"I'm letting you go to your grandmother's house today." I look up from my
newest basket, but not too quickly, lest I seem eager.
"What's the occasion?" I inquire softly. The mother shrugs, lets out a dismissive breath, then eyes me.
"Do you not want to go?"
"Of course I do," I say, perhaps a tad too quickly. The mother raises her eyebrow. "Mother," I add, my toes curling inside of the shiny shoes. She smiles.
"Well. You can fill one of your baskets with food for her." She says the word 'basket' like she always does: full of contempt. I nod obediently. "I just baked some bread and you can bring her some of the wine that she likes." As I rise to get the bread and wine, she continues, following me about the house with her usual hawk air. "And Daughter." I stop, dreading what will come next. "If you come home in any way mussed, the consequences will not be pleasant." The mother's eyes peruse my face, searching for an inkling of defiance. I hold back a blink, freezing every feature. She finds only the face of a docile young girl. She finds only what she's looking for, a skill which has taken me a lifetime to acquire. I move through the house efficiently, gathering what I need and placing it into my basket. Every time I turn around, the mother is there, standing as straight as a broom, watching me. No matter how many times she does this, my throat still goes dry.
I go into my room momentarily to fetch my cape, trying not to look at the walls with baby doll-like flowers painted on them, trying not to notice the doll carriages and miniature tables with miniature teacups, trying not to remember that I'm supposed to be a child.
The cape is the one thing that is still iron. The cape is the one thing that is pain to wear and agony to see. Everything else is discomfort, everything else is merely sandstone, but the cape is pain and the cape is iron.
I stand on the front steps, facing the mother and feeling like a soldier.
"Stay on the path." Her eyes are hard. "Do not stray from the path."
"Yes." The mother arches an eyebrow. "Yes, Mother," I say hurriedly. The mother appears to be satisfied, for she leans back, brushing her floured hands on her apron.
"Good girl." She leans down again, presenting her cheek to me. I lean forward and peck it. She stands again, smoothes my hood, gives me a curved menace of a smile, and closes the door. I know she is watching secretly from the window, so I hold myself in composure and walk down the immaculate path towards the woods.
As soon as I am around the first corner and into the forest, I drop my basket, hold back my curls, and retch into the grass on the side of the small road. I run blindly to the stream and drink, gulping greedily getting the taste of her off of my lips. I stand, mouth dripping. I wipe my lips, retrieve my basket, and continue down the path, trying to hold my mind onto the flowers and sunshine.
A man is there. I can see him, lurking through the shadows of the wood. I can feel him, sliding in and out of my presence, always a few feet behind me. Suddenly he is here, leaning against a tree not ten feet away. There is something slightly animal about his manner, something sly in the way he moves.
"Hello, little girl," he says softly, gold eyes glowing like the sun. My skin prickles.
"Hello, sir," I reply curtly. I quicken my pace, passing him, freezing my features to hide my surprise as he appears, noiselessly, in front of me once more.
"Please," he purrs, "call me Lucas." I stare at him for a calculated moment, and then stride on, the heels of my shining shoes slipping around slightly.
"You're the girl with the mother, aren't you?" At this I spin around. My voice darts out as icicles
"Most girls have mothers." He laughs, a sound that sends decidedly unpleasant shivers across my back.
"Clever, young miss." My pulse jumps. "But I think you know what I mean." I stand very still.
"I know perfectly well what you mean, Sir," I sneer, exaggerating the formality of the title, "but, unfortunately for you, I have nothing to say on the subject." I turn on my heel and move away.
"I like your curls." His voice is almost inaudible behind me on the trail, but I hear him. My foot hits the ground awkwardly and pebbles fly. "Always making a mess," he murmurs, next to me again, pushing the pebbles back onto the path. I stare at the pebble dust on my shoes, unable to make eye contact. He bends down slowly and brushes the dirt off. I look away, off at the trees. One sways in a breeze. A bird moves. Nerves mounting, I walk away. He follows.
"Little girl, where's the rush?" I point down the path, blood dancing in my veins.
"My grandmother."
