The Girl Who Walked West
Preface
The horizon had not yet contemplated the sun when a plump rooster strutted out of his coop. The proud cock fluffed his feathers, raised his comb, and eyed the silent farmhouse in the early morning darkness. Claws dug into the dirt with an aggressive scrape and a beady black eye bounced from house to coop with a glint of mischievous light. The rooster flapped its clumsy wings and settled its body on the ridge of its coop. He raised his beak, arched his neck, and crowed his delight to the dark sky; once, twice, three times was all it took to herald in the end of the world.
The girl in the farmhouse started awake earlier than was her wont. Her room was cold, her stomach growled, and she had no desire to return to the dreams awaiting her. Mary Russell dressed in her father's suit, wrapped around her neck an ill knitted scarf that she had made with her mother, plopped an oversized cap on her head, and laced her new boots, which were already too small. Armed against the crisp spring air, she crept down the staircase, avoiding the creaky floorboards, and strode into the dark—into the cold to escape the other occupants of her home.
Mary Russell walked down the lonely lane with only the quiet crunch of her boots on the gravel to keep her company. The lane came to an end and she stopped, staring bleakly at the open vista of rolling hills that presented itself. One direction looked much the same as the next, so she turned west, away from the sea, putting her back to the sun that had not yet been seen.
A mob of sheep scattered at her approach, and then returned to their innocent munching, watching her slim form disappear down the slope of a hill with idle curiosity. The girl walked; the sheep ate, completely unaware that every pounding footstep was driving a nail deeper into the coffin of a man she would never know.