The girl startled and leapt up, racing from the cave.
On shaky legs, Ella stood to follow her. The cave was small and the scent of wet earth filled her nostrils, recalling memories of walking with Papa to the cemetery to lay daisies beneath the headstone of his mother and father.
Papa. The thought of him flicked a switch in her mind, making everything seem too small, too vast, too loud, too empty.
She pushed on through the cave network, bare feet tingling at the touch of the cold stone floor, searching for glimpses of the girl and getting lost in the maze of possible pathways.
Ahead, the light shifted from the soft flickering of candles to something brighter and warmer. The sound of rushing water echoed against the rock walls, calling her forward. Without preamble, the cave opened up to the sky as if the hand of God had punched through its ceiling. A river carved its way through the dark rock, twisting and glittering under a rare moment of unclouded sky.
In the circle of light, a lilac tree grew tall and spindly, its boughs bending to water that pooled and fell calm in an oxbow lake. She sat under its branches and dangled her feet in the icy water. So still, the lake was a mirror, and in it she saw her true reflection; her one-brown-one-blue eyes shining with sadness and gratitude. She shivered and raised her head to the blue sky above, whispering with exultation in her heart, “I am safe, Papa.”
Mikhaeyla Kopievsky is an Australian speculative fiction author who loves writing about complex and flawed characters in stories that explore identity, loyalty, betrayal, and rebellion. She is the author of the Divided Elements series, a dark dystopian trilogy set in a future Paris where identities are engineered and assigned. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies and longlisted for the EJ Brady Prize.
Born in Sydney, Mikhaeyla now lives in the Hunter Valley with her husband, son, two rescue dogs, four Australorp chooks, a hive of cantankerous bees, and the occasional herd of beautiful Black Angus steers.
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Wings
By Emily Pirrello
“Claramond, it’s time to get up.”
As she rolled over, her ancient mattress springs whined in harmony with her sigh of exhaustion. Wrapping herself deeper into her threadbare duvet cover, Claramond responded with a groan. Her wooden door creaked. Her mother’s heavy steps pressed down on Claramond’s patchy hardwood floor. Martha circled around the bed to draw back the curtains. The residents of Abaddon never experienced sunshine, when they looked up all they saw were stagnant grey skies. Reaching for the security of her duvet, Claramond was met with warm callused hands.
“Not today Claramond, you know how important this day is for your father.”
The mention of her father caused her to turn rigid. Suddenly triggered, she could no longer enjoy the innocence of her worn-out bed. Claramond’s father was the leader of their small commune. Daniel Demagogue was both feared and worshiped by the occupants of Abaddon.
The residents of Abaddon never could quite look Daniel in the face. He didn’t have an off-putting appearance per say, but those who have more than glanced at Daniel shudder at the blueness of his features. His eyes were cold. Not his irises, those were dark as coal, but it was his sclera that was shaded blue. His curt thin lips resembled those of a man six feet below the earth.
“Be ready in fifteen minutes, I ironed that nice dress Mema made for you. It will look so lovely with your new chapel veil I picked up in town this week.”
Great. Who doesn’t love sporting overelaborate attire in front of the entire populace of Abaddon?
Her morning temper did not justly express her true spirits concerning her Mema’s creations. Claramond quite enjoyed her Mema’s personal handiworks.
After washing her face and completing the rest of her hygienic morning practices, Claramond retreated back to the solidarity of her barren bedroom. She stood in front of her fractured full-length mirror to add the final touch of her Sunday garb, her mother’s newly purchased chapel veil. The currency of Abaddon was avarus, circular hammered bits of silver. The majority of the population lived in poverty but the Demagogue’s were able to afford certain superfluities due to Daniel’s title. Claramond analyzed her reflection. Her golden hair hung in loose ringlets down past her thin frame. The intricate ivory crochet hem of Mema’s emerald green cotton dress accentuated Claramond’s fair skin.
She was quite tall for her age of fifteen and surpassed most of the boys in her division long ago. Though, Momma did say it would be soon enough when the neighborhood boys would shoot up like beanstalks and Claramond would no longer feel so out of sorts. For Claramond, it wasn’t just her lanky appearance that made her feel so disconnected from her peers. Her father being the leader of their community made it so none of the other children would speak with her.
She couldn’t blame them; everyone knows what happens to those who cross Daniel Demagogue… they never show up for church the following Sunday.
Claramond, admiring the craftsmanship of her Mema’s design, held each hand on either side of the dress and did a slight twirl. As she turned her lanky shoulders showcasing her backside, she stiffened. She could see the red welts peeking through the top of her dress.
She sorrowfully sauntered over to her favorite item in her room, her Papa’s old reclining chair. It had been the one thing Claramond had pleaded for after her grandfather’s ascension. They were extremely close; Mema used to say that they were “cut from the same cloth.” Her grandfather always looked after her when she was a child. When she was growing up, Abaddon was practically in full lockdown. She was too young to remember the severity of the communities’ dismay, but within four months seven adolescent girls had disappeared. Curfews were set, children were exercising the buddy system to walk to and from lessons, and for a brief time the town was in shambles.
