Jenny Holden

He said it was an eagle egg, that it should never have fallen there, lying in the wet grass purple in the light coming through between the trees. I said what shall we do with it and he held it up, it seemed small but he had big hands, and when we held our hands together mine seemed of another race, or his did. We were both different, then. Against the light it was pale, porcelain-like and the noises of the wood seemed growing out of it, this egg-shaped thing – this egg! How funny that it was just laid there and we were just laid there and for a while the two of us weren't aware of the other – us, and it. We were one, just then (though I had so much to hide when I came back that summer, and playing games with my baby sister wasn't the same, and mum looked at me different, and I started looking boys in the eye, cos their hands were only small, like mine, and white and moist, too). He said it was our secret, and he said other things too, which I now know have been said before, will be said again. But when he held it up to the sun and I said – and I meant it – let's smash it, pulling it from him I placed it back in its grass land and lifted my bare foot and he pushed me over then, and away, and I didn't recognise his face when it was twisted so. But I wanted the egg to crumble, I wanted to see the sticky wet the unborn thing that would have been fearsome otherwise, talons dripping sweet blood. I laughed and laughed as I lay there in the grass not bothering to get up where he had pushed me, even when he looked at me – and never before had he looked more like the teacher he was, oh the lover of nature and all things pure and delicate crushing not the tiniest flower beneath his great big his great big fucking feet and even they had hair growing on the big toes, animal alright, well and didn't I feel silly then, just lying there laughing and lord knows where my dress was lying in its own grass land and him just walking away, holding that precious egg like it was the crown jewels.