I ask now, is a monster simply created? Is it a suffering that is bestowed at birth? Or can it truly be something that happens at the peak of one's youth? Sadly, the latter is true; or so, I have witnessed.
~*~
Mother has always been an exceptional cook. Every night, my father would be welcomed from work with a feast of kings and none in our home could feel less than fulfilled. She had a way with gravies and knew clever tricks to roasting birds in a way that left the meat falling off of the bone. Even vegetables exuded aromas that would bring wild dogs whimpering at our door for a taste. The village often pestered Mother for advice, but she would not give away the least of her secrets.
The trouble began on a rainy afternoon. I was out hunting in the woods for mere entertainment. It was an exciting day for me as I carried the carcass of a young stag on my shoulders. Hunting for entertainment had turned into pure bliss. It was the best trophy I'd ever managed myself. Father would be pleased and Mother would do something special with it.
Being the small woman I was, carrying that creature on my shoulders was tiring. With a little under a mile between me and my home, I dropped the catch and rested on a damp log. The leaves above dripped water on my tunic hood and I knew I would not stay long. The scent of rain was only strengthening and I knew that a storm was on its way. Then, I smelled it. It was light, yet sparked the churning of my stomach. Mother was already hard at work over dinner.
I picked up the stag and followed my nose as my mouth watered.
"Hello, Mum," I called when I entered our home. The scent of meat and potatoes was overwhelming and I wondered if I would be able to wait for Father to arrive. Mother was in the kitchen with a bowl in her hand, licking an empty spoon. I supposed waiting was no longer necessary.
"Hello, Lyla," she replied with a smile before rising and refilling her bowl.
Something looked different about her.
"Mum? You look...plumper," I said with a giggle.
She looked at me with a frown. "That is no proper way to speak to your mother."
"Forgive me," I responded, filling my own bowl with her concoction. "I didn't mean it rudely." I paused at the table before tying my hair back and looked up again with a smile. "I've brought you something. A stag. It took no less than two arrows to slow it down, then a quick chase and it was over."
Mother nodded her head as she refilled her bowl for the third time. That was odd, but I pushed that thought away, thinking nothing more of it.
It wasn't long before my father arrived and praised Mother for the meal. Of course. What man could deny anyone a compliment when it came to good food? He was proud of my catch and after dinner, helped me skin and gut it. My mother watched us from the window.
"My dear," Father said with a laugh. "I think we have meat enough to throw away the fat!"
My smile was beaming. I could feel it as pride puffed my chest. It wasn't often you heard a man praise a young girl on hunting. It was, after all, a man's sport in our culture.
A door swung open, startling me and Father. A look of concern wrinkled Mother's features and she studied our hands. "I do hope you were jesting about throwing away the fat. You will not be tossing any of this to the dogs, I hope you realize." Her voice was quiet, but there lingered a subtle sense of something I could only perceive as fear. Father and I passed wordless glances to one another after he reassured Mother he was not being serious and that we would, indeed, keep all that was there before us – even down to the last bone.
Such was simply the appetizer to everything gone wrong.
Over the next few days, Mother spent more time than usual in the kitchen, though there was a change in scene. She spent more time with her mouth full than ever. I wondered if she might be with child, but there was no other sign of such a turn of events. I approached my father about it and he assured me that the possibility of a sibling would not be possible, for he and my mother had not been intimate for quite some time. Apparently, I was late in realizing a change in her.
Father admitted that the troubles began months before. Mother had often directed their conversations to talk of food and drink, as if afraid we were running out and would starve.
"That's how it began, at least," Father said. "The talk of famine eventually died down. I'd hoped she was finished with whatever it was that made her fear such ridiculousness. After all, we'd never been without food or clothing. Our Lord promised to provide clothing and sustenance, as even flowers in a field are provided with such. But, she's gone from talk of negativity to that of what pleasure she takes in eating; that a full belly is equal to what she felt when we first fell in love." Father's gaze fell, his eyes full of misunderstanding. "How can one speak so highly of something as unpretentious as food?"
I could see the sadness in my father's eyes as he shared with me the troubles he'd taken notice of in his beloved wife. Though he spoke openly, it seemed as if he were bottling the vastness of his emotions. The situation was far worse than I suspected.
~*~
Over time, things progressed and I could see that what Father had said before was true. Mother's mind was constantly on food, but, for the two days previous, an obsession of drink had found its way into her. Her body was not taking well to the sudden intake and Mother grew. Though she had changed, it took little more than that for my concern to hit its height.
One sunny morning, I'd fastened on my boots and made for the door with bow in hand when I grabbed a roll and handful of cranberries from a basket on the table. Just as soon as I'd gotten anything in my mouth, I heard her voice from behind.
"Lyla," Mother snapped.
I spun on my heel in stark reflex. "Yes," I replied.
"You've been taking food out of the house?"
I couldn't tell if she was asking me or accusing me.
"Yes," I said again.
She took a bite of her own roll and shook her head. "I thought I made it clear that I did not want food out of the house." She paused and her nostrils flared as she held back a tantrum I knew was coming. Recently, they'd been coming and going more often than I could count.