Claramond’s father, being the pastor of the only church in Abaddon, held candlelight vigils and hosted search parties for the young girls. Claramond’s grandfather had physically endured many injuries during his time in The Great Severance, so he was the one left with Claramond while her mother and father were working together with the town to find the girls.
Their quaint community, as conservative and pious as it was, had an unusual amount of missing children cases. The majority of the missing were adolescent girls, which allowed the Deistic Department a simple explanation when their investigations turned up empty: “apostasies.’’ In private the residents of Abaddon had their own theories, all of which involved fornication as motive. Whether they left in shame of their sins or ran off to be with “the devil’s advocates,” there wasn’t any evidence of possible foul play to continue investigating.
So as the town of Abaddon did with all of its unorthodox history, these cases were swept under the rug.
Claramond’s mother never spoke up to her husband in their thirty-nine years of marriage, except right after her father’s passing. Martha saw how desperate her daughter was to obtain her father’s timeworn chair. Luckily, Claramond’s father had spent one too many nights that week at the local tavern and had no choice but to oblige his mourning wife.
As she ran her long fingers across the tattered upholstery, her heart warmed to the thought of her Papa. She plucked her favorite knit cardigan off her grandfather’s chair and covered up her insecurity, not ever wanting her scars to be seen. Claramond went back to the mirror and adjusted her newfangled veil to shield only the crown of her porcelain forehead.
“Claramond, it’s time to go!”
“Coming, Momma!” she called back as she bent over to secure the buckles on her ivory Mary-Jane shoes. Claramond quickly gave herself a final onceover in the fractured mirror before heading out.
***
Claramond’s pale grey eyes scanned the congregational crowd as her father addressed them.
“Good morning my dearest disciples, I hope
you are all having a blessed Sunday morning.”
The congregation praised and responded in unison. Although it was just past dawn, Claramond could feel the heat pulsating through the stained-glass window panes. Her cheeks began to flush as she inhaled and exhaled the warm chapel air. Using her program for a fan, she instantaneously earned several tsks from the elder women in the pew behind her. As she turned around to give her sincere apologies to the Weldman sisters, she was met by a subtle, cool, gust of wind. Claramond murmured a quick, “I’m sorry,” and immediately turned to the source of the crisp breeze.
In all of her years of spending time in this run-down building, she had never felt external air run through the chapel. Generally speaking, the atmosphere inside the cathedral was rather stuffy. From a young age Claramond was told that when you open a passageway, whether it be a window-frame or a doorframe, you never know who will walk on in. Those in Abaddon believed that the devil would have the audacity to walk right on in if it seemed as though he was given an invitation. Which is why she was instantly alarmed by the coolness of the air.
In truth, Claramond was not as superstitious as the rest of the inhabitants were, but she couldn’t help but feel on edge as goosebumps budded atop her skin. To her astonishment, she could not find the source of the breeze, and the stranger thing was that no one else seemed to be experiencing the temperature drop as she was. Beads of perspiration dripped down the foreheads of the mass of the congregation. Claramond crossed her cardigan snugly across her chest as she felt a chill run down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck shooting straight up.
“As much as I would like to keep this sermon light, today is not a day of cheerfulness but a day of unease. There is a new plague threatening the lives of our children.”
The rather lighthearted mood that momentarily ago occupied the congregation promptly dissipated. The aged chapel was laden with silence. Claramond, accustomed to her father’s ranting sermons decided she was not in the mood to hear which serpent threatened the innocence of the children this week and quietly left her pew to head towards the washroom. As she made her way towards the back of the church she was met with numerous disappointed eyes and murmurs.
Yes. What a sin, the preacher’s daughter visits the restroom in the middle of Sunday Service.
“Our precious children are in danger. As you know, since The Great Severance decades ago we have not had contact with the miscreants beyond our borders. Our noble Deistic Department recently spotted movement outside our walls…”
Almost to the back doors, the pews erupt with cries and shrieks of terror. Claramond herself is startled as she feels a brash clamp clinging to her right arm. Looking to see who has grabbed her, Claramond meets the eyes of an elderly woman with a pinched face.
“You best watch out child, the devil would love a pretty little number like you to call his own.”
Releasing herself from the startlingly tight grip on her lower arm, Claramond stumbled back. Uncertain of an appropriate response she simply pressed her weight frontward onto the hefty timber doors to make her way towards the restroom.
The air is less dense in the parlor allowing Claramond to relax once more. She continues to head towards the unnerving basement stairs. In her younger years, Claramond would run down the decrepit staircase as quick as gunpowder. Although she is no longer that six-year-old girl with a vivid imagination, the church basement still gave her the heebie-jeebies.
