Peter Gabriel - Indigo


...

— Freya... Where have you been, sis? – Jack asked, as soon as I came into that kitchen.

Not a mess that it is outside there, with people comically sniffing their noses, making those angsty faces without shedding anything but an embarrassment that is the reason some tears may be found on some faces. The only one who isn't akin to any exaggerations there is my aunt Theresa. She doesn't have the need to do it, anyway, although she is another of my aunts who is sharing a cup of tea. This ain't a tea party, though I wanted it to be...

— ...Are you listening to me, Frida? – Wait... what did he say!?

Frida.

My brother, that jerk, used to call me by that name. What was once a misunderstanding that I could bear with when I was little just became a sort of unfunny joke, though I can see him, only his, sharing a smirk. Not even a laugh would be enough to understand it, or a brain surgery, if there is such a thing. Mother gave me this name because of Frøja, founder of the order of Leviathan Knights.

If it wasn't for her, mother, like many belonging to her family, wouldn't become Dragoon Knights. Frøja... I share of her same exact name, though 'Freyja' is a variant that came after the second spelling reform of centuries ago, and it's more easier and less strange to pronounce, so mother gave me a name, as much as the relatives and other kids gave me of same name, on the way they use to spell such, and hear as well, like this Jack.

He insists on calling me by 'Frida' sometimes, which means 'peace', only to mock me as it seems; I, somehow, pay some more attention to Jack when he spells it, as if this word was meant to pull my ears and sight to his. Maybe it's a sign that he really appreciates me, in his own special way. I'm being related to him far more by the blood running through these veins, her veins as well...

She is above this ceiling, isn't she?

I can imagine some blood leaking from there, though it only does out of that mouth, far more bigger than any wound left on that body, like those scars on her back, a bunch of textures belonging to a painting losing its substance, though the portrait remains the same. That mouth, any of them, are also the same places where many wounds happen to appear, in words... I shouted to her once. Only once, because I couldn't take it. It was like shouting to a mirror, until it's shards broke, and so I stepped over them.

— Freya... I thought that you wouldn't be back. – Jack said. Only a person, besides me and Jack, had been given a chair to sit. It was Otterley, the same nursemaid who helped us there to be received into this world.

She was there, holding what seemed to be an infant wrapped around some white blankets. They aren't that white for those who are younger like it... I have also left this same basket I had been carrying all the way above this same table, containing my last gift to mother, or the ingredients needed for it to be complete.

— Me as well. But I knew that I needed to be here... – I was born here. He understood, even if I didn't finish the sentence, as silence overcame me so suddenly. Be quiet.

Hush, Freya... never that I've felt so quiet like this. I would whisper to someone else on the left or the right of my shoulder, like I did so many times with another child as we had been gathered in the middle of a crowd. Same group of people isn't between me, and I didn't care about their noise, but now, it pains me to belong there, now that I understand them all.

And so they began to understand me; not only did my mother held me with her arms, but she also taught me with those as well. She had the will to educate me, but her force wasn't enough, like the one belonging to father, who was dead. Soon mother will be with him, traveling through the Weltall, but not before her moments there become unforgettable, on the best way possible.

— What you've brought from the market with you, Freya? – Otterley asked, still holding that infant. I wonder who this child belongs to, but it seems to be her own.

That woman always holded any child she had been able to give birth like it was her own, so she does for this one. That little thing... Maybe if I looked at that baby, I could know who is his. I offered that wooden basket to her as soon as she gave me that same infant to be holded in my arms.

At first, I thought I was holding some doll, far bigger and heavier than the ones filled in by rice that I've used to hold with only one hand, not both at the same time. Carefully, I didn't let it fall, because it wasn't like a doll, although both are fragile, dolls are easy to amend a loosen limb, and who else would let such a thing be taken by the pull of gravity? It was still sleeping; it couldn't even open his eyes.

With a more clever sight than the one spontaneously given before, I can see that it isn't a newborn, but someone who surpassed a month by being alive. I could feel the warm air coming out of his tiny nose, and that wasn't the only sign of his presence there with me. He, or so Otterlay said to me, could hear us as well, but not understand clearly as we do to each other. To understand in the manner of how they taught us to do it so...

— From who is this son? – I asked Otterley. It didn't took that far for me to get an answer.

— You mean who is Freyr's father? – Instead of Otterley, Jack asked, looking at the infant in my arms. He only went to this table to take some of these ingredients to prepare the chai for mother, thank you very much for doing your part by the way, as much as he also went here to take a look at this child, his own. It was obvious it was his son, listening to the manner he asked me as well.

Freyr... that is the name of the child. His child.

Sure is an old name, like mine; I already could hear him uttering 'aunt Freya' already, but not 'grandma'. That seemed a bit unbelievable to happen for Jack, given the life of his, and as far as I know, he never came to this house to show mother any of his affairs. If Jack is the father, then who is the mother? Not that I'm interested in any kind of gossip, just basic information.

