As he watched Gale looking towards his shed as if he was struck dumb, Connor felt a smug sense of superiority. He still remembered when he first saw Gale whom he saw having a drink of mead in the town’s little hall, which is more of a well-lit meadow that is not drown in shadows cast by the canopy. That was the only time he stared entranced by a guy. The Gale Hulder he saw before he ever got to know his identity was stunningly attractive–tall, with enviable proportions and hair cheerfully lightened by the early August sun (only in the shade, can an observer see that his hair’s true color must be copper), and a most becoming face he ever got to see, even in Boston where there isn’t a shortage of handsomely groomed officers and dandies.
Connor wanted to just believe that despite his natural endowments, the man was just a country bumpkin who doesn’t even know proper table manners, closer to an animal than a man, chewing on whatever the woods offer-chew like a mule on bloodroots or lick moss-covered rocks. But that self-coddling imagination was short-lived as it became evident to even himself that there was a natural grace in the way he talked and just seeing how his expressions change was an entrancing experience itself. When he widened his eyes in wonder at whatever stories his town friends deliver in the circle, his features emanated a soft glow of intelligence and sincerity that in turn brought an almost supernatural kind of brilliance to his being. If Gale wasn’t implicated in his father’s murder, he would have actually wanted to be acquaintances, maybe ask how he got his height. “Were you born with it?” However, when he heard his name from someone else, he could never have believed that such a man could be capable of dragging an unsuspecting businessman who’s blinded by the portent of loss to a wolf’s hungry jowls. But then why would his father waste his dying breath linking him to his death if he didn’t?
Crossing his arms, he shifted his gaze from Gale who stood a few yards away to Michaela who was in his shed, again, staring at the big rabbit in the cage. Now he thought of her intrusion as something that can be tolerated. And that change in view is attributable to a brief interaction between these two that occurred the day before.
The day before, he was intent in getting rid of her, as usual, through weapons like his terse instructions like “don’t touch this, don’t touch that,” brows furrowed in disapproval, and condescending green eyes. As usual, she seemed untroubled, and she treated him like air when she isn’t looking up at him with infuriatingly calm, blinking dark eyes. That time he was in a particularly bad mood because some eccentric customer, and there were many in this reclusive mountain woodland village, wanted him to procure him some piglets, not just hogs, but piglets. And the customer had the audacity to ask for a discounted charge when most sensible people who had an ounce of knowledge about livestock knew that piglets are too delicate for long distance travel and wielded more profit when matured.
The customer cursed him as a slothful, ill practicing excuse of a professional before leaving him in peace, and Connor went to the shack to cool his head, but he saw Michaela who, to his surprise, wasn’t looking at the rabbit but standing at the door still. He could tell that she had observed the heated interaction.
Knowing that it is a perfectly stupid idea to even talk to her, he did it anyway.
“I am not an amateur!” he yelled. “And I am not lazy! Or inept!”
She blinked as if he just told her that his favorite food was cornbread but is now sour dough.
“People here say that I am not a man enough or good enough with meat or money handling like my father. But that’s not…that’s just not fair.”
He felt defensive enough already. Despite his abominable personality, his father had business smarts, a fact he couldn’t deny. Why did adults always conclude talking about his father with the statement with lightening finality, “but he sure knows how to bring in silver.” He knew what he was doing was contemptible but his way of trying to get his father’s business to revive from ashes and salvage Gale’s already crossed many lines anyway. He barely had any business-related decency he was proud of.
As she stood transfixed in front of him, who was seething in rage, he suddenly felt embarrassed. What was he even saying to a woman who looked as good as dumb and mute? What is the use of venting his frustration? Feeling the need to salvage whatever dignity he had, he opened his mouth but words came out before he can process how to defend his self perception as a business suave young man.
“I…I just didn’t want to kill piglets. They are just babies.”
In a far distance, probably in hell’s purgatory, he could hear his dead father’s spirit clapping in mock enthusiasm. What a sorry state he has put himself in. He would have continued to feel that way but then he felt a gentle brush of a tiny hand on his dark curls.
He looked up, his wide green eyes cautiously raising themselves to meet dark ones. As she brushed his hair, she tilted her head to a slight angle, her face still looked impassive but he could have sworn he saw a lingering gentleness in her eyes. She stroke his hair like she was petting a child who was humiliated by his peers by doing ‘the right thing’ that is taught in morale and conduct lessons in schools and churches. But the way she looked at him didn’t exactly look like a proud, encouraging parent, but more like sadness as if she fully understands such terribly lonely but hopeful feeling.
“I…I mean, I…” he stuttered, blushing, “I wouldn’t kill…a baby, so…” he didn’t know where to look as she kept petting his head.
Then, he couldn’t keep himself from asking,
“How…old are you actually?”
She blinked and withdrew her hand and seemed to be in thought. For some reason, Connor felt his heart beating fast, and he felt a strange sense of tingling in his chest as he anticipated her answer. And if it wasn’t for her clothes and her curiously blank expression, she wouldn’t have looked any older than him self. Maybe, she is his age, but just pretending to be an older, mature woman. Then she replied, in a light but not high pitched, airy but not breathy voice, her gaze carefully placed on his green crystal eyes,
“The last time I checked…I’ve seen five full moons.”
***
‘She is mad,’ Connor thought after quickly reflecting upon the past day’s conversation, ‘out of her wits.’
Turning his face from Gale, he stared at her who assumed her usual habit of sitting in his shed, looking at the poor caged creature.
Somehow, he has been getting this habit of mentally tracing the outline of her tiny, crouching form in his shed. He couldn’t get his mind off the fact that she was in his shed, in his property, the space that bears the official signia of his name. Initially her presence was a grumblingly tolerated intrusion but now it became so natural and taken for granted that he felt he could just draw an exact replica of her crouching form, her profile staring into the cage, strays of hair delicately grazing her forehead and dark eyes that seem to put a wall by being too forthcoming. He wondered how she would look like if she dressed up like his sisters back in Boston and half sisters in New York. He could imagine her, looking nice. He was just curious, that’s all. Boys his age like to amuse themselves by looking. And imagination is the universal, favorite past time.
As Connor took a moment to look at her without leaving his stall, he stole a glance at Gale but soon dread expelled the dreamy, deep-in-thought expression on his face and he barreled through the boxes lying on the forest floor sideways like a boy trying to hide a bag of gingerbread behind his back and tried to get to the shed as soon as possible.
The minute he turned his eyes to Gale, he saw him, taking harsh strides right up to the butcher stall, a thunderous look stalking through his features, a look that Connor was sure must have emerged right when he was about to kill his father if he did kill him out of passion, a conjecture that quickly took root in his mind.
He thought that Gale would never ever try to approach the meat stall, as it would be imperious for him to avoid raising any suspicion about his recent quarrel with the deceased Carmine and his death. Even Schwartz, the magistrate who got him to Fullgreens characterized him as a “cowardly and sly, conniving strategist who reveals his true base nature in the dark not in broad daylight.” But here he was, marching to the stall as soon as he saw the piece of evidence of his guilt sitting crouched, wide eyed in front of a rabbit cage in his shed.
Hulder Tales 