by Tamer Lorika
Even sickness at the scar’s excess could not mar the beauty inherent in Jeanne’s fragility, in her sleeping face, heavy in concentration, adjusting to this sudden upheaval. Jericho moved her fingers—right hand only; the left felt dead and limp and spent—through Jeanne’s hair, hair she had cut herself. Jericho knew she had made the right decision. It would be hard for Jeanne, but anything was preferable to the state the little one had been left in the day of the planes. Oh, how Jericho wished she could have been there then.
Jericho lay down beside her ward, staring at her sleeping face, marking her breathing, anything to be near her gently heaving chest until the sun began to go up. Then, very slowly, Jericho simply faded and returned to her own world.
Not ‘returned home’. Her only home was lying in the bed in the attic, fast asleep.
Chapter 6
Jeanne woke with one thought on her mind: Jericho.
It was as if she had never fallen asleep; the events from last night remained sharp-edged and clear in her mind.
Jericho.
Jeanne’s entire body felt heavy, pulsing with the life of another. There was someone within her, someone watching her. The walls in her mind, the ones keeping her trapped and isolated, had finally tumbled to the ground.
Bizarre. She did not understand how she could so clearly feel the comfort of another person, such closeness. The entire reason for such pain last night was this single moment of certainty that Jeanne was not alone. And, Dieu, it was worth it.
She smiled, though there was some resistance in her muscles. Dressing quickly, Jeanne skittered down the stairs, Jericho on her mind.
It was no magic, no harsh or jarring change, more like a shift or a promise. Jeanne knew—did not believe, like she believed in Jesus or in faeries—knew she did not have to be alone any longer.
“Good mor—” Maman’s greeting cut off with a strangled noise, and she stared at the girl with a strange mix of a fear and horror.
Jeanne blinked. “Maman—?”
“What happened?” Maman gasped, dropping the ladle into her oatmeal pot, then rushing to Jeanne’s side. She reached for the girl’s face before shrinking back, fingers fluttering uselessly. Her voice rose in pitch, a gasp, panicky. “What happened?”
Oh—the mark; Jericho must have left a burn. Silently turning on a heel, Jeanne rushed down the hall to the bathroom and the tiny mirror within, eyes opening wide at the sight that greeted her. Her mother stumbled in behind her.
“Oh,” mumbled Jeanne.
Her heart swelled. She had not expected something so tangible, so visible as this, despite all the had happened the night before. Somewhere inside, she knew it must be a horrific sight, especially for her mother, to see her daughter so disfigured but…disfigured was not the word Jeanne would use, not at all. Marked. She was marked, something that had scarred her, something that could not be removed or hidden. A physical manifestation of the love another being had for her.
Jeanne was happy.
“It looks like a burn, but all healed over…Jeanne, what is this?” Maman demanded, voice high and shrill. “What did you do to yourself, what—”
“It’s a mark, Maman,” Jeanne replied without a second thought, marveling at her reflection and grinning in wonder. It came out as a half-grimace, but she did not mind at all.
“I can see that it’s a mark!” Maman was almost screaming now.
Jeanne did not know what to say, how to explain or to calm her. So she let Maman speak.
“Did you burn yourself? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything, Maman,” Jeanne answered innocently, truthfully. “I woke up and it had appeared.”
“I—”
“What’s all the fuss now, dears?” Gramaman asked, shuffling into the bathroom, washed up and apron on. She stopped, sighting Jeanne. “Oh, mon Dieu, what—”
“We don’t know, Catherine,” Maman said shortly, voice tight. “She says she woke up like this.”
“How can that be? It looks like an old burn—”
“I don’t know—”
Jeanne let them argue behind her, content to examine her reflection. The skin around her mark was puckered, but it had avoided tugging at her eye or mouth. She looked almost normal, and had cared little enough for her normal reflection, in any case. She was content, she decided, and abruptly left Maman and Gramaman to argue in the bathroom while she tended the oatmeal Maman had left in a pot on the stove.
She took the pot off the heat, not even bothering about the uncomfortable warmth that usually caused her to avoid the cast-iron creature altogether. It wasn’t so bad now, certainly not dangerous, though tangible danger had never really been the problem before.
