I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  I hesitate, the remaining distance standing between my brother and me. “Papa said I couldn’t sleep here. Margo needed my bed.”

  “Aida,” he says, and suddenly his demeanor changes. The brave exterior that he had just been trying to put forward disappears, and I see him for the twelve-year-old that he is. His face crumbles and I want to hold him like I had when he was small. “You have to leave before Papa comes back.”

  “Is she okay?” I ask, ignoring Dondre’s warnings.

  His gaze doesn’t leave me, as tears drown his eyes. He doesn’t lift his hand to wipe them away as they brim and cascade over his cheeks. His arms and fists are still clenched at his side, and I know he is fighting to hold in his emotions like he always had—like Papa taught him.

  “No.”

  I walk toward my baby brother, but Dondre sidesteps me. He removes himself from the door and continues to back away.

  “Dondre!” I say, but he doesn’t turn or stop. “Please.” My voice is a plea thrown to the air and I wonder if he can hear me or if he chooses not to listen.

  I run up behind him, as he walks toward the fence that holds our sheep. I grip his shoulder and turn him, so he’ll look at me. Dondre pushes me backward with more brute force than I knew he possessed. I suppose all the years working in the fields while I was hidden away, gave him the strength I only wish I had.

  “Don’t touch me!” he screams, and his voice breaks. The tears still flow steadily down his face, and he blinks them away.

  “She’s my sister too,” I say. I reach out for his hand, but he cringes away.

  His hand comes up and I feel a sharp sting across my face. I had barely seen his hand as it whipped to strike me, but now the pain sings out strong and true.

  “Aida, I—” Dondre stutters his words.

  I can’t look at him. I hold my palm where Dondre slapped me. I try to ignore the pinpricks that rise in my cheek, but tears cloud my vision, reminding me of his hand across my face.

  “I’m sorry, Aida,” Dondre says.

  My feet slink from the source of danger. The voice of my brother continues to talk in its sweet sounds, trying to coax me back toward it. My ears ring so I can’t make out the voice talking to me—pleading with me. My backside hits the post of our fence and I lean against it, shifting down to the ground. My other hand covers my face, and that’s when the tears come. They run down my cheeks in shameful spouts, telling the world how weak I am.

  “Aida …”

  I look for the source of the voice. Blinking away tears, I clear my vision and see Dondre standing over me, his face horror-stricken.

  “I’m sorry.” He cries in hiccups, no longer able to contain himself and to be the man Papa wants him to be.

  I lower my hands from my face and hold my arms open. Dondre enters them, like he had when he was just a toddler. I sit on the ground, and he comes to me, burying his face in my neck. His breath is hot against my skin as tears pour from him onto my clothing. I grip my baby brother and silently beg him to never leave. He’s not as small as he was when I last held him, and I struggle to wrap my arms around his frame, but he comes to me for comfort regardless.

  Dondre doesn’t speak to me and I don’t utter a word either. My tears grow quiet as the stinging in my cheek wanes, then disappears. Dondre’s cries only grow louder as he stays in my arms and I welcome him. He doesn’t raise another hand or force me away. Minutes pass and still his sobbing continues until I hear a soft whisper, so quiet the sound of the rain almost swallows it.

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  IX.

  “Aida,” Mama says, as she sees me walk through the door. She doesn’t rush to greet me, the daughter who was pushed from her home. Mama sits at the far end of the cruck house in the wooden chair Papa made years ago. She can barely hold up her head and in the shadow of the dark, I can see the dark circles painted under her eyes.

  “I stayed with Cyrielle last night,” I tell her. I want her to be pleased that I’m safe, that I was able to take care of myself. She sighs and covers her face with her palm. I wanted so badly for Mama to hug me when I walked in, but she makes my appearance seem to be a chore, like I’ve created trouble for her by being here.

  “Victoir won’t be happy you’re here.”

  I stiffen at Papa’s name.

  “I know,” I say in a hushed voice. “How is Margo?”

