Beneath the Waves (WIP 1)

This piece was inspired by a song by Johanna Newsome (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lZKzApyyERw), the lyrics of which are at the beginning. I’ve always loved Celtic mythology, though I am regrettably unfamiliar with much of it, and this song struck such a chord within me that I found myself creating a story before I was really thinking about it. Still in the works, and the title is tentative. I’m awful at coming up with titles.

“I’ll tell it as I best know how,
And that’s the way it was told to me: I
Must have once been a thief or a whore,
Then surely was thrown overboard,
Where, they say,
I came this way from the deep blue sea.

It picked me up and tossed me round.
I lost my shoes and tore my gown,
I forgot my name, and drowned.
Then woke up with the surf a – pounding;
It seemed I had been run aground.

Well they took me in and shod my feet
And taught me prayers for chastity
And said my name would be Colleen, and
I was blessed among all women,
To have forgotten everything.

And as the weeks and months ensued
I tried to make myself of use.
I tilled and planted, but could not produce -
not root, nor leaf, nor flower, nor bean; Lord!
It seemed I overwatered everything.

And I hate the sight of that empty air,
like stepping for a missing stair
and falling forth forever blindly:
cannot grab hold of anything! No,
Not I, most blessed among Colleens.

I dream some nights of a funny sea,
as soft as a newly born baby.
It cries for me pitifully!
And I dive for my child with a wildness in me,
and am so sweetly there received.

But last night came a different dream;
a gray and sloping-shouldered thing
said “What’s cinched ’round your waist, Colleen?
is that my very own baleen?
No! Have you forgotten everything?”

This morning, ’round the cape at dawn,
some travellers sailed into town
with scraps for sale and the saddest songs
and a book of pictures, leather-bound, that
showed a whale with a tusk a meter long.

Well, I asked the man who showed it me,
“What is the name of that strange beast?”
He said its name translated roughly to
He-Who-Easily-Can-Curve-Himself-Against-The-Sky.

And I am without words.
He said, “My lady looks perturbed.
(the light is in your eyes, Colleen.)”
I said, “Whatever can you mean?”
He leaned in and said,
“You ain’t forgotten everything.”

“You dare to speak a lady’s name?”
He said, “My lady is mistaken.
I would not speak your name in this place;
and if I were to try then the wind – I swear -
would rise, to tear you clean from me without a trace.”

“Have you come, then, to rescue me?”
He laughed and said, “from what, ‘Colleen’?”
You dried and dressed most willingly.
you corseted, and caught the dread disease
by which one comes to know such peace.”

Well, it’s true that I came to know such things as
the laws which govern property
and herbs to feed the babes that wean,
and the welting weight for every season;
but still
I don’t know any goddamned “Colleen.”

Then dive down there with the lights to lead
that seem to shine from everything -
down to the bottom of the deep blue sea;
down where your heart beats so slow,
and you never in your life have felt so free.
Will you come down there with me?
Down were our bodies start to seem like
artifacts of some strange dream,
which afterwards you can’t decipher,
and so, soon, have forgotten
Everything.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She dreamt, some nights, of the sea. The dark, furling waves would pull her underneath the glassy surface into depths both splendid and unknown, and she found that once she reached the bottom, she no longer desired to see the land. The water, murky to her human eyes, was warm and embraced her like a lost lover. It was a funny dream and she dismissed it more often than not.

Last night she had dreamt of the sea again, but it was no longer so amicable. It was roiling and angry and, for the first time, she was frightened of it. The waves were harsh and the salt stung; she could taste it mingling with tears when she woke, crying, in the morning. She was grieved beyond any vocalization that the water of her dreams had rejected her, though she could think of no reason to be upset over the imagined incident.  She got out of bed while it was still dark and wandered out of the simple cottage she called her home.

The gentle roar of the ocean was the first sound that greeted her, and it was comfortingly familiar. It was the ocean she knew, the one she was inexplicably drawn to, not the one still foaming madly in her mind’s eye.

