Midnight Call
"In The Wake of Bridget"
I carried on as if sleepwalking in the days it took me to accept that I had a supernatural creature on my hands, or rather that I was in her hands. Bridget, meanwhile, remained my lover and helpmeet without apparent notice of my state of mind, as if I must have been happy unless I were obviously agitated.
By Saturday the wheat was ready to reap. And how to do this without calling in the men? Bridget was amazed at my lingering doubts about her. After dark, with full moon as sole light and witness, we entered the field, each bearing a simple short sickle. Bridget and I appeared to be working at the same pace, but time was different for her.
I looked up from tying my second sheaf to find her starting her second dozen.
As the moon set, we lugged in the entire harvest. The sight of it made me forget myself and rejoice in this foretaste of plenty, until I saw how Bridget glared at the cornfield, which at waist height was lagging unacceptably behind. Something ominous in her tone sobered me when she said, "Monday night, we will come back for the corn."
Sunday at bedtime Bridget wanted me, lulling me into supposing she was home for the duration. But afterwards, she rose from bed and hastened away, without even waiting for the appearance of my being asleep. And why should she have? What she did was no longer a secret between us; at issue now was only the extent of my complicity.
I lay awake knotted up inside, picturing what Bridget might be doing at any given moment. Families around here always scraped by at best, and now they were losing fathers, husbands, sons. Friends of mine they were not. Even before my smallpox, visitors were rare who were not paid labor. Yet they were helpless and in need, and they aroused pity if not fellow-feeling.
And at this rate, who would finally remain in the valley but Bridget and me, and where would her literal bloodthirst turn then?
I had no sense of dozing off, but suddenly Bridget was resting my head in her lap and trying to soothe my sweating brow with gentle fingers and a lullaby in some gruff, singsong language. Unable to find words as my eyes turned toward her, I could only hope that she had not killed anyone I knew. With that thought, I drifted back asleep.
I woke to Bridget's anxious gaze, her face inches away. She herded me from bed and
to the window, where she proclaimed, "See? I knew what had to be done." Where yesterday the scarecrow had been waving at the house, today only a hand showed above the corn, as of a drowning man. By the waning moon that night we harvested, Bridget again doing the lion's share.
And again the prospect of a fat year got the better of me, and I went to bed joyful.
I carried on as if sleepwalking in the days it took me to accept that I had a supernatural creature on my hands, or rather that I was in her hands. Bridget, meanwhile, remained my lover and helpmeet without apparent notice of my state of mind, as if I must have been happy unless I were obviously agitated.
By Saturday the wheat was ready to reap. And how to do this without calling in the men? Bridget was amazed at my lingering doubts about her. After dark, with full moon as sole light and witness, we entered the field, each bearing a simple short sickle. Bridget and I appeared to be working at the same pace, but time was different for her.
I looked up from tying my second sheaf to find her starting her second dozen.
As the moon set, we lugged in the entire harvest. The sight of it made me forget myself and rejoice in this foretaste of plenty, until I saw how Bridget glared at the cornfield, which at waist height was lagging unacceptably behind. Something ominous in her tone sobered me when she said, "Monday night, we will come back for the corn."
Sunday at bedtime Bridget wanted me, lulling me into supposing she was home for the duration. But afterwards, she rose from bed and hastened away, without even waiting for the appearance of my being asleep. And why should she have? What she did was no longer a secret between us; at issue now was only the extent of my complicity.
I lay awake knotted up inside, picturing what Bridget might be doing at any given moment. Families around here always scraped by at best, and now they were losing fathers, husbands, sons. Friends of mine they were not. Even before my smallpox, visitors were rare who were not paid labor. Yet they were helpless and in need, and they aroused pity if not fellow-feeling.
And at this rate, who would finally remain in the valley but Bridget and me, and where would her literal bloodthirst turn then?
I had no sense of dozing off, but suddenly Bridget was resting my head in her lap and trying to soothe my sweating brow with gentle fingers and a lullaby in some gruff, singsong language. Unable to find words as my eyes turned toward her, I could only hope that she had not killed anyone I knew. With that thought, I drifted back asleep.
I woke to Bridget's anxious gaze, her face inches away. She herded me from bed and
to the window, where she proclaimed, "See? I knew what had to be done." Where yesterday the scarecrow had been waving at the house, today only a hand showed above the corn, as of a drowning man. By the waning moon that night we harvested, Bridget again doing the lion's share.
And again the prospect of a fat year got the better of me, and I went to bed joyful.
Jonathan Thomas
Reprinted by Permission, Hippocampus Press 2008
