All The Creeping Things That Creep - Part One

(Author's Note: I would like to add a note here to say I am not intending to offend anyone religious. This is set in a dystopian future where the bible has been twisted to allow men to rule, inspired by The Handmaid's Tale. This was a story I wrote during my Creative Writing Degree)

PART ONE

I knew that old oak tree could sing.

I had heard the sound a lot; that low, gruff groan of age, lulling my ears as I slept tight beneath my woven quilt. It wouldn’t leave me alone, calling to me over and over, because it didn’t understand that I couldn’t come. Not anymore. There was nothing I could do. For months, I didn’t even know what was trying to reach out to me. It makes sense now, of course: those desperate roots spreading out under the dry earth, in search of sustenance. But it sat past the boundary of my world, beyond the gate, casting a tall shadow over the house and the church, protecting us, just begging us for something in return. Some water, perhaps. It breathed an ancient breath, deep and heavy with the same decaying rhythm as the old grandfather clock at the top of the stairwell. The old bark, rough like the skin on the back of my father’s hands, began to drop dead and dry at its feet, ready for kindling. I’d lie there, and I would listen as that oak sobbed each night. Last night I sobbed too, when I discovered the blood in my briefs. Had it listened to me back?

Listen was all I could do now. And now it was singing, not sobbing. Was there a difference? I glanced up at the rays of yellow sunlight that streamed through the branches, high above, and sighed. I could stand there all day listening to it, but it was Monday morning, and like every morning, that meant church. 

“Mary!” came a cheery voice from behind me. I spun around, and there was Meggie Bright, my best friend. The wild locks of red hair that sprouted from her head had been tamed with little black bobby pins to keep them off her face, but some strands had already escaped. I always thought she looked like she had a lion’s mane framing her pale, freckled face. “We’re going to be late again! You’ll never guess what-” She stopped for a second and glanced around my garden. “Oh, aren’t your mother and grandmother ready? Should we wait for them?”

“Mama’s not well, and Grandmother’s already there helping Mrs Callahan set up,” I replied. We stepped out from under the shadow of the oak and crossed the path that separated my house from the front garden of the Smiths’ house. Meggie sprinted ahead, turning left and taking our favourite shortcut through the park. 

“So, what’s this news that I’ll never guess?” I wasn’t sure if I should tell her my news. It felt like something I should keep private, but we had agreed never to keep secrets from one another. 

Meggie spun herself around so that she was walking backwards in front of me. She pulled something out of the front pocket of her cream frock, a little red square. “I found this when I was cleaning the kitchen the other day. Look!”

She handed it to me. It was no bigger than my hand, several pieces of paper stitched together underneath a red piece of cloth. My heart leapt in my chest, banging against my ribs. “What is it?”

“Open it!” she instructed, so I did. Each page was filled with writing. “It’s a book, a diary, perhaps! I think it must have been my grandmother’s, when she was little, look-” she flipped it to the back and pointed at four numbers. 2146. “That must be the year.”

I quickly glanced around to make sure no one was looking and then took a closer look at the book. The front read "Faith Carter, 14," in barely legible handwriting. Nathaniel had been teaching me to write before he left on his mission, though, of course, as girls we are strictly forbidden to do so, so it was done in secret. He said I had a knack for it, that my letters danced off the page. “Your grandmother’s name is Abigail, isn’t it? This isn’t hers. She must have a sister.”

Meggie shook her head, and more of her wild hair escaped. “No, she only had a brother- wait, Mary, can you read?” She whispered.

“A little,” I admitted, feeling guilty that I hadn’t told her before. “This is dangerous to keep, but I’ll see if I can read the rest of it and tell you what it says tomorrow.”

“I can’t even imagine what it would say. I know all the men keep journals and write recipes and scriptures because that’s their duty, but what would a woman have to write about?” She laughed as I slipped the book into the front pocket of my frock. “Anyway, let us get to church. We’re already running late, and I don’t want to have to sit next to Mrs Smith again; she’s always crying and she smells funny.”

Meggie wrinkled her nose and ran towards the church steps.

“Wait, Meggie! I totally forgot to tell you my news!”

She turned around, smiling again. “What news?”

“I, well, I got my-” I lowered my voice and scanned the road with my eyes for any hidden men. They did not like to hear of any womanly talk. “-monthlies.”

She raised her pale hands to her mouth and squealed. “Congratulations! That means you’re a woman now! Oh my, I wonder if your father will find you a husband and then you can have a baby, and then I can be an auntie and then when I have a baby they can be best friends like us and then-”

“Shh, Megs.” Those were all the reasons I was terrified to tell my parents about the blood on my sheets yesterday. In the end, Grandmother promised not to tell Father until it happened again next month. Mama was going to clean the sheets whilst he was out. “I don’t want any of those things yet! But don’t tell anyone else, please. We should get in, the service has already started.”

