Hunger

I saw her standing where the edge of the hill touched the shadows of the sky. And she was holding a heart, devouring it. Her figure, shaped like clay against the fading afternoon light. And I continued to watch her, unable to do otherwise. I was under her gaze, and before I could escape toward the village, I saw her wipe her blood-slicked hands on her apron and retreat into the old house.

I ran until the air began to cut my throat with every breath because the road seemed long and tiring, even though it went downhill. I tasted blood in my mouth, as if I were the one devouring that heart, thick blood dripping from my lips. Then I was stopped: Rev. Peter was in front of me, halting my mad rush and grabbed me by the shoulders before I could slip in the mud of the road.

“Robert, one does not run this fast when the devil is on your heels.”

A sudden, violent shiver hit me, moving the parish priest, who was still holding me by the shoulders as well. His hand came close to my face: “Scorching,” he said, but I knew it wasn’t fever, just the long, tiring run down the hill. With his sleeve, Rev. Peter wiped the spit that had dripped from my mouth. My lips were also burning, and I was almost overcome by the urge to hide them from his sight.

“What happened, Robert?”

I had clung to his forearms to keep from running away: “I have to confess,” I sobbed.

When my knees hit the wood of the confessional, the pain shot up my legs, my back, and all the way to my head. We both made the sign of the cross. Amen. Rev. Peter followed the path of my hand with his gaze.

“May the Lord be in your heart, so that you may repent and humbly confess your sins. Speak to me, my son.”

I fell forward, letting my forehead violently hit the grate separating us, and there, lips burning against the metal, I cried: “I saw her. And she was devouring a heart glistening with blood, as if it had just been torn from a chest.”

“Who? Who did you see?”

The humidity of the church filled my throat like water, and I struggled to speak.

“One—one of the three. At the top of the hill—” where the sky crushes the earth beneath it and only the sisters seem able to rise against it.

“The heart of a man, of a beast? Did you see anyone else?”

I shook my head as tears blurred my vision and I put a hand to my chest: “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

The parish priest let out a deep sigh and said: “Enough of this devilry, be it the heart of a beast or a man.”

But I was already falling, and the last thing I heard before I was graced by the darkness of unconsciousness was: “When was the last time you ate?”

I was awakened by the strong smell of cabbage, and the steam from the broth someone was putting to my mouth had clung to my face, blurring my vision. When I managed to open my eyes wide enough, I found Matilda, Rev. Peter’s wife, with a spoon and a steaming bowl in her hand.

“Cabbage soup to warm you up and regain some strength. Forgive me, but I can’t afford to give you anything else: I have five mouths to feed, including my own.”

“Thank you.”

I let the soup run down my throat, the sensation having the strangeness of a distant memory, and I remembered other things too: “And she?”

Matilda placed the bowl and spoon on the nearby table and looked at me with her dark eyes, which, set between her cheekbones and eyebrows, were black as coal.

“Who?”

I raised my fingertips to my lips; Matilda must have accidentally burned me with the soup while I was unconscious.

“The three sisters on the hill,” I insisted with shaking hands.

Hunger is cruel in the way it robs you of all your energy.

I got no answer, and the tremors gradually took hold of me. The heat of the broth suddenly radiated throughout my body, and I threw the blanket that had been laid over me to the floor. A light too warm for the gray despair that had enveloped the village during the winter came from the window. I staggered up from the bench.

“Robert, lie down. You’re exhausted.”

The flames devoured the old house on the hill and the darkness of the sky. I felt their heat through the windowpane, and I pressed my lips, nose, and forehead against it, clutching the wall to keep from falling.

I only heard the moan tearing from my throat when Matilda grabbed my shoulders to pull me away from the window.

I lunged for the door, but she stopped me, leaning against it.

“Robert, lie down,” she repeated.

I shook my head, then my whole body: “No, no. Let me go!”

Matilda covered her mouth with her hand, sobbing. I tried to push her away from the door.

“No, no. Let me go!” she echoed, “Robert, please, you can’t go.”

I was deaf to everything except the crackling of the flames, far, far away, up the hill. I finally managed to get out and didn’t hear Matilda following me down the stairs. Only when I found the main entrance locked and tried in vain to escape through the woodshed in the back, I heard the door at my back slam shut. And I was trapped. I first tugged on the doorknob that separated me from the courtyard, but no one wanted to risk being robbed in this hellish cold; then I slammed my palms on the door that had just been closed behind me. I cried. She cried too.

“Peter told me. He told me you could be under her influence. But it stops now. Now you have to resist, Robert, and tomorrow all this will seem like a terrible dream. She won’t be able to harm you anymore.”

I clawed at my chest, my lips, bit my fingers until I felt blood fill my mouth and run down my chin, mixing with spit. I could still hear the roar of the flames. Or maybe it was just me burning.

She arrived when the night had cooled the fiery air. After the winter, thin, carved, yet sinuous like clay. She entered the woodshed with a snap of broken wood and looked at me on the ground amidst the dust and my blood.

“We held on for so long, but now… We have to leave, ash is all that’s left.”

Tears trickled down my throat, choking me, and she reached into her pocket and there she was again, heart in her hand. And she bit into it, and her lips turned shiny and scarlet. Then she came closer, leaning down, and held out the heart to my face.

“A red turnip, Robert. The last ones grown this winter in my garden. When you saw me this morning, I was so hungry. I put my hand in the dirt and ate it right there, right away. Yet I would have shared it with you, if you had asked. But you ran away, coward. And now I too must run away with my sisters.”

I reached out to take the offered food.

“Cora.”

But she had gone already.