"I'm sorry, Mother. I just thought I would get hungry while out on the hunt," I replied, trying to explain.
"What do you not understand, Lyla? We speak the same language."
Unbelievable.
With one long stride, I dropped the food on the table and made my way out of the house.
Sleep was far from me that night. I could no longer look at Mother the way I had before. All that my father had told me seemed clear when I saw her again. Her mind was elsewhere when I asked her about her day. Her eyes seemed darker than usual and she was always so angry.
Come morning, the light broke through the window of my bedroom in white rays. Dust floated about in swirls and swooped like cinders from a fire. It was difficult for me to rise, as the night had passed irksomely slow. Mother and Father had argued in the middle of the night and it was obvious that the argument had come from the kitchen. Silverware had crashed. Drawers had slammed. Through it all, Father had kept his calm, which was rather surprising, considering the screams and accusations that escaped Mother's lips. I could not imagine what could have started such a terrible argument, but I can be no less than thankful that it had not lasted long.
I rose out of bed and readied for the day. I would be hunting again, though more for the sake of having time to myself than for actual sport. My mind was overwhelmed with concern for my mother; and for my father, of course. I pitied him. The woman he once knew was changed, and for something as foolish as food. It seemed pointless. Even so, it brought out a change in Mother that I could never have imagined.
She must be depressed, I thought to myself as I wound through the trees of the wood, brush cracking beneath my feet with every step. I wondered if Father thought the same, or if there was more that he'd kept from me. I couldn't expect him to tell me everything, especially when it came to Mother. I imagined it was more painful for him than for me.
It could not b
e depression, I decided. Though Mother was often angry, she had occasional spurts of positivity that left her humming about in the kitchen as she ate. She was such a labyrinth; a strain on the mind.
Taking a moment to decide which way I would wander, I realized the silence of the forest. Birds weren't chirping their merry morning melodies as they normally did at that time of day. There was no shuffle in the brush from small critters. I looked up through the canopy and searched the skies. They were clear.
Then I felt it.
A thick scent of damp earth filled my nostrils as a breeze kissed my face. By twilight, a storm would arrive and it would be big.
The thought to make my way home pecked at me like an annoying bird but instead, I kept on the path that would lead me further into the wood. I did not want to go home. Mother would be there and I did not desire any sort of exchange with her. The stress and sense of irritation that she constantly exuded was too much for us; my father and myself.
That birthed a new thought. If we would keep away from her, would she even be bothered by our absence? Would she notice?
"What a foolish thought," I scolded myself. "Of course she would. She's not an animal."
Nearly two hours were spent in the forest. My shoulders were beginning to ache with the weight of the bow and quiver. The arrows remained, unmoved; unused. Deer and other game were spotted, but the motivation to bring home a trophy was virtually non-existent. I couldn't imagine Father being willing to help me gut the animal, either.
The time alone was refreshing at the very least, however. The ability to think was drowned in the desire to simply want to go somewhere far away from my arguing parents. Far away from Mother's troubles. That desire was not really even a thought in itself. It was just a sense, attached to my mind, and somewhat like a biological need, like food or water. I needed to keep away, but I knew that I could not. How could I abandon my mother in her greatest time of need?
Thunder had rolled a number of times, but only when it vibrated through the ground did I decide that going home would be best. I stopped in my steps until the vibration was gone and the sound deteriorated into the distance. With a deep breath and the squaring of my shoulders, I turned and made my way back home.
With the first step inside, I sensed something was wrong. There was a strange echo throughout the foyer and no sound from the other rooms.
"Mother?" I called as I closed the door with extra caution to not make a sound.
No response.
I skimmed the living area before I turned to the kitchen and noticed something that caused my breath to hitch in my throat. The door to the food closet was cracked from top to bottom.
"Mother?" I called again, this time with a fresh urgency in my voice. "Where are you?"
I froze when the sound of heavy breathing caught my attention. It was coming from Mother's room. I hurried in search of her, and as I drew nearer, it was obvious that the breathes were in fact sobs. I turned the corner and pushed open the door, setting my gaze on my mother who sat curled on the floor.
"Mum," I gasped, hurrying to her side. "What's happened? Are you alright? Where's Father?" The questions kept pouring from my lips and I became more frantic as my mother wouldn't answer me. "Mum, speak to me! What's happened?"
"He's gone," she moaned. "He's left us. He's gone away..." she paused, breathing in short, quick breathes as if having difficulty grasping air. It took her a moment to finish. "And I fear he may not come back."
Mother's eyes were red and swollen. Apparently, she'd been like this for a considerable about of time. Crimson caught my eye and I dropped my gaze on her hand. Blood shrouded it like an extra layer of skin. Could she be the one who cracked the door? Could she have that kind of strength?
"Mama," I pressed, pushing the thought away. She wasn't attacked, it seemed, which was my prime concern. "Mama, who's gone?"
She pressed her face into my shoulder and I wrapped my arms around her. I'd never seen her so broken. I didn't understand.
"Your father," she whispered. "Your father is gone."
