We Were Once Twelve

The idea comes from Jeremiah, our oldest brother and my favorite. He whispers it to us late at night, but we are too afraid to hear. His words are heretical daggers. They pierce the sacred silence, our only protection in this house. We children have learned to communicate without speaking. A hard look: Father is coming. A tilt of the head: Mother is angry. But Jeremiah will not be silent. For three nights he whispers to us and we lay awake, two by two in our bunk beds, wondering what would happen if Uncle went unfed. 

* * *

I am Ruth. 

I am fourteen years old, the third oldest now that Peter is dead. He was taken from us four nights ago. It is difficult to adjust to the new order. I recite the names in my head, fast as I can, but still I feel the gap where his used to be: 

Matthew. Jeremiah. (Peter). Ruth. Paul. Isaac. Rebecca. Esther. Isaiah. Luke.

It will get easier. I know from experience. I’ve felt gaps like this before, when David and Naomi left us, but now I mix up where each of them used to fit. Mother says children are resilient. Our lives are short but blessed. 

We spend our time in the garden, far from Uncle’s room. Here, we can play as loud as we like. The weather is good so teacher comes for lessons. She brings us gifts from villagers grateful for our sacrifice: books, handmade toys, blueberry hand pies. Our lessons are in the garden, too, since none of the villagers will enter the house. The children sit cross-legged on the grass with their small boards and chalk. All except Jeremiah and I. 

Jeremiah has not attended a lesson since Peter died. He says it’s like training a pig meant for slaughter, but he’s wrong. It’s important for whoever becomes Mother or Father next. I’d like to teach my own children, if it’s me. Not that I mind the village woman. She’s a good teacher. And kind. She treats our scars with a healing balm, even rubs it on herself. She’s not afraid of us like the other villagers, who leave our supper at the iron gate, pretend not to see us as we watch them do it. 

Jeremiah and I spend every afternoon together. We invent card games and care for acorns we planted last year. We collect water from the well, hover our hands over the saplings. The water drops like rain from our fingers. Jeremiah says one day we’ll have a forest. 

At suppertime we have roast lamb, potatoes, carrots drizzled with honey. Mother and Father sit at each end of the table, children on either side. Right away I know it’s me. I taste the bitter medicine on the first bite, but take another just to be sure. When I clink my fork twice against my plate, I see Matthew’s shoulders relax. Rebecca smiles at me from across the table. Only Jeremiah leaves his plate untouched. The rest of my siblings eat their supper in peace.

They, too, are grateful for my sacrifice. 

* * *

When I wake, it is late in the afternoon. I am lying on my stomach and Jeremiah is by my side. I run a hand along my back to feel the bandages, scattered from the back of my neck all the way down to my ankles. Jeremiah removes the bandages and brings our siblings in, one by one, to see my mutilated body. They feed me stolen bread and butter, berries sprinkled with sugar. I am still nauseated from the medicine, but Jeremiah makes me eat a little before allowing me to sleep again. 

* * *

Supper tastes best the day after you’ve fed Uncle. 

After Noemi died, Mother and Father stopped using the same child twice in a row so I know I am safe today. I drown my sausage and peas in gravy. Father says grace. But when I pick up my fork, Rebecca kicks me under the table. None of my siblings have moved. I realize, then, that they have been listening to Jeremiah’s whispers. They are staring straight ahead, plates untouched. No one is willing to be fed upon tonight.

Father looks expectantly at us, from me to Matthew to Paul to Isaac. Mother laughs and begins to eat. 

* * *

The few hours that follow are some of the happiest I have ever known. We do not worry about waking Uncle. We laugh and play like we cannot imagine what comes next. Our voices whisper: Did you see them? Can you believe it? Uncle goes unfed tonight. The youngest siblings throw their bodies against the bed, wrestle each other to the ground. But we cannot help the things our bodies say: the tremble in Jeremiah’s lower lip, our glances at the door. 

It ends as we know it will. Father enters our room at midnight. Though this time, there is no unconscious child to carry out of the room, so he takes Isaiah by the hand and leads him away from us.

There is screaming. The youngest children cry and hide in their beds. Jeremiah throws himself against Father. Rebecca and I grab hold of Isaiah and pull. Mother hears the noise and tears us away. She tells us we’ve woken Uncle, threatens to release him. He’ll have all of you, she says.  

Isaiah, only eight years old, cannot comprehend what is happening. He stands with Father now in the corridor, looking past Mother at the doorframe and into our room. He goes easily down the corridor and out of our view. 

Tonight, the house is not silent. When Uncle feeds, he makes sounds we have never heard before. We hear Isaiah screaming too, for an hour or so. Then it stops. Luke cries so loud we are afraid Uncle will come after all. I squeeze into his bed and try to soothe him. Someone asks Jeremiah if Isaiah will be okay, but he does not answer. I fall asleep in Luke’s bed.

Isaiah is the fourth of my siblings to die, followed by Jeremiah, who throws himself down the well the next day. I tend to our forest, alone, and recite the new order as fast as I can. I try not to choke on the gaps.