Beheld

by Alex Flinn

  I giggled, perhaps because I thought him funny, calling me his lambkin, but more likely from the wine that Karl kept pouring and pouring. I feared to place it down upon the blanket, lest it spill, so I had to drink it. My head felt like a gas-powered balloon, soaring over the treetops. “Oh, I don’t know.” I brushed his arm with my hand. “It arrived on my doorstep Friday, likely from a secret admirer.”

  He laughed as well. “I am glad you enjoyed it. More wine?” He held out the bottle.

  “I should not. I will have to stumble home somehow, and I still have my shopping to do.”

  He filled my glass. “I will walk you home. I will walk you anywhere you need to go. I will help you with your shopping, so you can afford one more glass. Please—it is sweet, like you.”

  His face was so handsome, his voice mellifluous, and the wine was the sweetest I had ever tasted. “Maybe half a glass.”

  But I did not protest when he filled the sparkling goblet all the way.

  The rest of the afternoon was a happy blur. I lay upon the blanket with my head in Karl’s lap, which may have been improper, but I felt slightly ill—and no one saw us anyway. As the sun sank lower in the sky, Karl helped me with my shopping and carried my groceries home. We paused a little farther from my house than we had the week before. My head was clearing a bit, but my stomach was empty, and I wished I had eaten more.

  Above the rushing water, Karl said, “Will it really be a week before I can see you again?”

  I sighed. I looked into his blue eyes, and my heart just broke. Why must I be a poor miller’s daughter and not a rich girl with nothing to do but flirt? I placed one hand upon his arm. Then, boldly, I placed the other one there too.

  “I know. It will be so long.”

  I looked up, willing him to come closer.

  He did, placing both hands upon my elbows and drawing me near.

  And, in that moment, I knew he was going to kiss me, and I was powerless to prevent it, powerless from the wine, but also from the wanting. I had not the will to stop him. I needed to feel his lips upon mine, his body crushed against me. I stood on tiptoe, smelling the wine on his breath, hearing the birds above me, the dove’s mournful call, the chatter of the river, then only our breathing as he pulled me toward him and his tongue explored mine.

  It seemed an eternity, and perhaps it was. Perhaps everything in my life would be measured as either before or after that kiss. It changed everything. I was no longer some dull miller’s daughter, destined to bear children and milk cows. I was the girl Karl had chosen, and even as I went about my boring chores and read by candlelight, I would know that. I would remember it.

  Finally, we broke apart, and he said, “Do you have to go?”

  “I . . . I think so.” The words were a gasp, my last breath.

  Karl picked up my packages and handed them to me. “Same time next week?”

  I nodded. “And same place.”

  He started to turn away. “We will pick up where we left off.”

  “I will bring the picnic.”

  He smiled. “And I will bring the wine.”

  Then he was gone.

  I spent the week baking, rolls, apfel strudel with a crust light as air, and so many fancy cookies. I was a good baker and wanted to show off. Father ate well that week for, of course, I had to make duplicates of each item, so he would not know I was meeting an admirer. I did not know why I thought my father would disapprove of my meeting Karl. Yet I knew he would. Perhaps it was because of the joy I took in the meetings. I knew I would marry someday, but I would be expected to marry someone of my father’s choosing, someone with a proper trade like a farrier or a wheelwright. Or perhaps I would simply stay here and take care of my father as he aged, then move in with one of my sisters, an old maid. That was not what I wanted, not anymore.

  I knew, also, that Father would see that Karl was a rich man’s son. He would question his interest in me.

  I questioned it myself. I saw the question in others’ eyes when we met the following week at the market. I saw it in the eyes of the bookseller’s assistant, who did not ask about my reading, but rather fake-swept another part of the stall when I arrived. Karl wore a coat and waistcoat of deep-blue brocade, trimmed in gold braid, far too fine for a girl like me. Everyone could see that.

  But when Karl looked at me, his eyes widened then narrowed, as if he had been exposed to too much sun. He rushed toward me, whispering, “My ladybird, it has been torture without you. A week might be a lifetime!”

  I felt the same, but I was surprised that he did, and my cheeks spread into a smile so wide it almost hurt. “Shall we go?”

  “We shall, my mouse.” He offered his arm. I took it, and we walked—nay, promenaded—between the shelves of books. I thought I heard the young assistant cluck his tongue as we passed. Perhaps he was envious of the love we shared. Who would not be, after all? Especially one as homely as him?

  Everywhere in the market, I felt the envious stares of the other young ladies at their shopping. Karl suggested that perhaps we should visit the stalls first, the better to take our time at lunch later on. I agreed, and Karl held the basket while I chose fish and vegetables. I did so as quickly as possible, and then we went to the woods.

  We walked farther in this week than last. “It is such a wonderful afternoon for a walk,” Karl said, and though I felt a bit warm, I did not disagree. It grew cooler as we journeyed farther into the woods, and though the birds sounded more distant as the trees grew taller, there was something so lovely about the whisper of the branches. I had never been so far off the path before, and I smelled exotic wildflowers and kicked at strange purple-and-orange mushrooms. Finally, we reached a clearing near the brook.

