Page 58 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #1
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and I never understood it.” I arrived home from school soaked. I couldn’t
Aunt Alice came to see us that weekend, just as Granddad had promised.
cycle through the flood and had left my bike by the gate to Bull-Ryan’s farm and walked the rest of the way home.
In the winter the land undressed and the fro-
zen sun allowed the wrong shadows to shorten
the days. We stayed indoors and kept warm by “Mother!” the fire. Jack sometimes helped me with my
homework. He was impressed when I told him
Granddad had taught me to play chess and so
we played most evenings on Granddad’s old
set. Mother watched us. Jack protected me.
“You stay away from him, you hear me,” she said.
Mother was in one of Dad’s burrows. Water bubbled up to her chest; she had mud in her hair and on her face.
Over the next months Mother began to treat Dad differently; she was kinder to him, smiled at him, held his hand. In time I saw a change
in him too. He took an interest in the farm and slept in his own bed again. He still dug holes, though less of them, less often. He hadn’t found the truth of himself yet.
“Mother, what happened?”
At the beginning of February a cold rain fell out of a sooty sky and forgot to stop.
“Dad’s in Dingle. Climb down the ladder and pull. Hurry. Hurry!”
“I’ll have to buy plans for an ark if this doesn’t let up,” Dad had said.
I climbed down. This was one of Dad’s smaller burrows. The water was up to my shoulders. When I reached to grab a wellington, the water covered my face.
“I”m home,” I called when I let myself in.
There was no answer. The back door was open and when I went to shut it I heard her.
“Lizzie, help!”
“I slipped and fell in,” she cried, clinging to the rope ladder. “My wellingtons are full of mud. I’m stuck. Oh help me, hurry.”
“How? Should I get Dad?”