Morg

Chapter 3

     Behind her was a shriek, and a high howling. Morg leapt to her feet and was in the hut and beside the child in a moment. His face was screwed up and tears were spurting down his cheeks. He was waving his arms and arching his back. He hit Morg hard in the face but she managed to pick him up. She tried to soothe him, but he would not quiet. Then Morg smelt burning. A log lay smouldering on the blanket. Quickly thrusting it back into the fire, she stamped out the embers and guessed what had happened. The fire had flared. The child had seen the pretty flames and crawled towards them. He'd grabbed at a log. She looked - one of his hands was tightly clenched. Hurriedly, she grabbed the leather water bottle and sloshed water into a bowl. She thrust his hand into it. The palm was red and blistered. She had caused this, she realised, with her curse. Slowly, slowly his howling gentled. She smoothed his face and hummed gently to him, rocking him backwards and forwards on her lap.

     Morg heard the door creak open. It was her mother. She had carried the heavy clay water pot all the way up the hill on her head. The youngest baby was strapped on to her back – the god of fertility had looked kindly on the family. Morg's mother looked exhausted. Morg stared at the floor.

     "Morg?"

     "Burnt," Morg muttered, as the howls started up again. Her mother strode across the hut.

     "Tell," said her mother as she picked up the child. Morg explained. Her mother aimed a swipe at her head. Morg ducked out of the way, but her mother was more weary than angry as she comforted the child.

     "Oh, useless Morg," she said. "Go. Spend the day with the sheep. I do not want to see your face."

     Morg turned away and left. It was the freedom she had wanted. But somehow she didn't want it any more.