Midsummer Night

Gunnilda lay in a hay-​​filled wagon with Iylaine in her arms while the men put out the bonfire and took the body away. Alwy had taken Bertie and Wynnie home long ago, unconcerned, for he knew nothing of what had passed between his wife and Everth; he knew only that an accident had occurred that had spoiled the festival. From Egelric she had received a look that said plainly, “Stay.” And so she had climbed atop the wagon, and waited.

The girl was sleepy now, her fun over, so she sprawled across Gunnilda’s chest and slept with her little head tucked beneath Gunnilda’s chin. 

This was the second person Gunnilda had seen burned this year. She could not feel sorry for Everth Cullen – the man was too malevolent. There had been that macabre threat of the dead piglet in a child’s dress, and then the way he had held his hands before her throat as he explained how he would strangle her. 

But he was dead. It was almost a relief. Indeed, the most horrible thing about the scene had been the way Iylaine had laughed and clapped her hands while he screamed. But he was dead, she reminded herself. The fear was over.

Gunnilda had never felt so fragile – she had suddenly understood that one man’s hands could be enough to squeeze the life out of her, and after a few minutes she would be dead, and that would be the end of her.

She looked up at the dark sky and marveled at how big the world was, and how menacing – how nothing in it cared whether she lived or died. There were only a few tiny dots of light like herself, moving around in the darkness like glowworms, groping towards each other. That a few of them ever should manage to come together in the wide darkness seemed a miracle to her now.

She shivered. The sky was all she could see from her high perch, and it seemed to lie heavily over her like a cold cloak, suffocating her, and the stars seemed to prick her skin–

She gasped for breath and closed her eyes. 

All at once the world shrank down to her own warm and solid self, and the warm and solid little girl she held in her arms. It was only the hay that was pricking her, and the voices of the men talking a little way off surrounded her and held off the night. From time to time she would hear Egelric’s deep voice push aside the others’ as a gust of wind momentarily silences the chattering of birds. He only spoke when he had something to say, she thought drowsily, and they all listened when he did.

Gunnilda tried to remember the last time she had lain in a pile of hay. It was with a slight bitterness that she asked herself the question, for how many times had her older sisters come home giggling with bits of hay in their curls or in their clothes? Oh, so often. And how many young men had ever asked dark, pokey little Gunnilda to climb a haystack with them? Why, none.

But she had gone out sometimes alone. She would climb atop the highest stack and lie perfectly still, either with eyes closed and listening carefully to all of the sounds, or with eyes open and counting all of the stars. The night had seemed friendlier then, and she had had time to think about things. 

In fact, she had made up her mind to marry Alwy Hogge while sitting on a haystack. And it was probably with Alwy that she had last lain in a pile of hay, she thought, back when he was courting her – or, to be honest, when she was courting him. She had patiently endured his awkward groping, with eyes closed and listening to the night sounds, or with eyes open and counting the stars. And she had patiently driven the idea into his poor head that he would have to marry her now. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if she were to awake now, on the top of her haystack in her father’s field, and realize she had fallen asleep after making up her mind, and that none of the six years to follow had ever happened? But then there would be no Bertie and no Wynna, and she might have ended up with a drunken brute like one of her sisters’ husbands, and–

But then she did wake up on top of her haystack, and her father was calling her softly from below: “Where are my girls hiding? Where are my girls?” She sat up abruptly in her confusion – her father was dead – she was holding Wynna – no, it was Iylaine – no, it wasn’t her father, it was Egelric.

“We’re here!” she called faintly, her mouth dry with sleep.

“Lay Baby down in the hay for a moment and let me help you down. I want to talk to you.”

He held her by the waist and tried to lift her down, but she still managed to make a clumsy fool of herself and nearly fell on top of him. “Easy now!” he laughed. Then, leading her by the arm away from the wagon, he said, “Bertie told me you and Everth were talking, and he got scared and came to find me. Now, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said, brushing the hay from her dress. “I was standing next to Baby, and he came over and was acting real polite but I could see he was up to something, and when I said I knew about that pig, he got…” She trailed off, searching for a word to express her terror.

“Go ahead.”

“Real threatening, I guess.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, putting her hand to her throat in spite of herself. “He just said that we couldn’t protect Baby forever – ”

“Did he touch you?” he asked breathlessly, his hand following her own.

Gunnilda thought she could endure another such a trial if it meant hearing Egelric speak to her in that voice again, that blended sympathy and possessiveness. “No, he never did,” she said.

“You know I couldn’t bear to see you hurt because of me… or mine.”

“Pish! Who’s going to hurt a fire-​​breathing dragon like me?”

“Is that what happened to him?” he smiled.

Gunnilda blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that, that was a stupid thing to say. I don’t know what happened: one minute he was – talking to me, and the next his clothes was on fire.”

“You’re sure he didn’t hurt you or Baby?”

“He didn’t touch us.”

He looked at her for a moment and then said, “It’s odd that he should have died like that.”

He was thinking of curses again. “It makes sense, Egelric: he’s standing next to an enormous bonfire, and a spark catches on his clothes and he burns. Don’t try to read anything more.”

He shook his head. “You’re right. Let’s get Baby and go home. We won’t need to talk of him again, though I shall have to speak with his wife tomorrow. Come here, you darling angel,” he said, lifting the sleeping girl down from the wagon. “That bad man can never hurt you now.”