I sat staring deep into the flames, listening to voices stirring the wind around me. Soft footfalls pressed through the grass stalks, rustling gently. Though I couldn't see them, I knew they were ... [+]
J.M. Eno is a writer of fiction and poetry, whose work has appeared in L’Esprit Literary Review, House of Zolo’s Journal of Speculative Literature, and various anthologies. He can be found among the trees with his family and a recalcitrant English bulldog, on Twitter at @jmenowrites, or at jmenowrites.com "Some Meat on Those Bones" is in Short Circuit #14, Short Édition's quarterly review.
Terrydale was a hamlet much too small to be located on any map, and so war came to it as it comes to such places—not through the trampling of armies over its quaint town square, or the burning of its sole two-story building (a granary), or the pillaging of the shops run by its unassuming residents, but through the conscription of its sons.
Three were chosen for the service of the king: the miller's son, the blacksmith's son, and the widow Margery's son.
On the day they were to depart, the widow Margery helped her son to pack his bag. There, in the corner of his room, was his old doll, stuffed with hay and hand-sewn by Margery before her fingers had stiffened. How many summer days had he spent outside, traipsing through the garden and the neighboring woods, gone at sunrise and not returning until late evening, covered in dirt and burrs, with only the doll to talk with all the day? But there he was, grown so tall that his arms hung like willow branches and his legs swayed like beanstalks.
When the time came to depart, Margery hugged him tightly to her chest, and she could feel his every rib. "Make sure you get enough to eat," she said. "You'll need some meat on those bones come winter."
For two years, the miller milled, the smith smithed, and the widow Margery kept to herself, tending her garden and cooking.
News came by messenger dove of a great battle to the north, of two armies clashing with sword and shield under a sky burnt black by the smoke of dragons. Those who had survived would be expected home over the course of the next three nights.
On the first night, the miller's son returned home.
On the second night, the blacksmith's son arrived.
On the third night, the widow Margery said to herself, "Three sons our hamlet lent to the war, and three nights they were to return. The miller's son returned the first night, the blacksmith's son the second, and so my Henry must be coming home tonight."
She made a great feast in anticipation of his arrival. First, she gathered rhubarb and turnips and laid them out on a cutting board. A few words whispered over her knife, and it went to work by itself, chopping the roots for roasting. Next, she began to pluck the pheasant hanging in the corner of her stone-walled home. A flick of her wrist, and the feathers began to pop out, one by one, gliding gracefully down to a pile on the floor. Finally, she blinked a few times at a lump of dough on the counter and it began to separate into fist-sized scones to be baked and served with clotted cream and elderberry jam.
When the meal was ready, she set the table for two.
But Henry did not return.
The next day, Margery went to the shops, harvested vegetables and herbs from her garden, and prepared another feast of tender, roasted lamb with garlic mint sauce; thick, crusty bread topped with creamy butter; and divinely bittersweet peach preserves. But Henry did not return that night either.
This continued for a week, after which Margery had spent her modest savings and turned up half her produce for feasts. The other members of the hamlet began to pity her, saying, "There goes the widow Margery. First she lost a husband, and now she has lost a son."
After seven days of preparing feasts, Margery entered her son's room. She sat on his bed for a time and said nothing to herself. In the corner of the room was an old trunk in which she had placed the things from his boyhood. On top sat the old doll. It looked more worn than she remembered, and the once plump filling now seemed stiff and thin. She picked it up, whispered a few words into its ear, and brought it into the kitchen to keep her company.
That night, Margery prepared a simple meal, a stew of rabbit and peas with onion and tarragon. She sat the doll on the chair across from her. When Henry arrived, she knew he would be pleased to find his childhood toy waiting for him. And if he didn't, the doll could keep her company over supper.
The fire in the hearth dwindled to a lone, flickering flame.
As she sat down to eat, Margery heard a knock on her door. She rose to answer.
The oaken door was heavy, and these days it took all of her strength to move. It cracked slowly, slowly open, until she could see her porch and the small dirt path leading to her humble home.
There was no one outside.
Margery paused for a moment and listened to the sound of the wind rustling through the silver birch trees that silhouetted her home.
She sat back down at the table, head in hand. How could she persist, she wondered, when the gods had heaped such suffering upon her plate—a portion large enough to put her seven feasts to shame. A part of her wanted to acquiesce to the despair, to let it drape it over her like a worn winter cloak.
But there was another part. In the autumn, the pods of the birch trees drop, each one containing a thousand tiny winged seeds, which, carried by the wind, seek out the fertile soil. Here, in the secret part of her heart, just such a seed had taken root. Perhaps without full comprehension, she uttered her son's name.
"Henry..."
After a moment, she looked across the table and beamed.
"How is everything?" she asked.
"Wonderful," said her companion. "Rabbit and pea stew—you remembered my favorite!"
"Anything for you, my son," said Margery.
She scooped up another ladle of stew and put it in his bowl. A piece of straw was protruding from his leg, and she tucked it back in. How thin he looked! He would need some meat on those bones come winter.