The basement was deemed “off-limits” in prior years supposedly due to its unsecure foundation, but Claramond believed her father simply wanted his own private dwelling. She had seen him venture down into the cellar many times through the years. In truth, they did have an outhouse constructed once the basement was no longer accessible terrain, but she disliked the outhouse even more than the basement due to its taboo location. They built it adjacent to the crowded ascension grounds. She decided that the basement was the lesser of the two evils and continued onward. Reaching up to pull down on the metal string, an eerie glow illuminates the stairway. Exhaling deeply and placing her hand on the well-worn, unstable banister, Claramond descends into the cellar.
After using the antique restroom, she washed her hands in the deep, rusty barn sink. As she peered up into the dusty mirror, for a brief moment, Claramond could have sworn she saw movement behind her. Her heart rate began to quicken. Gripping onto the old vanity for support, she closed her eyes and counted to ten.
“I am okay. It is just my mind playing tricks, I am alone.”
While stating her mantra, Claramond feels the mysterious cool breeze that she had experienced upstairs once more. Unable to keep her eyes pressed shut any longer, Claramond opened them and looked back into the mirror. Behind her stood a shadowy figure, similar in height and stature. Although she felt as though she were paralyzed, it was more so a feeling of shock that consumed her, not fear. She turned to face the figure, but the apparition swiftly vanished.
“Hello? Who are you? Where did you go?”
The bathroom door creaked open with no aid from Claramond. Tentative of what to do next, she turned off the faucet sink and followed her intuition. She searched the basement for any sign of movement for a few minutes, but all was still. Feeling as though her supernatural encounter had come and passed, Claramond departed towards the run-down staircase.
“Do not leave us.”
As a child, Claramond had always felt as though shadows were following her. The first time she brought it up her father beat her. After the same turnout each time, Claramond gave up defending her unusual sounds and sights. She only confided in her Papa, who shared with her that in a world so unsighted, she was one of the few who would truly “see.” She never quite knew what to make of her Papa’s declamations. As Claramond aged, her experiences lessened and she concluded that she simply had an over-active imagination and that her beloved grandfather was just trying to console her childhood qualms.
Removing her hand from the banister, Claramond turned around yet again was left wondering if she was delusional. As her eyes scanned the cluttered basement, light from a singular tiny window caught her attention. From a protruding nail hung a chain. Venturing over to inspect the glimmering item, Claramond realized it was not only a chain, but an ornamental skeleton key. She cupped the ominous trinket in her trembling hands and studied it closely. Although almost unnoticed at first glance, there seemed to be a crimson staining on the key. She pressed her dominant thumb into the cold worn metal, but was unable to remove the discoloration.
“Claramond! Is that you down there?”
She could hear the displeasure in her mother’s distant voice. “Get up here right this minute, before your father realizes you defied his rules!”
“Coming, Momma!” She unlatched the necklace from the rusty spike and quickly sprinted upstairs.
“Claramond. You know how your father feels about anyone going down into the cellar.”
Securing the door shut behind her, Claramond met her mother’s anxious eyes. Martha placed her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and led them outside onto the front lawn where everyone was gathered to say their goodbyes.
Her father approached forebodingly.
Placing a firm grip on her left shoulder, he sneered through clenched teeth, “Where were you, Claramond?” The vein that ran across his stern forehead throbbed slightly, his jaw stiff.
“She was just tending to the lilies around back. I had asked her to make sure the garden was well watered since we’ve had quite a heat spell lately,” Martha spoke hesitantly.
“Alright, make sure you inform me next time you give our daughter busywork. I want to follow up and make sure she doesn’t do a sloppy job.”
“Of course, Daniel. I am sorry.”
As her father walked away to bid farewell to the people of Abaddon, Claramond stared up into her mother’s blue eyes quizzically.
“Your father doesn’t need to know about your little adventure this afternoon. Just be sure it doesn’t happen again.�
��
Claramond silently thanked her mother as her father found his way to those who wished to speak one-on-one with the pastor. She watched him go, moving her thumb against the key held tightly in her palm, but was still unable to remove the discoloration.
A sudden urge compelled her to wear the trinket herself. Her clammy hands undid the clasp and without difficulty she was able to put the necklace on. She felt a brief surge of energy spread across her chest and deep within her bones. The wind moved past, ruffling the crisping autumn leaves.
***
Hours later, sitting down at their dilapidated wooden table, Claramond and her parents ate their late breakfast in silence. The bland oatmeal and grits satisfied only her hunger, not her taste buds. Still frazzled by the confrontation in the morning, Martha accidently left the breakfast biscuits on the stove for too long. Though they typically resembled the color of fresh harvested corn, today they looked more like the dark and foul manure used to fertilize the local farms.
After Claramond finished washing her family’s filthy saucers and silverware, she sat down at the table and fiddled her fingers around the trinket that adorned her neck.
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