As much as I know my brother, I don't know anything about Jack, only by the words coming from him. I could say that Otterley is the mother, anyone would, but she is a nursemaid. If that was the truth, it would be rather ironic. It ain't a son in blood, but an adopted child instead.

Mother always wanted a third son, but she couldn't. She was still able to, but without a father, she felt sick of thinking about it. I knew she felt this way anytime I asked her about it. Mother could have adopted a child as well, since there are many who need to be taken with the arms instead of the streets.

While working as a Dragoon Knight, she once told me that every child she had ever been protecting was deemed to be her own. I never heard from her that she wanted any grandchildren, like Freyr here, but maybe she would like some of us to share a life to be called our own. When my brother said that he was adopted, I thought for an instant that he only saw that child as a gift, and only. In fact, he seemed a bit worried, now that he had the need to take care of that infant.

Mother did it for both of us during the time she spent healthy like before. Only in appearance, because I knew she was far more sad after father was gone. Like a wall peeling out its painting, yet a wall remains the same in substance; mother protected us before and after we were born, so did Freyr's own, whenever she may be, if given up of taking care of this child, or if given up of a life. A chai takes some time to be prepared, so I'm not wasting my time, mother. I'll be there soon...

If Jack was there, so will I be too.

...Vermins... rats... the babies on the cradles... the dogs on the streets...

But before that, I'll be waiting for this chai, still boiling there. In the same way they prepare the silkworms to be sunk in, many cravats once tied in her neck had been done because of their demises. I'm not only serving this chai to yours because you'll soon pass away, mother.

Understand it as a sign that I love you, and so I'm glad that you have done so much for me to be able to do things on my own. Freyr Crescent, your only grandchildren, the only one you ever saw in your life, the last bits of the same; Jack gave you his own kind of proof, the last gift sent by him to you, so do I may serve this same cup to yours, and me as well. I'm not even there, in that same room, but I know that I am prepared to be there, and to do what I should.

The cup is so fragile, same for mother and her bones, wasted between the first years of my life, and the last ones she will ever be able to see. The porcelain being holded by my hand isn't as white as it was, so does that hair, or what remained of it. Like a willow tree, there is plenty of hair on that head, so does mine, whose mother used to comb with her sharp claws whenever I had been itching of some crawlers taken from the hair of a child other than me.

White were also the nits, the eggs, the seeds of the same creatures atop my head, whose mother also took care as well. On those days, I've smelled the many scents belonging to the amount of oil above my head and those claws scratching my skin, and it was better than being bitten by someone else feeding off my blood like a Muramasa held atop me. I do bleed, but I cannot die yet.

— Mother... – I said, as soon as I opened the door, only to look at that figure lying above that bed, covered by thick blankets, where I used to be hidden from the storm.

Thunder and lightning aren't that frightening... Mother ain't bleeding, though her coughs are far more menacing than any wound or scar found across her skin, yet I can't let this cup fall.

To come this far, from the wall of people surrounding one of my aunts instead of mother, they still keep sobbing as if their tears went dry, to walk across the staircase, where the possibility of same cup to fall and tear part was higher than here, on this same corridor, the painting that resembles what remained of father, and what shall remain of mother, unless I don't go there, opening this same door kept locked, understandable when father was here, not on those lonely nights mother spent on her own, unless I've caught her asleep.

How often I did... Not on this morning, but on nights that she was awake like it was morning. So dark it was this corridor, and those globes instead of eyes; she was out of her mind.

— Well... if it isn't my daughter... cough... Cough! – She said, before she started coughing. Lenneth Crescent, my mother. She is happy to see me, so do I. Far more happier than I am, given that joyful smile upon her face; a child's smile.

I don't know if that may sadden me further, or if it's meant to bring me some comfort, like a mirror does. So cold is the touch, yet the one you see there may be fine, some days not. This is the last of her days, but this doesn't mean she has no time to give the unique impression hidden below the layers of those belonging to a Dragoon Knight, and a mother as well. Any frown, any tear, any order... All ended up with a smile.

— I'll always be here, mom. Never that I would let you down. – I said, sitting next to her.

With those blankets around her body, she seems to share more weight than she should have, but in fact, she is rather skinny when looking at her arm. Not as skinny to show any sign of the bones into her skin, but that body is the one that belongs to a dedicated Dragoon Knight.

A bit stiffen these limbs are, but mother seems weak on the breaths she's taking. So many of them... and then she coughs. An attempt of her lungs to be fred from the leakage, done so many times, and none of them worked as they should. Instead of feeling better, mother felt worse, so she does, yet she is still sharing a smile, as if she accepted her end.

The cup of chai is lying a few centimeters above my waist, being holded by these fingers from the left hand, the same hand mother used mostly. Instead of giving it to my mother, I decided to drink it. She needed far more than the heat belonging to a chai. My presence here, and the days she used to prepare the same chai as I stood on father's place is enough of a gift.

