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Little Peggy was very careful with the eggs. She rooted her hand through the straw till
her fingers bumped something hard and heavy. She gave no never mind to the chicken drips.
After all, when folk with babies stayed at the roadhouse, Mama never even crinkled her face at
their most spetackler diapers. Even when the chicken drips were wet and stringy and made
her fingers stick together, little Peggy gave no never mind. She just pushed the straw apart,
wrapped her hand around the egg, and lifted it out of the brood box. All this while standing
tiptoe on a wobbly stool, reaching high above her head. Mama said she was too young for
egging, but little Peggy showed her. Ever day she felt in every brood box and brought in
every egg, every single one, that's what she did.
Every one, she said in her mind, over and over. I got to reach into every one.
Then little Peggy looked back into the northeast corner, the darkest place in the whole
coop, and there sat Bloody Mary in her brood box, looking like the devil's own bad dream,
hatefulness shining out of her nasty eyes, saying Come here little girl and give me nips. I want
nips of finger and nips of thumb and if you come real close and try to take my egg I'll get a
nip of eye from you.
Most animals didn't have much heartfire, but Bloody Mary's was strong and made a
poison smoke. Nobody else could see it, but little Peggy could. Bloody Mary dreamed of
death for all folks, but most specially for a certain little girl five years old, and little Peggy had
the marks on her fingers to prove it. At least one mark, anyway, and even if Papa said he
couldn't even see it, little Peggy remembered how she got it and nobody could blame her
none if she sometimes forgot to reach under Bloody Mary who sat there like a bushwhacker
waiting to kill the first folks that just tried to come by. Nobody'd get mad if she just
sometimes forgot to look there.
I forgot forgot forgot. I looked in every brood box, every one, and if one got missed
then I forgot forgot forgot.
Everybody knew Bloody Mary was a lowdown chicken and too mean to give any eggs
that wasn't rotten anyway.
She got the egg basket inside before Mama even had the fire het, and Mama was so
pleased she let little Peggy put the eggs one by one into the cold water. Then Mama put the
pot on the hook and swung it right on over the fire. Boiling eggs you didn't have to wait for
the fire to slack, you could do it smoke and all.
"Peg," said Papa.
That was Mama's name, but Papa didn't say it in his Mama voice. He said it in his
little-Peggy-you're-in-dutch voice, and little Peggy knew she was completely found out, and so
she turned right around and yelled what she'd been planning to say all along.
"I forgot, Papa!"
Mama turned and looked at little Peggy in surprise. Papa wasn't surprised though. He
just raised an eyebrow. He was holding his hand behind his back. Little Peggy knew there
was an egg in that hand. Bloody Mary's nasty egg.
"What did you forget, little Peggy?" asked Papa, talking soft.
Right that minute little Peggy reckoned she was the stupidest girl ever born on the face
of the earth. Here she was denying before anybody accused her of anything.
But she wasn't going to give up, not right off like that. She couldn't stand to have
them mad at her and she just wanted them to let her go away and live in England. So she put
on her innocent face and said, "I don't know, Papa."
She figgered England was the best place to go live, cause England had a Lord Protector.
From the look in Papa's eye, a Lord Protector was pretty much what she needed just now.
"What did you forget?" Papa asked again.
"Just say it and be done, Horace," said Mama. "If she's done wrong then she's done
"I forgot one time, Papa," said little Peggy. "She's a mean old chicken and she hates
Papa answered soft and slow. "One time," he said.
Then he took his hand from behind him. Only it wasn't no single egg he held, it was a
whole basket. And that basket was filled with a clot of straw -- most likely all the straw
from Bloody Mary's box -- and that straw was mashed together and glued tight with dried-up
raw egg and shell bits, mixed up with about three or four chewed-up baby chicken bodies.
"Did you have to bring that in the house before breakfast, Horace?" said Mama.
"I don't know what makes me madder," said Horace. "What she done wrong or her
studying up to lie about it."
"I didn't study and I didn't lie!" shouted little Peggy. Or anyways she meant to shout.
What came out sounded espiciously like crying even though little Peggy had decided only
yesterday that she was done with crying for the rest of her life.
"See?" said Mama. "She already feels bad."
"She feels bad being caught," said Horace. "You're too slack on her, Peg. She's got a
lying spirit. I don't want my daughter growing up wicked. I'd rather see her dead like her
baby sisters before I see her grow up wicked."
Little Peggy saw Mama's heartfire flare up with memory, and in front of her eyes she
could see a baby laid out pretty in a little box, and then another one only not so pretty cause it
was the second baby Missy, the one what died of pox so nobody'd touch her but her own
mama, who was still so feeble from the pox herself that she couldn't do much. Little Peggy
saw that scene, and she knew Papa had made a mistake to say what he said cause Mama's face
went cold even though her heartfire was hot.
