I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  I watch her as she picks herself off the ground, her hands shaking slightly as she brushes debris off her kirtle. Her eyes rest upon the pile of blankets next to where I sit. With the slowest, gentlest movement, she lifts the bundle, holding her son close.

  “Aida?”

  I smile at her and I see the corner of her lip rise the slightest bit. “Can you be there? When we bury him?”

  I nod my head, but her eyes water when I make the gesture. Her dark hair clings to the skin around her face, as the tears overwhelm her. Cyrielle walks away before the sobs come.

  ~~~

  She didn’t tell me where to meet; she didn’t even tell me when she would bury her son. Jermaine is so silent. He found me in the cruck house and, without a word, I knew I should follow him. His face was placid stone, unwavering. Even now, as we walk, the only movement in the air is our footsteps as we approach the location of the infant’s burial.

  Jermaine comes to a stop, and I look up to see the river that lingers outside Marseille. This was the last place I had seen Anton when he had told me that Margo would die. I can still feel the grip of his hand around my throat when he threatened my world and abandoned my sister and their child.

  Cyrielle kneels at the river’s edge. Her kirtle rests in the brook, where it continues to soak in water. She no longer carries a bundle of blankets, just a simple sheet of fabric that wraps around the infant’s frail body. Even from a distance I can see his still face, forever at peace with the world. Cyrielle cradles him in her arms, as if he were alive. She doesn’t cry.

  Jermaine walks up behind her and rests his hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t turn or acknowledge him. Instead he is the one who kneels beside her. She lets him take the infant from her arms.

  Cyrielle looks up to where I stand a distance away. She smiles and gestures me in their direction. I join her, taking grace on her other side while Jermaine holds their child. His eyes never leave his son’s face. What’s amazing is how proud he looks of his son, even though he was never gifted with life.

  “We named him Nouvel,” Cyrielle tells me. She grips my hand and brings me closer. My knees rest in the mud that borders the stream and the water laps at my skin through the fabric of my kirtle. Cyrielle glides my hand to Nouvel, resting my fingers over his soft hair. “His name means new,” she murmurs.

  Cyrielle looks up at me and smiles. It’s a real, genuine smile, and my heart breaks for her. She takes Nouvel from Jermaine’s arms and he doesn’t protest. Instead he leans his head against her shoulder, his eyes always following his son.

  “Can you reach the basket?” Cyrielle asks in a whisper. Her fingers stroke Nouvel’s cheek as she speaks.

  I turn and see a small basket behind Cyrielle. I take it, noting how tight the weave of the reeds are. I hold it in front of Cyrielle and she places Nouvel in it, careful to wrap the small sheet of fabric around him. She kisses his forehead for a final time before taking the last corner of the blanket and folding it over his head. I give her the basket and she grips it in her arms. Jermaine wraps his arms around her but never touches his son again.

  The air is still in that moment as Cyrielle leans forward into the steam. Her knees sink farther in the mud and water laps at her arms, as she releases the basket. I fear she may fall in the stream but, at the last minute, she picks herself up again, leaving the basket behind as it floats away. It caresses itself atop the water, keeping Nouvel safe inside.

  Cyrielle drags herself from the water, the sleeves of her kirtle sticking to her skin. She leans into Jermaine, and he offers his support as he wraps his arms around her torso. Silent prayers are said, as we watch the infant float away.

  That’s when I realize how unfair life is. A boy that never got to live, a mother that never got to love, a father that never got to be. It’s all very cruel.

  XVII.

  The water bites at my toes. The cold ignites my senses and wakes me up to a world I never thought I knew. In front of my eyes Frioul Archipelago opens up. The moon in the sky lights their peaks, the rocky islands just an adornment to the dark ocean. Beyond the surface lies Tiboulain.

  “It’s not too late.”

  My body jerks at the voice. Behind me Mystral stands in her cloak. It drowns out her body in the night, but the hood is down. With the moon lighting the sky all I can see is her pale skin, the prominent bones of her face all the more visible. A long, simple dark braid coils down and over her shoulders.

  “I know,” I say.