  “Look!” Karl pointed to the other side of the water and touched my elbow. I felt my teeth chatter at his touch, and then my body went warm.

  It was a mother red deer and her fawn, drinking at the stream. “They are so beautiful,” he said.

  “You are a city man,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “On my father’s property, there is a herd of deer. They drink from the river, sixty or seventy of them sometimes. I see them when I walk out at twilight.”

  “It must be a very beautiful place.”

  I had not thought about it, but I supposed it was.

  “It is. There is a waterfall that runs over the craggy land and a stand of apple trees behind it. It is most beautiful in autumn, when the leaves turn red and orange and you can see them reflected in the water. When I was a little girl, I used to collect the leaves and throw them into the river, then watch them float away like merry little boats.”

  “That is lovely. I wish I could go there.” I felt him move closer, his arm against my elbow.

  “Maybe you can. I can bring you to meet my father someday, and to visit.”

  His hand brushed my body. “Perhaps.”

  At that moment, the mother deer noticed us. I saw her eyes meet mine. Then she gave some secret signal to her baby, and they both ran away.

  Karl moved closer and kissed me. He laid down the basket and spread the blanket on the ground. He held out his hand. “Shall we picnic here, milady?”

  I took his hand and sank down to the ground, sitting beside him so our thighs touched. Being near him made my stomach feel like a trapdoor with the bottom dropping out of it. I wanted him to kiss me again, yet I knew I wasn’t supposed to want that, much less act upon that desire.

  I said, “Let me get out the dishes.”

  I unpacked the hamper, and he exclaimed at all the items, seeming amazed that I had made the bread, and the butter and cheese, marveling at the cookies I had decorated with frosting and dipped in chocolate.

  He tore off a hunk of bread and found a knife to slather it with butter. Then he fed it to me, as if I was a baby bird. While I ate, he poured more wine the color of the black-red tulips that bordered our garden. He held up his own glass.

  “To fresh-baked bread and the girl who
bakes it.”

  I drank heartily, wondering if he would kiss me again.

  “My father wants me to join the army,” he said.

  The change of subject was so abrupt that, at first, I thought I had misheard him. Then his words sank in, and I was first sad, then elated, sad that I might not see him for a while, but elated that here was an occupation my father would understand, respect even.

  “My sister’s husband is in the army,” I said.

  “Oh, he must be very brave. I fear I would be a coward. It is so much easier to read about wars than to fight them.”

  “But if you felt strongly about the cause . . .”

  “That is the problem. I am not certain I do. Is that horrible?”

  I thought about it, drinking the wine he poured. I knew I would never want to go to some open field and have people shoot at me. But that was not expected, because I was a girl. Was it wrong for a man to feel the same way?

  “No,” I said. “Some people are just meant to be readers. Does your father not understand that?”

  He chuckled. “Sadly, no. And I cannot explain it to him.”

  We were silent for a time, drinking wine and listening to the brook. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  I reached for the hamper to take out the strudel I had baked, that he might admire that too, but Karl caught my hand. “Would you . . . wait for me, if I went off?”

  “Wait for you?” Did he mean what I thought he meant?

  “I love you, Cornelia. I have never met another girl like you.”

  And though part of me said there were hundreds, thousands of girls just like me, I said, “I love you too.” I did. I had since I’d first beheld him.

  He kissed me hard upon the lips, his tongue exploring mine.

  “Should I . . . ?” But now he was kissing my neck, and my hands found his hair, his chest, and there was no one there to see, and we were entangled in each other, and I was like the river crashing through our mill, nowhere to go but where the forces took me, predictable yet beyond my control. I was the river, carried over the hard rocks below.

  Finally, gasping, it ended. Karl poured me another glass of wine to replace the one spilled in our tussle. I could not even blame the wine for what we had done. I hadn’t had that much. I had wanted him.

  That night, Karl walked me home, and we planned to meet again.

  We met the next week and the week after, and it was always the same. The picnic lunches, our embrace. Karl never again mentioned his father’s plans for him, or his wish that I would wait for him. I wanted to ask him, but my happiness was such a new and fragile thing that I didn’t want to blow upon it, lest it break. I hoped—I did not know what I hoped would happen, something that would allow us to marry soon. I began to hope that even more fervently when my monthly flow did not come. I knew from my sisters’ whisperings that this meant I was going to have a baby.

  How I longed for the time when my life had moved slowly, like the river, always the same, always the same.

  3

  When I told Karl, he was stunned.

  “You cannot be,” he said.

  “Of course I can.” I picked at the blanket beneath me. It was my week to bring the picnic, but I had felt nervous and a bit sick that morning and had burned the bread, dropped the butter. Still, I had not expected his denial. “What we have done is known to result in . . . babies.” Even a poor miller’s daughter knew that. A smart student like him should.