“You don’t frighten me,” she whispered to the approaching surf. Pale moonlight glinted off the waves as they rolled in, crashing against the rocks that lined the shore. Her quiet words were lost in the susurrus, blown away with the wind. Time passed unnoticed as she stood quietly, fixated upon the ocean with an unblinking gaze.

 

“Colleen!”

The woman’s head turned, and in the darkness, he could see her pale skin like a beacon. Her black hair was tousled by sleep and the wind whipped it around her face, making the woman look like the wild thing she’d been when he’d found her. Her dark eyes were wide and she stared at him, looking puzzled.

“The sea, Cormac,” she said, her low voice striking something deep within the man, “it rejected me.”

Without further explanation, she gave one last longing look at the water and pulled her shawl closer about her tiny body. She always looked so fragile to Cormac, and he felt the overwhelming urge to protect her when she looked lost like this, as she often did. As far as he knew, Colleen was alone in the world, having washed up on the shore near his humble home a few months ago. No one in the village knew her, could recall her face, and she didn’t have any memory of what had happened to bring her to them.

“Did you dream of it again?” he asked gently, ushering her back toward the cottage they shared. Only in his worn sleep pants, Cormac was getting chilled from the cold oceanic air and he felt a familiar ache for his warm bed. Colleen didn’t even shiver as she passed him, garbed in a thin nightgown and her shawl.

She nodded. “Yes. But…it did not want me. Not this time.” Confusion was written across her delicate features, and those deep, soft eyes were shadowed with worry.

Not knowing what to say, Cormac simply opened the door for her and shut it once they were both inside. He knew that Colleen’s dreams were not always pleasant—across the room, at night, he could hear her mutter in her deep slumber. Every now and then, on nights like tonight, he would wake to the creaking of the front door which she invariably left open and he would find her staring out at the ocean. Sometimes she would tell him of her dream, and sometimes she wouldn’t.

“It did not want me,” Colleen repeated to herself, sitting on the edge of her bed as though sleepwalking.

Cormac, having pulled aside the covers to his own bed, paused. “I’m sorry,” he said at length. He gazed searchingly for her face in the velvety darkness that surrounded them but, unable to see well, satisfied himself with crawling back into his bed. After what felt like hours, the rustling of sheets from the other bed told him that Colleen had finally given in to her own need to sleep, or at least the pretense of it. Cormac let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and was able to relax enough to drift into an uneasy slumber.

 

Tentative, watery sunbeams woke Cormac as they slipped through the window above his head. He had overslept, and his first thoughts were one of self-chastisement for letting himself stay in bed so long. He was not the punctual fisherman that his father had been.

As he rose and hastily dressed, he saw that Colleen had woken some point before him and neatly made her bed. Curious, he sniffed the air. Yes. She had risen to make breakfast, a habit she’d developed shortly after he’d shown her how to use the tiny stove he had built. The woman had proven to be clumsy when it came to the garden Cormac kept out back, but she had taken to cooking better than he’d hoped.

She was waiting for him in the kitchen, her tiny frame curled into a chair; the end of the grey dress she wore was tucked about her bare feet and she turned to look at him as he shuffled in.

“More fish come out at dawn,” Colleen said simply, gesturing, after a moment, to the food she’d laid out for him—eggs that Cormac hoped were still warm, toast, and a bowl of steaming, mealy cereal. Nothing elaborate, but he knew that it would satisfy him until he came home at dark for dinner.

Wordlessly sitting down to eat, Cormac was so grateful for the help Colleen had proven to be that he temporarily forgot her oddities. The way she had of saying the truth without any reason to know it, or anticipating someone’s needs before they were voiced.    Before she’d arrived, he’d been on his own. His father had left this world many years ago when he was but a boy, and his mother had gone to be with him on Cormac’s twenty third birthday. He’d been the oldest of three children—a brother and a sister had followed him into existence but hadn’t made it past childhood. Living by himself was lonely and the company this strange woman provided soothed an ache Cormac had not known he’d had. The fact that she cooked and cleaned was merely a windfall; he never had to make his own meals when he returned, exhausted, from a day at sea. His mind on happy things, the man ate his share, listening to the sea sounds filter in from the open window.

