Free Fire Fire by Eva Sallis

her unpredictability.
    Acantia placed hairs from her own head over jam jars, sealing the fridge door, around the cheese. The children eased the fridge door open, removed and then carefully replaced the black strands after watering the jam, shaving the cheese. They were banned from opening the fridge, so it had to be done with silent easing of pressure with the fingertips onto the doorseal, making it open with a sigh not a smacking kiss. The door seal wore out quickly.
    Acantia tried cooking one less dinner than she had children, to flush out the prematurely satiated. But the terror of going without anything made them all rush up, jostling and noisy, when called. She made the last go without anyway. And then a bad tempered, importunate crowd of seething bodies pressured around her whenever she called them, even if softly.
    The cook in her withered and died. It was war. They stole everything and, as they got older and bigger and more desperate, they were not surreptitious about it.
    When a new flour sack had had its bottom corner cut off to replenish some private store, Acantia lined them up from Beate to Arno.
    â€˜Own up, whoever did this, or by golly I’ll strap the lot of you!’
    They had long grown out of accusing each other and stood in silent solidarity. She swung the reins around Beate’s obediently extended wrists and went down the line. When she got to Helmut she whacked him with all her might, for she was sure that he had done it. When she got to Arno she swung extra light, for Arno was her angel. She had only reached Siegfried when Arno started giggling, snickering uncontrollably, nervously, behind his hand. As they left, nursing their arms, Arno was still giggling. He had got away with it. Taking a beating ensemble for so daring and stupid a raid was worth it. They all loved Arno’s happiness. They all did anything for Arno.
    Arno learned to read and write and play chess and do long multiplication without anyone teaching him. He collected hair, his own and that of his siblings. He spun and plaited from it a fine rope, which, by the time he was seven, was more than a mile long and had to be stored in a bucket. He was inconsolable when he found that moths had eaten the first few furlongs from the bottom of the bucket, and everyone cut their hair and gave it to him to cheer him up.

    Ursula was something of a perfectionist and was proud of the length of time she was able to go without washing either herself or her trousers. She rode bareback summer and winter and washing her trousers removed the thick layer of horsehair embedded in them and made her feel the cold. In summer her legs were always two-tone. The insides were clean from horse sweat.
    Ember stares with a familiar, capricious, perhaps-I-hate-you-today look and will not let herself be caught. Ursula, as always, persists until she can grab some mane and vault on. It is a move that impresses, both her and any real or imaginary onlookers. It has style. Ursula rides bareback, twisting and prehensile as a monkey. Over the flying hooves she crouches, her face to the wind, her eyes streaming tears, grinning, somehow floating in a bed of violent muscles, sweat and satin hair. She rides with whispers to Ember from her thighs, calves and heels, tiny coded signs which Ember can choose to ignore but knows well enough. She rides with no bridle, pretending that she is in control but really just sticking like a baby chimp regardless of the mean surprises the horse springs on her. This is Ember’s opportunity and she exploits it with passion and invention.
    Ursula prided herself on her trick riding, on the vaults, falls and daring pick-ups she could sometimes do, if Ember would cooperate. But she could never ride standing up, surfing a gallop. Ember wouldn’t permit it.
    Ursula was in love with Ember’s beauty. She spent hours simply staring, touching grooming, and later covering up any bruises on her arms that were horse-inflicted. Sometimes the