Slices of Midnight
Chapter 4
With fists clenched in rage, I strode down Dowling’s main avenue.
"How dare that woman?" I muttered, marching forward as the furious ringing of blacksmiths’ hammers echoed across the bustling township. "How dare she whip me as if I were a mere child?"
Given my state of mind, spending another moment at the priory was out of the question—at least for the morning.
I knew I’d have to eat eventually, but the thought of enduring some inane lesson on scripture or philosophy just for the right to sit down to lunch turned my stomach.
Besides, I doubted I could sit through an entire lecture with my backside in such a tender condition.
Whenever life disgusted me, I sought solace in the ancient craft that had made the Isle of Indamar famous.
Today would be no exception.
In addition to tracking ghosts, I had taken up divining the weather—a hobby I’d mastered in just a few short months.
The mysticism of it thrilled me.
And through my studies, I’d found no better place on the Isle to determine rain or shine than amid the baaing and bleating of dying animals at Dowling’s oldest and most famous slaughterhouse.
"Move out of the way, wench!"
I snapped my head to the right just as a passenger carriage barreled around the blind corner of the Jolly Grubb Tavern—
Speeding straight for me.
With a frantic dash, I crossed the lane between Dowling’s most popular drinking hole and the slaughterhouse yard, barely avoiding the oncoming wheels.
A weathervane atop the slaughterhouse’s high-pointed roof had turned north as I approached, and the sight had distracted me.
Fortunately, my only punishment for inattentiveness was a splattering of mud.
"Slow down, you damned lunatic!" I shouted after the carriage as it rumbled toward the center of town.
If the driver heard me, he gave no sign—not that I cared.
Wiping some of the mud from my face and clothes, I turned back to the weathervane.
The wind had shifted northward abruptly—at an odd hour of the day, and just two days shy of a full moon.
That meant Dowling would soon see its first snow of the season.
But how much? Would drifts rise past a person’s knees, or would only a few flurries dust the rooftops?
It may seem impossible, but I knew how to find the answer.
Still wiping mud from my ears and neck, I positioned myself beside one of the pointed fence posts lining the holding yard.
Here, I settled in to wait—watching for any sign that the Belfort family would be bringing their sheep to slaughter that morning.
The Belforts were among the wealthiest families on the Isle, their fortune built on livestock.
But beyond their influence and wealth, they played a vital role in my weather predictions.
I didn’t have to wait long.
I had just begun surveying the holding yard and the grime-covered porch leading into the slaughterhouse when I heard the telltale sound of sheep bells approaching from behind, a ways up the street.
The sheep likely belonged to the Belforts.
Closing my eyes, I focused on the bells, listening carefully—counting each distinctive toll.
One. Two.
Three, four.
Five. And six.
With six sheep approaching, I concluded the village would see a remarkable snowfall within the week.
But then—
Faint and uneven, I heard the ringing of a seventh bell—its clapper bent and damaged.
That changed things.
If every sheep wore a bell and none were mottled in color—which always complicated a forecast—
A blizzard was out of the question.
Instead, flurries would fall, leaving only a light dusting across the Isle.
"Good morning, Marissa."
At the sound of the greeting, I turned to see Ben Belfort and his older sister, Kathleen, leading seven condemned sheep around the blind corner behind the Jolly Grubb.
Each sheep was pure white, as was typical for the Belforts' stock.
So, flurries it would be.
"Hi, Ben," I said, smiling at the teenage boy I’d come to know over the years at the priory. "What have you guys been up to?"
Like most on the Isle, the Belforts weren’t staunchly religious, but they attended festival services.
During those occasions, I’d spent enough time around Ben to know he was honest, fun-loving, and just as obsessed with Miss Margaret’s feast day custard as I was.
"What have we been up to?" Ben returned my smile. "Working, just as always. What about you? Still driving those priestesses at the priory bat-shit crazy?"
I crossed my arms, wearing a smug look. "Have I become that predictable?"
Ben laughed as he unhooked the holding yard gate with his shepherd’s crook.
I pointed to one of their sheep. "You know, Ben, I think the bell on that ewe in the back of your flock is busted. I can hardly hear it at all."
Kathleen cleared her throat—loudly.
No doubt they were both well aware of the faulty bell.
Ben sighed. "Yeah, I know, I know. I need to repair it. Chalk it up to laziness, I guess."
I waved off Ben’s self-deprecating remark. "I wasn’t implying you’re lazy."