If Colleen had already eaten, there wasn’t any evidence. No dirty dishes, no telltale crumbs on the tabletop. He started to ask her if she’d had any food herself, tell her that it wasn’t good to skip meals, but she turned to him and stared intensely for a brief moment.

“You’re going to catch something wonderful today,” she said, face grim and altogether incongruous with her words. But then she smiled radiantly, dark eyes twinkling, and she rose to take Cormac’s now empty dishes and set them in the wash basin. A gentle splash told Cormac that it had already been used, but not drained of water.

“Am I?” He stood and went to the door, sitting once more to put on his boots. They were black and scuffed, but sturdy. Fishermen boots, to go with his thick cabled sweater, heavy pants, and jaunty cap.

Colleen nodded. “You are. Don’t lose it.” Her smile had faded.

Cormac, in response, shook his head. “I won’t.” He stood and leaned against the white wall of the cottage, trying to catch the tail end of a thought that had occurred to him while he ate. Colleen didn’t pester him about his silence, didn’t make an inquiring noise, but simply cocked her head to the side and waited.

“Oh yes!” The man had lighted upon his idea, and rummaged in his pocket for a small leather purse. It was filled with coins, and he took out several which he placed on the table. “Mrs. Donahue said she’d have fruit to sell today.Orangesare a real treat. Have you ever had any?”

Colleen shook her head.

“I think you might like them—they’re sweet. She should have some. If you could pick two up before I get back, we could have them after dinner.” When Colleen smiled faintly and nodded, Cormac left and shut the door behind him, taking his leave for the day.

A stillness settled on the cottage with Cormac gone, and Colleen sat back down at the table for a while to enjoy it. Though most of the town was up shortly after the sun rose, the only sounds that reached Cormac’s isolated cottage were those of the sea, and Colleen was grateful. She liked that the house was set aside from the rest of the village and relished in the solitude; she hardly felt like one of the locals. She was an outsider in every way possible, and she knew it. She felt it deep in her core and couldn’t bring herself to try to pretend otherwise. But she would go see Mrs. Donahue today, no matter her feeling of difference, for Cormac was expecting it and she was curious about oranges. Had she ever eaten one? She couldn’t recall. If she had, the memory was gone, along with so many others.

With almost studied grace, Colleen rose from the chair and went to the wash basin to clean the dishes Cormac had used. It was one chore she actually enjoyed because it gave her an excuse to be both busy and restive; it occupied her hands yet left her mind free to roam as it was so often wont to. As she let the lukewarm water roll over the first dish, she thought immediately of the waves in her dream that had tried to hurt her rather than embrace, as they usually did. Troubled, her face went dark in the morning light; it was summer, but the mornings were still cold this close to the water, and even the light seemed to be cold—it was a crisp white rather than liquid yellow. Everything looked so harsh, bathed in the unflattering illumination, and it reminded Colleen of the frigid and wet morning she had awoken on this strange shore. More water then, too. The sea was always on her mind, in the background of each thought, but today its waves were more persistent. She could hear them crashing against the rocks outside as well as the obstacles in her own mind.

Dishes done, she dried her hands and cast her eyes, so deep brown they looked black, around the place—there were no further chores for her to do as of yet, so she grabbed her shawl to leave. The widow Donahue would be expecting her. She knew it without reason. The widow always seemed to know when she would visit and was one of the only people in town with a  kind word ready on her tongue for Colleen; the visits, though few, were always pleasant. Colleen mostly listened and took in the ever changing, strange assortment of trinkets Mrs. Donahue collected. Colleen suspected she had some kind of arrangement with the many traders that passed by the village, on horseback and in boats.