Jeanne spooned herself a bowl, snuck some sugar out of the cupboard, and put coffee to boil.
Papa clumped heavily down the steps, poured himself half-warmed coffee, and groped his way to the radio on its perch next to the kitchen table.
“Good morning, Papa,” Jeanne said, unconcerned.
“Hnnh…” he grunted back, fiddling with the radio knobs.
Maman and Gramaman returned to the kitchen. “There you are!” Maman said with great relief, as if she had been searching, as if she had genuinely thought Jeanne had suddenly gone.
“I’m leaving for school now,” Jeanne said.
“You’re going to school like that?” Maman asked.
“Yes…?”
“Jeanne, chère, I don’t understand how this happened,” Gramaman began.
“Neither do I,” Jeanne acknowledged. “May I go now?”
“Yes—well—you want—” stuttered Maman. “Even the way—I’ll ask the doctor to come. No, don’t go to school. You may be ill; surely the doctor will be able to—” She was unable to finish a single sentence.
Jeanne sat at the kitchen table, swinging her legs.
Papa looked up, mind sparked a bit by the slow stimulus of cold coffee. “A doctor? For what, now—” He finally caught sight of Jeanne and raised an eyebrow. “What happened?” he asked, serious and greyer and more transparent than ever.
“We don’t know,” Maman insisted in a strangled voice.
“Now, Charlotte, calm down,” Gramaman said, putting an arm around Maman’s shoulders and attempting to steer her into a kitchen chair. “You are frightening Jeanne.”
Jeanne, in fact, was not frightened. She was not paying much attention to the proceedings at all, instead thinking of how to sneak more sugar for her oatmeal.
Maman did not sit down; she abruptly stood and strode out into the hallway. “I’m going to find Dr. Kembrough.” She was sliding on her shoes, opening the front door.
Jeanne thought it odd to see Maman with her hair down and half-wild, ready to go out, but she did not even stop to pin it up.
“Maybe he’ll—” Maman did not finish the thought, just left.
The house descended into a solid sort of silence. Jeanne finished her breakfast and filched a cup of coffee with too much cream. Pap didn’t like her to drink it, but Papa didn’t stop her now and neither did Gramaman.
“…Air raids are becoming more frequent in all provinces; even previously unoccupied rural areas are feeling the rise of both enemy and friendly fire. Airborne bombs continue to be the most prevalent danger, heralded by the preceding drop of enemy propaganda pamphlets…”
There was only the tinny sound of the radio, Gramaman’s straight back, and the coffee with cream. The entire world existed in a single, long pause in which Jeanne drained her cup and put it to be washed, mind heavy but sated. She felt sleepy, despite the caffeine.
“Jedrick and Paris will be waiting for me to walk to school with them,” she offered hesitantly.
Gramaman patted her hand, reaching across the table and breaking her mannequin stare for a brief moment. “Just sit tight, dear. Your Maman will be back soon with Dr. Kembrough.”
Jeanne nodded, hopped off the kitchen chair, and went to the living room to wait for Maman. The sill on the big window
was wide enough to sit on, if only just. Jeanne folded herself onto it, scooching her bare feet onto the wood and peering around the heavy curtains.
The streets were grey and nearly empty; it must have already been past time for school to begin and work to start, but here she was at home and so was Papa. Neither was willing to scatter to their offices.
She peered out the window, watching an older woman with her hair all knotted up properly picking her way down the street, only to skirt a patch of what looked like rougher dirt, a faintly disgusted expression on her face. She slowly minced away and there came a young man from the opposite direction—running, maybe late for something. He slowed when he saw the patch of dirt, frowning slightly, before giving it a wide berth.
Confused at their actions, Jeanne squinted at the little rough patch in the unpaved street. It wasn’t really dirt at all; it was a mound of something, small and grey-blue-black and ever so slightly fuzzy—
Jeanne felt dizzy as she leapt from the sill and tore out the front door before Gramaman or Papa could stop her. Her feet slapped down the wood steps and into the road and she ran over to the little furry body of what once was a kitten.
