Earth's Children
Author: Luna Sealeaf
Summary: Harpers' parents tell their tale of life and love in Post-Commonwealth Earth
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No, I do not own the universe of Andromeda, nor do I own characters such as Harper or Brendan (obviously) I made up the characters of Josephine and Evan...blah blah blah..etc, you get it. Please don't copy my story (at least not without letting me know first) and please don't sue.
Death comes like a thief in the night
To steal while you sleep the soul's flickering light
Well maybe it's then, she said
I'll see you again
Cause the son never shines on closed doors.
-Ancient Earth lyrics (Flogging Molly)
Episode Eighteen
The street was a long one, and filled with destitute people. Gray was the color, as well as the only adornment, on both the buildings and the humans that lingered by them. A full, though pale, moon hung low in the gray sky.
My footsteps echoed hollowly as I clutched the blanket around my shoulders, face staring expressionless and void of emotion, forward. I might have smelled bad, having been unwashed for several weeks, but it was no worse than the rest of the city and so I blended in. Many others passed by me in this way; the streets were lined with people sitting and sleeping, while strangers filtered through, intent on their own personal missions. We ignored each other, except for the suspicious glances towards those looking like thieves or collaborators.
For months I had passed down this route, eyes open but unseeing, body cold but alive. Mind numb but thoughts racing through it.
Five months ago I would not have noticed the woman at all. I would have walked by, oblivious, as all the other people in the streets were doing. But I did see her, and I stopped to watch her actions with a familiar but long dead sensation running through me -emotions. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. I was surprised at the stir of life within myself and so I looked closer at her.
There was no guessing her age; she looked maybe a little older than me, but it had been so long since I had looked at my reflection that for all I know, according to others she may have looked half my age. A tattered gray blanket, much like my own, covered her head and shoulders, rags hung on her skinny frame and blended in with her dirty, gray skin. Her hands were holding the cloth of the blanket tightly over something, and while her face stared down, a glazed expression hiding her thoughts -if, indeed, she had any- tears ran steadily down her cheeks. A few steps closer and I saw what she held the blanket over; it was a crying, squalling baby.
Shocked, and shocked at the fact that I was shocked, I took a few steps forward.
"What are you doing?" My voice sounded hoarse and raw. My ears rebelled at their harsh sound and I almost forgot what I was doing. Others passed by us; either unhearing or unwilling to hear. For all our silence as a mass of human beings, my words seemed swallowed up by the very air itself. The woman slowly turned her head to me; wide eyes, made bigger by her face pinched with hunger, stared at me. I was startled; taken aback. She seemed Despair made into human form. But the struggling form of the baby brought words back into my mouth.
"Stop it," I walked forward again, then bent to snatch the child from her arms. With an ironic air of protectiveness, the woman scrambled to her feet and clutched the baby to her.
"Go away! What business is it of yours?" Her voice was as haggard as the rest of her appearence but I had no guilt or sympathy left for her; it was all wasted upon myself.
"Can't you see you're smothering it?" I protested, still a little surprised at the strength of my thoughts and willfulness to protect the helpless child.
"She's better off dead than alive," This time her voice was filled with tears, which once more ran unchecked from her eyes, making little paths in the dirt covering her face.
"If you cannot take care of her, than give her to someone who can," Who this person was that could take care of the baby girl, I could not say, but it seemed to my mind that surely someone, out of all these hundreds of silent forms, had the means and the will to raise a child, though they not be of their own blood.
"Her father died last night! I have no one else! My own mother killed my little brother and sisters, who are you to tell me differently? Who are you to tell me that she would be happy in this life, and not suffer the misery and pain that I have suffered? How dare you tell me she would not be better off in a different world?"
She spoke eloquently for a woman with nothing to her name; apparently, not even another human being. Perhaps she had gone to school, or had once known someone who had done so. Idly these thoughts passed through me as I struggled to think up an argument. It occurred to me that she may even be right; how could I know that the world beyond this one was not better? I shook these ideas from my head.
"You have her; your daughter. And she has you; together maybe your life will be better. Her life should be a comfort to you, if you loved her father, not a burden. Don't let your past pain and misery cause you to give up on life; as long as any one of us is still alive, then there is still hope for -for everything!" As I spoke I felt a great well of intense feelings, one might even dare to call it passion, rising through me. My words resounded in my head so that I was talking to myself and not merely to the poor wretch in front of me.