Though the village was a small one, the sort that no one ever seemed to recall by name, it was ideally located. Close to the water so that trade and fishing were prosperous, and near a large cross roads that saw all sorts of characters pass by—they would stop, often, at the tiny inn for gossip and ale, providing a decent amount of money for the locals. Sometimes Colleen would stop at the inn on her way back from Mrs. Donahue’s for some small treat to eat and to people watch. She felt at home there, at the Wharf Inn. Some of the people there felt familiar, stranger than she knew herself to be.

The inn was just open this early in the morning and Colleen gave it only a passing glance as she worked her way up the anemic road that led, eventually, to the widow’s home. It was something of a hike to reach Mrs. Donahue, not that Colleen minded the fresh air and exercise. Passing sea birds gave harsh caws, wheeling high above in the steely sky; Colleen looked up and shuddered. Seeing the winged things suspended in the nothingness above her head always made her shiver. It was unnatural, she thought, to be able to float like that on something as intangible as air. At any second one could fall.

This is an elaborated version of my thoughts that first day in my Mythology course this summer. I never expected to be so moved by stories I already knew.

 

There are so many universal themes and truths expressed in the world’s mythology. The adventures of a hero, what it means to be a hero, the self exploration and sacrifice. What a quest is and symbolizes, true love, what is represented in learning stories…all this and so much more.

It prompts the question—why?

Why have all cultures across the span of time, and the globe, told the same tales and held them as sacred above others? Why are these stories the ones that last throughout the centuries? What is it about a hero’s adventure that is so moving and crucial to our existence as humans that it’s told in almost every book, every movie?

It’s because it is our own tale, or the tale we wish to have.

It’s the tale of humans, as a race, and individually.

Myths worldwide are so important because we have some inner urge to express that which we cannot explain—so we tell it the only way we can: through a story, through symbols. Through gods and goddesses, heroes and villains. They last because inside each of us is a part that recognizes, almost instinctively, the importance of the truths myths tell. That we can overcome near insurmountable odds with help; that we have something important to offer the world; that no matter our parentage, each of us is special and has a unique, vital quest to live; that we are worthwhile. That there is something worth fighting for, and overcoming our own trials is but a part of the whole.

That we are, or can be, a part of something greater than our individual self and contribute to something immortal.

The fact that all of humanity has recognized these things independently speaks to me of a higher power—the Author of the original tale, if you will—and moves me to write about it. The Grand Story has already been written, and it’s as though our collective subconscious already knows it, word for word, and is dying to express it. When I read ancient myths, my core itches for such adventure, and then I realize—I have it. I am alive, right now, and in the midst of my own great battle.

I have an epic love. I am a part of something too big to be intimated, only symbolized in a way my finite capacities can understand. I am a child born of the invisible, fed by the intangible, sustained by the unimaginable.

This is my world, these are my truths, and I will have a Grand Story of my own.

Update!

Just wanted to inform any regular readers that I’m updating the Wandesford story (which still needs a name) by uploading what I’ve edited, and adding “Wandesford” to the post titles just for organization’s sake. I’ve also renumbered them for story order, not the order in which I wrote them. Helps me sleep better at night. For curious newcomers, here are the links to said story-in-progress, in their real order:

Part one:http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2009/07/09/fire-and-iron/
Part two: http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2009/07/09/luck-and-circumstance/
Part three:http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2009/07/10/black-and-white/
Part four:http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2011/02/24/back-and-forth/
Part five:http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2009/07/10/leather-and-lace/
Part six:http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2009/07/12/lies-and-shadows-5/
Part seven: http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2009/07/17/signs-and-correspondance-6/
Part eight:http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2010/07/02/truth-and-manipulation/
Part nine: http://fiachdubh.wordpress.com/2011/02/24/ghosts-and-reminiscence-wandesford-9/

Ghosts and Reminiscence (Wandesford 9)

In the works, for the moment, so I won’t list it as a full story segment yet.

