mind, but every time she reached for it, it tattered and tore, scattering like ashes blown from a bonfire.
Before she could reason why, she found herself once again retracing her steps around the side of the house to where she’d dropped the ball in the dry dusty grass.
She searched and searched, but as the sun began to beat down mercilessly, high in the midday sky, the strange little leather ball was nowhere to be found.
7
The Lynch House, Midnight Island.
Jan 1893.
Her back arched off the bed, as another ear-splitting scream tore from her lips. Her abdomen clamped painfully with another breath-stealing, vice-like grip. She felt a rush of hot thick fluid gush from between her spread legs, her soiled nightgown hiked up to her waist, exposing her tight, swollen belly.
A grim-faced woman kneeled between her thighs, her sleeves rolled up to her flabby elbows, her enormous bosom heaving with every breath. Her face was pock marked, her lips slack and wide, her cheeks ruddy and well rounded.
She prodded and poked between her legs, her thick fingers intrusive and unwelcome as she shoved them inside her intimately.
‘I can feel the babe’s head,’ her voice was raspy with age and too much love of the tobacco leaf. ‘Not much longer now.’
She wanted to slap at those hands, to instinctively cringe away from the humiliating examination, but the pain ripped through her belly once again and she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. All she could feel was an enormous amount of pressure between her legs, and suddenly there was stretching and burning as she felt her skin begin to tear.
She looked down in horror to see a small head sticking out of her, covered in a thick white fluid and smears of blood. She would’ve screamed then, if one final excruciating wave of pain hadn’t gripped her stomach so hard it robbed her of breath. Given no other choice, her body simply took over and clamped down hard, expelling the tiny bawling infant into the waiting hands of the old woman, in a gush of blood and other fluids.
She turned her face away from the ugly blob of bloodied flesh, with its wet patch of dark hair and flailing limbs.
She fell back against the pillows breathing heavily, her pale cheeks stained with tears and sweat.
‘Oh my,’ the old woman cooed as she wiped the babe clean and wrapped her in a fine white linen. ‘It’s a girl madam, and she’s a beauty.’
‘Take it away,’ she whispered harshly, not bothering to turn her head. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘But madam,’ the old midwife frowned, ‘she’s your daughter.’
‘I said…’ she replied coldly, ‘take it away.’
Not to be deterred the woman edged around the huge, heavy, canopied bed and held the babe in front of her, peeling back the linen to reveal a tiny delicate face.
She stared at it numbly, until it opened its eyes and stared back at her. The horror washed over her in waves, almost choking her with the rage and disgust she felt.
It had his eyes and they bored into her soul, mocking and cruel.
‘Get rid of it,’ she hissed.
The babe began to cry then in earnest, as if it could somehow feel its mother’s rejection. It squirmed and mewled in the old woman’s arms, red faced and shrill.
‘But madam, she’s hungry, she needs to nurse.’
She lay there, staring at the rich fabric of the damask drapes, trying desperately to block out its cries. Her breasts, tender and swollen, began to harden painfully as they flooded with milk, her nipples wet as the child continued to scream. She felt warm milky liquid dripping onto her rib cage, saturating the front of her ruined nightgown but she couldn’t bear the thought of it against her skin, or the feel of its tiny mouth clamped to her nipple suckling.
The very thought repulsed her.
‘Madam,’ the old woman tried again as she rocked the babe.
‘I SAID TAKE IT AWAY!’ she turned and screamed.
The woman stumbled back a few paces, holding the tiny babe to her ample bosom protectively. She turned quickly, in a swirl of heavy skirts and headed toward the door, stopping abruptly when a huge imposing frame blocked her way.
‘Sir,’ she swallowed nervously.
He was tall, and powerfully built. His dark eyes dipped down to the mewling bundle in her arms, his jet-black hair glowed in the candlelight, so it almost looked wet, swept back from his face. Two wings of pure white flared out from his temples making him look even more dangerous.
‘It’s a girl sir,’ she