Free Song of Oestend by Marie Sexton

turned back to Aren. “Look, you want to stay in the house, you got to
    prove to Jeremiah you’ll keep your hands off the wives. It’s of no matter to me—”
    “Not this house,” Aren said, interrupting him. “I mean the other house. Your house.”
    Deacon froze, his eyes on his plate. There was a stiffness to his posture that hinted at danger, and Aren found himself wishing he was sitting farther away. “Who told it was my house?” he asked, looking up at Olsa with obvious suspicion.
    “Don’t go blaming me,” she said.
    “It was Jeremiah,” Aren said. “I asked if I could rent it and he said—”
    “I don’t care what he said.” Deacon’s strange stillness was gone, although he didn’t
    turn to face Aren. He picked up his spoon. “It ain’t my house,” he said.
    Olsa moved fast, faster than Aren ever would have believed of somebody her age. She
    had a long, wooden spoon in her hand and she brought it down hard on the back of Deacon’s hand, knocking his own spoon onto the floor.
    “Ow! Saints, Olsa, what you have to go and do that for?”
    “‘Same reason I took my spoon to you when you was a boy,” she said, shaking it in his direction. “You lie—”
    “It’s not a lie!”
    “You shame your family—”
    “Don’t start!”
    “Everything I taught you—”
    “I never asked you for none of it!”
    “You refuse to accept—”
    “ Enough! ” Deacon’s voice cut through her accusations with a thunderous finality, and she fell silent. Deacon took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself. He turned to Aren, and when he spoke his voice was quieter, but still tight with suppressed anger. “Even if it were my house, it ain’t fit to live in. I told you that.”
    “You told me it was haunted—”
    “I wasn’t lying.”
    “With your permission,” Aren said, “I’d like to try. I’ll pay you—”
    “Aren!” Deacon snapped. “Listen to me—it ain’t safe!”
    “It could be made safe enough,” Olsa said. “You know the song.”
    SONG OF OESTEND
    Marie Sexton
    54
    The song?
    Deacon turned on her, his body rigid, almost vibrating with rage. “Don’t start—”
    She smacked him again with the spoon, not as hard this time but hard enough to get his attention. Then she opened her mouth and started to…sing?
    It took Aren a minute to figure out what was happening. Her voice rose and fell. It was melodious and yet harsh. Not quite music. It had stops and starts, strange hitches in the middle of extended vowel sounds.
    She was talking! It was a language, although no language Aren had ever heard. She
    finished with a flourish, her long wooden spoon pointed at Deacon’s face.
    And Deacon answered her.
    It sounded different when it came from him—less like a song, more like chant—and
    Aren stared back and forth between them in stunned silence. He could make out no distinct words, only sounds, but there was no mistaking the anger in Deacon’s face.
    Back and forth they went, faster and louder, until Deacon suddenly lapsed back into the common tongue. “No!” he yelled, slamming his hand down on the table for emphasis.
    Olsa stared at him for moment, then she jumped forwards, snatching his plate from in
    front of him. “Ungrateful brat!” She pointed towards the door. “Get out!”
    It was proof of his anger that Deacon didn’t try to argue. He swept his hat off the table and stalked out of the room without a backwards glance.
    Aren sat very still, wondering what in the world he’d just witnessed. He wondered how long Deacon would be angry and if there was any chance of changing his mind. He looked over at Olsa, wondering if she’d offer some kind of explanation.
    “Well,” she said, as she sat down again across from him, “that went better than I
    expected.”
     

     
    Deacon didn’t come to breakfast the next day, and Aren sat there with only Olsa for
    company, eating lukewarm porridge. Olsa hummed absent-mindedly and didn’t say a word.
    Afterwards, Aren