tears and cry: ”You are filthy."

He shook his head and held his hand in the air as if measuring someone short. ”How I miss the little girl you were when I married you… you always smiled—pure and innocent. You moved in the house like a cool breeze. No one would have imagined that girl would grow into a loose woman. Tell me, then… how do you feel when you see me leave for work and you stay alone?"

"Shut up! Shut your filthy mouth! …You!… I did that!?… I!?" She pointed at her daughter. ”And you found no one but to accuse me in front of my daughter! All this over black hair?"

"What’s wrong—why are you so tense if you aren’t guilty as you claim? Hah. You would go to him, you @, the moment you saw me leave, wouldn’t you?"

"Listen, you! Close your mouth in front of her. I didn’t do it… I swear for my daughter I didn’t do it… but how would you believe me when your filthy mind is rotted by the worm of drink."

He waved his fist over the table and the cups spilled across the cloth. ”Don’t drag drink in to make me look debauched. Yes, I drank and drank, but I never touched a woman—ever—besides one… she who claims purity and, behind the curtain, is nothing but a cheating harlot."

Rory’s mother snatched the bowl in front of her and flung it at him, then the next, until Mr. Rick’s clothes were wet and filthy.

Her lips trembled. ”You know what? I hate you. You have no idea how much I hate you."

He pressed his lips and shook his head while wiping his vest. ”Good… good… from the beginning you couldn’t bear to see me. And I don’t blame you—how could I, when I keep robbing you of the chance to meet him whenever I come home? As they say… a heart can’t hold two at once."

She grabbed a knife to throw at him, but her raised hand stopped at the sound of Rory’s sobbing. Liam saw his beloved’s tears running, glittering on her cheeks, before she began to cry. Something burned in his chest; he had never seen her… this weak. He wished he could hurl stones at them, or be brave and take her hand and lead her away from this cottage.

The parents looked to their daughter. The mother dropped the knife to the floor, wrapped Rory in her arms, and patted her back. ”It’s okay, my love, it’s okay. I’m sorry… so please, my darling, don’t cry."

"You are fighting."

"I know, my dear, I know."

The mother turned to her husband. ”Do you see what your vileness is doing?"

The father reached out a hand. ”Come to me, my dear… come. Don’t be afraid."

She rose from her chair and went to him; he circled her with his arms and held her. He wiped her cheeks. ”My love… you know well that I cannot live without you… ever… your father only lost his temper a little…" Tears gathered in his eyes; he turned his face away and wept.

"What’s wrong, Daddy?"

He shook his head, looking down and sobbing; the hair on his forelock trembled. ”You are crying?" Rory asked.

He gasped and clenched his face, as if swallowing a scream that almost left his mouth; he sniffled and wiped his eyes until they reddened. He pointed to the candles that were about to die on the cake. ”M—my love… why don’t you blow the candles so your gift will come to you, as usual."

Rory stepped to her cake, blew the candles, and her gentle smile returned. No sooner had the wicks gone out than someone knocked on the door.

Liam was startled—he had not felt anyone in the yard besides himself. He wanted to see for himself who was knocking, but feared a scolding if her parents saw him, so he remained where he was.

The parents stared at one another in silence; the firelight and shadows danced in their eyes. The father said with a scowl: ”My love, it is your gift."

Rory ran to the door while the mother stared at her husband. Mr. Rick said to his wife, weeping, ”You are the reason for all this."

Her eyes widened; she looked back at her daughter. ”Do not open the door!"