"Mhm. And do you like to go to this grandmother of yours?"
I turn my head to give him a glare. I am met by a look of mischievous surprise.
"Why little girl."
"I'm not a little girl and I'm not afraid of you." I squeeze myself together into one taut line, forcing my statement to be true. He laughs again in that distressing manner and I feel a nerve come undone.
"Yes, but she wants you to be." Though I've looked away, I can feel his glittering eyes on my curls and on my cape and on my shining shoes.
My pulse quickens once more and images of doll carriages and child- sized tea tables flash across my mind. Acute awareness of the cape brushing against my arms strikes me. I make myself stone, showing him nothing that he wants. "I don't know who you're talking about."
"If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a liar." His voice is suddenly hard, losing the playful, lilting tones of moments before. He springs up on my other side, startling me, making me gasp. As he smiles, light flashes off of his all too bright fangs. "Now tell me, dear."
"No," I snap. He chuckles.
"Well at least come pick some flowers for granny.the bread and wine will take care of her taste, but what will tickle her eyes?" My quick glance in his direction is met with a smile. "I have a very good sense of smell." He bounds away, off through the woods, plucking up a white flower on his way. He turns, sees me still standing on the path.
"Come along, the flowers don't grow where you stand," he calls, his voice ringing through the silence of the wood.
I stand paralyzed on the path. Following the man whose name is Lucas is not an option, for if I stray from the path, the mother will find out. She always finds out. The iron cape roots my feet into place. But then the man called Lucas stares back at me, fifty feet away, twirling a white flower and smiling in a disconcerting way, will know. He'll know about the mother and about this stupid crimson cape and about my room filled with toys back home. I know I have to choose between grief now, or grief later. The choice is a pointless one.
But suddenly, I am overwhelmed by the fact that there is a choice. It makes me giddy. It loosens the roots of my feet on the path. A choice, I think, intense luxury sweeping over my body. I can choose. Ripe with this sudden new development, I step off the path and stride towards the man named Lucas. His grin broadens and every step I take feels like I'm sinking deeper and deeper into mud. But the mud is mine, and so I keep walking.
"What's the occasion?" I inquire softly. The mother shrugs, lets out a dismissive breath, then eyes me.
"Do you not want to go?"
"Of course I do," I say, perhaps a tad too quickly. The mother raises her eyebrow. "Mother," I add, my toes curling inside of the shiny shoes. She smiles.
"Well. You can fill one of your baskets with food for her." She says the word 'basket' like she always does: full of contempt. I nod obediently. "I just baked some bread and you can bring her some of the wine that she likes." As I rise to get the bread and wine, she continues, following me about the house with her usual hawk air. "And Daughter." I stop, dreading what will come next. "If you come home in any way mussed, the consequences will not be pleasant." The mother's eyes peruse my face, searching for an inkling of defiance. I hold back a blink, freezing every feature. She finds only the face of a docile young girl. She finds only what she's looking for, a skill which has taken me a lifetime to acquire. I move through the house efficiently, gathering what I need and placing it into my basket. Every time I turn around, the mother is there, standing as straight as a broom, watching me. No matter how many times she does this, my throat still goes dry.
I go into my room momentarily to fetch my cape, trying not to look at the walls with baby doll-like flowers painted on them, trying not to notice the doll carriages and miniature tables with miniature teacups, trying not to remember that I'm supposed to be a child.
The cape is the one thing that is still iron. The cape is the one thing that is pain to wear and agony to see. Everything else is discomfort, everything else is merely sandstone, but the cape is pain and the cape is iron.
I stand on the front steps, facing the mother and feeling like a soldier.
"Stay on the path." Her eyes are hard. "Do not stray from the path."
"Yes." The mother arches an eyebrow. "Yes, Mother," I say hurriedly. The mother appears to be satisfied, for she leans back, brushing her floured hands on her apron.
"Good girl." She leans down again, presenting her cheek to me. I lean forward and peck it. She stands again, smoothes my hood, gives me a curved menace of a smile, and closes the door. I know she is watching secretly from the window, so I hold myself in composure and walk down the immaculate path towards the woods.