  Her eyes watch me—for what, I don’t know. Everything about her is pleading. She wants something from me, but I can’t give it to her.

  “You could do so much,” she says.

  The ocean opens in front of us, beckoning us to come closer, to venture into its deep seas.

  “It would be so easy for you, Luna. You could save lives … forever.” She lingers on the last word.

  I imagine that we are inside a cave as the aspect of forever bounces back to us, pleading, telling us to come and tend to its needs. Forever.

  “Mystral.” When I say her name she snaps to attention again. So easily she believes I will do her biddings. “I don’t want forever,” I tell her.

  Her face drops just as soon as it had lifted. Hope leaves her and it’s like her body has caved in on itself. “But—” she begins.

  “No,” I say with more force in my voice. “I don’t want forever—if that’s even possible. You’ve seen this world. It’s dying.”

  “But if you only went to Tiboulain! That is where you need to go, and the world won’t die!” Mystral loses breath, and her chest rises and falls in quick staccatos.

  “No,” I say again, but this time my voice is gentle.

  “But your family …”

  “Would rather have me dead. You know this.”

  She’s silent after that. Her gaze never leaves my face, but, after a long moment she finally nods her head and agrees. A few seconds later she takes a deep breath and lifts her chin. The moonlight shines down on her face and she’s the young woman with the aged lines again. Wrinkles crease around her eyes and her hair is limp down her side.

  “You think I’m a witch,” she says, looking across the ocean to the moon. “I’m here to help you, but you won’t help me first.” Her words are sad. With shaky hands she gathers the ends of her cloak and wraps it tighter around her frame. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do at Tiboulain, but it has to do with the moon, Luna.”

  “My name is not Luna,” I say quietly.

  Mystral smiles. “Yes, it is. Your mother named you Aida de Luna, helper of the moon.” She looks at me and smiles with her weathered eyes. “Take time and mend it. Stretch eternity like it may never break. Soothe infinity like it will always snap. Remember to cherish the night and seek the day. Postpone the moon and find forever, Aida de Luna.”

  Mystral steps into the water of the stream. Somewhere down this water path, an infant lies in a basket, his body waiting to be washed away. Mystral’s dark cloak spreads out around her. To the right the city of Marseille rests, but in front of us the edge of the land appears and the ocean cascades down. Mystral never looks back as she sinks deeper and deeper into the stream. She follows it to the edge, where the world ends.

  I never follow her. In fact I don’t even speak up to stop her. I just watch in silence as she leaves me for one final time. Even as she trudges through the water, her pace is true. She doesn’t falter or slip; she just simply is. Mystral becomes like the water of the stream, her cloak coating the surface. She bends and turns, following the edge. It only takes three more breaths and then she’s gone.

  No one is standing in front of me anymore. All that is left for my eyes to see is a silent river. The water cascades to the ocean below, but there isn’t a whisper of a woman. I rush forward as soon as I lose sight of Mystral. At the land’s edge I look down. Even in the dark I can see the sharp boulders that line the ocean’s edge. Waves beat against the wall of earth, but, through it all I don’t see Mystral. I list
en for a scream or cry, thinking she may have fallen or jumped, but it never comes.

  XVIII.

  The longest day is the day without forgiveness. People don’t look for the forgiveness of others, but for the forgiveness of the world. Because maybe, if everyone’s lucky, the universe will have mercy on our souls and gift us with sleep. But not tonight.

  Even though my eyelids are closed, I struggle with energy. My body refuses to rest. My mind won’t shut down. No matter how hard I try, I cannot stop the shift and awareness of my body. Yet if I keep my eyes open, the world spins. If I turn my head this way or that, blackness tunnels my vision and I wonder how long it will be until I free-fall into my own universe.

  The moon is just a crescent in the sky. I lie near the ledge, a stream coursing at my feet. The water bubbles and churns until it splashes over the ledge into the ocean. It’s a long fall and the water travels the height in an almost graceful manner. Mystral disappeared into these waters and the idea haunts me. My tired mind wants to know what happened to her; my limbs even beg me to continue to look for her somewhere, but my head loses itself.