Her kitten.
She crouched in the street next to it, eyes widening at the poor creature’s state. Its little neck was snapped; she saw immediately it was twisted at an odd angle, blood on its fur and an ear ripped to shreds. There were claw marks against its dark stripes, evidence of a fight with another cat or a dog, or even a large bird—the kitten was so small. Jeanne’s fingers reached out carefully, stroking the patches of intact fur, her skin catching roughly against dried blood and street grime.
The kitten’s eyes were wide open, but flat and greyer than any living creature’s had a right to be. They seemed to be staring at Jeanne, sad, apologizing. Jeanne’s fingers shook as she gently closed the lids. She picked up the kitten in her bare hands, uncaring if she got blood or unnamed gore on them.
Gramaman was calling her from the house, but Jeanne ignored the summons. Instead she scrambled up and ran blindly down the street, her feet knowing where to take her from sheer repetition.
She quickly left the outskirts of the little town, stumbling away from the dirt path and out across a field of sunflowers, holding the cold body of the kitten to her chest. Her feet were beginning to hurt a bit; the sunflower field was a mess of rocks and mulch. It didn’t seem to matter, though. She kept running, until she reached the edge of the copse of willows on the other side of the field. Within the copse, the sound of deep, rushing water could be heard.
She was far downstream from where she and Jedrick and Paris would play in the river. The body of water widened out considerably, growing darker and wilder as she went on. It was white and foaming here, rocks sticking out much more jaggedly. Nothing like a real river, but swift enough the children knew not to play here.
Jeanne waded in. The water tore at her ankles immediately, greedy fingers tugging at her. The stones and gravel beneath her toes were slippery, but she was not afraid of the current. Instead she kept going, until the water was at her thighs, wetting the edge of her skirt. She was not quite in the middle of the river, but it would do.
Gently, ever so gently, she uncurled the kitten’s body from where she had cradled it against her shirt. The fabric beneath it was a sickly maroon-brown.
She put the kitten gently on the surface of the cold water and watched it bob against her hand, butting her palm. She took a deep breath, then let it go. Swiftly the ball of fur vanished in the wicked, white water, washed away for good.
More slowly than she had entered, Jeanne made her way to the far bank of the river. She sat on the dirt, staring at the water in front of her, and began to cry, quietly, chin on soggy knees.
Strangely enough, the tears made her face feel warmer. Her body felt warm too, even though only moments before she had been chilled by the river. It felt as if someone had their arms looped around her shoulder, comforting her, holding her solidly. It was not the feeling of a body, exactly, nor could she actually feel hands on her. It was only the rush of safety, the feeling of comfort and happiness that always accompanied Jericho’s embraces. It was the emotion, not the touch.
She was loved—oh, how she was loved.
That thought alone was enough to make her stand and start her slow, halting way back through the sunflowers, up the dirt path and into town, and through the door of her house, where Maman and Dr. Kembrough waited for her.
“Jeanne!” her mother cried. “Where were you? Gramaman said you simply took off and she couldn’t stop you.”
“I’m sorry,” Jeanne said. “No one told me not to leave the house. It’s never been a problem before, I’m sorry if I caused you worry.”
“Is—is that blood on your shirt?” Maman demanded, looking horrified. “It’s blood, isn’t it? Jeanne, what have you done?”
“Nothing,” Jeanne replied. “I picked up the kitten. Something had killed it. So I picked it up and sent it downriver. I couldn’t leave it in the street.”
Jeanne’s palms were stained, ever so slightly, with the same gore that stained her shirt.
“Jeanne…”
“Is this the gel I was brought here t’ see?” Dr. Kembrough asked with his hint of a lilt. Maman nodded dumbly, his voice making her jaw shut tightly. “Is’t a burn? It looks old—I can’t prevent scarring now, Madame Dark, it’s far too late—”
“It isn’t a burn!” Maman insisted, her voice shrill. “It isn’t! It’s some mark—my daughter may have leprosy, and you—”
“Du calme, madame,” Dr. Kembrough insisted. “Please. It isn’t leprosy, I can tell y’ that immediately. Are you certain it was not just a burn?”
