Free Ladies From Hell by Keith Roberts

knives at the ready. Though even then they had not troubled her overmuch; the protection of the Convolvulus King was powerful, few stepped willingly into his shadow.
    She turned on the bed, snuggling into the sour clothes. Perhaps the good times would come back too now the King was awake again. There had been one good time in particular, seasons ago now; she remembered the rending thunder from the embankment that had heralded it, the terror with which she had seen the Jug veer against the barrier to lean wheels spinning, threatening to topple and crash. The side of the great lorry had split; from it, in bulky showers, flew the tins and preserves, the cling peaches and
ratatouille
, the butter beans and marrowfat peas, the Scottish raspberries and minced stewed steak, the tuna fillets and Canadian salmon, the lychees and selected prawns, the pastes and patés, the cream soups and pilchards and corned beefs and consommés of a lifetime’s dream. Norwegian sild rained in dangerous hail; the jams of Paradise, Tiptrees’ Little Scarlet, Robinsons’ Best Chunky, splashed like magmatic bombs while fumes belched from the wildly-running diesel and a bawling man ran fingerless, trying to stub his hand out on plastic-bright upholstery. The Rurals scuttled, forward and back across the great slope of the bank, groaning and sweating under their loads. By nightfall, when they were driven off withnoise and lights, the Jug was empty; but every shack was full from floor to roof.
    She smiled, full herself now, remembering. Flies buzzed, soothing, on the midden outside the window; to her mind they sounded as loud as the noise of the Jugs. Her eyes slid closed; she thought for a time she might pleasure herself, but her fingers were sleepy too. Her chest rose and fell, steadily; then, in an instant, she was bolt-awake. The sound that had troubled her had come again; and this time there was no doubt. Something was scrabbling at the latch of the door!
    She was out of the blankets in a flash, scrinching herself up in the far corner of the bunk. Her knife was in her hand. It was a good knife, long and jagged and sharp. She had used it, more than once; but would it serve against a Thunder-thing?
    The Convolvulus King watched through the window, with more of his white trumpet-eyes. The noise came again, and a voice calling. She pulled her lips back from her teeth. The bar of the doorcatch joggled impatiently; and the wooden wedge fell away. The door grated inward, letting in sunlight and warmth.
    The Thunder-thing was tall, taller by half a head than the Rural, and her eyes were terrible. Round her face as she stood was a moving blaze of yellow; and there was something else. A blueness, blue as the sky, as kingfisher feathers, as sparks. The Rural licked her mouth. She thought she had never seen so bright a colour. She gripped the knife; and her heart pounded, as if about to burst out from her chest.
    The newcomer advanced, it seemed uncertainly, screwing her eyes against the gloom of the little cabin. Then she froze. She said softly, “Oh, my God …”
    She glanced behind her, pushed the door to slightly. She said, “I thought the place was empty. Why didn’t you answer me?”
    She took another half pace forward. The knifeblade shook a little; and she stopped again. She seemed to sense an almost-physical barrier, a vital space that would be encroached on at her peril. Another step, another six inches, and the Rural would attack. She put her hands out, slowly, eyes on the blade.She said, “I ain’t going to hurt you. See, I don’t have anything. I don’t want to hurt you. Can you understand?”
    The Rural shifted her position fractionally. The other stared at her, eyes narrowed. She said, “
Can
you speak? Do you know what I’m saying?”
    There was no response; and the stranger sighed. She moved back, with equal caution, till she felt the doorpost behind her. She squatted slowly, then sat. She said, “I guess we’re in for kind of a long