  ~~~

  “Miss?”

  The voice stirs me back into consciousness. Rocks are nestled beneath my head and gravel clings to my cheeks. Under my nose water splashes from the drop below. All it would take is a small slip, a push forward of the muscles, and I would be gone, lost to the water forever.

  “Are you all right?”

  When I turn my head the muscles of my neck lock and burn, but I follow the voice regardless. Standing behind me is a young man, hair curling around his face. In the wind his dark hair sways, but only slightly. It’s dawn now, and the sun illuminates his face.

  “Who are you?” I ask in a hoarse voice. My fingers still cling to the ledge.

  “Um—” He hesitates for only a second, seeming to fight some internal force until he finally comes forward and kneels beside me. His hand wraps around my fingers as he brings me away from the edge. “Garren,” he tells me, after leading us a safe distance from the ledge.

  He looks at me expectantly, his focus craning over my features as I hide my face until I realize he wants to know my name.

  “Aida de Luna.”

  A small smile slides across his lips. “Luna? Like the moon?” he asks, as he points to the crescent in the sky. Even with the sun peeking over the horizon, the moon is a small silhouette in the dawn.

  The wind blows across my face, bringing my hair forward and, all at once, I realize how vulnerable I am. The two of us sit on the ground where no one is within range of hearing if I were to need help. In a quick motion I gather my hair that tumbles over my shoulders and form a braid as fast as I can. Garren smiles at me and I feel all the more helpless.

  “What were you doing? Sleeping at the edge?” he asks.

  My pale hair rests atop my head in two braids that curl around my crown like Mama taught me.

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I tell him, stepping away from this stranger who seems to take it upon himself to watch me.

  My back is to Garren, but I hear him gather himself to his feet and he follows me the few steps I took to distance myself from him. My kirtle gathers in stiff sheets of cloth at my feet, and with the salty air I can only imagine how foolish I look right now.

  “The question is how you fell asleep in so dangerous a location,” Garren says.

  His voice is just behind my back, and I have to remind myself not to look and give him the advantage in exposing my curiosity. His voice is light when he speaks, but I can’t find it in myself to turn to him.

  “When the mind is tired, it doesn’t make sense of its surroundings,” I say. That’s when it hits me just how exhausted I still am. My eyes are heavy with sleep, and my body has finally seemed to find peace. My knees quake under my weight, and I feel my hand shake and struggle as it hangs limp at my side.

  “Are you all right?”

  And when Garren speaks I can hear his genuine concern. He positions himself so I can barely see him, but I try to ignore his presence. Instead I concentrate on the horizon. Again the islands of Frioul Archipelago beckon me.

  “Are you dying too?” The words come from my mouth and I’m not sure why I ask them. I wonder if it’s because Garren is the first person I have seen in days who hasn’t contracted the pestilence, or maybe it’s just because I wish he would leave, but either way, the words come without permission. I want to cover my mouth and take them back, but they echo inside my soul until I’m forced to hear the words over and over.

  “No,” he says simply.

  “How?” I ask, my voice a whimper. In my mind all I can see is the sick faces of those I have loved and lost. Margo stares back at me with her tear-stained eyes and Mama looks at me for a final moment before letting me go forever. It’s not fair to have life taken so easily.

  “What do you mean?”

  Garren comes to stand beside me and part of me wants to put distance between the two of us, but the smaller, more fragile, part of me longs for the voice—the voice of someone who isn’t afraid of me.

  “Everyone is sick,” I tell him. “Not you.”

  “Or you,” he says.

