One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

of my neck. With each shard of lightning, pieces of Parramatta were lit up, picked out from the enormity of the surrounding forest. Rain drummed loudly against the earth, making the bush smell fresh and clean.

And then there was a figure a few yards from the church. Between the shafts of lightning, he was little more than a silhouette, but his height left no doubt as to who it was.

I turned away. I didn’t want him here, with his I have shelter and his ludicrous pretence that I would not have to part with a piece of myself in order to claim it.

He came towards me slowly, footsteps sucking through the wet earth.

“I don’t need shelter,” I said, before he could speak. I gave an empty laugh; a laugh to keep myself from screaming. Rain ran down my cheeks. Ran down his cheeks. It pooled in the mud at our feet.

“And that is a humorous thing, is it?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. In spite of his authority, I felt no need, or desire, to justify myself to this man. I took a step back, my shoulders pressing hard against the wall of the church.

He stood for a moment with his head tilted. He was still wearing his coat, but his head was bare and his gorget removed. Had he returned to his hut, then thought better of it, and headed out into the storm to rescue me? Why did the thought of that make me so uncomfortable?

“What is it that stops you from trusting me?” he asked. “Is it my uniform? Or is it the man inside it?”

“I don’t have money to pay for lodgings,” I said. I did not want to go into issues such as trust. I just wanted him gone.

“There are other ways to pay for lodgings,” he said.

I gritted my teeth, shook my head. “Please leave.”

He stood motionless, eyes fixed on me. “How can you sleep out here?”

“I’ll manage,” I said. But I was sure he hadn’t heard me. The wild weather had carried my words away. A sense of complete and utter hopelessness pressed down on me. This storm, this land, this dark, it would swallow me.

Blackwell slid a hand around the top of my arm. “Come on now. You’re being foolish.”

My breath caught. “You’re going to force me?”

But I walked with him, because what other choice was there? Take me to shelter. Take the last scrap of dignity I have left.

It had taken me less than two nights to crumble, to succumb to this twisted game Parramatta was playing.

For the first time since I had arrived in this place, I let my tears fall.

CHAPTER FOUR

When we reached a small mud hut at the far end of the village, Blackwell let go of my arm. Beyond the building I could see nothing but darkness.

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I stood frozen in the doorway, wiping my eyes hurriedly with my wet sleeve. The lieutenant stepped awkwardly past me, his dark head inches from the roof.

 “You’re frightened,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to get you inside. These storms are dangerous. They’re far more wild than those in England. Last month a man was killed by a falling tree.” He lit a lamp and turned to face me, his hollow cheeks darkened with stubble. Thick brown hair was plastered to his head, water dripping from the ends. The dancing light left shadows beneath his eyes.

I wondered distantly if he would chase me if I ran.

He took a step towards me, and I inhaled sharply, but he just reached over my shoulder to close the door. I stood with my back pressed against it and glanced about the hut.

The sleeping pallet was narrow, pressed up against a wall, a wash basin beside it. A crooked brick chimney climbed into the thatched roof, a blackened pot hanging from a hook above the grate. Crooked shelves jutted out from one wall, lined with jars of potted meat and a bottle of liquor. A pile of books sat on the shelf below. A table was pressed into a corner of the room, the lamp flickering in the centre.

Water drizzled in through the cloth covering the small window, rain pattering in the puddles outside the hut. Thunder rumbled distantly. The storm was moving, I realised, drifting away from us, moving out towards the ocean. I could hear the faint burble of the river behind the hut.

“Please,” I said huskily, “I don’t want this.” Every inch of my body felt taut. “Just let me go back out.” When he didn’t speak, I added, “The storm is passing.”

Blackwell slid off his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “What’s your name?”

I swallowed. “Eleanor Marling.” I didn’t know why I’d introduced myself that way. No one had called me Eleanor since my father had died.

Blackwell reached for the cloth that hung on a hook beside the table. He held it out to me. “Dry yourself.”

I wiped my face and squeezed the water from my hair. I sat the damp lump of fabric on the table. It was streaked with the dirt I had wiped from my cheeks. Blackwell looked down at the bulge in my apron.

“What’s in your pocket?”

Panic welled up inside me. Twice I’d broken the law. And twice I’d been caught.

I brought out the potatoes and sat them on the table.

“Where did you get those?”

I looked up at him. What point was there in lying? “I stole them from the tavern.” I swallowed heavily. “My meat was rotten. And I’ve no way of making bread.”

He nodded.

I gripped the edge of the table, my legs weak beneath me. Blackwell looked down at the potatoes.

“Eat them,” he said. “You