There were bodies strewn about the room, haphazardly curled into corners or lying upon whatever semi-clean surface was available. Limbs were loosely intertwined over chairs, some on the floor, others cocked at unusual angles against the walls.

The occasional broken bottle shone in the faint morning light, and William tread carefully, absently making note that the floor wasn’t entirely safe. He paused mid-step, half over someone’s torso, when the full impact of the sight before him registered. No one was moving.

They couldn’t be…

William bent over the nearest body and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. A few long moments passed before he was rewarded with a strong flutter against his fingertips; William let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Not dead, then. Just passed out. As he stood, habitually smoothing his hair down with one hand, a bottle caught his eye and it all clarified.

The guild, of which he was now a member he thought with a bit of a jolt, must have drunken itself into a stupor. A few flasks had been opened before he’d dismissed himself and gone to bed—it wasn’t that far of a stretch. He almost laughed aloud but stopped, not wanting to risk waking them. The fact that they were, each and every one of them, asleep was the closest thing to a blessing he’d had in what felt like a lifetime. They wouldn’t see him leave.

William set his family’s contract on the table, avoiding dark splotches of what he assumed was spilled ale. Tired eyes had poured over the parchment before he slept in a vain attempt to find a loophole, something to get him out of this agreement that had been made for him. He finally fell into a dreamless sleep, irritated, hopeless, that nothing could seemingly be done. Refusal was out of the question. Deserting, were it a viable option, would not have been one he would have taken regardless. There were too many of them for him to murder and have it go unnoticed. The thought that he was now bound to this slavish, sick group weighed on his heart almost physically, and it was with disgust that he crept out the door.

His mother’s letters held no interest for him now: he would be going home and likely gain better understanding there than he would from her written ramblings. With a pulse almost as strong as his heart, William’s mind kept repeating, ‘Claire needs me. Claire needs me. Claire needs me.’ It beat a steady tattoo in his head as he mounted Lanius, spurred him due north, back to the estate he hadn’t so much as set eyes on in five years. He’d been promised excuses for his absence would be made and trusted the Bleeding Harts to follow through; it would be as much for their benefit as his.

He had no real way of knowing if what Torbjörn had spoken was true, but some gut feeling prompted him to believe the towering man. It was the same instinct that led him home, or what he had that passed for one. It had never felt like the sanctuary from the rest of the world that he knew it should be; the one safe place in the storm. The family estate was the storm and William had a sudden pang of guilt, knowing that he had condemned Claire to take the full brunt of it in his absence.

He would mend what he could if he had to ride straight through a week’s worth of nights. As William rode on, unspoken scenarios playing through his head stirring up a wealth of panic, he vowed that he would never again let his sister suffer for things that happened in his life. She was sick and he wasn’t there to help; she had to be seriously ill if his mother had written. He had never wanted to explain to Claire why he had left as badly as he did right then, alone and in the pre-noon calm of the unknown forest. But she wasn’t there to hear the confession so he tucked it behind his tongue.

He would make this right.

It seemed like the rain had followed him.­ Maybe it was just a reflection of how he felt about the place; grand though it was, especially in the fine mist of the inclement weather, William couldn’t stop the tightness in his chest as he drew near the estate. It was as though a winter-chilled hand squeezed his heart, turned his blood and emotions into ice. Nothing good had come of his home and though the captain told himself it was irrational to give in to his nerves, he allowed a moment to do just that. This was the place his father had died. Where his brother had been born, already dead. Where his mother had lost her mind with grief, and where he had betrayed his sister though he couldn’t know how deeply then. If ever there were a physical location that embodied everything that had ever gone wrong in William’s life, it was ‘home.’ Suddenly it didn’t seem like such an unreasonable thing to be nervous about arriving back for the first time in five years.

