Rain

• Elisabeth Hughes, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2020

She saw him stumbling, falling, alone in the street - must have run from fighting when the rain began. Sweat, wet wool- narrow shoulders beneath a coat torn to fangs. Still the rain poured. Would hinder their powder, up in the city- Cobbles slide beneath her boots, salt crusting eyes. Grey terraces marched away to the left and right. He was barely her age, kneeling, splashing, red dye so easily made. Lips break open, blood black in light of some distant lamp. “Please.” Accent all wrong-

Sassenach.

She must help him. He was- falling-

No. Loyalty – our day will-

Run forwards, stupid. Dash her fist against the wall, hook arms under his, dragging, liquid splashes over the top of her boots, slick with grime-

Inside.

A sudden loss of water. It was late. He was heavy, stinking of maleness, worse than the Sheehans’ old billygoat. Lamplight envelops the small front room, creating a pocket of them and threadbare carpet and false gold.

She straightens, dusts her hands, ties an apron over her sopping dress. Business. Household to run – patient to help. Stoke the fire, boil water, prepare bandages from the rag bag. Try not to think of when Father will return from his trip. Rain beats the shutters. She heaves him into the kitchen armchair, uses a paring knife to cut his shredded coat and shirt from freckled skin. Red, red. Apply pressure, wash out street dirt, thank Lord it was a knife, not a bullet. Don’t think of what she is doing to her country. Dark hair flops back from a brow crusted in muck, revealing more severed skin, gaping mouths. Wash, bind. Thick white linen neatly erases the memory of red. Don’t think of what’ll happen to her when they find out. Drape a blanket around him. He stirs. Irises grey like the rain. She understands his language, thanks to her studies. Presses a bowl of tea into his hands, he drinks slowly, set mouth displaying his pain. They will kill her for this.

“Thank you.” Simple, out of place politeness.

She nods at his bowl. “Drink.”

Bank the fire. Chills will come, if wet clothes aren’t removed. Can she leave sassenach alone? Do it anyway – slip into the second room, shivering in mauve and cold, switch dresses, don’t bother with petticoats. They had been a legion, and she’d broken it. They’d break her. Her brothers had been murdered by this patient’s kind. Wrong, wrong- burn everything except their coal. Ha.

He’s mobile, at least. They’d leave. She steals Father’s clothes from the mending pile. Thrust them at sassenach. He dresses facing away from her gaze. She shuts her eyes anyhow. Unspoken agreement threads between them. There’s a boat, Father whispered. A hidden mooring. Dark slashes shivering bones. It’s too late for supplies, for anything. On the step, door latch falls. Shut out forever.

He’s slow, but conscious. Green pinches the smogged horizon.

“What’s your name?”

“April.”

“Kit.”

Rain fills her lungs. The boat. Going, going, gone.