  It occurred to me, not for the first time, that I had been stupid, that I knew nothing of this man, other than that he had a handsome face, charming manners, and that he loved me, said he loved me. If he chose to abandon me in my condition, what recourse would I have? I could follow him, perhaps, but once there, what would I do? If he left me, I would be like one of the leaves I tossed into the river, floating untethered, bobbing for a while until I would eventually sink.

  I might as well throw myself into the river.

  I did not want to believe that he would abandon me. Karl was good. Karl was kind. He had told me his own fears. He couldn’t belittle mine.

  “Are you not going to marry me? You said you loved me.” I tried not to cry, but the effort made my face feel swollen, like a bee sting. “I thought you were honorable.”

  I knew I had no reason to believe that.

  “I do.” He rose. “I am.”

  But he did not say, I will.

  He began to pace, like a chicken trapped in a coop. He had no reason to stay, and I knew that if he left, it would be forever. In the distance, I saw a mother deer and her fawn, perhaps the same ones we had seen that day. I wished I could go back to when I first saw them and do everything differently.

  “I do love you.” His eyes were those of a frightened child. His face was almost unrecognizable to me. This was not the man I thought I loved. He was not a man at all, just a terrified boy. “I just . . . my family will never approve. I shall be in so much trouble.”

  And he began to weep, still pacing, mumbling incoherently until I wanted nothing more than to run away, forget I ever knew him.

  At least he did not seem to realize the delicate position I was in, that he could simply leave and be gone. At least he was taking his responsibility seriously.

  But then he said, “I must go.”

  “You can’t. You cannot just leave me.”

  “I need time. I will come back next week.”

  He began to walk again, but now he walked away, down the path and through the forest, out to the marketplace, answering my cries only with, “Next week!” I followed him, but when we reached the marketplace, he continued walking.

  I knew I would never see him again.

  I stumbled toward, then away from, the lively stalls. I could not go crying through the market. People would see me, people who knew my family. And I had left the blanket, the basket, the items I had purchased, everything. I stumbled back to the woods to retrieve them. Habit steered me like a horse heading home, for surely, it did not matter if I had the vegetables or the fish when the world had ended and the stars had exploded. Still, I went, for I had nowhere else to go.

  When I finally walked through the market, I felt no calmer. But I had a plan. I would live the next week as if Karl were honorable, as if he had not run from me, as if he were going to come next week and pledge to marry me.

  And, if he did not, there would still be time to throw myself into the river.

  With this grim thought, I headed home.

  The road was lonely, and though it was not yet night, the sky was dark with threatening clouds. I felt a sudden chill across my arms like rain about to fall. I shivered and walked faster, though I had no wish to return home.

  “What is the matter, my child?” The voice came from nowhere. I looked around and saw nothing. There was no one there.

  But then suddenly there was a woman where I was sure no one had been. She was dressed in a black lace gown with a severe collar. Still, above it, her face was kind.

  I recognized her. The lady bookseller. Kendra. I had never seen her on this road before. Had she followed me? Had she seen me crying?

  “N—nothing. Nothing is wrong.” But I could not keep the ripples of tears from my voice, and without thinking, I wiped my eyes.

  “I may be able to help.” She came closer, and in the strained moonlight, she seemed almost birdlike in her movements.

  “No, you can’t,” I said, shivering again.

  She held up a cloak that I had not seen before. She enveloped me in it, draping it around my shoulders, then smoothed it with firm hands. She had barely spoken to me before, yet her touch felt so warm, so like my mother’s that I began to sob. She took me in her arms, enveloping both of us in the cloak, which seemed to grow to our size.

  “Is this about your young man?” she asked.

  And, all at once, I was pouring out the whole story, my dull life, my romance with Karl, my plight. All the time, she held and rocked m
e like a mother, like my mother.

  “I am so foolish. I do not even know where he is, who he is, where he lives. I do not know if he will come next week. I do not know anything about him!”

  Kendra did not answer for a moment, but then she said, “I can help you with that.”

  “How?” I sniffled.

  She backed away, allowing the cloak to fall around my shoulders. From somewhere within the folds of her dress—I knew not where—she extracted a mirror, silver and larger than my head, trimmed with ornate scrollwork like something from a museum. She held it out to me. “Take it.”

  I did. It felt cold and heavy, like a block of ice. I sniffled and looked my question. Why a mirror? Even in the darkness, I could see that my face was red and blotched with none of the beauty that women expecting babies are said to have, beauty which, no doubt, came from their husbands’ love. I made to hand the mirror back.

  But she said, “No, keep it. This is a magical object you hold in your hand.”

  “Magical how?”

  “With it, you can see anyone you wish, merely by asking.”

  This seemed insane. “But what good will that do me? I need Karl to come back. I need him to . . .” Love me. Want me.

  “With this mirror, you can observe him, see where he is, who he is.”

  The mirror suddenly felt heavier. My hand trembled with its weight.

  Kendra reached out to steady my arm. “Just ask the mirror to see him.”