by Marian Unn
*****
Upon exiting the shop, I walked for several blocks.
Down the street I stood, waiting for the carriage to come. The cold night blew through my dress, its hem dancing round my heels. This spot looks so different at night with no one around.
The empty street caused me to sigh as I rethought my talk with Father. If only he knew what a sinner I truly am. Staring across the road at the furniture store, I frowned. The church which was now underground had once been in that very building.
It was not a very big church, there were only five pews on each side of the church, and there was no vestibule either. It was small, but it was beautiful, simply beautiful. The white walls and colorful windows set an array of lights shining on the Eucharist when it was raised for the blessing. The stations of the cross were painted with simple colors and made of wood. However, the incredible craftsmanship made them astonishingly lifelike, instilling deep and powerful feelings which truly allowed the congregation to grasp hold of the importance of the event they portrayed.
It was a beautiful little church. My church.
I still remember standing here, my son himself pulling me back. Holding my arm, he forced me to watch them take each sacred object, smash, burn, and utterly destroy them. He did not blink or utter a word against my furious struggles to save the tabernacle. All those who tried were themselves thrown into the fire, and so he held me by his side, to witness this… this…this damned "great step towards the future," as he called it. But such a terrible thing was nothing short of murder and the gravest sin of all.
Not all was lost that day though. Father Bart was one of those thrown into the fire, and he miraculously survived! Taking the tabernacle, he somehow broke through the line of soldiers and was lost in the masses of people gathered there.
One could say the little church lives on under the flower shop, for the tabernacle it once held lies underground there as well. Its holy gifts are given to more people than the little church could ever have hoped to help. When I think of the increased patronage, I begin to see God’s plan. I begin to understand why he let my son become the way he is now. In his destruction, many people found themselves driven to seek God, an unmoving truth in the ever growing world of lies Merek was building as his kingdom. My heart feels a tad lighter when I think that someone is saved through my son’s rule, though it becomes heavy once more when I realize they are saved as a result of his cruelty.
A carriage of fine horses accompanied by a well dressed coachman halted in front of me. Opening the door, I did not smile at the man. I learned a long while ago that he would never smile back. Crawling into the carriage, its dark innards familiar to me now, I crept into my seat. And for a moment I let my walls drop. Removing my hood, I permitted the cool night air to blow through the open window. My hair twisting around my ears, I felt refreshed as the wind kissed my cheeks.
‘What a luxurious life I have,’ was the thought that always came to me during such fine moments. However, another thought would always creep into my mind shortly after the first, ‘at what a heavy cost it comes.’
While peering out the window, I spied a peculiar old woman walking by herself, a feeble demeanor about her. She limped oddly, a crooked cane barely holding her up. “Halt!” I cried to the driver. The horses grunted in protest as he pulled on their reins. I jumped from the carriage as it stopped. Without a thought, I ran to the old woman. “Dear Madam, where are you going so late at night by yourself? Please allow me to offer you a ride back to your home.”
With old eyes the woman smiled, “That would be kind.” I smiled back in return. Guiding her across the street, I eyed the worried looking coachman so he would help her into the carriage. “Where do you live, Madam?”
“On Willow-Forest will do just fine,” she replied gently. “It is where the old bakery used to be, the one called just that, Ol’ Bakery. A silly name really, but it was a darling shop. It’s been many years since it’s closed, well over a decade.” Shouting the street out to the driver I nodded softly at the mention of such an old place, of such an old name.
“Yes, I knew of it well.” I smiled at the name of my Father’s shop. “Madam, that place is very far away. Why would you walk so far this late?”
“I could ask the same of you,” she said winningly, her soft eyes not leaving mine. Her wisdom was shown clear through her wrinkles and worn clothes. Yet the sparkles in her eyes were bright and seemed to laugh like a child’s.
I nodded to the woman in respect as she kept her eyes on me. “Did you ever know the owners of the bakery?” she asked. I nodded at the seemingly harmless old woman. “Indeed, I did. They were good people.”
“They were,” she whispered. “The accident was a shame.” She quietly looked away for the first time just as I did. “It was indeed,” I mumbled. I knew a response was necessary to wave suspicion from me. Leaning back so that my face was hidden in the shadows, I hid the pain its mentioning had brought upon me.
Our eyes were averted from each other, and she continued, “It really was a shame. They were such lovely people, good in their trade as well. I went there once or twice a week.”
“Did you really?” I tried to hide my discomfort on the issue through a tone of curiosity. Why was this woman speaking of such things? Is it really just an old woman’s ramblings? Yes, that must be it. That must be it.
“Yes, very often I would go to it. The owners and I became good friends. They had the most adorable little girls you know.” She paused, her eyes coming back to me. She could not possibly know! “But,” continuing in a hesitant voice, her tone became low, “when my husband died, their store became too, well, above my standards. I would still go there now and again to hear about their daughters and the lovely young man the youngest had gone off with. They say the poor man died, and that the little girl, who’d once run so freely about the shop, had become a mother herself, if you can believe it! And they say that she and her child were left alone. That is until her son went off to war, never returning.”
It frightened me how much this woman knew of me. And as the moon reflected its light upon her face, she appeared more and more familiar.