  Mama lifts her head to look at my sister, who lies on my mattress on the floor. Her hair is sprawled across the straw in waves—I imagine that Mama took out her braids so Margo would be more comfortable. She wears only a thin chemise, and even with the chill of the morning, I see the fabric is stained with sweat. Next to Margo, Joelle is curled against her mother’s side. Joelle’s hair is still in a braid down her back, but short wispy hairs cling to her forehead in sleep. The child has her face nuzzled against her mother, her hand resting against her mother’s cheek.

  “They both fell asleep a few moments ago,” Mama says. “I didn’t think the coughing would ever stop.”

  I hear Mama’s tired voice. She’s been up all night tending to Margo. Looking at Mama, I see her kirtle is stained across the front with what looks like dried blood. My eyes skirt back to Margo and see her dark and bloody lips. I follow her arm down to where her hand rests at the edge of the mattress, fingers wrapped around a handkerchief that is also blackened by the blood.

  “You need to leave, Aida,” Mama says.

  I don’t bother looking at her as I approach Margo, kneeling next to her on the ground. I run my hand across her cheek and feel the moist sheen of sweat that coats her skin. I pull away the blanket across her body, so she can cool off. As I do, I notice a dark-toned patch of skin on her neck, just above the strap of her chemise. I push away the cloth and stagger backward. A dark mass of skin protrudes from the crook of her shoulder and neck, just as the man on the street had.

  I can feel Mama get up from her chair and look over my shoulder. Behind me she stops breathing for a moment, coming to her knees in front of Margo’s sleeping form.

  “No,” she says to herself in a silent and hushed voice.

  She mumbles words I can’t make out, but when I steal a glance, I see a single tear run down her cheek.

  “It’s the pestilence. She has the buboes like the others.”

  I realize she’s talking to Dondre. He stands behind us now, making a stiff nod before stepping outside again.

  I continue to unwrap the blanket off Margo’s body and scan every inch of her skin as I go. Looking at the bubo, I see it leaves dark trails of skin, like rivers reaching out, plaguing the rest of her body. Smaller lumps gather around her shoulder and I try my best to hold back a shudder as I continue to scan her body.

  I remove the handkerchief from her hands and see the blood has stained her fingers. I don’t know why, but I lean across Mama to reach for the cloth that floats in the water bucket. Ringing out the excess liquid, I wipe Margo’s forehead. I take her finger in my hand and wash away the blood, holding her gently, but the blood doesn’t rinse off. I release my sister’s hand for a moment and dip the cloth in the bucket of water again. I ignore my mother’s eyes as she stares at me, and I continue to tend to my sister’s needs.

  I wrap the cloth around her hand and massage the water into her fingers. After a few moments I take away the cloth, but the blood resists. I release the soaked rag and look closely at Margo’s hands—blackened, stained. That’s when I scream. I can hear my voice cry out in horror but don’t remember opening my mouth to shriek.

  “Where’s Papa?” I ask, my heart hammering in my chest, begging to be released, to run away in terror. I don’t know why I ask for Papa—he doesn’t want me here—but the words come anyway.

  “He’s gone to request a priest for last rites,” Mama says. She looks at me strangely and examines Margo’s fingers just like I had. After a quick look, she drops Margo’s hand, not bothering to be gentle. Mama stands up, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes cloud over, as she backs from
her daughter in fear. Her chest heaves with sobs that no one can hear.

  So this is the end. Papa’s given up on Margo. Soon a priest will be here at Margo’s bed, to hear her sins and forgive her, preparing her for her trip to Heaven. I wonder if Papa had seen Margo’s blackened fingers—I wonder if that told him she was near the end.

  She stirs awake, her fingers nothing but stiff digits attached to her body. Her arm stays wrapped around Joelle, still sound asleep against her side.

  “Mama?”

  I can barely make out Margo’s voice as she speaks. If I hadn’t seen her mouth form the words I wouldn’t have guessed it was my sister who spoke.

  “I’m here,” I offer. She looks up at me with bleary eyes and coughs, her entire body shaking with the movement. Her hand comes up to her face to cover her mouth as blood sprinkles her saliva.

  “Handkerchief,” she says, choking on her own blood.

