Daughter of Detroit

by Amy Stilgenbauer

  “No!” Clarissa shouted back, trying to get a word in to defend herself. “You don’t understand...”

  “You of all people should know that we’re not supposed to take sides.”

  “I’m not taking sides. I wasn’t even sure -- I was just curious.”

  The doe and Clarissa squared off, staring at each other with doubt and anger written on both their faces.

  Then Fiammetta stood up.

  “Stop yelling!” The little girl practically bellowed. All eyes turned to her. “Clarissa’s good,” she said to the doe. “She comes out and talks to me sometimes.”

  Clarissa blushed. If she had known that she was talking to a little girl instead of a flower, she would certainly not have been so open. But then again... “Has she...have you...always been...?”

  Both Fiammetta and the doe nodded.

  “It’s a long and complicated story,” the doe said, her tone quiet, seeming embarrassed by her outburst.

  Clarissa crossed her arms and waited expectantly.

  6.

  Poland. Around the time of the spring thaw. May 1, 1171

  The spring festival had almost come to its close when the old woman arrived. She wore a cloak of deep crimson, almost the color of blood, which covered her face so well that onlookers could only assume she was old from her stooped back and meandering pace. Most who saw her took a step back in fear, even those that weren’t drunk. Clinging to her hand, was a young girl, about six years old, also dressed in a bright red cloak. The girl didn’t cover her face, so the burn scar covering her cheek and nose was on full display.

  No one in the crowd knew what to make of the pair, but it seemed no one had to. They walked with purpose through the town square, not stopping at any of the vendors’ stalls, though the little girl eyed a baker’s cart with such desire that the baker’s wife held out a pastry to her. She took it with a grateful smile, but dropped it when the baker’s wife cringed at the way her scar contorted. The older woman tugged harder on the little girl’s arm and the pair picked up their pace.

  “Witches?” someone in the crowd murmured. A few others picked up the refrain. The pair walked faster.

  “I think I’ve seen her before,” a shrill voice observed unseen.

  “You’re right,” another slurred.

  The woman stopped walking. She froze for a split second which seemed to the onlookers like an eternity. Each one of them mentally calculated whether or not she would put a curse on the entire crowd. Then, in one swift motion, she scooped the little girl into her arms and broke into a run. Moments ago she had seemed barely capable of walking. Now, she raced down the street with a six year old girl in her arms. Ducking and weaving between unsuspecting townsfolk. When she reached the end of the lane, she practically dove headlong into the wide open, almost waiting doors of the church. The townsfolk who had witnessed her flight waited a few moments longer, but when no burst of flames followed her entrance onto hallowed ground, they went back to their festival, unconcerned.

  Inside the church, a young woman in a plain black gown knelt in a pew near the back. She silently mouthed prayers as she waited, growing ever more fearful that the friend she was meant to be meeting would not make the journey. That is until a voice broke through the church’s perfect silence.

  “Zoja!” shouted a frantic woman from the vestibule in the back. “Zoja! Are you here?”

  A few heads turned to see who was making the racket. The young woman in black rose slowly and after taking a deep breath walked toward the sound.

  There stood Graziella dressed in her customary red. Many years had passed since Zoja had last laid eyes on her, but she looked exactly the same. “Grazie!” she whispered, hoping her enthusiasm conveyed the joy she felt. “It’s been too long...And who is this?” She crouched down to get a better look at the little girl now hiding in Graziella’s cloak.

  Graziella held up a hand to stop her from saying anything further. “Zoja, I have come for your help. Is there any way we could speak in private.”

  Changing gears, Zoja nodded immediately and took her friend by the arm and led her and the little girl to her quarters at the back of the church. It was a sparse room, containing nothing but a bed, traveling chest, and small table with one chair, but Zoja didn’t feel that she needed much more. When the three got into the room, she immediately set about making vin brule over the hearth fire. “I hope you do not mind,” she said, for the first time ever feeling ashamed of the room and the fact that she only have two wine mugs. “I do not entertain often.”

