Lore

By Helen Mcclory

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

They killed the hare when the mist was on the early morning river. They had come upon her in an abutting field while crossing it silently out on a hunt. She lay in her form, resting, eyebright and whiskers quivering. Dew on the long and parted grass. One man whistled through his teeth. She did not move. Her nose moved. Someone cocked their gun.

The youngest held her body by the ears. Long creature, with great elegant legs and feet, fur the colour of clay. They tied her to the grouse pole, and brought her back with a double brace. The house was empty of the womenfolk when they returned. Outside, the trumpets of daffodils blared bright against an encroaching bank of smoke-white fog. Most of them thought nothing of it. The women were away at town, having piled into the Ford. The weather could change on a penny-spin. They brought the bounty to the large pantry, and strung up the birds, and laid the hare down on the table, beside the grapes and bread.

It was only much later, evening time, when a voice from the garden began to call. The men sat smoking at the fire, talking little, drinking brandy. At first it was distant. The sound of the wind passing through a low hedge, or a radio muffled in static. But there was no wind at all, and theirs the only room lit up, and the country road ran around them in the dark.

My wife, came the voice, my wife is lost in the fog.

My husband, came the voice, my husband is lost in the fog.

I have licked the moonlight from her fur. I have combed his long black ears. But now I can’t find her. The men sat, smoking and slurping at their drinks. Not a one of them moved.

The voice came closer, louder. My wife. My

husband. Where are you?

Somewhere a door opened, great locks sliding back.

The sound of soft footsteps. Doors opening.

Oh, my love lies on a table, eyes gone dim. A hole in his side and the blood out of her.

The voice was larger, larger now. Steps echoed through the hall.

Which beasts have done this? Where will the moon go now the hare is dead?