Quick Like a Rabbit

Morning

Marie is in the lower pasture, guiding her bare feet between piles of sheep shit, carrying a bucket to the spring slightly upstream from where the ewes drink. As she walks, feet cooled by the wet, sheep-shorn grass, she notices something wondrous an arms-length into the forest that skirts the pasture. Lit enticingly by a shaft of light that pierces the understory’s gloom as if it were one of the heavenly beams depicted in the only colored glass window Marie has ever seen is a mushroom.

The mushroom is small, only the size of Marie’s thumb, but it is the color of a strawberry and, like a strawberry, plump, and the moment Marie sees it she knows she must have it. She sets down the bucket and trots over to it. She kneels, her bare knees making dimples in the blanket of plush moss. Then, quick like a rabbit, she plucks the mushroom and pops it whole into her apron pocket.

Midday

Marie is in the garden, ass in the dirt, back against the kitchen wall. She sits beneath the window through which she can hear her mother talking to Agnes the Poulter whose head of dark curls is always generously sprinkled with down. Halfheartedly Marie looks after Perrine, her half-brother, as he toddles behind one of the broodier hens. Her mother’s conversation waxes overhead.

“He were always a fool, and you a fool, too, to have him.”

“Better a fool than a spinster.”

“And let the fox in amongst the fowl? No, it were not wise. But, this’ll tame him. Three drops only, mind, else you’ll find yourself a widow instead of a spinster.”

Marie watches as Perrine grabs at the hen who puts on speed causing the child to tumble forward into the earth. Before he can start to blubber, Marie is there. She grabs both his plump and dirty paws and pulls him upright. He opens his mouth, preparing to wail, but quick like a rabbit, Marie fetches the mushroom from her apron and pops it whole into her half-brother's mouth. Then she clamps her hand over it, lest Perrine decide to squawk, but no–he swallows, grimaces, places a hand over his stomach and burps loudly. Marie laughs sharply at this and slaps dirt off his stockings.

Midnight

Marie is in the common room, in bed with the squirming Perinne. There is enough moonlight through the window to reveal something is tangled in the golden curls of his hair. It is a wreath of bittersweet, a rudely woven crown that does nothing to disturb his sleep. As Marie watches Perinne’s slack face, the light in the room grows in magnitude until the bed is bathed in the fullness of moonglow. Marie hears a sound, as if birds are calling in the night but not quite, and looks up to see a man at the foot of the cot. He is dressed richly as a prince and moonlight dances on the gems that spangle his costume and the edges of his form. Then she blinks and he is only a young man in a plain cotte, doublet and hose. He holds something like a blanket between his hands.

The man looks at Marie. Marie looks again at the undisturbed Perrine, and then back at the man. She nods. Then, quick like a rabbit, he plucks Perrine from the cot and pops him whole into the sack, while not a sound escapes her brother. In a moment the man is once again a Lord and the sack is now gone. He opens his mouth and a stream of birdsong is released. Marie feels something in her hand that was not there a moment before and the man of moonlight disappears.

Morning

Marie is in the garden. Mother is in the house, crying, yelling. The reeve has been fetched and Mother tells him he must search for Perrine. Agnes and her handsome husband are there, as well, and Marie sees Père Jean approaching the house from town though he has scrupulously avoided their croft before today.

Marie squats among the lavender, alone, and removes a tiny leather pouch from her apron pocket. It is finely made, the stitches invisible to the eye. She unwraps the thong keeping it bound, then quick like a bunny, she plucks something from the sack. It is a strawberry, perfect and red and she eats it in one bite. She pulls another from the pouch, then another and another. She eats three more after that before carefully rewinding the leather cord around the still-fat pouch and putting it back in her apron. The priest has arrived. Marie hears her mother calling for her. She walks toward the house.

***

Danielle Stockley is an author and poet from Rhode Island. She has a master's in Children's Literature and has worked as a fantasy editor, waitress, caseworker, and in higher ed.