But my words had not the effect I desired. The woman stared at me unblinking for a time and then slowly shook her head. My heart sank once more into its pit of despair as she held out her arms.
"You take her then. I will not waste my energy trying to make her live, simply to have her die like all the others. I cannot bear it. At least if you take her away I can die pretending that she lived a full life of happiness."
With a sigh, my arms like lead, I accepted the tiny bundle of crying infant. Just before I turned away I remembered something and looked once more toward the woman,
"What is her name?" The woman looked at me with a deep weariness seeping from her.
"Marie."
"And, when she is grown, what shall I tell her is her mother's name?" I said the words softly, not knowing if she would prefer to remain unconnected from the girl's life completely. I saw her hesitate and thought she would not say, and then,
"Tell her that her mother's name was Fiona." And slowly she sank back to her spot on the ground; fading into the scenery as though what had passed had been a vision or dream interrupting the normal pattern of reality. I walked away, not paying attention to the direction I was walking in, and stared at the red faced baby. Fiona. My ears pounded and my breath quickened. It was the name that a young man, barely more than a boy, had once given to a fiery and spirited young woman.
At that thought I nearly laughed. If, looking back, I were to call myself 'fiery' and 'spirited' when I was eighteen and had then considered myself morose and disattached to life, then how would I describe myself now? I'm not sure I wanted to know the answer to that question.
I had not taken more than a few steps when a voice cried out,
"Wait!" Turning, I saw a figure swimming through the figures that passed around us -indifferent as a sea- hardly resembling the shrunken figure I had just spoken to.
"Do you have any children of your own? Are you a mother?" Somehow I knew this was important to her, but I couldn't help feeling angry, as though she knew my life story and was picking at my wounds on purpose. I summoned a smile, though even I could tell that it stretched thinly across my face.
"I was...once. Once I was a mother." And I left her with those sad words; standing alone while surrounded by a hundred or more bodies that were, if one looked closely enough, nothing more than empty shells.
I should not begin this episode of my life in such a way; it will be easier to explain if I start at an earlier time in my memories...
Six months earlier
A few weeks after the death of my sister-in-law, Orla Harper Lahey, I awoke to the shape of my husband outlined by the faint light that crept in through our grimy window. Seamus was nowhere to be seen, so I climbed out of bed.
"Is it morning?" I asked dumbly, my mind still foggy from sleep. Evan started at my voice, but smiled as he turned to face me. I walked into his arms and laid my head on his shoulder.
"Just about. At least, I think so." He sounded uncertain, as though his mind was currently on other matters.
"What woke you?" I said quietly, a dull headache making my ears pound.
"My thoughts...or rather, memories." He gave me another quick smile as I looked up at him with curiosity.
"Memories of what?"
"Of Orla, of something we once talked about before she died." I put my head back on his shoulder, not intending to pry or make him revisit sad thoughts, but to my surprise he continued anyway.
"When she first fell ill, the second time that is, I told her that she couldn't die or else I'd be the last Harper alive." A different woman may have taken offense at the words, but I didn't. I understood that he didn't mean that his sister was more important than I.
"What did she say?" I ventured to ask.
"That I was wrong, and of course I was, -she said that Seamus was a Harper, as would his children be."
"She was right." I murmured, my eyelids drooping.
"Indeed she was." Evan said the words softly, placed a kiss on my forehead and then my mouth, before gently helping me back to the bed.
"I'll see to the house; you look too tired to be up yet." I tried to nod or thank him, but the words and gesture was beyond me. In moments I fell back asleep.
But it was not the peaceful rest I hungered for; my mind was again filled with dreams, dream so vivid that I would never forget them. They were the strange fragmented visions that I had always connected my son with. Once more I was standing in the middle of nothing; bright lights shining all around me. There was somebody, or something, next to me, but no matter how I turned I could not see her. But she spoke, and I never forgot a single word that passed between myself and that strange dream figure.
"We must decide, you and I, which is stronger; the Sun or the Earth."
"Why?" I would call out, that single word holding a thousand different meanings. The voice grew louder.
