Stalemate

Part I- The Days Before | Chapter 1

There was a blue jay perched regally on the windowsill. It was the very first thing Ashtin saw when she came home from the old schoolhouse and the only thing she looked at thereafter. Even when she laid flour about the kitchen table and began to knead rye. Even when the dull cutter sliced through her thumb. Barely a flinch. Not a cry or a fumble. Thoughtlessly, she took a towel from the hook and wiped her hand clean.

Any other person in this house wouldn't have minded that tiny blue bird. Definitely not Doon, who didn't pay much mind to anything but his whittling. Not Pa who never seemed to notice much anyhow. But Ashtin had been aching for color. Perhaps she noticed the bird despite what laid beyond it—rolling hills, yes, but they were as gray as the rain clouds their peaks kissed. The path that wound up and about Cherry Hill was tawny and dead, the grasslands that surrounded it often holding a grimy pale yellow. And it was devoid of the cherries for which this hilltop was named.

It was a dry winter, more bitter than it ought to be. The only thing keeping Ashtin sane these past months had been the sounds. It may as well have been a lifeless painting, but the sounds at least brought the place a little life. The singsong moans of the morning birds walked her to school and the slap of the screen door welcomed her back. On days when she could go up the hill and out to the cliff, the waves crashing against the wharf below could rock her to sleep. Even so, sound was not enough to mute her hunger for color.

The bird sat stone-still for a good while before it suddenly shook and listed its head gently from side to side. It must have seen something on down the hill. Then it was scratching beneath its wings. Pecking at the rot in the wood. Ashtin felt as restless as the bird looked. This was the sort of quiet beauty she appreciated about Cherry Hill. In summer it was more pronounced and there were plenty of places to look. But in the winter it was scarce, which made it easier to notice such things. After a time, Ashtin's hands were still and planted in the dough, which would harden if she didn't shake herself awake.

The tiny thing, stretching out once more before flying off, finally roused her. She shook her head and resumed her kneading. Down the hill now, she could spot Doon's brown coat. His head was lowered, his boots muddy, his old satchel thrown over his shoulder like a burlap sack. Below the cap, she could make out his stoney face, eyes worn to black wells. Two years ago, he'd had a hop in his step, eyes pointed to the sky as he skipped along like a careless schoolboy. And that boy, then so full of youthful hope, was now worn down to a shadow. Here he came, trudging up Cherry Hill like he had weights around his ankles.

Ashtin was folding the dough when she heard that sound. The house held its breath for a moment, sagged, and then groaned as he plopped down on the top porch step. Then there was the rapping of his work boots against the edge of the stair that any stranger would mistake for a belt and a bottom. She'd already dismissed the dough when she saw him out the window.

By the time the rapping stopped, Ashtin was already halfway out the door with a basin of water that'd been simmering on the stovetop, a bottle of rum, and an old washrag. Doon did not regard her, and she only stood and waited. Off came his shirt and he balled it up in his blackened hands, facing the hills in the distance. It was quite the sight. They did this every night and still it surprised her just how long and split the welts were. They snaked around his body like a boa, ready to tighten. This sight was scarier than any snake she'd ever seen creeping between the wildflowers.

He squeezed his work shirt as she knelt behind his stiff body. His cap was already lying beside him on the step, and she stared into the back of his chestnut head. Wordlessly, she wet the rag and doused it in rum. Knowing what came next, he squirmed. Ashtin didn't wait for him to stop, pressing that hot rag to his rubbery skin. He forced himself to stay still, his teeth gritting—she could hear it—and for the first time in days, he did not curse. That was a good sign. She dabbed lightly and dipped and redipped. Halfway through she wondered what the point was. Every day the welts either looked worse or more would turn up.