The Woman of Parts
by Fiona Mossman
From this corner of the house, the corner furthest from the nursery, I can see the track that leads to the forest. The forest at the back of the house is impossible to ignore, especially when you live this close to it. The house seems to coorie away from that dark deepness like something small and frightened, tucking its nose into its tail. In here, I am protected, but it’s not much of a comfort: the forest is right there, after all. All the time.
I can see the village folk coming and going along the track, though none of them seem to see me, in here, looking out. They are always furtive, they pass one at a time, looking around and over their shoulders. And if they do see someone else on the track, then everyone pretends that they were heading to the viewpoint, not the forest. No matter how late at night it is.
There goes Fir Henshil, for the third time this week. Strong legs march up the track, no indecision here: to her, this is a regular ritual. I wonder if it is the same thing that she goes there for, each time. I know how the rumour goes, with her and her man, and his temper. But who knows—maybe she has many reasons to go, not just one. She passes old man Vetch, who ducks his head and scuttles to the side as she passes. He’s one to be there for unsavoury reasons, I’ll wager. I watch Fir’s black hair flicking left to right as she walks, until she is swallowed by the edge of the treeline.
I went into the forest once. It’s a place that you only go when you have cause to. It was just the one time I went, though I see some people in and out, every day. We leave things there, you see. It’s the place for that. Well. It’s the spirit for that. She’s not got a name, but I call her the Woman of Parts. She must be made up of all of the things that we leave with her, you see. You leave the things that you don’t want in the forest, you make your offering, and you go back to bed, and whatever you wanted to get rid of has been taken by the time the sun rises the next day.
People leave the clutter of their houses there, especially at spring. They leave diaries that they don’t want to be read, and old tools, and unwanted gifts from each other every winter. I don’t doubt that murder weapons have been left in there, secrets buried in the dark mud of her domain. She can even take your unpleasant emotions. Melancholy. Jealousy. Anger. Give it out and give it out, she will be there to take it.
Not that anyone has ever seen her, you understand; there are only rumours of that, mostly from kids on dares. They swear she’s a hideous vampire. I think that if she is made up of all of our rejected things, all our hidden and unspeakable things, then she’s got to be at least partly familiar.
Here comes Fir Henshil, coming back down the track. Where before her stride was purposeful, she is now moving more gently. But I can just about make out the expression on her face, as she passes by the window in the gloaming. She looks peaceful.
The Woman of Parts takes everything that we have to give, but there is a price for dealing with her. They say that if you stop offering things to be taken once you have started, you will anger her. And if you scorn her, she will take her revenge. Sometimes she does it slowly, and sometimes all at once, but what she does to her victims is the one thing that they cannot withstand, or possibly the one thing that she has the power to do.
She gives it all back.
I have not been back to the forest since that night three weeks ago. I wonder how long it will take, before she has her revenge and returns to me what I left.
Moving through the too-silent rooms of this house to the doorway of the nursery, I cannot decide which I fear more: that she will give my baby back to me, or that she will keep him with her forever in the forest at the back of the house.
WENSUM 