  “This trip has nothing to do with amusement, Zoja. I thought you knew that.”

  Zoja stood up from the hearth and carefully smoothed her threadbare skirt. She turned to face Graziella, her expression firm but still kind. “I am aware, but as I have not seen my dearest friend in approximately a century, forgive me for hoping for a little camaraderie.”

  Graziella let out a slow breath, then nodded. “I suppose I could at least introduce you to my daughter, Fiammetta,” she said, gesturing toward the little girl, who was watching Zoja with wide, fascinated eyes.

  “That’s a start,” Zoja replied. She dropped into a shallow courtesy, looking at the girl. “Hello, Fiammetta. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Fiammetta did not answer -- she only gripped her mother’s hand tighter and moved a bit behind her, but Zoja understood. She would have felt the same way in the little girl’s shoes. The pair had travelled a long way from the mountains of Lombardy to be here. It would have been through unfamiliar and likely unforgiving terrain and knowing Graziella, they would have asked for little help and taken even less. No wonder the girl was so shy and tired. There was also the matter of the scar, but Zoja decided it was best not to mention it. “She has your eyes,” she said then, with a genuine smile.

  “She much more resembles Gianni,” Graziella replied. “But as her eyes are lovely, thank you.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “More than sure.”

  With a sad nod, Zoja went to thetrunk and fetched the pot for the fire. “Mulled wine?” she asked, pouring a cup for herself. “Or would the little girl like some posset? I’m sure I could round up some milk if required.”

  “Fiammetta and I can share, can’t we?” Graziella said, smiling down at the little girl. She took the mug when offered, but did not drink it. “Have you been to the festival?”

  “The villagers and I, we keep our distance for the time being,” Zoja replied, not afraid to drink. She had no quarrel with them, but she felt that not interacting was the best way to keep it so. “But, if you wish for the girl to have a normal life here, I can arrange for...”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Graziella’s tone brokered no room for argument, so Zoja simply nodded. The two women watched each other a long time. Finally, Graziella stood and walked to the table, setting down her mug. “In fact, Zoja, I think it would best if you came up with a plan of protection that allowed for her to never again be seen.”

  Zoja couldn’t help but be shocked. She had arranged such plans for many before: changes of identity, changes of memories, but what Graziella was asking seemed a bit more extreme. “I was planning to take her on as my own. No one here would know her or anything about her. It would be a perfect fresh start.”

  “Until the burnings start again. Zoja, listen, if we didn’t know each other, and you only knew what I wrote you, what would you tell me?”

  Taking a long sip of wine to give herself more time to answer, Zoja let her eyes settle upon Fiammetta. She disliked the way that Graziella was discussing the child: as if she weren’t present. The girl was sitting in front of them, looking sweet and quiet as ever. There was no way to tell by looking at her that her mother was considered the most hateful witch in all of the province. “No one would know her, or you for that matter, Graziella.”

  But there was no moving Graziella. She shook her head. “I’ve made up my mind. This is the only way that I will accept.”

/>   She did not want to agree, but Zoja knew there was only so much arguing to be done with a woman as powerful as Graziella. “There is a local legend,” she said with a halting sigh. “It is about a magical flower that turns red on the summer solstice. I suppose I could work with that for now, then move her again if necessary.”

  “You mean to turn my daughter into a flower?”

  “Unless you would allow me to raise her under my care?”

  For a moment, Graziella seemed to waver, but then she once again shook her head. “Do what you must do. But see to it that she is protected.”

  Zoja nodded, touching both hands to her heart. “You have our word, Graziella. She will be protected.”

  7.

  Detroit, Michigan. 2014.

