Winter Children and Other Chilling Tales by Angela Slatter

Author:Angela Slatter [Slatter, Angela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brain Jar Press

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Dina’s fingers are thin, the nails sharper than they used to be, her skin rougher. As she undoes her blouse, the cicatrix on her chest is exposed. One button at a time, seemingly such a small action to show such a dreadful trauma. Red, thick, raised, almost new enough that she can see the thin line where the cut was made. So fine a slice to have produced such a large scar! She’d been given some of Aunt Varvara’s poppy milk to make her sleep that night, but sometimes she’s sure she remembers the sensation of that incision, of the creaking farm implements repurposed to spread her ribs wider and wider—some days they still ache—the feeling of Aunt’s small fingers, tiny palm, closing around her heart . . .

The old woman had come to them, wandered out of the forest that backed onto the Kozlov’s farm. She’d knocked at the door, begged food, drink, eyed Dina, who’d risen from bed only to recline on the threadbare sofa by the fire, pale and wasting as her heart unhurriedly betrayed her. The old baba ate slowly, mostly gumming the fresh bread Aunt Varvara gave her, dipping it into the warm milk as if it wasn’t soft enough; as if it wasn’t the only thing they had to offer. Food was scarce by then, everywhere, yet they gave of what they had. Dina could see that the old woman’s distaste annoyed her aunt, but Varvara was smart enough not to make complaint. No good ever came of upsetting forest wives, which was why they’d welcomed her into their home even as tales of the sickness coming closer swept in on the breath of travellers and traders. Even though their friends and family had already begun to decrease in number.

The baba’s skin was a mass of crevices, as if she’d been the site of some dreadful geological event. Her hair was black but wiry and bushy beneath the red scarf, and her eyes were also black but sometimes in the light of the fire Dina thought there might be an undercurrent of yellow, like piss or spite. She wore so many skirts and shawls it was impossible to know what shape she was beneath them all—a riot of colours once, now faded and muted by time and dirt.

When Aunt Varvara went outside to hang the washing, the old woman sidled over to Dina, sat at her feet, felt the toes beneath the blanket to see how cold they were.

‘How long do you have, girl?’ she croaked.

Dina shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘How long have you been dying?’

‘Forever.’

The old woman grunted. Nodded. She put her hand against the girl’s chest and Dina was too weak to shake her off, too tired to shout for Varvara’s help. But the crabbed digits with their swollen knuckles and sharp nails went no further, did nothing but lay against the place where Dina’s heart gave its lethargic lub-dubs. Then the old woman nodded again, grunted again, and took her fingers away.

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