"I must know which spirit still Lives and Grows; and which one is Dying and Weak."
"Why do you ask me?"
"Because you are Earth." And then the scene changed abruptly; hands and claws were tearing at me from all sides; people called me a name that was not mine, but sounded familiar. The image of a pale and red headed woman filled my eyes, she said something in a soothing tone, but I could not make out the words; she was touching my forehead and the touch burned, it burned so badly that I was screaming, thrashing my arms to try and get her off; and then the claws and hands were back, once again ripping my body to pieces-
"Mom, mom! Wake up!"
My eyes flew open and I gasped audibly. I was covered in sweat, and tangled up in the few blankets that lay on the bed. Concerned blue eyes met mine, hands gripped my shoulders.
"Mom, are you alright?" It took me a moment, but then the horrid nightmare was gone and I recognized both the face and the voice. It was my son, Seamus. The fact that I had not known him immediately frightened me more than the dream.
"Yes, I'm fine." I sat up in bed and his hands dropped away. I brought my own to my face; my skin was clammy, my fingers like ice.
"You were screaming; were you having a nightmare?" His tone was both anxious and curious. I gave him a smile and started to get out of bed.
"I was, but I'm better now that you woke me up; thank you love." I kissed his cheek and he blushed slightly; having just turned fifteen, Seamus was not used to receiving such affectionate words or gestures. When I would sometimes feel guilty about my critical eyes and words, my sometimes too-harsh judgements, I would explain that it was only because I expected more of him than of other people.
He watched me seriously as I stood up and began making the bed.
"You look tired," he said bluntly. I gave him a smile that did not reach my eyes as an answer.
"I'll be ok. Where are your cousins and your father?" I asked to change the subject.
"Caitlin's outside playing my tin whistle, again," He said in obvious frustration, adding, "She plays that thing more than I do!" I frowned at him and he quickly continued on, "Um, Dad went to the Market and I don't know where Brendan went-" I cut him off by holding my hand up, straining my ears. Seamus stopped talking and looked at me in puzzlement. But the sounds of screaming and the familiar hum and whir of machines were unmistakeable.
"Ubers." Seamus said the word in a low voice, face darkening. The slave raids had increased lately, though none of us knew why. Without another word I grabbed him by the shoulder and hurried him out the door and down the stairs.
"Get Caitlin," I ordered as I looked in the different rooms for Brendan. There was no sign of either him or Evan. I could only hope that the two of them stayed somewhere safe. Meanwhile I hid with Caitlin and Seamus in our familiar hole in the floor. Ever since that terrible Magog attack one summer ago, when the house had burned down, we had been weary of using it; but what other choice did we have? Luckily the Nietzscheans didn't even look in our house this time. Before long I heard heavy footsteps and worried voices calling our names.
Pushing open the door I called out,
"We're over here." As both Evan and my nephew came rushing into sight I sighed in relief that the two of them were safe. I proceeded to cook dinner while Evan went out to inquire after the our few friends; some of them made it, others were taken away. After we ate, Seamus muttered something about 'going out and looking for parts' while Brendan quickly offered to go with him. They put their dishes away (wood cups and plates fashioned from bark, scraps of metal, all sorts of odds and ends) and hurried outside before either Evan or myself could question them. When I voiced my concern over their whereabouts, Evan just stated the obvious; they were grown boys, practically men, and we couldn't always be watching over them.
Still, I worried as only a mother could worry, focusing my energies on my work, Caitlin, or Evan, just to make the time go by faster. Then, late in the night, the two of them would return home, full of secretive smiles and playful grins, their good mood so contagious that we would all spend the rest of the night laughing and sharing jokes or stories.
But then one night, a few months later, they didn't come home. I paced the main room until Evan at last insisted we go to bed. After seeing Caitlin asleep, I joined Evan upstairs and forced myself to lay down, willing my body to sleep. It seemed impossible, but I did manage to sleep for a time. I was awakened in the middle of the night however, by a strange sound. Sitting up in my and squinting in the dark I made out the form of my son on the mats that had been his bed for more years than I cared to count. Beside me Evan snored softly, obvlivious to the noise that had disturbed my sleep.