  I refuse to look at him. I feel his eyes scan my face; looking for what, I don’t know. I close my eyes to the ocean and surround myself with the sound of it all. Waves crash; wind blows; birds caw in the morning air—it’s all very peaceful.

  “It’s not by choice.”

  “Are you saying you’d rather be sick or dying than alive?”

  He doesn’t mean to hurt me with the words, yet they sting anyway. I bite my lower lip, holding back the breath that expands in my lungs.

  “I didn’t say that,” I say after a fleeting moment.

  The silence is long. When I open my eyes again, I see Garren. His gaze has yet to leave my face and I want to push him away. I want this stranger to let me be so the pestilence can take me also. But that’s not how this malady works. You wait until death honors you, and then you leave. No goodbye, no celebration, you just die.

  “But …” He stops himself before he finishes, perhaps rethinking what he was about to say.

  “You don’t know me,” I tell him. “And I don’t know you.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead I see the slight nod of his head, as he agrees to my words.

  “What would you like me to call you?” His question is so sudden I’m unable to understand what he is asking at first. I turn to face him and realize my mistake too late. The sun is above the horizon now, lighting up the morning and giving clarity to the world. It makes it so that, when I turn, Garren sees me for who I am. In the morning’s dew I was able to hide my real self. For a small moment in time I was able to pretend I was just as any other person. A person who doesn’t look like a witch. But now, my white eyes aglow, Garren sees me, and even though I don’t know the man, I know I will cower at the idea of him despising me.

  His face is frozen when I look at him. Garren’s eyes squint as he observes my irises, and I try not to think of how long it will be until he comes to his senses and attacks me. I see time ticking away between us. Seconds pass until the minutes accumulate. I wait for him to move, to say something, but he never does.

  “Your name. What name would you like me to call you?” he asks in staggered words. He continues to watch me, as he speaks.

  I abandon myself at that moment. I realize that I can no longer be the person I was when I grew up. Mama and Papa will never have me again, and Dondre and Joelle will do no more than look at me. Other than Cyrielle and Jermaine—and Anton—those are the only ones left to call me Aida. So when Garren asks me my name, I tell him, “Luna.”

  “The moon,” he says. He smiles at the words, the corner of his lips lifting to a smile.

  “The moon,” I agree.

  XIX.

  He’ll ask the question eventually. I just don’t understand why it hasn’t come up yet. Garren sees the unique color of my eyes, but he chooses to neither run n
or hurt me. In my consciousness I prepare my defense, but I find that I never have to use it.

  “You have any family?” he asks.

  Garren stands to my side, but I don’t face him. Instead I watch the ocean and wait for it to twist and turn into a black hole—it never does.

  “Yes,” I say, but my throat burns on the words. Salty air consumes me, and I wonder how long it will be until my breath will come easy again.

  “Are they like you?”

  The words spike my senses. My family is not like me; if they were, they would not have cast me away as if I were an unwanted clothing item. What is disturbing is that he knows I’m different but doesn’t choose to voice it directly. Instead he skirts around the subject, almost like he wants me to explain.

  I shake my head to answer his question and I see him nod.

  “My sister died of the pestilence,” I say, as if this explains how my family is different from me. I’ve not caught the sickness, yet I live by it every moment.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. And after a moment, “What was her name?”

  “Margo. She was older than me by a few years and was married, had a daughter—Joelle. I suppose Papa will be taking care of her now.”

  “What about Margo’s husband? Wouldn’t he be responsible for the child?”

  I shake my head and only wish the words were true. “He left. One day Anton came to our doorstep, and left Margo and Joelle with us.”

  “But he can’t do that.”

  “Why can’t he?” I turn to look at him. Garren’s eyes are bright in the morning sun that rises higher and higher in the sky. Curls of brown hair blow off his face and the ocean mist gives everything a salty spray—I can almost taste it.

  “Because a man marries a lady to not only love her but to care for her.”

  “Until death do us part,” I tell him. His eyes are unflinching on mine. “Margo was dying. The child was not part of the vows.”