Excerpts from
The Child from Crow Crove
By Bodil Bredsdorff
There were three houses down by a little creek
with a stream running out into the sea. That is to say, one of them was no
longer a house. It was a ruin, only the lowest part of the walls was
left standing.
The second house was also uninhabited. There
were holes in the roof, and the rain and the wind had scoured the whitewash off
so that you could see the grey, rough hewn stone it was made of.
The third house was right down by the water. It
was white, with a chimney at either end. A girl lived there together with her
grandmother. There was no one else.
There was no sound apart from the babbling of
the stream and the rattle of the pebbles on the little beach as the waves
washed them to and fro on the rocky ground. An eagle let itself drift on the
wind out across the water. A whisp of smoke was rising from one chimney.
Indoors, the girl was lighting a fire. She was
digging out embers from beneath the ashes and putting dried sprig; of heather
on them and blowing and blowing until the fire took hold, and the clear little
flames illuminated her face.
Her eyes were dark blue, almost black in the
faint light. She had a strong, curved nose. Her hair was dark and wiry and
quite short at the front where it had been scorched off by the fire.
The flames crackled in the heather, and she put
some bigger pieces of kindling on, driftwood, silky smooth and grey from the
sea.
It is the old wood you're using, isn't
it? came a voice from over on the bench.
Oh yes, of course, said the girl.
You know, if it's too new it'll create
tar in the chimney.
The old woman coughed a little and turned over.
It's all the salt in it. And tar smells
nasty, she said.
It's all right, Grandma, the girl
said to calm her. It's been stacked at the back of the house for the past
six months, so all the salt has been washed out by the rain long ago.
That's good, child. Come here and give me your hand.
The girl sat down on the chair beside the bench
and stretched out her hand to the old woman.
Tell me what my hand feels like, her grandmother said.
The
girl felt it and thought for a moment.
It's warm and dry, she said then.
And sort of smooth, even if it's wrinkled. A bit like driftwood.
Can you move it, asked the
grandmother. Then she cleared her throat, and because of this she started
coughing again. When she had finished coughing, the voice had become a little
clearer, and she said:
If one day I am lying quite still and
don't answer you, then you must take my hand and feel it. If it's cold and stiff
and you can't move it, it's because I'm dead.
The girl sat without saying anything, holding
the old woman's hand light and wishing that those words had never been spoken.
Outside it had begun to grow dark. The fire was crackling, and the light from it
made the shadows in the room dance on the whitewashed walls. They sat like this
for a long time.
I'd better get some supper ready,
the girl said then, pulling her hand away
The old woman had fallen asleep.
Translated by W. Glyn Jones
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