20
Hands in the Dark
“Agnes,” Peter called, as loudly as he dared.
Nothing.
Peter stood at the door of the hut and wondered if he should try to open it and go in. But maybe better not; it might startle her.
“Agnes,” he tried again, a fraction louder this time.
“Peter? Is that you?”
She was awake.
“Agnes, it’s me, Peter,” he said, feeling stupid. “Can I come in?”
He heard movement inside and felt the door shift slightly as Agnes leant against it on the other side.
“I can’t let you in, Peter,” she said. She sounded miserable. “You know I have to stay here by myself. And anyway, the door’s locked. They locked me in.”
He tried the door. Shut tight.
“Come around to the window, Peter. We can talk there.”
He crept around the side of the hut, feeling his way by running his hand along the rough wall. He heard the creak of a wooden hinge as she opened the shutter. Suddenly her voice was right above him.
“Peter! Here!”
The window was small and quite high up, about head height. It had a wide windowsill, where Agnes’s baskets of food were left. With an effort, she could have climbed out of the window and escaped, but the Elders knew what they were doing. Locking the door was merely symbolic; they knew she could not escape even if it stood wide open. She had nowhere to go, and would not be allowed to return to village life until she had completed her mourning properly.
“Peter,” Agnes said, sounding a little calmer. “Can you feel my hand?”
He felt around in the darkness, and there was her arm. He slipped his fingers along her sleeve until he felt her hand.
“Agnes, let me in. I can’t stand the thought of you alone in there. It’s not safe.”
“No, Peter,” Agnes said, but her voice wavered. “You know what will happen if we’re caught. And I’ll have to begin all over again.”
“But it’s not fair. Why did you have to marry Stefan? Why not someone else?”
“Because Anna chose me. When you’ve lived here a bit longer, you’ll understand that that’s how it is.”
Peter said nothing. He had lived in Chust long enough to understand that the old woman’s word was as good as law.
“At least you feel a little warmer tonight,” Agnes said.
He froze.
“What did you say?”
“Your hand,” Agnes said, innocently. “It feels warmer than last night.”
Peter suddenly let Agnes’s hand drop from his, as if it were something dangerous.
“Peter, what is it?”
He hesitated, then spoke quickly, his words catching in his throat.
“Are you saying I came here to see you, last night?”
“Yes, you did. You asked me to—Oh, Peter! It wasn’t you?”
Suddenly he felt behind his back the huge darkness of the forest, in which myriad horrors might be tracking him. It surrounded him with almost unbearable menace, a vast world that ruled and ran his life, seeing everything that passed beneath its branches, yet giving away no secrets.
“Agnes. You have to let me in.”
He spoke with a quiet strength, but with fear mingled in, and it scared her into agreement.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh God! Yes. It wasn’t you? Yes. But the door, the door!”
“Never mind. Stand away from the window.”
He reached up and groped around, swinging the shutter open and gauging how wide the window was. Small, but he could make it. Putting a foot against the irregular log wall of the hut, he found a foothold and half jumped, half pulled himself though the gap. Then he wriggled and pulled and fell headfirst into the hut, spraining his hand as he landed.
“Oh!” cried Agnes. “Are you all right?”
“Don’t you have any light?” asked Peter, standing up. He rubbed his hand, but it wasn’t bad.
“No. I’m not allowed. Tell me you’re joking, Peter. That you just said that to get in here with me.”
Peter said nothing in reply.
“Who was it?” she whispered in horror. “He said he was you! He asked to come in.”
“You didn’t—?”
“No!” Agnes said quickly. “I wouldn’t let you…him…in.”
“Thank God for that.”
“But who is it?”
Peter shook his head in the dark.
“I don’t know.”
He went back to the window. From the stillness outside he could sense that it was still snowing, though he couldn’t actually see it. The shutter was banging against the outside of the hut. Somewhere there was an iron handle to pull it shut. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was put his hand back out into the night, but he had no choice. Expecting his wrist to be grabbed at any moment, he felt out through the window, found the handle, and pulled the shutter inward, swinging the bolt into place. He turned to Agnes.
“I don’t know,” he repeated, “but something is wrong around here. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I told you. You…someone came to the window last night. He asked to come in and I said no. He asked again and I said no again and…”
She stopped.
“Oh!” she said.
“What, Agnes?” Peter felt for her in the dark and put his arms around her. “What?”
“When I wouldn’t let him in, he asked for a kiss.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“Peter, I thought it was you. I’ve been so scared. Anyway I said no, but I let you…him kiss my hand.”
Peter swore.
“I thought it was you,” Agnes said.
“I know. I know.”
Peter felt her tense in his arms. Her head jerked up toward his in the blackness.
“Oh God and the Forest!”
“Agnes? Agnes?”
“He said he’d come back again tonight.”