I waited three years for the fruit to ripen. Now I’ve come to pluck my little apple. The girl stands in the barn, in the center of a chalk circle. I can’t get at her. She’s too clean.
“Don’t let her wash,” I tell her father. “I have no power over her if she’s washed. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
Tomorrow comes and I still can’t get at her. She’s wept on her hands, and her hands are washed. “Cut off her hands,” I tell her father. He refuses. I repeat. “Cut off her hands or I’ll take you myself.” I know he’ll do it now. He’s terrified, the coward.
When I come the next day, I still can’t get at her. She’s been crying on her stumps. Damn water! She’s clean, all the way up to her elbows.