by Mandi Lynn
He refuses to look at her. Or Joelle. She’ll walk up to him, clutch his hand, but he’ll just push her away. Dondre is everything I’m not. I’ve never found Joelle asking for my attention, yet here he is, pushing it away like an unwanted colt following its mother.
“Aida.” Papa walks back inside and doesn’t stop his stride as he talks to me. “You can’t sleep here tonight.”
My hands freeze around the pot I am cleaning. I lift my head to look at him, to see if he’s angry or at least to get an idea of what I’ve done wrong. I think back, trying to remember disobeying or breaking the rules. I had left the village without his permission, but how did he know? Anton was the only one who saw me, and he’s gone.
“What did I do?” I ask in a small voice.
“Margo needs somewhere to sleep, along with Joelle. We don’t have enough mattresses for everyone, and you can’t expect me to send your sick sister out on the street, can you?”
“You just told Mama you didn’t want two extra mouths to feed.” My lips stumble across the words.
“Aida!” Papa’s voice is stunning in the silence of the approaching night. “You will find somewhere else to reside.” He points me to the door, and I stare at him, his words final and sharp. He won’t look at me.
“Mama?” I beg. My hands shake around the pot I haven’t finished washing. She won’t let me leave. She can’t let me be removed from the family just because my bed has been taken by another.
“Listen to your father,” she says. Her eyes are focused on the ground.
Why can’t she look at me?
I release a breath, and I feel like screaming. I drop the pot on the ground and don’t care that it may break or that it will take a week’s worth of work or crops to trade for a new one in the market.
I look at Margo’s sleeping figure as I step out the door. Her hair is falling from its braid and I can see almost every bone in her body. I hope the dark spots around her neck are shadows, but are probably another sign of the pestilence, and I get it—Dondre was right. This is unfair. He hunted his own meal and has yet to receive praise. Margo is dying, but Papa’s only concern is that now he’ll have to find more food for our family. And here I am, walking from the only home I know, because there’s no longer room for me.
V.
The sky is growing dark as I make the last steps to Cyrielle’s home. Jermaine, her husband, is outside tending their livestock and I’m a few steps from their fence when he looks up.
“Aida,” he says. Jermaine examines me, sees my face, and leaves one of their sheep. “What’s wrong?”
“Is Cyrielle here?” I ask. I mask my feelings, as he nods his head and allows me into their home.
He remains outside, feeding the sheep that wander in the fences only feet from their cruck house.
Cyrielle has her back to me, when I step through the door. With the sun setting, the inside of the house is growing dark, and I can tell Cyrielle is getting ready for bed. She wears only a thin chemise and is sitting on the mattress, resting close to the ground.
“Jermaine, I felt it kick,” she says in a hushed, peaceful voice.
I can’t see her face, but she cocoons her stomach in her hands.
“It’s only me,” I say.
At the sound of my voice Cyrielle turns and smiles in my direction.
“Oh! Aida, what are you doing out so late? Won’t your parents be upset?” Even with this she still ushers me to sit beside her.
“Did you say you felt it kick again?” I smile.
She nods, takes my hand, and places it on her stomach.
She’s carried her baby for months now. Any moment she will be blessed with an infant who is already announcing its presence in the world as it kicks through Cyrielle’s skin.
My hand glides over the thin fabric on her abdomen. I close my eyes and focus all my attention on the movement beneath my hand. A small, silent kick hits beneath my fingers.
“Did you feel it?” she asks, eyes aglow, as I pull away my hand.
“Yes.”
She cradles her stomach again. Cyrielle’s hair has been undone for the night. It cascades in long dark waves over her shoulders, all the way to her bulging stomach. It acts as a curtain around her body, and I think to myself how much of a shame it is that we have to braid our hair and hide it away when in the eyes of the public. A few moments pass in silence between us until she stops thinking of her unborn infant and looks at me.
“What happened?”
