Maria Isabel Pita

by As Above, So Below

  “Yes.” Her mother nodded again and caressed her bare arms as if she were cold, amazement resurrecting a spark of life back into her blank stare as she focused on her daughter. “How did you know?”

  Mirabel marveled at the fact that Janlay was asking her a question. “So you killed her to feed on father,” she concluded.

  “No!”

  “But you said that’s why you’re here.”

  “That’s why I’m condemned to sew dresses all by myself for the rest of my life without ever seeing them worn by anyone and without any other reward but bare sustenance, living off the emotional crumbs tossed my way by the merchants who come for them every summer. That’s why I’ve been isolated up here away from everyone. Now you know.”

  “Now I know,” Mirabel repeated without really understanding.

  “I tore the garment of her flesh, which no seamstress can replace no matter how great her skill. This is the lesson I was condemned to live, Mirabel.” She seated herself at the table where her latest creation lay—a gown evoking a portion of the sky reflected in water, the glimmering material several different shades of blue with violet shadows along the edges. “Her naked energy owns endless garments but I still had no right to rip the one she was wearing at the time.”

  Janlay’s mouth set, becoming almost as thin and stiff as one of her sewing needles. “The one your father found so pleasing. Oh, it was me he loved,” she fiddled with a silver thimble before abruptly tossing it away, “but he desired her as well and that’s something you have to remember and never forget, Mirabel, that love and desire are not the same. Love is so much more.” She caressed the sky-colored material longingly.

  “So desire is food too,” Mirabel said after a moment, hardly able to breathe from this sudden flood of information.

  Janlay laughed and ran a hand through her tangled hair, pushing it impatiently away from her face. “No, it’s more like wine, like a spirit.”

  “A spirit?”

  “That’s a very strong drink.”

  “May I have one?”

  “Some day, Mirabel, but not now.”

  “What makes it different from water?”

  “Love is like water.”

  “Oh…”

  Janlay picked up the dress and, rising, held her new creation up against her. “The queen will wear this one. With a necklace of water-stones and silver sandals she will be as beautiful as the shining curve of a river at sunrise. It’s my finest work. You can hardly feel the seams. It looks like the dress your father wanted to give me but couldn’t. All these years I’ve been working to achieve the skill to make it myself, yet now,” she laid it lovingly back down across the table, “it’s for someone else. I also had to wait for the material.” She glanced toward the dark corner of the room always crowded with large bundles of cloth. “On the last full moon it finally came. I know he made them send it. I know he did.” She collapsed into a chair again. “You see, they punished him too. There’s another reason why we’re all alone up here.”

  Mirabel stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe her mother had talked this long and wasn’t planning to stop.

  “We’re all alone up here so I can’t spread what I know—that the all-powerful Lords above are as vulnerable to beauty as any man. Most people wouldn’t even believe you’re possible, Mirabel. You’re a bastard child such as the kingdom has never seen. That’s why they’re pretending you don’t exist, even though they know perfectly well I gave birth to a child after they exiled me up here. Your body is literally the border between two worlds and because of that there’s no place for you in either one.”

  *

  Janlay’s tale, which Mirabel had not truly understood, fermented in her feelings like yeast for the next few years. Her first attempts at baking bread had failed miserably. She soon learned how to make dough rise but comprehension was much slower growing inside her. Her mother had long since given her the run of their little household, which she did not mind at all—she had entirely too much time on her hands. At least when she was occupied with domestic chores she was like all the other creatures she observed who were always busy doing something, especially during the warm weather. Janlay told her there were even more people living below them on the mountain than there were ants in a hill and bees in a hive but Mirabel found it impossible to grasp this fact, having always enjoyed so much personal space herself. It was incomprehensible to her that her mother, the only authority she had ever known, was herself being punished by an invisible presence called a kingdom. Janlay often scolded and punished her but she never forced her to stay up in her bedroom for seasons on end. Therefore Mirabel was glad they did not live anywhere near “the people”. Even though hunger for love had made her mother kill someone, it seemed wrong for everyone to stay mad at her for so long considering the fact that animals killed each other all the time. Yet when she thought about the matter in this way, it somehow didn’t feel right.

  She would never forget the moment it dawned on her that her life was one of the burdens shouldered by the wind-burned men whose visits her mother thrived on. Janlay brightened like a lamp running low on oil when these men were around, her green eyes glittering like grass after a sun-shower. Likewise, Mirabel would never forget the first time she saw a group of merchants walking up the mountain through a thick fog. Hunched beneath their heavy packs—stuffed with food and other necessary supplies for her and her mother—they looked small and spindly as spiders in the mist and the realization that she depended on them became the heart of a web that spun countless other questions she simply had to have the answer to in order to feel satisfied.

  For instance, if the merchants didn’t bring them, where did the bundles of material her mother used for her dresses come from? Did they grow from buttons that fell into cracks between the floorboards? She could almost believe this, for the bundles of cloth were soft and colorful as massive flower petals and in the end all that was left of them were wooden stems her mother tossed into the fire. In a shadowy corner of Janlay’s workroom there was always a mysterious forest of rainbow-hued stumps. They had to come from father, who—her mother had made this much quite clear—did not live down with the “people”.

