CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
"Henry. Come here right now." A scratchy command from the front of the house.
I stand up and dust my knees off. Walking around the side of the porch, I see nothing at first. Then there's Agnes in her black dress, home from church, standing on the doorstep, her gloved hands folded in front of her, glaring at the front door.
"Who's done this?" She turns to me, brows lowered; she already knows I'm responsible. "You take that down, now, please."
There is a small calico bag about the size of my palm tacked to the doorframe with a copper nail. I pull it off and open it. Something soft is inside. I drop the contents into my palm and spread my hand out to Agnes.
"Revolting," she says. "What on earth?"
I tuck the enclosure- a two-inch tuft of grey-blonde hair- back into the bag. "It's a gift," I tell her, "for me. In trade."
"In trade?" she snorts. "Disgusting. Whatever for?"
"Protection," I answer, absently, dropping the bag in my breast pocket.
.
The next morning another unmarked envelope is waiting at the table and Agnes' eyes are flickering back and forth from it to mine. I'm impressed that she restrained herself from steaming it open. Heavy paper, tinted pink. I slit it open with my butter knife. What falls out- and I knew what would- is not a death threat but a pinch of glossy auburn hair tied with embroidery floss. There is no note. Jocelyn, the village gossip, has begun his work. Across the table Agnes' eyes burn into mine.
"Well?"
It's still power, even if you don't use it. "I've begun collecting," I tell her.
.
Because I'm nearly a man I can understand the compulsion. Who wouldn't want to placate nature, add your scrap of hair to the altar, try to appease whatever you can? They've been doing it since they crawled out of the caves; little clay figures, paintings, sacrifices, prayers. And because I also am not really a man I can see the futility. That nature is as indifferent to gifts as it is to suffering. That nature does as it will. Its mechanics are none of their business. I put the hair back in its envelope and put it to the side; breakfast is ready. I have my appetite back.
.
The next day another envelope, this one scuffed, clearly reused, packed with bristly white hair. And the morning after that I find three little bundles on the doorstep like baby mice, no wrapper, each tied with twine. It's interesting to learn how many of my neighbors had entertained the concern that I might eat them.
Of course, the reality of what I've done hasn't escaped me. I've used a threat to get my way, twice now. I did it with Seamus in a panic of fear and anger; I did it with Jocelyn in resigned calculation. With Seamus... I stop where I am walking and lean my elbows on the rail of the fence to watch a skylark hover above the meadow like a swimmer, burbling lovesong, and then drop slowly back into the grass, wings beating. With Seamus I had no intention of delivering on my threat. The thought of seeing him in suffering, or worse, causing it, is more distressing to me than any possible gain.
Jocelyn's case was different. My eyes narrow. I remember how much I liked sitting across a table from Jocelyn, the pleasure of his quick wit and his choking laugh, how I enjoyed the gleam in his eye when he danced around the edge of a scandal. I was fond of him; I still am, mostly. But when I next imagine him tacking the letters, first to Row's door and then to mine, I feel a rustling inside me; when I imagine him creeping around Seamus' cottage, listening, watching, I feel the second body inside of mine unfurling itself. Then I think next of the damage done to Agnes when Row was taken from her, and that is enough. Perhaps it's best that his snippet of hair is already in my possession. Because now I can imagine Jocelyn running clumsily through a moonlit field- my field- his hands covering his head. I can imagine a dark form at his back, fur bristling at its neck. And I can imagine his skin popping under the weight of my jaws, a clean snap through the resilience, like biting into a peach.
All through the summer I collect my offerings. They go into one of Jepson's old tobacco tins in the sideboard drawer. I must have about a villages' worth now, and it's getting difficult to close the lid. Agnes finds the whole thing revolting and often comments, with much acid, how much nicer it was back when people did not come round to tack their scurfy trimmings upon one's door.