Her face is serious then, aware I wouldn’t visit her at this time of night if it weren’t for a good reason. Her eyes beg my soul, and I want to open up to her and scream how Papa has abandoned me, but I can’t worry her. She has her own family—a growing family with a baby.
“I just wanted to see how you were.”
She laughs quietly to herself. “It’s almost sunset, and you don’t like to walk in the dark. You’re trying to tell me that you came just to check in? Besides, your father would never let you.”
“I don’t always need to follow Papa’s rules, you know,” I say.
“Until your father refuses to feed or house you,” she says, laughing.
I shrink back a little. My smile disappears, and that’s all she needs to know her words are true. Her face is devoid of any giddiness she may have had previously, as she registers my reaction. “Did he … He didn’t … Aida?”
I watch as her mind turns over the possibilities, everything I would have had to do in order for my father to participate in such a harsh punishment.
“What did you do?” Her eyes are sad.
I shake my head. “That’s the thing. I didn’t do anything.”
“But …” She stops, thinks, and I look down, ashamed, as if I’ve done something horrible to deserve this. “Did your father hurt you?” she asks in a meek voice. She tries not to make it obvious, but I see her eyes scan me for injuries.
“No,” I say. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”
Cyrielle exhales a breath. There have been multiple occasions where I’ve come running to her, bruised, after defying Papa’s wishes.
The most prominent instance was after I met Anton in the market. Cyrielle brought me home covered in dirt, limbs shaking in shock, only to have Papa punish me for sneaking away. Mama stood inside as he hit me. Dondre was away, playing with his friends, I suppose. But I was lying on the ground after Cyrielle left, Papa kicking me, telling me that I’d lied and how I’d snuck away with boys to sell myself. I told him no, that wasn’t true; but each time I spoke, he grew angrier.
The next day, when Cyrielle came to check on me, I was still in bed. She’d peeked her head through the door, seen my battered body, and begun to cry. For weeks she’d refused to forgive herself because she’d left me with Papa, but I’d told her that it didn’t matter. He would have done the same, even if she had been there. It was better that she didn’t have to see it.
“What happened?”
The longer I stay quiet, the more upset she grows. I don’t want her upset; she should be happy. Cyrielle is having a baby, and I can’t ruin that for her.
“Margo and Joelle came to visit is all,” I explain. “They needed a place to sleep. Papa said they could take my bed.” It’s a simple lie, just a stretch of the truth, but she sees it. I look at her and try to smile, tell her not to worry.
“I don’t care how despicable your father is, he wouldn’t throw you on the streets for that. There’s more.” Her eyes are intent on me, and I can’t look away.
“Margo is sick,” I say. “Anton left her with us because …” I stop myself, brush away the thoughts again. I lied to Dondre. I can’t lie to Cyrielle.
“Why?” Cyrielle whispers.
“Because she’s dying.” I feel numb. These words aren’t mine. This life isn’t mine. I have no attachment to what I’m saying, yet it’s still true.
Cyrielle sucks in a breath, and I can’t look at her. Instead I turn my eyes toward my hands. They lie in my lap, small and feeble. I mak
e my hand into a fist and pretend I’m strong, but it’s just a façade.
“Anton doesn’t want Joelle after Margo dies. He doesn’t want either of them any longer.”
Cyrielle gets up slowly, one hand on her stomach and the other skimming the wall to keep her balance. She doesn’t look at me, just leaves. When she stands, I see just how much her baby has grown inside her. The chemise is stretched to fit around her otherwise small frame. A veil of dark hair trails behind her.
As she steps outside, I’m left alone. I can only hear hushed whispers, and I know Cyrielle is talking to Jermaine. I hug my knees to my chest and pretend everything is okay. I make up a world, a fake world, where I’m only here to visit Cyrielle, to see if her baby has arrived. I’m just waiting, waiting for the baby. I’m not waiting for their deliberation and decision.
“Is it true? About Margo?”
It’s Jermaine who is at the door.