  I reach for the bloodstained rag and hand it to her. I watch as she purges the blood. Mama comes to my side and hands Margo the bowl we use to brew our soup. Margo sits up, taking the bowl, but it slips from her grasp and onto her lap. Joelle slumps against the mattress as her mother moves from her, but the child doesn’t wake. I see Margo cringe as she vomits into the bowl.

  She coughs a few times more, before she’s silent again. “How long until it goes away, Mama?”

  “Soon, my child,” Mama whispers between tears. She doesn’t stand near her daughter, and I realize what a good liar Mama is.

  Margo lies down, curling her daughter around her body once again. She strokes Joelle’s hair, and I wonder if my sister can still feel through her dying senses. Margo closes her eyes, coughing every few seconds.

  “Mama?” Margo calls out in the silence. She sounds frightened, her voice touching the note of hysteria. “Mama, I don’t feel right.” Her bottom lip quivers and shakes in the dark and I hear her shudder as her chest rises and falls in a clumsy pattern.

  “You’ll be okay, Margo,” Mama says, but she’s doesn’t step forward. She looks to her daughter across the room and glances away.

  I hope she feels ashamed. I hope she and Papa realize what they have done; how they have treated us so wrongly.

  “Mama, I don’t think I’m going to make it.” And when she says it, she begins to cry.

  I hear her lungs struggle to gain breath in the musty air. She makes wheezing sounds each time she inhales; beside her Joelle stirs.

  “Oh, God …” Margo curses under her breath. “Move Joelle. Please, Mama, move Joelle.”

  I look over to Mama, but she stays frozen. She just stares at her daughter in horror, having no clue what to do.

  I thought the nightmare began yesterday, but I was wrong. This, right here, is where it begins. In my bed Margo’s body becomes possessed by something other than herself. Her head shakes and turns, her whole body shaking. Her limbs rise and hover over her mattress, as horrific sounds release from within Margo; they are choking, drowning sounds.

  I run forward and grip Joelle by the wrist, just as she opens her eyes. Her face is confused as I pull her from her mother. Finally I scoop Joelle up in my arms and put her down behind me. Joelle wraps her fingers around my arm and I usher her behind me so she doesn’t see.

  Margo’s eyes look in no particular direction and I feel fear ripple through me as I watch her lose herself. I put my hands out to stop Margo’s hands from shaking, but I can’t fight her. I try to be gentle, but I find myself forcing my body over hers so she will stop moving. Joelle cries behind me, but she doesn’t dare come forward.

  The shudders stop at some point. Margo’s body stills, and I back away. All is silent. The only sound is the absence of Margo’s breathing, which—after all—isn’t a sound at all.

  X.

  My body is being yanked away as Margo’s form disappears from my vision. Arms vise around my chest and neck, pulling me, shoving me, punishing me for something I’ve done. I can’t breathe. I’m trying to scream, but it’s nothing but a muffled gag in the back of my throat. A hand comes across my mouth, and I concentrate on breathing through my nose as the room spins.

  “Let go of her, Victoir!”

  I think it’s Mama who screams for me, but I can’t see her. Looking left and right I see Margo far from me, her body still and bruised. I cry, but I’m not sure if the tears are for my sister or me.

  Papa releases me and I’m thrown to the ground. Using my hands to catch myself, I lie in the dirt, trying to breathe. A pounding pressure erupts behind my ear and its pulse is the only thing I can hear. Mama screams something, my back to her, right before I feel the pain.

  It feels like a fine line has been drawn down my back, and someone has anointed me with poison. My back bleeds—I can’t see it, but I can feel it. The hot liquid runs down my back in streams, flowing from me. I smell the leather in the air and know someone has struck me with a whip. My arms—the only thing holding up my body—collapse, and I’m brought to the dirt floor once again. Mama’s scream comes belatedly. A sharp snap sounds and I brace myself for the second lashing, but it just barely brushes the skin of my cheek—a snake slithering by with its deathly fangs.

  “What are you doing, Victoir?” Mama says, in between cries of hysteria.

  I can no longer smell the leather of the whip; instead it is replaced with the toxins of my own blood.

