The Burial by Courtney Collins

You fucking killed Houdini? she spluttered.
    The old woman spun around. She was holding a spoon out in front of her. I’ll not have your foul language here. I’ve heard enough of your mouth in your fever. And what are you talking about now? Who’s Houdini?
    My horse! said my mother. Have you butchered my horse for your dinner?
    Oh, child, said the old woman, turning back to the pot . It’s the lamb I’m talking about, that lamb in the back of the cart—the one you were clinging on to like it was your own beloved.
    My mother sat down again, feeling nauseous at the thought.
    And I don’t know if it’s no Houdini, but we found a horse loitering by you on the bank of the river.
    Where is he?
    He’s in the stable. So everything is as it should be, dear. Every single thing on earth is in its place.
    The old woman ladled out the contents of the pot.
    You’ll take me to him?
    Only after you eat , said the old woman. She set a bowl in front of my mother. The stew was dark and glossy with fat and hunks of lamb.
    How long have I been here? asked my mother.
    You spent a good couple of days in a fever cussing at the ceiling and a couple more just sleeping it off. I don’t know, dear—almost a week.
    What did I say in my fever?
    Oh, a whole lot of gibberish and nonsense. You copped the old man a spit in the eye and a punch in the chops, though, so who knows if you were actually sleeping? The old woman laughed again.
    I’m sorry for that , said my mother and she began to eat heartily.
    No mind , said the old woman. We all have our ways.
    My mother put her head down and ate so close to the bowl she nearly scalded her chin. The stew was salty and good and she did not lift her eyes until the bowl was empty. The old woman did not eat but sat opposite her, watching her intently.
    My mother only noticed her staring when she had finished eating. Not hungry? she asked.
    The old woman reached across the table and covered my mother’s hand with her own. Only for your company, dear , she said. She lifted her eyes skyward. You see, God has finally answered my prayers.
    My mother snatched back her hand. What is this? she said, raising up her wrist with the bracelet.
    It’s a gift , said the old woman .
    I don’t want it.
    Why?
    It hurts my hand.
    The old woman snapped the bracelet open and pulled it off my mother’s wrist.
    I thought you would appreciate it.
    I’ve got no interest in such things.
    You know how to hurt an old woman’s feelings.
    The old woman’s presence began to oppress my mother.
    I’m not feeling well , she said. Can you take me to Houdini? And then I should go back to bed.
    You can rest all you need to, dear , said the old woman. And your horse is right there. But first you must bathe.
    Soap and water irritate me , said my mother and she was not lying. It was one of her defences against Fitz, to bathe not very often or not at all.
    They may well, dear. But this is my house and there are certain rules and you must wash that fever from you or else catch it from yourself again and your insides turn septic.
    Alright, I will bathe , said my mother, but first I need to see my horse.
    The old woman tut-tutted but she cleared Jessie’s plate then led her outside.
    Houdini was in a stable that had been cobbled together out of found things but it had a roof and a dirt floor and there was hay scattered within it. There was feed and fresh water. Jessie did not understand the motives of the old man or the old woman but she was glad that at least they knew how to take care of creatures.
    And there he was, Houdini, seventeen hands high, her dappled grey stallion, bowing his head over the stable gate when she walked in. At the sight of him, she felt her heart tear. Houdini, more than anyone or anything, was her witness to it all.
    Houdini scooped her chin with the bridge of his nose and my mother touched her nose to his. She found a brush inside the stable and