As soon as I am around the first corner and into the forest, I drop my basket, hold back my curls, and retch into the grass on the side of the small road. I run blindly to the stream and drink, gulping greedily getting the taste of her off of my lips. I stand, mouth dripping. I wipe my lips, retrieve my basket, and continue down the path, trying to hold my mind onto the flowers and sunshine.
A man is there. I can see him, lurking through the shadows of the wood. I can feel him, sliding in and out of my presence, always a few feet behind me. Suddenly he is here, leaning against a tree not ten feet away. There is something slightly animal about his manner, something sly in the way he moves.
"Hello, little girl," he says softly, gold eyes glowing like the sun. My skin prickles.
"Hello, sir," I reply curtly. I quicken my pace, passing him, freezing my features to hide my surprise as he appears, noiselessly, in front of me once more.
"Please," he purrs, "call me Lucas." I stare at him for a calculated moment, and then stride on, the heels of my shining shoes slipping around slightly.
"You're the girl with the mother, aren't you?" At this I spin around. My voice darts out as icicles
"Most girls have mothers." He laughs, a sound that sends decidedly unpleasant shivers across my back.
"Clever, young miss." My pulse jumps. "But I think you know what I mean." I stand very still.
"I know perfectly well what you mean, Sir," I sneer, exaggerating the formality of the title, "but, unfortunately for you, I have nothing to say on the subject." I turn on my heel and move away.
"I like your curls." His voice is almost inaudible behind me on the trail, but I hear him. My foot hits the ground awkwardly and pebbles fly. "Always making a mess," he murmurs, next to me again, pushing the pebbles back onto the path. I stare at the pebble dust on my shoes, unable to make eye contact. He bends down slowly and brushes the dirt off. I look away, off at the trees. One sways in a breeze. A bird moves. Nerves mounting, I walk away. He follows.
"Little girl, where's the rush?" I point down the path, blood dancing in my veins.
"My grandmother."
"Mhm. And do you like to go to this grandmother of yours?"
I turn my head to give him a glare. I am met by a look of mischievous surprise.
"Why little girl."
"I'm not a little girl and I'm not afraid of you." I squeeze myself together into one taut line, forcing my statement to be true. He laughs again in that distressing manner and I feel a nerve come undone.
"Yes, but she wants you to be." Though I've looked away, I can feel his glittering eyes on my curls and on my cape and on my shining shoes.
My pulse quickens once more and images of doll carriages and child- sized tea tables flash across my mind. Acute awareness of the cape brushing against my arms strikes me. I make myself stone, showing him nothing that he wants. "I don't know who you're talking about."
"If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a liar." His voice is suddenly hard, losing the playful, lilting tones of moments before. He springs up on my other side, startling me, making me gasp. As he smiles, light flashes off of his all too bright fangs. "Now tell me, dear."
"No," I snap. He chuckles.
"Well at least come pick some flowers for granny.the bread and wine will take care of her taste, but what will tickle her eyes?" My quick glance in his direction is met with a smile. "I have a very good sense of smell." He bounds away, off through the woods, plucking up a white flower on his way. He turns, sees me still standing on the path.
"Come along, the flowers don't grow where you stand," he calls, his voice ringing through the silence of the wood.
I stand paralyzed on the path. Following the man whose name is Lucas is not an option, for if I stray from the path, the mother will find out. She always finds out. The iron cape roots my feet into place. But then the man called Lucas stares back at me, fifty feet away, twirling a white flower and smiling in a disconcerting way, will know. He'll know about the mother and about this stupid crimson cape and about my room filled with toys back home. I know I have to choose between grief now, or grief later. The choice is a pointless one.
But suddenly, I am overwhelmed by the fact that there is a choice. It makes me giddy. It loosens the roots of my feet on the path. A choice, I think, intense luxury sweeping over my body. I can choose. Ripe with this sudden new development, I step off the path and stride towards the man named Lucas. His grin broadens and every step I take feels like I'm sinking deeper and deeper into mud. But the mud is mine, and so I keep walking.