Excerpt: Gwyneth the Dark

“Where have you been?” her mother insisted as soon as she’d stepped over the threshold. She’d reached up to touch the yew branch over the doorway, but then remembered that her mother had removed it at Pavelius’s suggestion, just as she’d removed the some other token of the old pagan ways.

“Be well, mother,” repeating the formality even though her mother hadn’t greeted her. She knew better than to do otherwise. “I went looking for mushrooms, but I found this.” Gwyneth opened her pouch and pulled out the dove. She plopped it down on the table where her mother was kneading the daily loaves.

Her mother had already restoked the fire and The fire in the hearth was growing strong and the warmth felt good on Gwyneth’s chilled legs.

Her mother stared at the dove a moment, her brows drawn together and her lips tight. “Found it? Who did you steal it from?”

“I didn’t steal it. I killed it myself.” Gwyneth held up her sling. “It’s my first dove.”

“You killed a dove with that?”

“Yes.”

Her mother resumed her chore, then huffed loudly and stopped. “And I suppose I am to stop everything I’m doing now and dress it.”

“No, mother, but as you wish.”

“As I wish, eh? I wish you would have stoned a goose rather than this puny thing, barely four maggoty mouthfuls, much less enough to feed four hungry bellies.”

“I will clean it,” Gwyneth offered. The mention of her hungry belly set off a gurgle within her that she hoped her mother didn’t hear.

Her father hobbled from the bed, using his crutches to pull himself up, obviously annoyed at being awakened. His withered leg dangled from beneath his tunic as he maneuvered his way past them and out the door. His hand went automatically to the yew branch that was no longer there as he was outside. They could hear his piss hitting the ground.

“Don’t trouble yourself now. You’ve worked enough today, what with slinging a stone at this huge feast. You must be tired.”

“No, mother, I feel well. I can clean it.”

“No, no. Your father will clean it. You’d mangle the poor bird into shreds. If you’re not too tired or busy catching sickling doves to weak to fly away, get out there and collect whatever eggs you find, if the hens bothered to lay any.”

“But that’s Osuald’s job,” Gwyneth spurted before she could stop herself. The words flew out like birds escaping into sky. She couldn’t retrieve them, she couldn’t kill them, they lay between her and her mother just as the dead dove lay on the table, like a rock, inedible, insufferable.

Just as quickly, the back of her mother’s hand came across Gwyneth’s face.