Elen Caldecott - The Short Knife

Praise for The Short Knife

A distinctive and engrossing tale

David Almond

A gorgeously written tale with a sublime lyricism to it... the story resonates across the ages, holding a mirror up to contemporary Britain

Catherine Bruton

This is an important and inspiring novel. Here is some of the best contemporary UK YA that Ive read for a very, very long time. Elen is an exceptional voice and talent in writing for young people

Lucy Christopher

I just loved The Short Knife. Beautifully written, lyrical and powerful its a fascinating insight into dark and desperate times which I found utterly absorbing. Grim and gritty but ultimately uplifting its a beautiful tribute to the courage and ingenuity of sisters

Tanya Landman

Elen Caldecott presents the sensory world of Late Antique Britain clothes, artefacts and precarious lives with compelling originality

Caroline Lawrence

As bright and real as the midsummer sunlight, and as powerfully drawn as a sharp, short knife

Hilary McKay

First published in Great Britain in 2020 by

Andersen Press Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

London SW1V 2SA

www.andersenpress.co.uk

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

The right of Elen Caldecott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Text Copyright Elen Caldecott, 2020

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

ISBN 978 1 78761 196 2

To Mum and Dad

Historical Note

For nearly 400 years, the Romans had ruled the people of Britain, making them part of the Empire that stretched from Syria to Scotland. But in 410 AD , the army was recalled to defend Rome against the Visigoths. Without the army, civic life in Britain fell apart, towns were abandoned, trade was disrupted, coins lost their value. Saxons from northern Europe saw Britain in chaos, seized their opportunity, and sailed west.

Summer solstice, AD455,
well before dawn.

I walk back down the rabbit path alone. The stars and pale moon show the way. And there is bonfire light from the village. I dont think about whats burning. My feet are grey on the rocks. I might be the only person left in the whole world. It might belong to me. Foolish thoughts. Childish thoughts. The hills are full of hunters, even if I cant see them in the dark. My walk quickens.

The village at the bottom is nearing empty. Still, as I get closer to our barn, and hear moans, I wish my sister would suffer with less noise. She is too loud. I want to gag her mouth and push the sounds back down where they come from. Safer that way. Safe is all that matters.

As I pull open the flapping leather door, I stop and look back at the hill. The path is bone white in the black before dawn. I see no people, no movement. I stand on the threshold. It isnt too late to turn back. To follow the path, if thats what I choose.

Close that, Mai! Sara snaps. Where have you been? Get in here and help.

I drop the leather as though it burns. Sara has the fire banked low, but still shes right, the light might be seen from the path.

She is busy looking through pots and jars and baskets, things that dont belong to us, looking for anything that might help my sister. I hear her moan again.

If the men hear the sounds of labour, theyll know we are in here, light or not. Its dangerous to be in the midst of their notice.

How much longer? I ask Sara, who has seen babies born before. Ive only seen Rat-cat have kittens, and they slid into the world easy.

She tuts at me: soup-stupid girl, the sound says. Were not ready for it, no hot water, no swaddling. Dont wish it to come any sooner.

But I do wish it. I do.

The faster the baby comes, the safer we will be.

And if it comes too early to live, then maybe all the better.

The Welsh barn is dark and I hope Sara hasnt seen the thought on my face. I ask Iesu Grist the baby, his Father and the Ghost for forgiveness. This baby cant help being wild-chick born. I feel my cheeks pink in the dark.

My sister cries out. I cant see her from the doorway. She labours behind the sack curtain that Sara has hung to hide her shame in case any of our people come back. Sara and I wait on the other side in blackness that drips from the roof like something living. The shapes of the barn, so familiar in daytime, are clob-clumsy shadows.

Im glad, for the moment, that my sister cant see me. She would have seen the hate-filled thought written clear on me. She knows me better than she knows our own hearth.

What can I do? I ask Sara. I want to help.

The baby comes in its own time. Sara presses her palms into the base of her back. The night has been hard on her bones. Sit still, Mai, stay shushed. Wait.

I come away from the door and drop onto one of the stump-stools that circle the fire. Even with the leather pulled across and the thin smoke of the embers, I can smell the village. The sweet smell of burning meat that makes my teeth draw water and sickness rise in my throat.

Dont think about whats happening out there, Sara tells me. Or whats happening in here, either, truth be told.

I sit and stare as the red and gold flames lick hot-tongued over charcoal, imagining what lies beyond the barn.

How can I not think about what Ive seen? I can feel my heart, bird-trapped in my chest. Its wings desperate to escape. The longer I sit, the worse it gets. The wait blisters my skin. What if I lose my sister tonight? After all Ive lost? If that happens then I will welcome my own death. I would open my arms to it.

Sit still, Sara chides me.

Im listening to her for now. But my obedience wont last.

My sister dog-pants in the dark.

Sara goes back beyond the sack curtain. Im alone. Heart beat-beat-beating so theres no room for breath in my chest. No place in my bones not pulled bandage-tight. I press my fingers to my eyelids until I see green and red flashes.

In the smoking dark, I feel rage course through me suddenly. Anger at the panting and moaning and the awful, awful way this baby has come to be. Anger at the people free to flee into the hills. Anger at all the world and everyone in it. I want to open my mouth and let the fire out, burn it all into blackness.

But Im not the child I was. I cant sit and wail in the dark. My anger is gone as quick as it came, burned to nothing, leaving me clean tired.

My sister needs me.

While she is as tethered as cows to their posts, so Im tethered too.

I hear Sara making soothing noises. As if the baby were already here and loo-loo-listening to her song. Hush, child, she whispers. Hush. Theres work coming and you need your strength.

It would be easy to run. I know that. Ive done it before. But this time, I have chosen to stay. The baby will be here before the sun arcs the morning sky. If it lives, it will be my kin.

Ive duty here.

I have to stay. I owe that to my sister, and all the mothers and sisters and aunts who came before me and made sure I was kept breathing. Ill try to keep it breathing. I will tell it the tales my tad told me. As much as I remember, anyway.