His tall shadow hangs over me in the setting sun, and I wonder if I will have to leave the safety of their house to search out another place to stay for the night. I’m surprised because he doesn’t look horrified when he looks at me; he looks sad.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Jermaine looks outside where his wife must be standing. I see his lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He sighs, puts his hand to his face, and covers his eyes for a moment. From far away I hear Cyrielle’s voice. Jermaine nods and agrees to whatever she’s saying.
“You can sleep here tonight. I don’t know for how long you can stay, but we’ll let you reside,” he says.
My head snaps up in his direction. He looks tired, and I realize how much I am intruding. If I weren’t here, they’d both be sound asleep by now. Cyrielle steps back into her home, her hand supporting the baby.
“You’ll have to gather some hay from outside to use as a mattress, but at least you’ll be inside.” Cyrielle’s smile is small, as she comes to me. Her steps are tiny and awkward, as she tries to balance her offset body. Carefully she lowers herself next to me.
I hug her, being careful not to hurt her, because I know how weak she must feel. Jermaine walks through the threshold as I get up. “Thank you,” I whisper, giving the smallest, yet most sincere smile.
He nods, and I walk outside to find hay for my bedding. A bale is near their fence and I drag it over. In the pasture a lone cow watches me in silence, as I haul away his food.
Pushing it into the cruck house, I see Jermaine and Cyrielle have already settled in bed. In the corner, as to give them as much privacy as possible, I break apart the hay so it is long enough to sleep on. I don’t have any cloth to cover my makeshift mattress, so I lie across the hay as it picks and nips at my skin. I fall asleep like that, fully clothed, and wishing I didn’t have to invade Cyrielle’s life.
What comforts me to sleep is the chorus of crickets, always there to lull me to a slumber. Otherwise the night is silent.
The haunting darkness leaves me to wonder how much time Margo has left and whether Joelle knows she has lost both her mother and father.
I tell myself I’m foolish. Margo is alive. I told Dondre she would be okay.
She will be okay.
VI.
“It’s not safe.”
The words come in the morning. The air is cool and damp. I can hear the rain making a small rhythm on the straw roof as it falls precariously to Earth.
“We can’t send her away.”
My eyes are sewn shut. The voices don’t register with me at first, but as they continue and my mind finds its place again, I know who they are.
“What about the baby? Our son or daughter could come any day now. I can barely afford to feed just the two of us. I know Aida is your friend, but we can’t give her food. I don’t even know what we will do when the baby arrives.” Jermaine’s voice is hushed in the early morning.
I can hear other bodies stirring in the background, far away. I imagine the villagers have begun their day. With the sun in the sky, the chores begin; work awakens the peasants to their place.
“The baby feeds from my breast. You know that,” Cyrielle says, pleading with her husband, but I can tell she is giving up, hearing the sense in his words.
“It’s not just the baby. We can feed you, me, and our son or daughter. Not another adult.” He says this fact sadly.
There’s a lost hope in his voice, as if he wishes he could supply me with a home and food, but he knows the truth of our world.
The people here till the fields just to give crops to our lords. It’s only in our own time that we can harvest our own fields. At home this was what I had done. During the day, when everyone else was tending to the lords’ fields, I was sent to my family’s pasture. The small area was planted with barley, carrots, lettuce, sometimes corn if the season was right.
Feeding ourselves became more and more of a task as each day passed. That was my only value to my family: I tilled our field. Alone. I could pretend, if not for the slightest moment, that I was working like everyone else in our lord’s field—not hiding my eyes. I could offer something to my family.
“What do you want me to do?”
I open my eyes and see nothing but the wooden walls of the cruck house. I can feel myself breaking from my core outward. Everything hurts and I’m unwanted. I can feel their voices reverberating off me behind my back. I urge myself to fall sleep, to just wait and put off the inevitable. Cyrielle would never wake me to kick me to the streets.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
It’s true. I can hear his remorse. He doesn’t want to send me away, but he has to, for his family.