  Clarissa and the doe continued to stare at one another for a long time. She didn’t know what to think. This little girl was the fern flower? Had she always been the fern flower or was she only this fern flower? What of the one Cadillac destroyed? Who was Zoja? The doe? Some long ago ancestor? Both? The questions just kept coming rapid fire into Clarissa’s mind, but she couldn’t find the words to voice any of them. She stared at the doe, who stared back, eyes gentle and kind as they had been that first moment she encountered her.

  Fiammetta stepped forward and rested her hand on the doe’s back and looked up at Clarissa with a curious sort of appreciation. Then in a timid voice she asked, “Where’s my mother?”

  The doe looked back at the little girl indulgently. “I promised her that I would protect you, little one.”

  “You promised me that the next time I woke up I would see my mother.” Fiammetta stepped back, looking indignant.

  “It’s still not safe,” the doe tried to explain. “In fact, it’s less safe than when this all began. Far less.”

  “When can I see my mother?”

  “Soon.” The doe looked up at Clarissa. For the first time, her so very expressive eyes showed a hint of mischievousness. “But first you must go with Clarissa.”

  “What?!” Clarissa exclaimed, taking a step back from the exchange. She knew that she couldn’t get far, surrounded by deer as they were. “I can’t take her. That Calu person is after her and -”

  “I’m sure you’ll find some way to keep her safe. Her care was entrusted to you, after all.”

  Her mind still full of whirring questions, Clarissa continued to stare blankly. The doe, seeming to sense this, walked closer to her.

  “I will keep in touch and ease your concerns in time. For now, I ask that you trust me as I am trusting you.”

  She nudged Fiammetta toward Clarissa who still wore a stunned expression. The little girl linked her hand into Clarissa’s and whispered. “It’s okay. I’m as afraid as you are.”

  *

  Back at her apartment, Clarissa rushed around kitchen and combination living/bedroom, trying to child proof the setting. Fiammetta sat on the lumpy couch and watched with quiet, thoughtful eyes that seemed to take in, process, and absorb everything she saw.. Every time their eyes met, Clarissa couldn’t help but think about how unfamiliar with this world she had to be. Clarissa had a hard time adjusting to 50 years of missed cultural references, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to miss several centuries.

  “I could be the flower again, if that would easier,” Fiammetta offered in a tiny, accented voice.

  Clarissa stopped moving and looked at her. For a split second, she wanted to accept the offer. It would, after all, be easier to care for the fern flower than a little girl. All she would have to do would be keep her in a pot and water her daily. The apartment didn’t get much sun, but there was at least one south facing window. But another part deep inside wouldn’t allow her to agree. She knew it would be easier to return to her other form herself. That way she wouldn’t have to try to live a life in 2014; she could just exist. But, she also wasn’t entirely sure it would truly count as existing. She couldn’t do that to a little girl.

  “No, Fia...can I call you Fia? Or would you prefer Fiammetta?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters. It’s your name. Names matter.”

  There was a knock on the apartment door. Clarissa froze for an instant. Every fiber of her body already knew who it was. Slowly, she raised her finger to her lips and waited until Fiammetta nodded her understanding. Then, she slipped to the door. One look through the peephole confirmed her fears: Calu stood there, looking exceedingly impatient.

  Once again he wrapped on the door. “I can hear you breathing in there,” he whispered. His tone sounded like a threat.

  Clarissa looked back toward the couch but Fiammetta was gone. There wasn’t anywhere in the apartment to hide, but Clarissa assumed a small child must be more adaptable. “I’m busy at the moment,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Can you come back later?”

  “That’s more like it. Now open the door. I’ve come to check on your progress.”

  Though she knew he couldn’t see her, she shook her head.

  “Miss LaRoux...”

  She clenched both fists and counted silently to ten. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do your own dirty work.”

  “What did you say?”

  Part of her wanted to laugh at what she imagined his expression must look like at that moment. Surely, very few people were willing to talk to him that way. The floor beneath her shook and she realized with a sudden sick pit in her stomach that the building itself was swaying. A desperate voice inside her wanted to call out for Fiammetta, but she knew better. If she said anything of that sort, Calu would know that she was there. The beams of building made horrible creaking sounds. Clarissa clung to the doorframe and prayed.