  *

  It was late spring and they were expecting the first group of merchants any day now, so Janlay was constantly sewing to finish her new batch of dresses. Mirabel’s appreciation of her mother’s work was growing along with everything else. She sat in the open window watching her, rejoicing that the thick white cloth and wooden planks they nailed up for the winter had finally been torn down and she could see the mountains again.

  “Can I stay up this time when the men come, Mommy?”

  “Go see about dinner, Mirabel.”

  “We’re almost out of food. If I hadn’t found that bird’s nest, we wouldn’t have any eggs left. Oh and I forgot to tell you that ants got into the jar of honey it took me so long to fill! We ran out of cornmeal ages ago and there’s so little flour all I can make with it are—”

  “Just do what you can, dear. Fresh supplies will be here soon.” Janlay was taking a break from sewing to admire her finished creations, which hung side by side along one wall.

  “I know, but if Father sends you all that beautiful material why can’t he just feed us, too? Why did he abandon us in this big hollowed-out tree trunk?” So she perceived their small two-story cottage.

  Janlay turned to face her. “Mirabel, stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop making me think about him. I don’t want to think about him.”

  “Does he bring it to you at night when I’m asleep?”

  “What?” Janlay gasped.

  “Does he bring it to you at night when I’m asleep?” Mirabel repeated patiently. “I never see him when he comes.”

  Her mother stared at her intently a moment then suddenly laughed and returned to admiring her creations. “I’m a legend now. When they brought me up here, they left me only a certain amount of material to work with. I
t should have run out years ago and with it my punishment and my life should have ended. The symbolic atonement for my crime was not meant to go on this long. Once I stopped producing dresses the merchants would stop bringing me food. I was meant to die up here. I almost wish I had run out of material but the Lords don’t believe in killing, you see. It doesn’t matter that I’d rather be dead. So those cursed bundles of cloth grow like mushrooms in that dark corner and won’t stop growing!”

  Mirabel nodded and slipped off the windowsill. So buttons were like seeds. Satisfied with this answer, she went to the kitchen to begin preparing their meager supper. She ignored the rest of what her mother said because she had grown accustomed to her passionate complaints, which she only half understood. Everything that was wrong with Janlay was the result of having ripped off some other woman’s flesh garment and there was nothing Mirabel could do about that now. A unique sense of self was gradually rising inside her and with it the idea that her life was there to be shaped by her own hands. The mysterious clothing of her skin kept growing but she had a strange feeling her fleshly garment would soon be finished. And then what would she do with it? Would she let one of those merchantmen take her away? No, she would offer herself to the Lords.

  Chapter Two

  “Come on, tell us, who was he?” The man lifted Janlay’s skirt and caressed the back of one of her thighs as she paused beside him to refill his mug.

  Mirabel’s eyes grew nearly black watching even as her mother cast her a smile bright as sunlight glinting off the edge of a blade. Her daughter knew what it meant—don’t say anything.

  “She’s mine,” Janlay responded gaily, moving on to the next man. “All mine!”

  “You made her all by yourself like one of your dresses, did you?” the bearded merchant occupying the best chair persisted quietly. “What are you planning to do with her anyway?”

  “That’s none of your concern, Markan.”

  Mirabel avoided his small black eyes and the lines in his wind-burned brown face because they made her think of bugs crawling between the floorboards.

  “You can’t keep her up here forever, Janlay.”

  “I said it was not your concern!” She turned so quickly a dark stream of wine arched across the room from the bulging skin in her hands and three crimson drops suddenly appeared on Mirabel’s new white skirt.

  “Mother!” She leapt to her feet but then was distracted from this annoyance by the silence that abruptly filled the room more palpably than the hush before a storm. The only sound was the happy panting of two large dogs sitting in the open doorway.

  “She’ll be a woman soon, Janlay,” Markan continued in the calm voice that agitated her mother so much, “with her own destiny to weave.”

  “I turned eighteen last week,” Mirabel informed him as she resumed her seat.

  Another merchant stood up, took the wineskin from Janlay, passed it to a third man and gently pulled her down onto his lap. “It’s all right,” he whispered into her hair.

  “Do you know who your father is, girl?” Markan asked bluntly.

  Janlay raised her head from the other man’s shoulder to shake it.

  “I know he’s not you, or you,” Mirabel replied proudly. “He’s not one—”

  “Mirabel!” her mother warned.

  “Who is he then, the goat we saw wandering outside?” This question was put to her by the youngest of the three merchants. His tanned skin stretched taut over cheekbones sharp as rocks and his eyes were the color of a clear summer sky above them. He was dressed in soft golden leather from his neck to his toes, his shirt held together by a web of red strings through which she could see his smooth chest.

  “Why do you have a dead animal on your head?” Mirabel inquired of him in return.

  Even Janlay laughed.

  “It’s called a hat.” The young man snatched it off his head and stared down at it as if he wasn’t quite sure anymore.

  “Hat…” Mirabel tasted the word curiously. “Hat… I don’t like it. All the other hats I’ve seen smelled bad and were covered with flies.”

  It was a while before the laughter that filled the little house died down.