As the doomed ewe passed through the gate, I reached down and gave her a pat.
"I was just looking after this old girl, that’s all. I’d sure hate for something bad to happen to her."
Ben laughed again—this time, Kathleen joined him.
What a lovely family, I thought, watching the Belforts move their sheep toward one of the yard’s holding chutes.
From what I’d seen, they all got along well.
Father loved Mother.
Mother loved Father.
And both parents doted on their six children as if they were princes and princesses.
One day, I thought, if I ever got married, I’d want the same for my own children.
I wished with all my soul that neither Arinar nor liquor would ever leave their mark on any family I might have.
No sooner had Ben and Kathleen settled their sheep than the village butcher emerged onto the slaughterhouse porch.
Delwort was a rangy fellow with a nasty taste for brawling, nubiles, and shooting dice.
A half-empty bottle of rum—his booze of choice—dangled from one hand as he stepped beneath the wooden awning, where a row of large hooks swayed in the breeze.
With a grunt, he set the bottle down beside a wooden bucket brimming with unglamorous sheep parts.
Then, from the brown leather scabbard at his belt, he unsheathed a bloodstained knife—the most essential tool in the slaughtering trade.
"Hey, you mouthy little cunt," he called out, his voice thick with amusement.
I had been leaning against the fence railing, but now I straightened.
"Shouldn’t you be at the priory so those fool women can turn you into a priestess or some other shit?"
A lascivious grin spread across his face.
"Idle hands are the devil’s to use as he pleases." His grin widened. "And in these parts, the devil is me."
I shook my head in disgust.
"What’s the matter? Scared to think what I might have in mind for such pretty little hands?"
Delwort’s gaze drifted lower.
"Don’t even get me started on that fine ass of yours."
My wrathful stare never wavered.
"What do you think, Ben? Does Marissa have a fine ass?" Delwort cackled. "You know, yours ain’t half bad either."
"Oh, just stop it for once, you loathsome boor."
The words dripped with unbidden disdain—Kathleen Belfort.
"What’s the matter, Katsy girl? Jealous?" Delwort hitched up his pants.
"Don’t worry, I think your ass is mighty fine too, not that it matters much. An uppity thing like you would have a hard time shovin’ a dinky little bobbin needle up that chute of yours."
He grabbed his crotch.
"This old log wouldn’t stand a chance. Still, there wouldn’t be any harm in tryin’. Well, for me, at least."
Kathleen, who rarely cowed to anyone, blushed under the weight of his crassness.
Ducking her head, she turned to help her brother lead a ewe toward the first of the hooks dangling from the awning above the porch.
Delwort laughed, riding the high of his liquor-fueled bravado.
He was in a saucy mood today, his bottle of spirits fueling his foul tongue.
But when he turned back to face me—
The king of this blood-strewn court became affright.
"Meat cutter!"
The words rang out across the slaughterhouse yard, spoken by a strong, proud female voice.
"The fates plot against thee! Bones and blood, thatch and reed! On the morrow, worms shall you feed!"
I knew that voice instantly.
Expectation coiled within me, but I didn’t let my delight show.
Instead, I kept my expression severe, watching as the butcher scrambled for the slaughterhouse door.
Just as I imagined my auntie—standing behind me—would be doing.
Delwort stumbled, knocking over buckets of fly-ridden offal in his desperate retreat.
He vanished into his gore-soaked den, slamming the door behind him.
Only then did I finally turn to behold her.
"May fortune smile on you, Auntie," I said in greeting.
One-eyed Muriel sat perched on the driver’s seat of an ornate, covered living wagon.
Its wooden sides bore an array of macabre mementos—shrunken heads, elaborate fetishes of ribbon and feather, and the bones of beasts long extinct.
Yet somehow, it had come up the road behind us without me hearing a thing.
"Fortune is fickle, dear one."
Muriel lingered a moment longer, staring at the doorway where the butcher had fled.
Then, at last, she turned her one good eye toward me.
The sternness in her face melted—into warmth, into affection.
"Instead, wish me a song, a sister, and a life without end."
I beamed up at Muriel.
That was all it took—she opened her arms, and I needed no further invitation.
Scaling the side of the high-riding carriage, I dove into her waiting embrace.
"Auntie!"
Muriel kissed my forehead, just as a mother might upon reuniting with a long-lost daughter.
"Oh, how I’ve missed you, child."
