Helen went out to feed the animals, as much to get out of the stifling cottage that backed up into the hillside as to perform any chore. The ground around was mostly bare dirt, and there was the smell of livestock and staleness.
She reached out to pet a goat that had come up to her. They had those strange eyes that unnerved her, but still, she hungered for some kind of contact with a warm living thing that would not rebuke her.
She began to think of her mother, in the cold ground these eighteen years, the woman she had never known. She wondered if she had been pretty, if her voice held any note of softness, of care.
"Are ye kilt, girl? Are ye turned to stone, then?" snarled her father in his grating voice, making her jump. "Feed them beasts before they starve and then we all do!" He went away shaking his head, perhaps trying to fathom why God in his great wisdom had given him this mostly useless stick of a girl to try his temper.
Even the goat had been uninterested in her caresses, moving just out of reach and staring, wanting food. As she went about her chores she wondered bleakly if this was all life could ever be, a filling of one's gut, a numb round of joyless tasks that must be done.
Her father and brothers seemed to want nothing but their tankards of grog at the end of the day, and a silent woman to bring it to them.
She knew she had no right to ask for more. Her mother had died bringing her into the world, and no man would have her, for despite her fair face, she was often sick and not able to work her share. And her father never tired of pointing out to her that she was too thin, her hips too narrow to bear any man a son. "How will I ever get rid o' ye?" he would snap at her, as if she were deliberately vexing him. "I'd trade ye for a sack o' meal, but nowt is offered!"
That evening, her father bid her hear what he had to say. This was rare, indeed, and she wondered if she were to be punished for something, though she knew not what it might be. She sighed silently within herself and knew that surely she had failed again in some way, and her bad nature was about to be shown to her, and loudly.
Helen stood with her head down before her father, trying to take up as little space as she could. To her amazement, he said, "I've got something to tell ye, girl, and ye can thank God in His mercy for sending us all a boon. I've found a man as will take ye for a wife, though I can't say if he's soft in the head or what may be his reason." He smiled and showed his brown teeth.
Her heart clenched. She knew of no man she would want to be with, bitter though her days in her father's house might be. She found her voice, and asked softly, "Who may he be, Father?"
"Caleb McInnis."
Helen's heart sank like a shot bird. Caleb McInnis was a drunk and a braggart, and was the foulest smelling man in the county. His shrill wife had given him three dull-witted sons and then died.
"But Father, not Mr. McInnis, he--"
"He'll have ye!" thundered the old man, banging his tankard down hard on the broad wooden table. "He'll have ye, and I'll be out from under the burden of ye! Do as he says, lest he send ye back here to plague me! That's all, girl."
The room blurred as Helen's eyes filled and she tossed her head once as if struck an invisible blow, then left the cottage, hot tears rolling down her pale, beautiful face.
"Don't work ye'self into one of your states!" cried the old man, as she closed the door behind her. The wind was whipping up and felt cool on her fine, wet cheeks. The sky was nearly dark, but she could see thunderheads rolling in.
Feeling set upon from every side, she began to walk away from the only home she had known, not caring what happened to her, not wanting to draw another breath in this world, but compelled to do so just the same. She walked mile upon mile, most of it in a downpour, the wind whipping her long straw-colored hair and making her dress snap about her. She lost her shoes, lost her way, lost her hope. She wondered if her mother were in Heaven with the Angels, and if she saw her child. And seeing, did she care?
She longed to be held, just once, to have someone brush the hair from her face and kiss her cheek, to have someone look upon her with love.
But there was only the night, and the storm, and the unfamiliar way. The poor girl sat down beneath a great oak, and sobbed into her own cold arms. "Mommy," she whispered hopelessly, "if you hear your only girl-child, help me now, I pray. My heart is dying within me, and my body shall surely follow when it looks within and finds there is no spirit left there. Please help me."