I looked up and blinked away my own tears. She was right. There was no sign of him. But— no. I couldn't believe that he would do such a thing.
"Mother, you're overreacting. He's likely gone out to the village market or hunting," I said.
Just as I finished speaking, the door of the main entrance shut, and a moment later, Father walked into the room. The instant his gaze fell upon us, he hurried to our side.
"What is this?" he asked.
I looked up at him with a subtle shake of my head, not knowing what to say. Mother had quieted down, but didn't lift her gaze, even when she heard her husband's voice. How odd.
"Darling," Father went on, lifting Mother's chin. Her eyes remained downcast for a moment. "Darling, say something."
Father's fingers recoiled slightly when her gaze snapped up to his. Though I stood to the side, I could still see what surprised him. Her eyes were dark; darker than they'd ever been, and with a scoff, she slapped away his hand, rose to her feet and hurried out of the house.
I ran after her before my father caught my tunic in a fist.
"Leave her," he whispered.
"Leave her?" I repeated. "Father, a storm is coming. She cannot wander about in the woods."
To my surprise and dismay, he waved his hand as if waving away my concerns like they were nothing. His eyes were empty of emotion as he turned and made his way to his bed chamber where he shut the door behind him. How could he be so cold? I looked to the open door as the rain poured relentlessly.
~*~
Days passed and there was no sign of Mother.
The home was empty and lifeless without her. Dust gathered on the small trinkets that jeweled our home; my mother's priceless possessions. The walls slowly lost all sense of security, closing in on us who were abandoned within. As if aware of the troubles in our lives, the darkness of the storm that arrived as Mother disappeared hovered over our small cottage in the woods. Sadness was a boundless companion.
I'd tried to keep things in line. I'd tried to keep Mother's scent alive. Taking care of the cooking and cleaning, but every time Father would walk by, I'd see the terrible void in his eyes, and all motivation seemed to ebb away like a wave, leaving me a cold, ragged stone on the edge.
Father did not speak. For three days he remained locked away in his room, but for the occasional walk to the window which he would stare out of for hours. His clothes were not changed. There was no interest in food or drink. He was just a body, empty of life and any sign of it.
~*~
Fourteen days had passed and the full moon would be out tonight. Mother was still gone and Father was still locked away. He'd lost weight and was beginning to fall ill. I could hear him coughing the night before.
Sitting on the seat beside the window that looked out over the autumn growth, I rested my head on my folded arms and hummed a tune that Mother did when I was a child. An old Elvish tune that used to sound like a lullaby to me. Now, it seemed like a funeral hymn. I never knew what the song spoke of, but the long, quiet notes seemed fitting for the sense of melancholy that filled the cottage.
The rains had never come to a halt. Not even for a moment. It was as if the skies were mourning with us. The elves of past believed that nature could feel things, like people. The thought was once preposterous to me, but now I found myself wondering. Could the sky cry? Could the woods feel?
I shook the thoughts out of my head and decided I was too lonely and was searching for a sense of presence. How foolish of me.
Rising out of my seat, I languidly made my way to check on my father. It seemed, now, like a chore to speak to him. I found no pleasure in seeing his face any longer, for his eyes never left the ground and his broken heart was on his sleeve. Nonetheless, he needed to be taken care of and he was, after all, my father.
"Papa?" I quietly called through the door before trying the knob. "Papa, can I get you something?"
Please say something.
>
A moment of silence passed before I turned the knob and opened the door a crack. When I got my head in, I was surprised to find Father standing tall, staring out the bedroom window, eyes wide. I frowned.
"Papa? What is it?"
He shushed me and gestured for me to join him, which I cautiously did. He was unblinking and focused on something, though I could not gather what it could be. The window was blurred with rain water.
"Look there," he said, pushing the tip of his finger on the glass. "Do you see it?"
I stood beside him and followed his gaze with a squint. The brown and white shades of birch and shrub were all I could see as I searched the area. No grass or flowers were to be seen at that time of year.
All at once, something disturbed the wood.
"That," Father nearly shouted. "Do you see it?"
My gaze was focused on the spot that moved. It was a different color than the surrounding woods. A lumbering greyish, green tinted creature, though I could not make out what sort it was through the distorted view the glass offered.
My initial thought was that it could be my mother out there but the creature was much too large. I hurried to the front door and looked out through the windows there. Whatever it was retreated into the woods by the time I decided to open the door for a clearer view.
I stood for a moment on the threshold and wrapped my arms around myself. The air was cool. Winter was coming.
"Excuse me," someone said, the voice coming from above me. I gasped and looked up to find a man on my roof.
"What? Why-who- who are you?" I demanded, stepping out into the rain, away from the visitor. "And what are you doing up there? Come down this instant!"
The man grinned and perched on the edge of the thatch roof. From the light skin tone, I immediately knew the man to be an elf. How curious for him to arrive when just moments before I had been thinking of his kind. No matter. I wrinkled my nose at the man and objected to his sitting on my home.
"Pardon me, but do my words fall on deaf ears? I told you to get down from there!" I continued.
Seven Deadly Sins Page 16