There were no servants in sight as he approached the stables, dismounting and habitually heading toward Lanius’ old stall before he realized it would likely have been reassigned by now. It was empty though; no horse, no straw, no dirt even. William felt apprehensive but he ushered the stallion into the pen and removed the tack, setting it on the stall’s side before swinging the gate shut. Lanius, tired, shut his eyes, apparently at ease in the familiar setting.

William was not so comfortable and made the short trek to the estate proper with a growing sense of apprehension. It struck him that the air was empty—of birds, of their fleeting calls, and the lack of noise was an eerie backdrop. His boots scuffed against the worn stone of the entrance hall­ and it startled him, the sandpapery sound breaking the silence almost apologetically. The doors, big and sturdy enough to hold back all but the most determined army, were gaping open and he stepped through, half expecting to hear the doors slam behind him. But nothing happened and William came into the grand foyer, hair on end.

“Hello?” His voice sounded uncertain even to his own ears. It grew more tremulous with each repeated echo until William could have sworn that a little boy in hiding had parroted his words back at him. There was a shuffling commotion of noise that followed and the captain’s hand went to his sword; though unsure of what he could expect, William knew better than to be blithely trusting.

She came out from the far corner of the room, the archway that eventually lead to the servant’s quarters once you’d passed the kitchens and storage rooms. Deep golden hair was almost white now, and her skin had a ghostly pallor to it. She had lost an unhealthy amount of weight; William could see it in her face and his stomach gave a lurch of guilt. He started forward, dropped his hand from his weapon, but couldn’t get his feet to move in accordance with his heart.

“Brother—is that you?” Claire squinted at him as if looking harder would make his presence more real, more believable. She stood there for a long while, a well dressed shadow of what William remembered, before taking tentative, mincing steps toward him.

“You…are here,” she whispered, now only inches away from William. He could see that her eyes had dulled and the color had fled from her cheeks. She looked delicate, like a long forgotten doll.

“I am.” It was all that he could think to say as the distress humming through his head was louder than any coherent string of words. Pulling his sister close for a hug, William was startled all over again by how tiny she felt in his arms. She was all rough edges and points and he made to say so when she pulled forcibly away.

Claire stared at him, nostrils flaring with her short breaths and eyes panicky and wide, like a frightened horse. “You can’t be here. No, no, she will find you and make you leave.” She stole a few darting glances at the otherwise empty room as though expecting someone to join them. William placed a hand on her shoulder, unable to bring himself to say anything that might calm Claire. Beginning to spook, the captain withdrew and took a deep breath.

“Who will find me?” He had to focus on the situation, not the extreme discomfort of the young woman he had come to tend to; this was not what he had expected and William was not a man that liked surprises.

“The Lady. Our mother. Oh, she has gone quite mad. She may not remember you, might think that you’re a stranger and we’re not allowed to have strangers anymore,” she said, the words tripping over each other as they poured out.

William opened his mouth, closed it. His own mother would think him a stranger? Had her mind gone that far from her body? A surge of panic ran through his spine.  He composed himself and took Claire by the elbow. “Where is she, ma chere? Can you take her to me?” Their blue eyes met and Claire was silent for what felt like forever.

She said nothing, only nodded, sensing her brother’s need. Grasping his hand in her own tiny appendage, she led him down the halls as he might have done himself years ago. The walls were dusty and the few tapestries still hanging were covered in cobwebs, ridden with tiny moth-eaten holes. William wondered how long it had been since anyone had taken a rag to anything in the estate.

Back and Forth (Wandesford 4)

I wanted to put something in between the Lady’s last crazy episode and her first big interaction with Claire, make it more informational than developmental so I don’t end up with a huge information dump once William begins to confess to his sister later on. It’s not perfect and I’ll probably revise this later on, but I like a lot of it and it serves its purpose.

“William, darling, come here.”

