Free Bereft by Chris Womersley Page A

children, he knew, were most susceptible to these fantasies, because their understanding of the world was so limited.
    â€œAre you by yourself?” he asked.
    The girl ignored him and untangled a twig from her hair.
    â€œI’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you why I’m up here if you tell me if there’s anyone with you.”
    That got her attention. She regarded him. “You go first then.”
    â€œI’m here to see someone. Someone I need to help.”
    â€œA friend?”
    â€œA relative.”
    â€œWho?”
    He paused. “I can’t tell you that.”
    â€œThat’s not a proper answer.”
    â€œNow it’s your turn. Are you up here with anyone?”
    â€œNo.”
    Quinn was not convinced. Had she been as vague in her answers as he had been? In the brightening morning light the girl seemed insubstantial, and he recalled fairy tales of wars between giants and men, how the still-warm blood of the dead villains was given to the few imps who remained so they could assume the shape of people. And in Europe after the war, orphans ran through villages stealing bread and firewood, planting curses on the old men and women. Although they were probably just tall stories, he suspected such mythical children were best kept at a distance.
    â€œWhere are your mother and father?” he asked.
    She glanced away, muttered something.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMy father left years ago.”
    â€œDid he go to the war?”
    â€œNot to the war. Before I was born. Mother is dead because of the plague. There’s a plague, you know.”
    Quinn flinched and mentally chastised himself. These days it was sometimes best not to enquire after anyone’s family, lest the answer be one such as that. “Oh, I’m sorry. What about a brother or sister? Who’s looking after you then?”
    She scratched her arm. “I can take care of myself. I told you. I have a house. Over there.” And she gestured behind her.
    The girl was at once frail and self-possessed, and although he was intimidated by her, this was tempered by a curious compulsion to befriend her. “How old are you?”
    â€œTwelve, I think.”
    â€œYou think?”
    â€œWell. How old are you?”
    â€œI thought you knew lots of things?”
    She tugged at the sleeve of her cardigan.
    Quinn regretted his insolence. He had an idea. “Are you looking for a sheep? A lamb? I saw one yesterday down the other side of this hill. We could find it? I’ll show you where I saw it.”
    The child shook her head. “He’s not mine. I told you—I live up here. I’m not a shepherd.” She added in a softer voice he could barely hear, “But that wasn’t yesterday. That was days ago.”
    This took a moment to register. “You were watching me?”
    She said something he didn’t understand.
    â€œWhat? What did you say? The guns have damaged my ears. You need to speak up.”
    â€œI said: He told me about you.”
    Quinn chuckled. His initial instinct was correct: the child was simple. “Right. The lamb told you.”
    â€œSaid you hugged him, too.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. You must have been watching me.”
    â€œI wasn’t. He told me.”
    He was incredulous. “You know how to talk to sheep?”
    She pouted. “No. Only how to understand them.”
    â€œAnd how do you do that?”
    â€œListen. You just have to listen to them. I told you before. I know about lots of things. I know about the wind and stars, about what happens in rivers.” The girl shrugged limply.
    â€œWhat else did the lamb tell you then?”
    She brushed back a tumble of hair from her face and withdrew a burning twig from the fire. She waved it around until the tiny flame was extinguished, then watched the thread of smoke unfurl from its glowing tip. The end of her tongue edged provocatively between her lips. “He told