Slipping out of bed I walked over towards the door. Groping in the darkness I found our small supply of matches and the homemade candle. Lighting it, I then walked softly over to my son's form. He lay on his side, back towards my bed, but I knew he was awake. Setting the candle down on the floor, and going to my knees with minimal difficulty despite my advanced age, I asked in a whisper,
"Seamus, what is it? Why are you crying?" A question I had not asked him in a very long time. To my relief he did not deny his tears or tell me nothing was wrong, or pretend to be asleep. No, Seamus turned on his side, and when I looked into his eyes I reached out impulsively to place a soothing hand on his cheek. As he struggled to stop crying long enough to form words, I studied my son. From his spiky, unnaturally bright hair, to the metal earring that glinted in the candlelight, to his gray long sleeved shirt, brown dirty pants, to the hand made vest (a gift from a couple of years ago) that was his only blanket. In the day he and Brendan sometimes even lined their eyes with charcoal, claiming that it gave them a 'tough, hardened look', something they strongly felt would help increase their chances of survival. But looking at his face, I could not see a hard, dangerous man.
All I could see was my little boy with beautiful blue eyes, a piece of metal stuck through his ear (that I still cringed at; the tattoo was bad enough, but sticking some object through his flesh and leaving it there seemed too great a temptation of fate) and when Evan had seen the unnecessary 'piercing' as he called it, there had been a great uproar between the two. They had fought and shouted into the night; but finally the two had come to terms. Seamus promised to never do anything like that again, and the earring was allowed.
"It's Isaac -he's dead. He died." Seamus brought a hand to his mouth and clutched at it to try and muffle the sounds of his tears. Isaac, the sweet and funny lad who had befriended my son and nephew when they were just children. I sighed deeply and lay down on my side next to him, taking him in my arms as though he was ten years younger. I had not held my son in such a way for more months than I could remember, and although I was deeply sad at my son's loss, I couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of being needed.
"How did he die?" I asked after several moments to give my son time to collect himself. He seemed to hesitate and would not meet my eyes.
"Nietzscheans killed him." He said at last. I brushed a hand through his hair and closed my eyes painfully, assuming he'd been killed during one of the slave raids.
"Don't tell Brendan," he said in a hoarse voice.
"Doesn't he already know?" I asked in surprise, meeting Seamus' eyes with my own. He shook his pale face.
"I don't mean Isaac...I mean...don't tell him I was -that I was crying." I gave Seamus a tight hug.
"Your secret is safe with me." I said in a gentle whisper. No need to ask why it was a secret; weakness, in any shape or form, usually led to an early death.
After the death of Isaac, for whatever reason, both Brendan and Seamus stayed home more. When they did leave it was to go to the junkyard to assemble parts. Seamus would keep the best items for us, and sell or trade the others. I was proud of him, but I think it sometimes shamed Evan that he had to rely on his son for so much. They would get into louded heated arguments over the most unimportant things, both entreating me to take sides, which I never did. But the two always made up and forgave each other; they had to. After all, they were father and son.
Caitlin often went with her brother and cousin. Seamus reported proudly to me that she was every bit as good as he at fixing things. While she never said a word, she sometimes would smile at him when he said those things. We weren't the only ones surprised at Caitlin's abilities; some of friends and neighbors would notice her doing something, such as playing Seamus' tin whistle as well or better than he or even Evan, and remark on it. I was both proud of my niece and afraid for her. It was never a good thing, no matter what anybody said, to attract attention. But when I tried to keep Caitlin from going to the junkyard she would become furious and go into fierce temper tantrums that did not suit her age of thirteen.
In the end, my instincts proved to be true. It was never a good idea to attract attention. But Caitlin couldn't help attracting attention; people would look at her once, give her a second glance because of her fresh beauty and strangely serene face, and then they would notice her lack of speech, and then the questions began. But never, in a million years, could I have predicted the destructive attention she'd bring to herself.
It all came back to that day; that one day when I said goodbye to the three children. Evan and I were looking forward to an afternoon all to ourselves, and the day passed by pleasantly. We didn't expect them to return until later that evening, and were thus surprised at the sound of feet racing and voices crying. A moment later Brendan and Caitlin burst through the door; my niece in tears, and both of them looking the worse for wear. My heart dropped a thousand feet to rest in the pit of my stomach.