  “Did you see what she did?” Papa yells in his husky voice.

  I can’t look at them. I don’t face them. When they turn to see me, they will only see my bloodied back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mama’s voice is dim. A soft whine or moan comes from the corner of the cruck house, and I know Joelle stands apart from what unfolds in front of her.

  “She’s carrying out the Devil’s work! Look at our daughter, Celine. She was possessed,” he says in a muffled voice. “Margo is dead now.”

  His words are light and gentle, but I can hear the accusing tone aimed at me. I hear Joelle whimper softly, hesitating to go to her mother who now lies lifeless in my bed.

  I lift myself off the ground, only slightly, turning my torso toward Mama. She gazes down at me in question, as if waiting for me to admit that I’m doing Satan’s work, but I don’t speak.

  She looks from me to Margo, back to me.

  She can’t believe his words, can she?

  When Papa thinks of his daughters in his mind he only has one, and she lies dead on my mattress. He thinks I did that to her; he thinks I made the Devil possess her.

  “Mama—” I say. I ignore the skin that pulls tight around the wound on my back as I twist more to look at Mama. Her face changes and I see the hate form in front of me.

  Her brows furrow and her body becomes stiff.

  “You’re not my daughter?” She says it like a question.

  I wait for Papa to continue to warp her mind and turn her against me as he approaches her from the side.

  He doesn’t speak as he places his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  She releases a shudder when he touches her, and I know I’ve lost her.

  Mama steps from him and comes toward me, leaving just a small gap between us. I crane my neck to look up, knowing it will take little energy for her to kick me in the face.

  “No, Mama, I’m here. It’s me,” I tell her, my voice pleading. “Aida. I’m your daughter.”

  “You’re not my daughter,” she says. This time her voice is sure. She says it with a conviction that can’t be swayed. “Get out.” Her voice is a whisper.

  “Please, Mama. I’m Aida. Aida de Luna. You named me the helper of the moon, remember?” My eyes cry the words that she refuses to hear. Her face is stone when I speak, and just like my entire life, it’s as if I don’t exist. I’m not welcome in this household.

  “Get out!” Mama screams.

  Her hand flies out in front of her and I flinch away. When nothing hits me, I look up and see she’s pointing to the doorway. Her gaze follows her hand, but I know she is still
watching me. Tears flow down her cheeks, her face rigid, trying to hold back the sobs just long enough so as not to appear weak to the Devil—to me.

  I stop arguing. I gather myself and ignore the pain as my skin stretches too much and bleeds more from the lashing. When I stand I can’t hear anything. My world is nothing but static, a blur of injustice.

  The worst part is, when I reach the door, I want to turn around and say goodbye. I long to love this family who doesn’t want me. Tonight they will cry for the daughter who has died. Maybe days from now they will find my body abandoned somewhere and celebrate their victory over my death. Or maybe my body will never be found. I’ll be just like the other neglected ones on the street. When they die, no one notices. Just another person lost to the pestilence to be picked up by the cart that brings them to an unmarked grave. That’s what it will be like.

  I’m being left for the Angel of Death. Dark faces will chain my wrists to the stone wall, and when I move the metal links will echo in the vast expanse of my loneliness. I have no option but to run to the Angel of Death. I will not only look death in the eye but will welcome it as it comes to take me away.

  I will be unloved.

  XI.

  The rain comes in sheets across the horizon. It flows through the wind in harmony, putting on a show, bringing on a chorus. I soak in the rain, waiting for the water to absorb me and let myself become part of this storm.

  I only make it as far as the next cruck house over. When I left my home the rain had already begun, the sky thunderous as God thrust His wrath upon us. Lightning streaks across the sky and I retreat into the canopy of another’s home.

  I expect the owners to come for me, push me from their haven, but no one ever does. I keep my back to the inside of the home, reveling in my ignorance.

  Light shoots across the sky in a brilliant flash. Seconds later a thunderous roar shakes the earth under my feet. The rain relents a little, just enough so I’m able to hear something other than the pattern of droplets.

  “Miss?” a frail voice says behind me. It’s a child’s voice.