I pushed open the heavy doors and let Meggie pass under my arm. The choir stood in their neat rows singing, mothers and grandmothers tucked behind the pews like soldiers crammed into trenches. Not once did the singing falter, even when the door slammed shut with a bang, or as the steady beat of our heavy boots approached the back bench. Not one of these women was holding a hymn sheet. They knew every song by heart now, each sultry voice queuing up beside each other and stretching out, filling the echoing church hall but not reaching much further. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up as though something had not just passed over my grave but dug it up, bones and all. I listened closely, and I could still hear the tree’s wailing harmonising underneath us. 

I looked up through the faded colours of the stained glass Jesus and saw the spiralling dead branches form a web across the darkening sky. Jesus stood with open arms, the sun behind him rising, or setting. But he wasn’t looking down at us. The expression on his face, that frown, was one of pity and not for us. He was looking away, disappointed, facing the tree. It looked as though he knew that the tree was singing. As the thick fog rolled slowly across the dead grass of Eve, and the sun rose against that barren horizon, that tree sang just as loud as my grandmother beside me. How had I not heard it more clearly before? I mouthed the words to the Hymn of Sustenance. There was no point in singing anymore. All it did was make my throat too sore to eat breakfast. Us women sang all our prayers each morning, loud and clear, so the lord could hear. The Hymn, which my grandmother penned, was no longer about praising God. It wasn’t even asking for his help. We could sustain ourselves. We just wanted to know he was still there. The men prayed in silence in the afternoons. Singing was for women - and for the tree.

“Mary! Hurry up!” Grandmother suddenly snapped, grabbing my forearm and marching down the aisle. I guessed I had been dreaming about the tree and missed the rest of the service. Grandmother stopped and laughed cordially with the other women. “Oh, you know my granddaughter! Always in her own world!”

“Tell me about it, Muriel!” Mrs Smith, the baker’s widow, flapped her hands playfully towards Grandmother, who flinched a little. “My Lizzie is just the same!”

The gaggle of women began cackling, but I was marched out of the church before I could hear what else they gossiped about. Sometimes the trivial musings of the town are the highlight of my day, like when I overheard Mrs Lowry telling Mrs Smith that Daniel Barker had wet himself in fear when he heard a cow moo for the first time. I hated that boy! All I heard today was someone mentioning that my thirteenth birthday was tomorrow. I didn’t want to be reminded. 

“Didn’t Lizzie-?” 

“Be quiet, Mary. She’s not well.” Grandmother snapped.

I knew not to question her. Everyone in Eve had been acting strangely lately. She stopped beside the old well and peered down into the darkness. I knew what she was thinking, because I was thinking it too. Was Nathaniel ever going to come back? The water was dwindling, and I was parched. 

“I saw Daniel Barker spit in here,” I told her as she grabbed onto the handle and started reeling the bucket up. “And Luke Callahan.”

Grandmother fished her small, round flask from her purse. “It’s not nice to tell tales, Mary.” She dunked it into the water and filled it halfway, and whistled the Hymn of Creation tune over the bubbling noise it made. “Be grateful for this and don’t tell your father.”

I sipped at the flask and followed Grandmother back to the house. She always stuck to the paths and smiled at everyone we passed, even loathsome Daniel Barker, who was leaning against the gate to the farm, chewing on buckwheat in his father’s old flatcap. I thought he was a gross little boy, but Mama often talked of my future marriage being to him, because we were the same age. I didn’t want to marry anyone. Marriage seemed to have made my mother shrink. She looked so happy as a little girl in the old photographs Grandmother kept. I scowled at Daniel, and a gust of sudden wind blew his hat off. It made me laugh. I remembered that when I was young, I was convinced the wind was listening to me, and if I shushed it, it would cease. If I were angry, it would storm. Now there never seemed to be any other weather, just the hot sun beating down upon us.

Mama was in the front garden hanging out my bedsheets to dry. Grandmother went to help, so I slipped inside and took the diary from my pocket. The first few pages were about daily chores and speaking to her friends in church. She lived here in 2146, which was seventy years ago. I read on, but before I even made it halfway, I heard my father’s footsteps and shoved the book back in my pocket. 

“Get to the kitchen, Mary.” He demanded in his gravelly voice. “Those potatoes aren’t going to peel and chop themselves.”

“Yes, Father.”

He opened the door to his study but paused before entering. “Don’t hide things from me, Mary.” My heart leapt. Had he seen the notebook? “I saw the sheets. You had your monthlies. You should have told me.”

“Yes, Father, I’m sorry.” I gulped. “I was scared.”

He reached out a large, rough hand and cupped my face. “Don’t be scared. It’s how the Lord demands. We’ll find you a lovely husband soon, don’t worry.” He cleared his throat. “‘Then the Lord God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.’ You will be a great helper for any man, my dear.”

After dinner, which consisted of boiled potatoes and boiled eggs, I resigned myself to my bedroom and lay quietly under the covers. I listened to the wailing of the tree as I devoured Faith Carter’s diary. She was just like me. About to be married off to a boy she hated.