Alwine stayed on the bank of the creek long after the wash was done and ready to be hauled back and hung to dry. Her mother used to slap her for dillydallying, but her mother was dead from congestion of the brain and her father and brothers busy in the Graf’s fields. Today she pulled an apple from the pocket of her inner skirt and lay back to appreciate the slow-moving clouds and lavender cornflowers. Alwine had been born with a special spark, just like her mother. Her mother could talk to animals. Alwine herself felt the emotions of trees. Once a week, she dragged herself through the dirt, muddying her arms and legs, to quell that bit of brilliance.
She dragged her heels on the path home because it was her duty to stop at her mother’s grave. As the mound came into view, she saw that the cage over the burial site was crooked, as though someone tried and failed to tip it over. The lime mortar had held. Still, Alwine’s chest seemed to have a swift trapped inside it. Her limbs trembled. But no matter how much it cost her in strength, she didn’t scream. Because she had been there when her mother was buried, she knew what she would find if she dug with her hands, dirt caking inside her fingernails. A wooden stake through the eye, iron spikes pounded into her tongue.
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