"Where's Seamus?" Were the first words out of my mouth.
"He's gone! Those Uber bastards took him! We tried to stop them, they came after Caitlin and me and Seamus told her to run while we held them off; I got away, and I thought Seamus was right behind me, but then he wasn't and I saw them taking him away-" He spoke so quickly that I almost couldn't decipher the words, but then I felt the blood drain from my face and I suddenly felt faint. Evan had leapt to his feet at Brendan's first few words; a look of such anger upon his face that I was distracted for a moment and actually a little frightened of him.
"Slow down Brendan; take a deep breath, now explain to us again, this time tell us exactly what happened." Brendan struggled to catch his breath and finally the story came out. They were the only ones in the junkyard, that they could tell anyway, as they usually were. The three of them were hard at work looking for useful pieces or parts when suddenly Caitlin had screamed. A small group of Nietzscheans had surrounded the junkyard and were trying to get Caitlin, ignoring Brendan and Seamus until they attacked the Nietzscheans, ordering Caitlin to run as soon as she was free of their grasp. Once she had reached a good distance; to their luck and puzzlement, the Nietzscheans carried only small stun guns that could not shoot very far, Brendan raced after her when Seamus yelled at him to go. When Brendan realized that the Nietzscheans weren't following them, he'd turned around to ask Seamus what was going on, only to find that his cousin was slumped over the back of one of the Ubers, who were already disappearing from view. Not knowing what else to do, Brendan was torn between following them to see where they took Seamus, and making sure Caitlin got home safely.
I was numb, and I cannot recall the events of the rest of that night, or of the next day. I think Evan went out searching for him, or for information of why he'd been taken. It seemed obvious that one of our neighbors were either collaborators themselves, or had told collaborators, about Caitlin's strange abilities, and had triggered the interest of the Nietzscheans. But why had they taken Seamus? My blood ran cold at the thought of them performing experiments on him, a common and indeed, open scientific practice among the Uber 'researchers' or even just the thought of being sold into slavery. One thing was certain; the odds of my seeing my son alive again were as slim as the odds that I would ever leave Earth.
My greatest fear had come to pass. My one certainty, my one assurance of life was that no matter what might happen to me or Evan, Seamus would live, that he would grow or prosper. That stern faith was gone. No matter how I tried to convince myself, I just could not see how Seamus could fulfill any sort of destiny while in the hands of Nietzscheans. His life was over just as my hopes for him were beginning to flower. Never have I known such destitution; for the past fifteen years I had held one belief; and that belief had been utterly shattered in less than a day.
The feeling of helplessness tormented me both day and night. Evan and I both were like ghosts; even our love for our niece and nephew could barely sustain us. Hell; even our love for each other was almost not enough. But it must have been, somehow, because here we were, still alive. And everyday since then I had walked that long and lonely alleyway, because it the link between the Human Ghetto, Space Harbor, and Nietzschean Quarter. I walked every day, just in case...just in case Seamus had managed to escape, or perhaps I would catch a glimpse of him...it was a faint hope, and one I knew was unlikely to be fulfilled, but I walked nevertheless.
And now I held this small baby in my arms. Marie. Such a pretty name...I wonder what I would have named my daughter, if I had born one. Not knowing what else to do, I took the child home and had the task of explaining to Evan how I had somehow adopted a baby girl. He accepted my explanation, and agreed that I could not simply have let the woman kill her. But there was an unspoken agreement that, if the occassion should arrive, we would have to give her up.
I knew that, I really did, but I didn't care. For now Marie was the center of my universe. She helped me to live again. I could smile and laugh with my niece and nephew, my blood-adopted children. I could embrace Evan and return his kisses and caresses with the passion in which he gave them. I didn't accept that Seamus was gone; somehow my heart would never really believe that. But my mind told me that I would never see him again, so I had better concentrate on the good things in my life. When I first met her, Marie was about a year old, or so I guessed. A bright smiling two year old, long brown hair constantly getting tangled, and dark brown eyes, though both were lighter than mine, she was practically a little angel.