"That's the wickedest thing anybody ever said in my presence," said Mama. Then she
took up the basket of corruption from the table and took it outside.
"Bloody Mary bites my hand," said little Peggy.
"We'll see what bites," said Papa. "For leaving the eggs I give you one whack, because I
reckon that lunatic hen looks fearsome to a frog-size girl like you. But for telling lies I give
you ten whacks."
Little Peggy cried in earnest at that news. Papa gave an honest count and full measure
in everything, but most especially in whacks.
Papa took the hazel rod off the high shelf. He kept it up there ever since little Peggy
put the old one in the fire and burnt it right up.
"I'd rather hear a thousand hard and bitter truths from you, Daughter, than one soft
and easy lie," said he, and then he bent over and laid on with the rod across her thighs. Whick
whick whick, she counted every one, they stung her to the heart, each one of them, they were
so full of anger. Worst of all she knew it was all unfair because his heartfire raged for a
different cause altogether, and it always did. Papa's hate for wickedness always came from his
most secret memory. Little Peggy didn't understand it all, because it was twisted up and
confused and Papa didn't remember it right well himself. All little Peggy ever saw plain was
that it was a lady and it wasn't Mama. Papa thought of that lady whenever something went
wrong. When baby Missy died of nothing at all, and then the next baby also named Missy
died of pox, and then the barn burnt down once, and a cow died, everything that went wrong
made him think of that lady and he began to talk about how much he hated wickedness and at
those times the hazel rod flew hard and sharp.
I'd rather hear a thousand hard and bitter truths, that's what he said, but little Peggy
knew that there was one truth he didn't ever want to hear, and so she kept it to herself. She'd
never shout it at him, even if it made him break the hazel rod, cause whenever she thought of
saying aught about that lady, she kept picturing her father dead, and that was a thing she never
hoped to see for real. Besides, the lady that haunted his heartfire, she didn't have no clothes
on, and little Peggy knew that she'd be whipped for sure if she talked about people
So she took the whacks and cried till she could taste that her nose was running. Papa
left the room right away, and Mama came back to fix up breakfast for the blacksmith and the
visitors and the hands, but neither one said boo to her, just as if they didn't even notice. She
cried even harder and louder for a minute, but it didn't help. Finally she picked up her Bugy
from the sewing basket and walked all stiff-legged out to Oldpappy's cabin and woke him
He listened to her story like he always did.
"I know about Bloody Mary," he said, "and I told your papa fifty times if I told him
once, wring that chicken's neck and be done. She's a crazy bird. Every week or so she gets
crazy and breaks all her own eggs, even the ones ready to hatch. Kills her own chicks. It's a
lunatic what kills its own."
"Papa like to killed me," said little Peggy.
"I reckon if you can walk somewhat it ain't so bad altogether."
"I can't walk much."
"No, I can see you're nigh crippled forever," said Oldpappy. "But I tell you what, the
way I see it your mama and your papa's mostly mad at each other. So why don't you just
disappear for a couple of hours?"
"I wish I could turn into a bird and fly."
"Next best thing, though," said Pappy, "is to have a secret place where nobody knows
to look for you. Do you have a place like that? No, don't tell me--it wrecks it if you tell even
a single other person. You just go to that place for a while. As long as it's a safe place, not out
in the woods where a Red might take your pretty hair, and not a high place where you might
fall off, and not a tiny place where you might get stuck."
"It's big and it's low and it ain't in the woods," said little Peggy.
"Then you go there, Maggie."
Little Peggy made the face she always made when Oldpappy called her that. And she
held up Bugy and in Bugy's squeaky high voice she said, "Her name is Peggy."
"You go there, Piggy, if you like that better --"
Little Peggy slapped Bugy right across Oldpappy's knee.
"Someday Bugy'll do that once too often and have a rupture and die," said Oldpappy.
But Bugy just danced right in his face and insisted, "Not piggy, Peggy!"
"That's right, Puggy, you go to that secret place and if anybody says, We got to go find
that girl, I'll say, I know where she is and she'll come back when she's good and ready."
Little Peggy ran for the cabin door and then stopped and turned. "Oldpappy, you're
the nicest grown-up in the whole world."
"Your papa has a different view of me, but that's all tied up with another hazel rod
that I laid hand on much too often. Now run along."
She stopped again right before she closed the door. "You're the only nice grown-up!"
She shouted it real loud, halfway hoping that they could hear it clear inside the house. Then
she was gone, right across the garden, out past the cow pasture, up the hill into the woods, and
along the path to the spring house.
Copyright © 1987 Orson Scott Card