The Burial by Courtney Collins Page B

ride any further and then he dismounted and tied his horse to a branch. He walked in, carrying the sack, counting tree by tree until he found the tree he was looking for. The hollow tree was his hiding place. Whenever he was paid by Fitz, which was not often, he rolled up his money like cigars and rode into the forest and deposited it in a tin he had lodged within the tree. When he first discovered the tree he thought to himself that the hollow was big enough for a body. But it was only a term of measure; he did not imagine he would ever hide a body within it.
    He knelt down and took out his knife and used it to pry back the shield of bark that covered it, just far enough so he could get his fingers beneath it and dislodge it. The bark came away and he felt inside the tree for his money tin, which was wedged above a knot. The tin had grown rusty and would not easily open so he forced it with the edge of his knife. He took out a wad of notes and stuffed it into his top pocket, then he set the tin back in its place and heaved the sack into the hollow. But the sack was unevenly weighted and fell out of the opening of the tree. Jack Brown pushed it with his boot and then he pressed the bark into place, tapping it with the handle of his knife until it was all perfectly sealed.
    Jack Brown did not know the intricacies of the law, but he did know that if there was no body, there could be no murder.
    He collected his horse and found his way back onto the track. He rode recklessly, craving the sharp and certain guilt of murdering Fitz himself rather than the blunt feeling that he had failed himself and worse, he had failed Jessie.
    When the river was in sight he cleared the fence that bordered the forest and the riverbank. His horse slid down to level ground and he clung to it while it regained its feet and then he rode it into the swell of the river, pushing it further and further against the current until he felt himself pummelled by the force and the coldness of it, and he wished that one day he might be cleansed of every old and acrid thought that clung to him.
    I heard him charging around the river. His horse was brimming with sound and he was talking anxiously to it, as if he was trying to calm his horse and himself at once. My own heart leapt. There I was, waiting for my mother, and though he was not my mother, he surely could have been my father. And I thought anything she loved or longed for would do. Together, we could find her.
    I called, Jack Brown, I am not dead!
    I did not scream it else I be confused with those white-breasted birds that caw all day. I just called it as clear as I could: I am not dead.
    As Jack Brown grew nearer, I wormed my fingers into the dirt above me. I knew my arms would not reach the surface but I thought at least I could fright his horse and then his horse might shy or, better, buck him right off, and Jack Brown would have to face the wonder of the earth moving beneath him.
    With the weight of them upon me, I pushed harder into the dirt.
    But both horse and man moved over me and neither were at all disturbed by my calling out or pushing at the ground above me.

THE DOG’S BARKING woke my mother early and when it stopped she heard the old man and the old woman arguing and then the old man call the dog, mount his horse and gallop off.
    She took her time getting out of bed, to avoid the old woman. She dressed in clothes the old woman had given her and for some time she just sat on the bed. The small, windowless room reminded her very much of prison and she wondered if she would always feel that every room, regardless of how small or bare or not, was designed to punish her.
    She opened the door. The old woman was sitting at the kitchen table with her back to her.
    Morning , said Jessie, and she filled the kettle with water, acting as if things were somehow normal and she was a guest after all.
    The old woman acknowledged her with a nod, though her eyes remained fixed on the window. She was peeling