  “Janlay, what are you going to do with her?” The question was asked again but in a more lighthearted tone by the man who held her.

  “She’ll be a breath of fresh air—that’s for sure,” the now hatless one declared as he tossed the lifeless fur away and downed his wine.

  Mirabel had never been compared to fresh air and she rather liked it, which made her feel more generous toward him. “And you have hair like the sun,” she told him matter-of-factly.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Thank you, my lady.” He stood up and bent over in a way that made her wonder if he was in pain, one arm bending around his middle while the other swept up into the air behind him. “And your hair,” when he straightened up again she suddenly felt as though the sky was looking straight down at her through his eyes, “is soft as a moonless night.”

  “How do you know?” she asked curiously. “You’ve never touched it.”

  “May I touch it?”

  “Darmond,” Markan said firmly, “wait another winter.”

  “Mirabel, our guests must be very hungry after their long climb. Go fix supper.”

  *

  Janlay’s scarred work surface was transformed into a banquet table by a scarlet cloth quickly draped over the dark wood and by an oil lamp placed in the center, next to an earthen vase filled with wildflowers the men had picked for their hostess just before reaching her isolated home.

  Mirabel’s preparation of the rabbits Darmond had caught was so elaborately praised she forgot to eat for a moment as she digested the compliments with a strange new kind of satisfaction.

  “It’s no wonder you want to keep her up here with you,” Markan observed, his lips and fingertips glistening with the animal’s juices.

  “She has a natural feel for herbal plants.” Janlay smiled over at her daughter. “She knows more than I do.”

  “It’s no wonder.” The man who had cradled Janlay in his lap now caressed the coolly burning flow of her red hair. “They’re the only friends she has up here, each one possessed of a unique personality.”

  Markan’s words managed to get around the food in his mouth as he said, “Stop rubbing it in, Donlan.”

  This at least was a phrase Mirabel could grasp. “That’s what I did,” she explained eagerly. “I rubbed the herbs into it and stuffed it with onions and—”

  “Would you like some wine, Mirabel?” Darmond, who was seated beside her, poised a fresh bulging skin over her clay cup.

  “She’s still too young,” Janlay protested mildly.

  “Nonsense,” Donlan assured her. “Let the girl enjoy herself for once.”

  “For once?” Janlay laughed even though she didn’t look amused. “That’s all she does is enjoy herself. She doesn’t have a care in the world!”

  Darmond filled Mirabel’s cup while the two dogs circled the table nonstop, pausing only when someone threw them a scrap.

  She lost count of how many times Darmond smiled at her and filled her cup.

  “Mirabel?” Her mother’s concerned voice barely floated into her awareness. She was fascinated by the merchant’s eyes, which were like fragments of the sky yet also round and shiny as pebbles lying at the bottom of a stream without actually being either of these things. In a sense they were less and in another sense they were much more, because they focused on her in a way the sky and rocks and water never did. It was a relief when she abruptly remembered the honey cakes she had baking in the stove. She rose to fetch them and the floor lurched oddly beneath her. She clutched the back of her chair as she stumbled over the laughter rushing around her misted senses.

  “How much did you give her to drink?” Janlay demanded.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Darmond replied, tossing a bone to the floor.

  “I’m all right.” Mirabel heard herself say as she plunged in
the direction of the kitchen. The cakes smelled delicious, although she detected they would be slightly darker than her mother liked them. She was sure the men wouldn’t notice.

  *

  Mirabel was confused as to why this visit felt so different from all the others. She liked the attention the men were paying her and how generously they praised the food she prepared. The oldest had told Darmond to wait another winter, referring to her, and she wondered what he had meant by that even as the young merchant’s lips fascinated her so much she couldn’t seem to think about anything except his smile.

  Her honey cakes met with as much approval as her roasted rabbits and dumplings. Afterward, the men leaned back in their chairs and Mirabel found herself fervently hoping Janlay wouldn’t send her up to her room now the way she usually did. She kept glancing at her mother’s dresses where they hung from hooks in the wall, feeling as though she had never truly seen them before. The dim lamplight shimmered off the low silver neckline of a black bodice as beautifully as stars on a clear winter night and suddenly she wanted more than anything in the universe to feel the rich cloth glimmering against her skin as she slipped it on.

  “Mommy, may I wear the black dress just for tonight?” She leaned over the table, fascinated by the deep folds of the skirt.

  “Has she ever seen herself?” Markan asked pointedly. He was employing a thin little stick to flush out whatever remained of the rabbit from between the even rocks of his teeth.

  Janlay shrugged. “In the stream, I suppose, or in some ice. Why?” she added sharply.

  “By the Lords, woman, she’s not an animal!” Darmond refilled his own glass yet again. “Haven’t you taught her anything?”

  Mirabel stared at him breathlessly.

  “Go upstairs now, dear.”

  “Oh no, Mommy, please, let me stay. I want to know why it is you’re only happy when they’re here.”

  “Your mother is never happy,” Markan corrected her somberly.

  “Why?”

  “No one understands what really happened, do we, Janlay?”

  “Mirabel, go up to your room this instant, before you cause any more trouble.”