The Untold by Courtney Collins

not amused.
Where are my trousers, my shirt, my boots?
    You weren’t wearing no boots, child,
said the old woman.
Not when we found you. And you’d made a mess of your clothes. You’d lost your pants and that shirt you had on was no better than a rag.
    Where is it?
said my mother
. I’ll wear it anyway
.
    Enough of that
, said the old woman.
We’ll deck you out with new kit, no problems there. But first things first. Hungry is surely what you are. We’ll give you a feed and get some flesh back on those bones of yours.
    My mother was hungry. She did not know what to make of the old woman but her hunger was sure.
    What is there to eat around here?
    The old woman patted her on the shoulder and moved towards the stove. She lifted the lid on a pot which gave way to the thick smell of gravied meat. It made my mother’s mouth water and she felt faint. She held on to a chair.
    The old woman buzzed around the kitchen, setting the table, and then she said,
Sit down, dear
.
That’s what guests are supposed to do.
    Is that what I am?
said my mother, and she sat down. She didn’t have the energy to pursue the question
What am I doing here?
    The old woman poked at the coals within the stove and then tasted the contents of the pot with her finger.
Ooh yes,
she said
. That friend of yours does taste good.
    My mother reared up from the table and knocked back her chair.
    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 could have 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, watching her intently.
    My mother noticed her staring only 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?
said my mother, raising 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