Maman’s mouth shut again, and she shook her head. Dr. Kembrough sighed, beckoning Jeanne to stand beside him. He wasn’t wary of the blood on her shirt—she had seen him deliver Suzette, had seen him deliver a calf one day three summers ago when she and Paris had spent time a few leagues away at Paris’s aunt’s homestead.
She watched Dr. Kembrough’s eyes narrow and he bent slightly to peer closer to her cheek, running skilled fingers over the rough, silver patch of skin. Jeanne didn’t feel when he touched her. She stayed perfectly still, willing the image of the poor kitten from her mind, wanting to change her shirt, to wash this one with lye and get rid of the smell of death and sunflowers.
“Does it hurt, doll?” Dr. Kembrough asked, still running his hand against it, still peering in a way that made Jeanne tired.
“No.”
“And you’ve no idea how this happened?”
She was so tired of answering that. She didn’t know how this had appeared, only that she was so incredibly happy it had. “No, none at all.”
Kembrough pulled back. “For all intents and purposes, it seems as harmless as scar tissue,” he said, addressing Maman and not Jeanne. “I don’t understand it, but I can assure you it seems benign. She isn’t ill; she doesn’t have a disease—I’ve seen skin disease.”
Maman was not satisfied; it was plain in her bent-forward stance and exasperated, angry, tearful glance. “Surely you must have some idea.”
Dr. Kembrough shook his head. “She’s all right.”
“She is disfigured!” Maman cried.
Dr. Kembrough’s gaze flicked to Jeanne, who stared out the window with a disconnected expression. Jeanne didn’t look at him or Maman. She was wondering whether the kitten was in heaven—perhaps it had gone to where Jericho was. That would be nice. Jericho had never met the kitten, and maybe it would be good for the creature. Jeanne did not know much about the world in which Jericho lived. Their talks at night tended to be broader than that, thoughts and ideas rather than specifics. Often, it was about things Jeanne was feeling, or else it was Jericho’s stories about brand-new islands or winter trees bearing fruit. Still, Jeanne got the feeling perhaps Jericho did not have many people to talk to, not many people who could calm her down or comfort her. Perhaps the kitten would be of help. It was a nice thoug
ht.
“She’s healthy,” Dr. Kembrough tried again. “I can’t do anything if she is not sick. I’m sorry, Madame Dark.”
Maman nodded to him, curtly. “Fine. Thank you.”
Jeanne couldn’t help but think Maman was being awfully rude, but she did not make any comment.
There was silence in the room for a moment, then Dr. Kembrough sighed, running a hand through greying auburn hair. “Well, then, take care of yourself, Jeanne. I must be off.” He patted the girl on the head before taking his leave. Maman watched him, tight-lipped.
“Well, at least nothing is wrong,” Papa offered from the door to the kitchen, where he leaned to watch the proceedings.
“Nothing is—?!” Maman cut herself off forcibly. She simply turned and stalked upstairs.
Papa sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Bad omen, to be sure. I’m late for work now.” He went back into the kitchen, presumably to gather his things.
Gramaman was nowhere to be seen, but from the sound of Suzette’s crying in the other room, she would be nearby shortly.
Jeanne looked around the empty living room for a moment, feeling desolate but not alone. Then she made her way up the stairs to her room. On her way past the second floor, she thought she could hear the sounds of Maman sobbing. She brushed past the door, making her way to her room, where she quickly changed out of her stained clothes. These she bundled into a cloth bag with the rest of the soiled garments from the last week, resolving to do a load of laundry and get the cat-blood off her skin.
The big wooden tub was out back, and she took her time getting to it, gathering the clothing bags from Gramaman’s room and the one from outside her parents’ door, as well. As she passed through the kitchen, she put the largest pot they had over the cooking fire. She pulled out the washboard from the cupboard, then the lye in its box, then dumped the clothing in the tub out back. It was so big she could only just put her arms around it, and she knew the water she would be able to haul outside wouldn’t be enough to fill it, but she didn’t mind. It would serve.