The Lady’s crooning voice echoed in the cavernous room and reached her son as he passed by in the adjoining corridor. She sat in her dressing room almost constantly now, windows closed and curtains shut, passing days at a time almost without getting up for anything other than meals and to use the facilities. She wouldn’t even step foot past the doors to get the attention of a servant; a bell system installed years ago was finally being put to use. Thinking that his mother merely wanted something fetched, William backtracked into the room and stood attentively by the entrance. He hadn’t forgotten the Lady’s bouts of instability in the few months that had passed since his last attempt to cheer her.

“Yes, ma’am?”

The Lady made a brisk noise of disapproval. “I am your mother, William, not your instructor. But come closer, dear one, I have something to tell you.” She had been facing him in the mirror, watching him reflected, but now she turned and gestured for him to sit in the chair drawn up next to her own. A tiny smile appeared on her face and William couldn’t decide if it was friendly or not. To him, it seemed like she had forgotten what a true smile looked like and was trying her best to seem warm and inviting. It was not reassuring.

He sat down beside her regardless of his growing apprehension, habitually playing with his fingers as he waited for her to speak. She was studying him with eyes he used to love, examining his hair and clothing and, he was sure, his mind. It was a long moment before she gently cleared her throat and patted him on the knee with a trembling hand; detachedly, William noticed it was bonier and paler than he’d seen it before.

“You will be a military man one day, William, so I have sent for a weapons tutor, someone to come to us and show you how to use a sword. Won’t that be fun?” Her smile was stretched now and it was clear even to the boy that she was losing some kind of battle to maintain a front of charm.

William thought for a second, truly undecided if he wanted to learn swordsmanship. He had never thought about it, despite the plethora of other lessons he was taking. “I suppose,” he said at length, looking at his lap, “but I don’t wish to join the military. I want to…I want to stay here and make sure Claire is okay.” He tried to keep his voice from trembling but it came out unsteady; there was too much emotion in that statement for him to hold it all back. In his mind, the only thing between his sister’s safety and happiness, and their mother, was him. No one else would go against the Lady’s wishes, not even if she ordered that Claire was to sleep in the stables and be fed with the horses. He just knew it. No family came to visit anymore, not that they had frequented the Wandesford Estate much to begin with; friends and associates ceased to stop by or send invites for balls and dinners; even their political allies only sent letters now. The French Lady had never been much liked by her English husband’s social circle, had made only a few friends of her own, and the bonds were not strong. It was as though Lord Wandesford’s death and his Lady’s withdrawal into herself was all the excuse their relations needed to cease interaction.

No, they were very much alone now. He was very much alone.

The Lady tilted her head in question. “Make sure Claire is okay?” A little laugh bubbled out of her throat, seemingly unbidden, and she leaned forward until she was only a few inches away from William’s face­. “Make sure she is okay…why would you…she is just fine, chere. Why would she not be?”

William, nervous, was silent until he realized the Lady actually wished him to answer. He had nothing ready to say however, other than the truth, and without second thought, the boy spoke. “Because you are not…you are not healthy, ma mere. She misses you.”

“She misses me?” The words were almost a whisper, and certainly she spoke them with surprise. Curiosity mixed with something William couldn’t quite place—contempt, perhaps—passed over the woman’s face in quick succession and she looked lost. “But I am right here, I haven’t gone anywhere. If anyone, she should be missing you, your father…only the men ever leave. You will leave me, too. I will have just…just little luckless. Just her.” Her sentence trailed off into mumbling and the Lady shook her head after a minute, expression changed from childlike to angry, hurt.

“You need to go for her.” The words dropped from her lips like heavy stones into a shallow pool. “If you do not go, we will all be in ruins. I cannot teach you anything of war, of killing or what it means to want to cause your enemy pain. No…that…your father would have done that. But he can’t. He’s dead, William! Dead!” The Lady rounded on her son who now sat as though trapped in his chair.