— I wish that I... I could be here... all the time… – Mother said, before she coughed, again.

As a Dragoon Knight, she had to be away from here, while Jack, my older brother, had the need to take care of me, even if I was able to take care of my own already, not that I did miss you, mother. Now I shall miss you forever, but not the moments we have spent together. With father, only a few ones, yet this doesn't mean I must discard him from out of my mind.

I still remember the day I went with his to the market, and how awful the smell of those codfishes, and ironic as life is, I had to eat them. Their flavor is great, but the same couldn't be said for their stench. Jack caught a cold back on that day, and the only complain of his was that he couldn't taste anything. I wished that I could had gotten a runny nose like his own, but I have gotten my fingers instead.

— Nobody like you can, mother… – I said, as if this was meant to be said by me. I have plenty of things to be said, but time is short, or worse, the clock that belongs to each one runs unknown, even to the person it belongs to.

So, we do our best to spend it as we should, in any way meant. Mother had a duty, as much as she had us to be taken care of.

— …This proves that you are human, not another giant among this same Gaia. – and the same could be said about father, Jack, even me.

For all the struggles taken to make our mark far more than the one we left on the soil we step, nothing can compete against time, and death. In just a few generations, we will all be forgotten, so will our accomplishments, only retained like memories, not the same experience it comes like the contact I do when I hold on to this same arm, not even the nearest I can reach of what belongs to mother.

If someone tells you it's cold, they know it really is, but if someone tells you that years ago a huge winter came, like a talk between father to son, the little one can only imagine, or guess how it happened. The details may vary, but all you can do is think about it, and what you do feel ain't the same.

— Freya... – She spoke of my name, before she slightly coughed. I could see that she, as much as me, was tired of those.

So tired... There is a time that everything's meant to come asunder. Nobody knows when it may arrive. Father didn't, yet he kept pulling the rock up a hill and saw it fall so many times he didn't care or bothered to bring it back from where it fell to the top, again and again. So did Lenneth, mother, whose colors are fading... And I know my name won't be the last thing that will come out of her mouth, and mind.

Barely, she turned her against the window, while still laying down in the same position, her last. I can see the petals over her, same for that look who stood. Again, she looked like a child far more I recall ever being. It happened so long ago, but I know it happened, as much as I know I had a father, I also had a mother. Still I do, but I won't be standing here for an eternity like the rain pouring from outside, the same direction she is looking at.

— ...Do you know how it feels?

— Yes, mother?... – I asked. To be fair, I have no idea what she just meant by what I do feel, as we both look at the window, a bit smudged, yet we had no other complaints.

A foot is meant to get dirty when stepping above the soil, cold as well if it stays there for too long. Crawling around this house seemed so easy, now it hurts whenever something falls under the table. I can't even fit in there, like I used to do, used to hide as well.

Until the day father couldn't be found, like many who lay. Still mother had a duty, and she saw plenty of people once at her sight and no more else to be seen. Mother had no time to miss these people, only a person, Bartholomew Brandford, my and Jack's father.

Still, I don't know what mother meant by 'Do you know how it feels?' when looking at this same window. I just agreed, but now I see that I am wrong, or just hurried. I don't need to be in a hurry, I don't have anywhere else to go, not even mother here, for now.

— ...Touching the skies. To feel... so light. So... so free… – She began to talk without any kind of organization in her words. Either way, I could understand her, I've learned it so within the time we and father spent together. Mother looked like me trying to talk, excited about something that caught my attention.

Nothing there outside this window but the city and the clouds, where mother used to be most of her time, wearing that same Dragoon outfit, the red belonging to the Crescents that came before, and those who may come afterwards.

— ...Over the city, flying like a bird... Almost flying with leaps... Yet, I knew I belonged to the same ground as the same people keep walking... No matter how high the buildings were, none of them will ever reach the clouds, only those who fell... Like dreams. I had many of them... Some that I'll never be able to realise... Only those near me, like you here, Freya. One of many dreams I had... Is that I wished to live a bit longer...

And then, mother stopped.

Talking, hearing, listening... Yet, I could feel the warmth of her breath slowly coming across the skin of my hand.

Her eyes stood open, like the ones belonging to a fish. I had to close those pupils on my own. Instead of a hug, I just opened the claws belonging to the left side of mine to run it through her hair, like she used to do whenever I was sick, pale of those crawlers taking out my blood. Later I would eat some beans, prepared by her, but mother ain't hungry. Won't be anymore.

She is still alive, only sharing her last dream, and then, comes the black. I have said so many goodbyes, but I knew she would come back, sooner or later.

She will be back... Only in our heads. "Triangles may not exist, but we do everything to see them everywhere we go", that's what my father, if I may recall, once said.

Lenneth Crescent, once a Dragoon Knight... And a mother as well.

The place where... for the last time... they were seen... Follow me out of the town... Come on rats... Come on children...

Happy birthday, Freya Crescent.