  It was over in just a few seconds, but it was enough to rattle her. Clarissa rushed into the bedroom and immediately threw herself to the ground, looking under the couch. When she saw no one her heart raced even faster. She glanced behind the screen that separated her bed from the rest of the room. Still no Fiammetta. Terror filled her. Just when she was about to give in and call out for the little girl, fearful that Calu had somehow managed to take her from the apartment without even entering it, her eyes fell on the potted red flower perched in her window.

  “No, darling,” she whispered, touching the still somewhat singed looking petals. “You didn’t have to do that...”

  But then, an idea came. With a serious nod, Clarissa went to the window and looked out what the apartment could see of the city of Detroit, the city she loved so dearly, the only home she had ever known. “Don’t worry,” she said, blowing a kiss to the window. “Don’t you worry. I’ll be home soon enough.”

  But now, it was time for a trip she should have made months ago.

  8.

  The Mooreland Family Farm. Paint Township, Ohio.

  Clarissa stood immobile on Opaline’s front walk, unable to bring herself anywhere near the door. Her heart pounded in her chest as her mind catalogued the various ways in which this trip was a mistake. This was the first place Calu would look for her, for starters. Then there was the fact that she had no idea how Opaline might feel about her sudden arrival on her doorstep. She hadn’t bothered to call.

  “Where are we?” asked Fiammetta, who was standing at her side. She had been changing back and forth between potted plant and little girl at a baffling pace throughout their journey. Clarissa found it disconcerting as she herself had no control over when her other side would emerge.

  “We are at my friend Opaline’s farm,” Clarissa answer, still watching the door with apprehension.

  “Your friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t we go inside? I’m hungry.” With these words, Fiammetta raced forward, took the porch steps two at a time and was knocking on the farmhouse door before Clarissa could even process what had happened.

  Opaline answered the door promptly. At first, she seemed to look confused as she took in the little dark haired girl then her eyes caught sight of Cl
arissa and smiled broadly.

  “Opaline,” Clarissa began, feeling awkward and unsure. “Opaline, I should introduce you to...”

  “All in due time,” Opaline interrupted, holding the door open and hurrying Fiammetta inside.

  There was something off about her voice. It sounded too young, like the Opaline Clarissa had known in the 1960s, but Clarissa followed anyway, albeit more slowly. “Opaline, I really should explain before you...” Warm cider and cookies had already been set out on the counter. It looked as though Opaline had been expecting someone. “What’s all this?”

  “You’re almost an hour late. I wasn’t sure you were going to show after all...” Opaline said, helping Fiammetta into a chair near the plate of cookies.

  “What do you mean an hour late? I didn’t tell anyone that I was coming.” She neared the table herself, prepared to snatch the cookies away from Fiammetta. Something in her brain was shouting that the whole thing was a trap.

  Opaline just smirked and tapped her temple with her index finger. “I know things.”

  “No you don’t,” Clarissa said, venom in her voice. “You hate future seeing. You told me it was bunk a million times. You’ve -never- had the gift of prophecy.”

  “It’s been awhile since the last time we spoke. Things change.”

  “Not that much.” Clarissa took Fiammetta by the arm and gently pulled her from the chair. The little girl’s face was an unreadable mask, but Clarissa could feel her fear.

  “You are the most stubborn creature that I have even met!” Opaline practically hissed.

  Clarissa saw now that her teeth were sharp, like wolf’s fangs and there was something wrong about her eyes. She took a step back, moving in front of Fiammetta. “What have you done with Opaline?”

  “I haven’t harmed her...”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You can see for yourself as soon as you give me the girl.”

  Arms crossed, Clarissa shook her head still standing protectively in front of Fiametta. “You’re not coming anywhere near her.”

  “We’ll see about that...”