"Michael!"
  
  The tall thin girl wept. Her face crumpled like that of a baby, her big green eyes 
squeezing shut. "No, Mother, no." Her long white spidery fingers covered her white 
forehead and her wet trembling mouth. "Mother, no."
  
  "Michael, kill it!" screamed Rowan. "Kill it. Michael, stop it."
  
  The girl fell back against the wall sobbing, "Mother, Mother, no..."
  
  "Kill it!" Rowan roared.
  
  "I can't," cried Michael. "I can't kill it. For the love of God."
  
  "Then I will," cried Rowan, and she reached out and picked up the gun from the night 
table, and, holding it in both her trembling hands, and blinking as she pulled the 
trigger, she shot three bullets into the girl's face. The room stank of smoke and burning.
  
  The girl's face went to pieces. The blood welled from within as if through broken bits 
of china, a bleeding and shattered oval mask.
  
  The long thin body slumped and fell heavily and noisily to the floor, the hair 
spreading out on the rug.
  
  Rowan dropped the gun. She was sobbing now, sobbing as the girl had been, and her left 
hand was up to gag her sobs as she slipped from the bed, and stood shakily, reaching out 
for the post.
  
  "Close the door," she said in a rough, choking voice, her shoulders heaving. She seemed 
about to collapse.
  
  Yet she stumbled forward, her entire body trembling with the effort, and then, beside 
the girl's body, she sank down on her knees.
  
  "Oh, Emaleth, oh, baby, oh, little Emaleth," she sobbed.
  
  The girl lay dead, her arms out, her shirt open, face a soft mass of blood. Once again, 
the hair was all tangled in it, fine and beautiful, as Lasher's hair had been, and there 
was no face left. The long thin hands lay open like the thin delicate branches of a tree 
in winter, and the blood oozed down upon the floor.
  
  "Oh, my baby, my poor darling," said Rowan.
  
  And then she closed her mouth again on the girl's breast.
  
  The room was still. No sound but the sound of suckling. Rowan drank from the left 
breast and then moved to the other, sucking as ravenously as before.
  
  Michael stared, speechless.
  
  At last she sat back, wiping her mouth, and a low sad groan came from her, and another 
deep sob.
  
  Michael knelt down beside her. Rowan was staring at the dead girl.
  
  Then she deliberately blinked her eyes as if trying to clear her vision.  A tiny bit of 
milk remained on the girl's right nipple. She reached out and took it on her fingertip 
and put it to her lips.
  
  The tears came down from her eyes, but then she looked deliberately at Michael, 
deliberately as if she wanted him to know that she knew. She knew everything that had 
happened, she was here now. She was Rowan. She was healed.
  
  And suddenly, the tears spilling down her face, she took his hands to try to comfort 
him, though her own hands were trembling and cold.
  
  "Don't worry anymore, Michael," she said. "Don't worry. I'll take her out there under 
the tree. No one will ever think of it. I will do it.  I'll put her with him. You've done 
enough, you leave my daughter to me."
  
  She sat back crying in a soft, raw muffled way. Her eyes closed and her head slipped to 
the side. Fiercely she patted Michael's hands.  "Don't worry," she said again. "My 
darling, my baby, my Emaleth. I'll take her down. I'll put her in the earth myself."
  
  10 p.m.
  
  August 5, 1992




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