Robin Hobb - The Inheritance and Other Stories

She turned to follow the cat’s stare. There, indeed, was Pell trudging down the path toward them. He looked much the worse for wear. She wondered what had befallen him; he looked much more bedraggled than an ordinary night at the tavern should have left him. He limped as he came down the hill toward them, and mud had smeared all the fineness from his clothes, just as anger had chased all the handsomeness from his face.

She gathered Gillam into her arms and stood up. If she could have, she would have fled, but it was too late now. There was nowhere she could run, no place to hide from him. The cat sat by her feet. He curled his tail neatly around his paws.

“He comes to kill,” Gillam said softly. The words chilled her. She knew the thought belonged to Marmalade, but to hear her son verbalize it made the truth ring louder. Today, he would kill the cat. Tomorrow, it might be her. Even if he did not take their lives, he would kill the life she had built here and with it the future she had imagined for herself and her boy. It wouldn’t matter if she were dead or alive; he would steal the boy from her and change him into someone she could not love.

“Go inside,” she instructed them both. “Gillam. After you shut the door, pull in the latchstring. You know how; you’ve seen me do it. And then go up in the loft and stay there.”

She didn’t wait to see if he would obey her. It was a stupid, useless precaution. The cottage was not so well made that Pell could not get into it, even with the latchstring drawn. There was no place inside that a boy or a cat could hide from him. But the orders might, she thought, at least keep the boy from seeing what was to come. As she heard the door thud shut, she went to the chopping block and wrenched her hatchet free of the stump. She turned to watch Pell come down the hill to her. Something bumped her ankle. She looked down to see Marmalade sitting calmly beside her. Wait until he’s closer, the cat cautioned her, and she was rattled by how clearly his thoughts reached her mind.

We think as one on this topic, the cat wryly agreed.

She hefted the hatchet in her hand, then clutched it to her chest, gripping it with both hands. Her heart was pounding. She had no chance. She could imagine how it would unfold; she would swing her weapon at him, he could catch her arm and twist it, disarming her. And then he would either beat her or kill her. Probably both.

And then Gillam would be alone with him. Brutalized into submission. Or worse. Raised to be just like his father. With no one to intervene, no one to suggest a different way to him.

“I can’t do this,” she said aloud. Sanity seemed to flow back through her veins. “He didn’t really hurt me, cat. He just pushed me aside. He left Gillam and me, but he didn’t try to kill us . . .”

No. He thought he didn’t have to. You had no leash on him, no proof the boy was his. Perhaps he hoped you would die in childbirth and free him from the burden of both of you. Perhaps he thought you’d both starve or catch your death of cold in this cottage. I wish I could say that he hadn’t tried to kill me. He nearly succeeded .

“But . . .”

I have to admit I don’t understand your strategy. You’re going to wait until he really hurts you or Gillam before you fight back? Doesn’t seem to put the odds in your favor. The cat’s thoughts were so calm in her mind. So dry of mirth and brittle with sarcasm. He sat beside her, calm as a king, his tail curled neatly around his front feet.

Pell was getting closer. He was limping; his clothes were muddy, wet, and torn; and his face was set in a rictus of fury.

Not a strategy I think he plans to use. I think he’s going to kill me and give you a severe beating first. Before he even talks to us.

She huffed out her breath and held the hatchet up in her shaking hand. There was no strength in her arms. Her ears were ringing and she wondered if she would collapse from terror. “Go away, Pell!” She tried to shout the words. Her heart was beating so fast that she had no strength to put into them. “You don’t live here anymore. I won’t let you come in. I won’t let you touch me or be around Gillam. Go away!”

In response to her words, the man broke into a lurching downhill run. “Bitch!” he shouted. “You and your Wit cat. You tried to kill me last night! You both deserve death. You trapped me! You ruined my life!” The cat vanished suddenly, streaking off behind her. She couldn’t blame him. She wished she could run away. But she was the only thing that stood between Pell and Gillam.

She brandished the hatchet. “I mean it!” she shouted, but her voice squeaked and then broke on the words. Did she? Did she mean it? Wasn’t this a huge mistake, one that would get her killed?

“You stole everything from me! My inheritance, the future I was meant to have, my grandfather’s regard for me. Everything! It was all your fault, Rosemary. You made me do this! You remember that! You made me do this!” Pell’s gaze met hers as he drew his knife from his sheath.

She gasped in disbelief. The cat was right. Flee!

At the last possible minute, she turned and ran. Where, where? Her frantic mind demanded of her, but she didn’t know. There was no place she could go to escape him. But she ran, over the fence and through her own garden, spurning her seedlings under her flying feet, then over the fence she had built, tearing her skirts and half knocking it down, and then through the tall dead weeds behind the cow’s byre.

“You stupid slut!” Pell shouted, only steps behind her. “I won’t let you ruin my life!”

And stupidly she spun and swung the hatchet, knowing he was still out of reach, knowing that she couldn’t win. In horror, she felt it slip from her sweaty grip, saw her only weapon fly away from her.

It struck him on the brow. Pell advanced two more staggering steps and then fell like a chopped tree. His outstretched hand struck her ankle and she shrieked, jumping backward as the knife tumbled from his grip. She spun, ran toward the house, and then, hooting and panting with fear, forced herself to turn back and dash for the dropped hatchet. She snatched it up and rounded on him, expecting him to come up from the earth and after her. But he didn’t move.

She paced around him anxiously, fearing it was a trick, fearing she had killed him, dreading that she had not. He sprawled unmoving in the crushed vegetation. Was he pretending, hoping to lure her closer? She lifted the hatchet threateningly and stood perfectly still. Was she breathing too loud? She closed her lips and breathed through her nose, feeling as if she were smothering herself. His face was turned away from her. How long would he lie there, hoping she’d come close enough that he could rise up and drag her down? She gritted her teeth, willing her body to be content with less air. She was still shaking all over. Was he breathing? She stared at him, saw the slow rise and fall of his back. He was alive. Stunned or faking.

She tightened her grip on the hatchet. This was her best chance to finish him off. One good hard smashing blow to the back of his head and he’d be all done. She lifted her weapon and willed herself to bring it down. Could not. Her fingers were made of grass, of yarn.

“Mama!” It was a long drawn cry of pure terror. Gillam! Cowardice prevailed. She turned and ran, hatchet in hand, leaving Pell facedown in the tall grass.

Gillam was standing in front of the cottage, and by the time she reached him, he was screaming uncontrollably. He held his arms out from his body, and his hands were shaking wildly. She flew to him and gathered him into her arms. His body was stiff, and he continued to scream as if not even her reappearance could comfort him. “Mama, mama, you were gone. Gone!”