“I felt so bad for the poor soul when I heard about her parents passing on because of that fire. I just couldn’t bear to think of the poor dear alone with nothing. I’d have given her something if I’d anything to give, but as you have heard, my husband had passed and I needed to support my own children at the time.” Sighing, she smiled. “It is good now since my children are grown and no longer need their poor old mother anymore.”
I nearly cried at these words, in both resounding joy and crushing agony. “My boy still keeps me by his side,” I laughed. “He cannot seem to let go of me.”
“That is not a bad thing, dear. I wish my children would care for me like that.”
I shook my head at the old woman. “It is much better for them to grow up.”
“Indeed it is,” she nodded, as the carriage rolled to a stop.
As the coachman was jumping from his seat, I smiled with the old woman once more, and from one mother to another, I could feel her sympathy towards me, and I knew she felt mine towards her. Again, the thought struck me when she slowly stood to get out of the carriage, she looked so familiar.
Replaying her story over and over again in my head, I tried my hardest to recall who she was. As the coachman opened the door, the clouds parted for the moon, which shined brightly on the old woman, now standing in the little familiar street. Her dress I now saw was a faded pink and her shawl a dirtied cloth, once white most likely. Her curly gray hair and soft hazel eyes all shouted to me in a strange way. It was not until she smiled once more with the wooden stick of a cane in her hand and the copper ring on her finger, that they all rolled together.
I know who this woman is.
“Mrs. Reylina?!” I gasped at how aged she was. I raced to the old woman, brimming with joy at me, and embraced her in a hug. “Oh how you have grown!” she patted my back s
oftly.
Pulling back from her, my eyes were wide. It seemed impossible that this was that woman, the woman I had known so long ago. But the closer I looked at her features the more they mimicked that once tall and beautiful lady. She had indeed come to our store twice a week! Her husband was a carpenter, the very one, in fact, whose grandfather had made the wooden statues that were once hung so beautifully in the little church. This little hunched lady was nothing like she was in her prime, but her eyes were indeed just as bright as they were then. And her hair just as curly, though faded from its dark brown to its now silvery-white.
“I remember this dress,” I told her. “It was once a bright fine pink! And this shawl was a spotless white! Why, where has your hat gone, Mrs. Reylina?”
“Away!” she waved her hand. “My youngest granddaughter holds it now, with her own brilliant pink gown and spotless white shawl, which her own children will no doubt someday dirty, and which she too will cherish all the more when they do.” Smiling at the old woman I nodded at the thought, “I too am a grandmother now; though I know I do not look it. I have a grandson. My son named him after my late husband.”
“Yes, yes, I hear of you and your son and his family often.” Frowning, I stepped back from her, the joy of motherly conversation fleeing from me. “I wish my child was different,” I whispered. “I know I should have raised him better, but it is so hard on one’s own. I can only imagine how it must have been for you. Oh, it must have been so much more difficult with —hmmm. How many did you have? Four? Five?”
“Seven,” she corrected with a heavy brow. “Indeed, it was difficult, but I put them all to work and they’ve developed into fine people.” I hung my head at this. “Oh, how I wish I could say the same for mine! But at least I—” I bowed my head. “I am sorry for putting myself in your presence. I know it must be simply horrid to talk to the mother of such a person.”
“No, no dear,” she patted my back softly. “You did your best with what little you had. Your parents, I know, could not help you to raise the child as they themselves were struggling with their health before the accident, and you were but a child! You cannot blame yourself for what has befallen your boy. It was the war! That is the true horrid thing. It takes and takes and what it gives back, you cannot stand to see anymore. I know this as well. Three of my sons and four of my grandsons joined the war. I lost one of my sons and three of my precious grandchildren. The ones that returned were changed men, and they even support your son’s campaign and ideals.”
Covering my face with my hands, I looked at Mrs. Reylina. “But they themselves did not do what my son has done. They did not change the world for the worst in such a cruel and heartless way! They did not imprison you! Kill your only family, or even tear away the ones you had left!”
With that she slammed her cane to the ground. “Indeed, they did not!” she boomed, “but that does not mean you or I were any less good mothers than we truly were!”
I bowed my head to her, I knew not what else to do.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. Her shaking breath calming, she sighed. Her eyebrows lifting in pity, her words were gentle once again, “We can only guide them as mothers to the right way. We cannot protect them from the world and all its awful horrors. If we could, then we would not have all these stupid wars. And death, I believe, would be much rarer. Do not hate or blame yourself for something you could not possibly have prevented.”
“Thank you,” I whispered. She smiled softly, nodding to me.
“Excuse me,” the coachman interrupted awkwardly, “It is time we return.”
“Oh, yes!” I gasped, forgetting the place and time. I turned once more to her, “Thank you for your comforting words.” I smiled as I touched her hands. “Let me buy you a new cane will you? It is unfit for you to—”
“No, thank you, dear, this was my husband’s, and I like to keep it. All I ask is that we may perhaps speak with each other as casually as we did in the carriage not too long ago.”
“Madam!” the coachman shouted from the door, annoyed and almost frantic.
“Yes, yes, hold the horses!” I mocked playfully “We will surely do so again someday. Goodbye for now, old friend.”
As we drove off, I peered back at the woman, whom I had once known as a child. Smiling at such an encounter, I can only hope her words will give me strength to face the demons that reside within me and those that revel within my son.
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