Some Like ‘Em Burly

Chapter Gwen

Gwen

Picking blackberries is an art form. You can’t just grab the nearest basket and wander up and down the valley, shaking bushes and humming under your breath.

You have to commit; you should end your session with purple-stained fingertips and berry juice smeared over your cheeks. It’s practically the law.

When my Mam took us blackberry picking as kids, she martialed us like a regiment of freaking soldiers. Even now, I take it seriously, and I’m grown.

My route begins on our farm. I don’t trust the low-down hedges, the ones within sheep-reach with their slobbery tongues, so I do a loop of the fields and lanes, only picking at chest height and higher.

My Nan’s old wicker basket dangles from the crook of my elbow, swinging in the rough autumn breeze, and my boots snag in clumps of wet, green grass as I patrol the hedgerows.

Next it’s the riverside path. There are blackberry bushes along the roadside too, but any passing driver can wind their window down in slow traffic and steal a handful. The river, though, that’s the territory of dog-walkers and Sunday joggers, and those bushes are always groaning with berries.

I fill my basket quickly on this route, even with the two-for-one rule.

Two for the basket, one for me. Two in the wicker, one in my gob.

By the time I reach the mouth of the valley, my lips are stained with tart purple juice and my belly’s complaining that it’s had enough now, thank you, Gwendoline.

Just one more. And another. And another.

Wiping my fingers on my dark knee-length skirt, I wince, guilty as hell though no one can see me.

It’s shameful, but I can’t help myself. Mam always says I have no self control.

If I did, I’d turn around before I reach the last building on the riverside path: the blacksmith’s forge.

It sits against the hillside, squat and serious, all gray stone and black slate with tendrils of ivy climbing the walls and smoke billowing from the chimney stack.

On days like this when Rhys Evans is hammering away by the flames, I swear the air gets hotter for half a mile all around.

I lick my blackberry-stained lips, tromping closer down the dirt path as the sound of pounding metal rings through the air. My wicker basket creaks, its newfound weight digging the handle into my forearm, and I’m already flushed under my thin red sweater.

I’ve got no business, really, putting this stop on my route.

There’s only one single blackberry bush near the blacksmith’s forge, sitting thin and straggly under his window.

There are hardly any berries hidden between its leaves, no pretense at all really, but still I linger here, ears straining for any sound of the man inside.

Hssssss.

That’s red-hot metal plunging into warm oil. My boots scrape against the dirt and I shift my weight, holding my breath as I strain to hear more.

Clang.

Thump.

Grunt.

Gosh, I love it when he grunts. Something is surely wrong with me, because hearing Rhys Evans with his giant shoulders and his thick beard and his steady, lined eyes grunt with effort—it makes all the blood pump faster through my body.

He’s so strong. Imagine what he’d have to lift for a sound like that to pass his lips!

He could probably balance his anvil on one palm.

He could sling a carthorse over one shoulder.

Heavy steps thud across his stone floor inside and I crane my neck, peering through the dim window. Specks of rain ping against the glass, slowly at first, then coming faster and faster as shadows move inside the darkened forge.

Dimly, I pluck a blackberry from the basket on my arm, pushing it past my stained lips. My fingertips linger at my mouth, the tip of my tongue tracing the pads of my fingers, and still I stare through the blacksmith’s window.

Can he see me?

Does he know that I come to visit?

Does he care?

Oh god, if he’d rather I left him alone… I would hate that. I’d fall over dead on the spot. But he’d say so, right?

Chewing, I cringe at this extra-sour blackberry, but I still don’t move away, not even when bigger raindrops soak into my clothes and hair.

It’s always like this when I come near Rhys Evans’ forge: my feet root into the ground, like some part of me point blank refuses to leave.

Sometimes I stay here for over twenty minutes, lingering at this bush like a creep.

Maybe it’s the heated air and the faint scent of smoke and wet stone. Hypnotizing me.

Maybe it’s the chance of hearing another Rhys Evans grunt.

Maybe it’s the glimpses of movement through the dark glass.

Whatever the reason, I stand by the blacksmith’s window in a daze, and I’m only shocked out of it by the rumble of thunder.

Blinking rain from my eyes, I whip around, gaping at the black clouds amassing over the valley.

Spears of lightning flash in the gloom, an icy wind whips my cheeks, and the rain’s pounding hard now. Hard enough to sting.

I missed this? I clutch my basket of berries with a groan.

Mam’s right. I really am hopeless.

It’s a long walk back to the family farm, but there’s nothing else for it. And in fact I should hurry, because with the rain coming down like this, there’s every chance the river will burst its banks and flood the shortest path home.

“You’re a fool, Gwen Roberts.”

Whenever I need to scold myself, my parents’ words are always ready and waiting on the tip of my tongue.

They said the same thing when I accidentally let the sheep out into the hills last month, and when I burned the breakfast sausages yesterday morning, and when I said that maybe I’d rather not marry the Thomas boy just to secure the farm’s future.

I mean, I know it’s a family business and I need to make a contribution somehow, but marriage? What am I, a prize cow?

The rain’s driving horizontally now, lashing icy cold drops against my cheeks and into my eyes, and stray blackberries bounce over the dirt path as I stumble away from the forge. My basket’s swinging in the harsh wind, my purple treasures flying everywhere, and I’m already soaked to the skin.

My clothes cling and chafe with every step. My teeth chatter as I stride up the side of the valley, away from Rhys Evans’ forge.

I’ve made such a mess of this.

It’s nothing, though, to the mess I make when lightning cracks through a nearby tree, sparks swirling through the air, thunder roaring and shaking the earth.

I leap sideways with a squeak, boots slipping in the muddy grass, and then I’m falling, tumbling down and down in a flurry of blackberries and bruised bones.

My fall down the hillside probably lasts a few seconds.

It feels like half a year.

I slam and bounce. The air knocks from my lungs. My jaw cracks together and the copper taste of blood spreads over my tongue.

By the time I come to a stop, I’m a groaning, muddled heap. I blink up at the storm clouds, snapped wicker digging into my hip, and vaguely note that the air is hotter again. I’m back where I started.

“Gwendoline?”

Somewhere nearby, a door pushes open and hurried steps thud against the dirt. Strong arms slide under me and I’m lifted into the air with a dizzying lurch.

“Rhys Evans,” I mumble, my brain still spinning in midair somewhere partway down the hillside. “I knew you’d save me.”

The last thing I hear is the blacksmith cursing under his breath.

Then my eyes flutter closed, and everything goes dark.