“He is gone and I see him in your face every day and I cannot keep you for myself. They cannot take you yet and I cannot teach you how to kill. No, no we can’t tarnish the name, it’s the one promise I made him, so you have to go about it the way normal men do. You have to go to war,” she said, voice bubbling into unstable laughter, punctuated by hiccups as she shook her head. William eyed her apprehensively, prepared to dash for the door if the need arose. He could never gauge how she would act when speaking of Jonathan. But she calmed—it was nice, those moments where she seemed almost sane again—and took a deep breath.

“In joining the military, ma chere,” she said slowly, looking William in the eyes, “you will ensure that life goes on. You will leave your eighteenth year and you will not come back until they have found you and deemed you worthy. Prepared. Handsome, proficient…whatever their criteria is.” The Lady closed her eyes and shook her head again, almost spasmodically, sniffed sharply and batted at the air as though waving away whispers around her head.

Her voice came out an insistent whisper as blue eyes shot open. “This wasn’t supposed to be yours. We kept trying for another, so he didn’t tell you things. Secrets. You were small. But you have to go now. Can’t you see?” Her expression practically begged him to understand her broken bits of information. “You will go, and I will watch her, keep her safe. You will go. Go….go!”

It was a command, that much William understood, and without looking back he hurried out the door.

Just something I wrote while randomly thinking about what I want out of life.

I want the words to flow from my mouth like a wholesome river of love and edification.

When people walk away from me, I want them to feel better about who they are. I want them to feel that they have a specific place in this world and that they are custom fitted for it. No more of these existential tears christening your pillows.

You’re better than that, and if you don’t know it, then I haven’t properly honored you. You deserve better than that, and If you don’t get it, the problem isn’t with you.

I try to pour silk ribbons of affirmation and beauty, wrap you up in them—not to make you beautiful, but to make you feel it. To let you see what you wearing truth looks like.

I want you to see you through eyes that look past your faults to what matters, to the real person cocooned within the flesh.

I want my friendships to be like a dance, a give and take that’s the most natural thing in the world. Hardship, grace, windfalls and tribulations—all maneuvered around, some of the moves more difficult than others, with unending trust and an implicit desire to see one another reach the end in good health.

I want laughter and light for you. Comaradarie, luck, cloudless days and cupcakes with just enough frosting. Black nights with too much rain, and thunder that makes you suddenly thankful for the roof over your head in a profound, immediate sense. I want you to learn how to mend your heart, because I know that, sadly, it will be broken by some careless fool. I want you to know what it feels like to be overwhelmed by something good, and I need you to understand the importance of empathy.

But more than all of this, I want to be there with you.

Snippet

Just an observation from life, written a while ago while reflecting on a conversation I’d had.

 

She never had taken up smoking. It was one of those things she’s always thought about, some kind of vice to latch on to, something to be a silent representation of how shitty she always felt inside. Like the clouds coming out her mouth might be smoke signals to anyone who looked close enough. No one ever did though, and she wondered if maybe that was why her slender fingers had never wrapped themselves around a cigarette. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t buy them—technically she was of age, not that any of the local merchants seemed particularly concerned with tobacco laws. It didn’t matter to them if you wanted to start killing yourself before you were eighteen.

Because she’d toyed with the decadent glamour of smoking for years and never told anyone (why bother?), it was an electric shock when someone told her, quite randomly, that she should never take it up. That she reminded him of the better qualities of his high school friends without the bad habits, and he didn’t want to see her go the way they had. If it been anyone other than him, she might have just shrugged it off. But no, he had seen too much of her, known too many things when he shouldn’t, when he had no way of knowing—she couldn’t believe it was coincidence.

He was one of the people in her life that she hated to love and loved to hate, and just plain loved. A paradoxical man that she couldn’t stop herself from talking to. Over the years he had been a friend, and “uncle,” a father figure, an enemy, and annoyance, a necessity. Someone she wished would spend more time with her and leave her alone entirely.