I think Caitlin disliked her a bit, maybe she was jealous of the attention I gave her. At barely two years old, Marie had uttered more words and phrases than Caitlin had in her fourteen years of life. Brendan liked the girl, I think, for he often smiled at her sadly and would agree to play with her. I could never honestly figure out how Evan felt about the child. I think he tried to distance himself from her, but sometimes he would catch her up in his arms and spin her around, as he used to do with Seamus.
But the day came, as we suspected it would, when a chance for a better life came along for Marie. She loved looking at the spaceships, and so I would go on walks with her in the evening to marvel at the huge crafts. She would squeal with laughter when they took off in the air, like so many giant metal butterflies. And the one day we were approached by two spacers; a young man and a young woman, who looked like they were husband and wife. I remember gripping Marie's hand tightly as I watched the two walk over to us. They both smiled, and while the man talked, the woman was gazing at Marie with a rapt gaze.
"Ma'm, is that your daughter?" He asked softly. I held Marie close to me but shook my head.
"No, I simply took her in; her mother gave her up."
"My name's Greg Jalen, and this is my wife Lucie...we don't have any children." He said the words a little awkwardly and I gave a kind smile, not sure how else to answer.
"She's a beautiful little girl, what's her name?" Lucie asked. I hesitated and looked the couple over before answering. I seldom did important things on a whim, but I could tell that the two were decent people. They looked well fed and were warmly dressed; and if it's true about the eyes being the window to the soul, than these people were very good souls indeed.
"Her name is Marie. What is your business on Earth?" It was really the only important question I had to ask them; if they were collaborators with Nietzscheans, I would never give Marie up to them. The woman's look softened even more before she answered; and I saw a look of pity pass over both their faces.
"We are part of the relief aid employed by the Drago-Kazov for refugee camps that are attacked by Magog. We deliver food and supplies." They were obviously proud of their work and I had not the heart to tell them that in truth, the people who needed those supplies the most never saw them. Cheap supplies went straight to Nietzschean soldiers; these people, and many like them, were constantly taken advantage of. But I nodded nonetheless.
"You seem like very kind people. Do you plan on having children someday?" The pair exchanged a look.
"We've been trying to have children for some time but...it doesn't seem like we'll have any luck."
"Is there room to spare for a small child?" I finally asked in a somber tone. Greg and Lucie gripped each other's hands and smiles blazed on their faces, showing the whitest teeth I had ever seen.
"Of course! Oh, we'll take such good care of her, you have no idea -"
"I'm sure she'll be happier with you than she could ever be down here." I cut them off.
"Please give me just a moment." They nodded eagerly and began talking in fast tones while I knelt in front of the little girl, who had been digging in the dirt all the while.
"Marie, you're going to have parents now. You're going to have a home. I love you; and I hope you like your new life. It's for the best." The little girl, not understanding me, simply smiled, and I felt tears press against my eyes. If only she were a little older, then perhaps she would understand just how amazing this opportunity was! How rare and special her life was going to be. How I was not abandoning her, but helping her out my love for her. One last hug and then I picked her up and handed her to Lucie. I tried to think of something to say; some words of advice on how to raise her, but no words came to me.
"Take care of her, I beg you." Was all I said. Silently, I added, Better than I took care of my son... Lucie clasped the girl to her and stroked her dirty hair and I turned to walk home. If it had been Seamus, instead of Marie, could I have given him up? Could I have given up my own flesh and blood if I could be sure he would live a better life? Would I have chosen selfishly or thought of my child's needs? But life wasn't that complicated:
My son had died; and the child I had taken in was given away. There were only three people on the entire planet I could call family. And I was considered lucky...
A/N:
Just a quick note; no, I did not misspell 'son' in the lyrics; it's supposed to be that way. Only one more chapter! Oh no!! I tried to make this one really good and not simply a boring old 'filler' chapter. Josephine always seems to get the boring times...and I know the ending probably dragged; I was originally going to simply have Marie die as a baby...but the next chapter is going to be so depressing that I couldn't bear another unhappy ending. Thanks,
Luna Sealeaf
P.S. -if you have a few minutes to spare, could you bring yourself to read my original fic; I only ask because I want honest opinions/suggestions/help from people who I know are really good writers themselves, but I understand if you're not interested or don't have the time. Thanks!