Free Offspring by Jack Ketchum Page A

was on a string. The boy would drag the string into the pounding surf until the kitten screamed and tumbled over itself in the waves and then he would allow the string some slack, let the kitten return to the shoreline for a moment, then repeat the process until the kitten’s eyes were dazed and it no longer cared to scream. The boy did not laugh, did not seem to enjoy the game. Only watched
.
    Night had only just fallen and he was playing alone by the shoreline
.
    At her approach he looked up and she knew he was upset to be caught with the kitten that way
.
    He started to talk. Like all of them he talked too much. Trying to distract her from what he was doing with the kitten.Asking her questions. What was her name. Where did she come from. Saying that he was staying with his parents on the big house on the hill, pointing to it, saying he hated the house and hated his parents, saying to her defiantly that the kitten was his to do with as he liked
.
    She smiled. She picked up the kitten and walked into the water and held it under
.
    It had scratched her only a little
.
    That was eleven years ago, only months after the Night of First Tears, and the wound in her side was still draining despite the poultice she had made from the raw linings of eggshells and her diet of stolen moldy bread.
    The boy was curious about the wound and asked her questions as they walked along the shoreline.
    She knew she would have to teach him not to talk so much and not to ask questions. It would not be hard. At fifteen summers, she was his elder by four summers and despite the wound she was stronger than he was and knew that she would always be stronger.
    She watched him now select the largest ax and set it aside for himself against the wall of the cave, then return to the pile and tuck a claw hammer into his frayed belt. The hammer and ax were always his weapons of choice.
    He was naked to the waist. His man’s body had formed strongly. She looked at his body. She remembered teaching him.
    At twelve summers he was a father. She had borne his first child, the Girl, on a bed of seaweed at the shoreline. It was night and the moon was full just as it was tonight
.
    The Woman still was teaching him.
    She ran the flat of the sharp blade over her naked breasts, down across her thighs, and between her legs as she thought of him.
    The Girl, their daughter, sat beside him in front of the fire, picking lice from the heads of the twin males who had been born the summer after her. She flicked the lice into the fire.
    The lice sizzled, threw thin wisps of smoke.
    A ring of clear faceted stone that sparkled in the firelight dangled from a cord around the Girl’s neck. A necklace of bones hung lower. There were egret, owl, and gull’s feathers tied into her long dark hair.
    More than any of them the Girl cared for adornment.
    The Girl wore breasts, the skin stretched low and tight and tied around her middle. The breasts had been taken many years ago. They were deep yellow in color and cracked in many places, particularly across the left nipple where the skin had nearly worn through. But the Girl had no breasts of her own yet. She wore them proudly.
    She frowned, fussing over the lice in the twin males’ hair. The males ignored her, concentrating instead on the greasy bones that were all that remained of last night’s feast.
    Their only other child together, the Boy, a male of six summers, played with the Cow deep in the shadows of the cave, tormenting the Cow with a rusted fireplace poker, jabbing it in the ribs. The Cow bucked and strained against its chains.
    The Boy was able to see out of his right eye only and held his head at an angle. His left eye had beenclouded by a hornet’s sting shortly after the Woman bore him and it had never become clear again.
    The Boy had been tormenting the Cow for some time now. The Boy was stronger than he thought himself to be. The Cow would be bruised all along its rib cage tomorrow. It bellowed.
    It was not unusual for