“We can’t help her, not this time.”
“But we have to …” The words are said to herself. She doesn’t believe them and neither does Jermaine.
“I’m sorry,” he says again.
Everything is still. No one moves toward where I lie on the ground. My mind spins and turns, thinking of how I can possibly get more time. My eyes are closed, but a new energy runs through my veins. Panic keeps me awake, and I know sleep is beyond my reach, but I try anyway for more time.
I don’t want to listen. I scream inside myself to block out the voices. In my imagination I’m at the edge of Marseille. I can see the docks and the grand ships, but I’m not there for the sights. Instead I’m there to scream. I stand at the edge of the cliff face, the water roaring in the cascades. One deep breath and I release it. I scream to Heaven and Hell, begging someone to hear my cries.
“Look at me!” I scream, but no one is there. No one is ever there, so I stand and continue to scream until my lungs give out. Until I’m just standing there, waiting for my tears to run dry or for my muscles to release me.
But I’m here. A coward in my friend’s home, hoping she will nurture me more than I deserve.
“You know we can’t.” Jermaine’s words are final.
Cyrielle doesn’t say anything afterward, but I can hear a catch in her breath. She coughs, a sound I’ve heard from her on many occasions. It was there every time she fell and hurt herself as a child, and it was there when her mother told us that we could no longer be friends. Cyrielle holds back her crying. Her breathing is staggered, and it’s all I can do to stay in my place, to not rush to comfort her.
And I tell myself this is the closest I will ever come to being loved, and it seems right—to be loved by the one who has saved my life.
“I’ll be okay,” I whisper. The words are so silent I barely hear them. I wonder how many times I will lie to myself. “I’ll be okay,” I say again in the hushed tone, and I’m lying again.
For the first time in my life Cyrielle doesn’t hear me. She’s always been there to receive my thoughts and feelings, and now, when it’s most important, she can’t hear me. I want to say the words louder, but I can’t. I don’t know if they’re true. Will I be okay?
Jermaine walks outside and brings Cyrielle with him, as their small house grows quiet. I’m left to brew in my own cowardice.
And some
how sleep finds me.
~~~
“Come, before it’s too late,” Cyrielle says. She’s running to the cliff face, hopping, skipping almost. I can see the smile on her face as she talks, and I don’t understand her happiness. Her dress sways behind her, and her hair is in a complicated braid around her crown. Ribbons are twined into the plait, the strips of fabric draping her shoulders.
“Before what’s too late?” I rush after her. The salty air comes in from the ocean. The smell of low tide fills my senses. It’s a distasteful smell, but it reminds me of home.
“Don’t you see it?” She turns to me and her face suddenly goes solemn. A corset is pulled tight around her middle, and I realize how she must have had her baby in the night. Her sleeves are tailored close but taper away at her elbow and extend to the ground in a train. The fabric is dark as night and the wind sweeps the cloth around her like magic.
“What?”
Cyrielle lifts her arm, the long fabric trailing the ground, and she’s the most elegant beauty I have ever seen—she looks like the lord’s lady.
Her finger points to the heart of Marseille. The white fog from the smokestacks floats up and away from the town. The church bells don’t ring. All is silent.
“They are burning the dead,” she says. “You can smell it.”
I watch the thick smoke ascend to the sky and disappear. And yes, I smell it. What I thought had been the repugnant scent of low tide is rot. It’s the odor of wasted flesh being burned. The wind off the ocean sweeps it away, but it’s still there.
“What happened?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, so I turn back to Cyrielle, but she’s gone. In her place a woman stands. She wears the rich clothing Cyrielle had been in seconds ago, but her face is sharper, more distinct. The women’s dark hair is twisted into the same plait Cyrielle had been wearing, and I wonder how such an intricate braid can be duplicated. Her beauty is almost unfair. This lady doesn’t speak a word to me. Her stare is unbroken and fierce.
