The Wives of Henry Oades. Johanna Moran

you blankets to spare? My big boy and girl are surely freezing to death.” Her teeth clattered in her head. “Have mercy, please. They’re only children.”

      He advanced. “Down!”

      She sank to her knees, her breasts aching. “Mightn’t you allow us to walk together? Surely that’s not asking too much, is it?”

      He picked up the rag and rammed it to the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering. He walked away, joining the clutch of low-speaking brethren.

      Alone she lost balance and fell sideways. She saw with one eye the men returning from the bush. A boy pulled her up by the apron strings. They resumed walking, making first one confusing turn and then another. Hadn’t Henry maneuvered similarly on the way to his aunt’s viewing? Round and round he drove, passing the same public house twice. They’d missed the entire wake. The man had no sense of direction. But he’d have others with him now, men who knew the land by heart.

      Toward daybreak the Maori paused to water the horses. One approached, chewing on something gristly. He pulled down on her chin with his dirty fingers and extracted the rag, tossing it aside. She worked her sore jaw and pleaded in a rusty voice.

      “Please sir. I beg of you. Bring my babies. They’ll be in need of me.”

      He grunted and pushed on her shoulder. She swayed and fell to a hard sit, her back to the children. A lanky lad, no more than twelve or thirteen, swaggered her way. She met his sleepy gaze and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Bay-Bees. Fetch them, please.” Nothing registered in his flat eyes. He put a wedge of cold sweet potato to her mouth and yawned. She hawked out the potato. “My babies, damn you!”

      He scowled, understanding at least her tone. He picked up the rag and roughly gagged her again.

      They were allowed no privacy before setting off again. She voided herself while walking, with no more grace than a horse. She acknowledged the fetid act, but did not agonize. As if her parts, her cramped hips and legs, her leaking breasts, her bleeding soles, her filthy drawers, belonged to someone else.

      Morning passed. The river was no longer visible. There was bright light above, blinding splinters of sun between the branches. They were tramping through dense growth, traveling in a north-westerly direction, she guessed. It was two o’clock at least. Though she could not be certain of that either.

      The voices were like those inside a dream. She heard them throughout the afternoon, a steady running throb. Her father appeared, oddly clean shaven, as did Mim with her clothes ablaze. Unintelligible hymns were sung, incomprehensible advice given. Mim came and went throughout, crackling and burning and screaming obscenities.

      The smell of smoke brought her around. Margaret broke from thick reverie, sensing Henry’s presence. There was a break in the trees ahead, where Henry and his men, every ambulatory townsman, she imagined, lay in wait. She grew giddy with anticipation. Leave it to her methodical husband. He would not put his family at risk by moving in with but a handful of men. No, praise God. He would have rallied a cavalry. The bastards would be surrounded, forced to put down their arms. Henry the pacifist would no doubt take them prisoner rather than shoot them, which meant enduring their murderous company on the return journey. So be it.

      The village wall and moat came into view minutes later. Joy broke out among the Maori, rapturous barking and shouting. The lead bastard picked up the pace, throwing back his head, shaking his rifle. Chimerical Henry and the other figments of her imagination allowed him to pass with impunity. Her legs turned liquid and gave way beneath her. She fell face forward.

      “Up!” Someone seized her forearm, yanking hard. “Up, up, up!”

      She staggered to her feet and faltered against him, the same detestable linguist who knew the word “down.” He pushed her off. She heard a sound then, a single fluted note, a bird or her baby, and cried out. He slapped her. She barely felt his hand.

      They were brought over a bridge, and through carved wooden gates. Maori came running from all corners—tattooed men, bare-breasted women, children, and dogs. They swamped the returning murderers. Margaret listened hard for her babies, looking everywhere for the flax sacks containing them. Oscar was pulled from the horse. He took two drunken steps and fell. His face was red, swollen from crying. She spotted John and Josephine—standing huddled, hand in hand—and then lost sight of them again in the shrieking mayhem. The mob led them to a clearing, a common area, bordered by huts, low, sturdy-looking dwellings, beamed and thatched. Margaret turned in search of Henry. But the gates behind were already closed.

      The smoke she’d been smelling came from their cooking fire. Flesh of some sort was being roasted, a nauseating smell. She and the children were herded together, their gags removed, their hands unbound. She petted them and kissed their matted hair, pressing hard against their scalps, battling lurid thoughts of dying, of having the children see her go first.

      The sacks were brought forward, unceremoniously dumped in a heap. The men stood back while the tribeswomen flocked. They drew her clean sheets from one sack, a pair of Henry’s drawers, her good blue apron, stockings and shirts, everything that had been hanging on the line down to the pegs. A young girl squatted and pulled Mary from another sack. Simultaneously, an older woman cried out, taking Mary from the child, cradling her in her arms. The women converged, softly cooing. Margaret rushed into their midst and snatched up her baby. A dry breeze moved Mary’s fine hair. She was stiff, but otherwise undisturbed. Margaret put a gentle thumb to her eyelid and eased it up, exposing a pearly crack. She breathed a frantic breath into the tiny mouth and nostrils. A dozen brown hands reached. She backed away clumsily, her mouth still cleaved to her lifeless baby. They closed in, prying Mary from her. Margaret sank to the ground in a sick numbness. At the same moment, Martha was placed in her arms, suckling air. Margaret quickly unbuttoned her blouse and put the living baby to her breast, a shiver of joy coursing. Martha pulled at her nipple greedily, noisily. Margaret’s shoulders sagged with the relief. A band of murmuring women came closer, hovering above. Margaret vaguely felt their presence.

      “Up.”

      She did not look to see which murderer spoke, but continued to nurse, moving Martha to the other breast, stroking and kissing her warm head. “We’re not finished.”

      “Up!”

      Margaret took her time, shifting Martha again and rising slowly, thinking of Henry. She pictured his lined forehead, the agony in his eyes. He loved his babies so.

      THEIR THATCHED HUTS were but single rooms with a cooking fire in the center, and sleeping mats all around. Margaret, Josephine, and Martha were taken to one hut, John and Oscar to another.

      “Leave the boys with me,” she pleaded, when it became obvious that they were to be separated. “Keep us together.” The flanking Maori did not respond.

      Ahead, John was following Oscar inside. She called after her son. “Courage, John.” He glanced over his shoulder and mouthed the word “Father.” Margaret flicked a smile for her sturdy boy, a lad who should be home in England, romping in the meadow with the collie he’d pined for.

      She bent to enter the neighboring hut, pulling Josephine along. A half-naked granny, a guard presumably, sat motionless in a dark corner. Margaret spoke as she would to any elder, politely, deferentially. “Can you tell us why we’re here, madam?”

      The old lady looked at them, then looked away, saying nothing. A girl came in with a gourd bowl of wash water. Another brought rough skirts and swaddling of the same material. They scurried off, and no wonder. She stank; Josephine and Martha stank. Margaret pulled away Martha’s filthy napkin to discover insects both dead and crawling. She folded the napkin in quarters and set it aside.

      Josephine sidled up close and whispered, “Did Mary croak?”

      She would have heard the horrible word from Mim. Margaret kissed her and said without conviction, “Mary’s safe with Jesus now.”

      A long time ago, before Margaret’s own children were born, a Surrey woman hanged herself with a bedsheet after her child’s drowning. Margaret understood completely now.