MOTHER

Home is safe. Home is here. The world is bad, very bad. Humans are bad, very very bad. That is why we stay here. I do not leave Home. Ever. Mother only leaves to go to market. We never leave otherwise. It is not safe. 

Mother says I am sick. If I leave Home I could die. The air, the grass, the tall spiky flowers of pink and purple that grow underneath the windows. She says I will die if I go near them. I can only eat exactly what she makes me. She says if I eat anything else I could die. That my stomach will bulge and bloat until it pops. I have to sit in a steaming hot bath for at least an hour every day. She says if I am unclean then I will get sicker. I do not want to get sicker. I do not want to die. I cannot stand the thought of leaving Mother here all alone. She tells me that I am the only friend she needs. The only love she has ever craved. If I die, her heart will surely shatter. So I stay Home, stay safe, away from the badness. 

I wake up when the sun does. I have never seen it but Mother says it is a big lantern for all the world. We do not open the windows nor open the curtains. She says the light of the sun is dangerous. That it chars the skin and melts the eyes. When she goes to market she wears a large cloak that covers her body so it cannot hurt her. She bathes like I do when she returns so the badness cannot infect me. 

She holds me against her in our small bed. It was a lot more comfortable to sleep alongside her when I was small. Now the hard mattress creaks under our weight. 

“Good morning, daughter mine.” 

“Good morning, Mother.”

She places her hand to my forehead. “You are feverous.”

“I am?” Mother says a fever is when my head is warm. It does not feel warm under my touch.

“Who keeps you safe?”

“Mother does.”

“Good girl.” She kisses the top of my head with her thin, light lips.

I sit up so she can unbraid my ashen brown hair. It reaches the bottom of my back. She brushes through it before braiding it once again, tying it off with a small white ribbon. I am not allowed to speak whilst she braids my hair, she says it distracts her. She lays out my outfit for the day whilst I make up the bed. The thick, patched winter blanket must not crease, Mother is very particular. She dresses me, smoothing out the sleeves and straightening out the collar of the plain tawny dress. 

“You look most beautiful, daughter mine,” she says, stroking some stray hairs behind my ear.

“Thank you, Mother.”

Her hair shares my colour with streaks of silver and a harsh curl. Our dresses match too. But I am much smaller than Mother so I tailor her hand me downs to fit. Mother is so beautiful. I hope I look like her. I know I did not inherit her wide hips and long, straight legs. I walk differently to Mother, my legs bend and bow. She says that it is a part of the sickness. Her eyes are deep in her face but shimmer as blue as the sky up above. I have never seen my own eyes but Mother tells me they are identical. Many nights have I sat and with a fingertip tracing the contours of my face wondering if I’m beautiful. I hope I look just like her. Perhaps one day she will let me see.

“Willow, dear, slice the bread.”

“Yes, Mother.” I make a fresh loaf every day. It is one of the few responsibilities Mother assigns to me. I saw off two thick slices and bring them to the long rickety wooden table as she sits on a small stool that can barely hold her.

“My dearest Willow,” she lightly grips my hand in her long, spindly fingers. “Most beautiful daughter. Sit by me, we must speak.”

“Is something wrong?” I ask, sitting on her bony knee.

“You have grown so. No more is my little girl.”

“Mother?”

“I must venture beyond the town.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder. 

“Beyond the town?” 

“Aye, sweet girl.”

I struggle to speak. “How long will you be away?”

“A half day. I shall leave before the sun rises and Home before the moon glows.”

“I will be alone?” I have never been left alone for more than a few hours before. My chest tightens.

“I trust you, my sweetest Willow. You are a smart girl. I believe you are able to take care of yourself.” She rests her hand against my face. “Hush now, dearest. You are stronger than you know. You are my daughter, you are born of me, I know you better than any other. You can do this.”

I love Mother. If she says so it must be true. I nod. “When are you going?”

“Tomorrow. Now come, eat.” She picks up one of the pieces of bread and hands it to me. 

I try to hide the fear. I have never been without Mother for so long. The world is bad. Very, very bad. What if something happens to her out there and I am left here all alone?

I set about my chores in near silence. I am not angry at Mother, I could never be angry at Mother. Mother taught me that bad emotions lead to sickness of the heart. But I want to weep at the thought of my upcoming abandonment. When our paths cross I turn away. I lean over the table, dusted with flour, kneading the dough for tomorrow’s bread. I admit I am being more aggressive than normal. When she enters the quaint kitchen, scrubbing brush in hand I remove myself to stoke the small fire in Home’s main room. This winter has been colder than most. She enters with her broom, opening her mouth to speak and once again I dismiss myself to the far room of the house to mangle the clothes. Mother says if there are bugs or dust or dirt that I will get sicker. She scrubs the rotting floors, sweeps the frayed rugs, wipes the fogged windows, dusts the spider-infested rafters. I am not allowed to help. She says my lungs will blow and collapse if I do. Mother takes such good care of me.

“Willow,” Mother calls for me. 

I find her standing in the bedroom, pulling long gloves onto her hand and a cloth mask over her mouth and nose. 

“I must tend to the hawthorns. Stay inside.”

“Yes Mother.”

She pats the top of my head. “Do not go near the door until it is closed.”

It does not matter how many times she does this, everyday she reminds me to stay away.

It does not take her long to tend to the hawthorns. She does it everyday. Mother says they protect us. I wish I could see them to say thank you.  It is only a few moments of solitude but is her way of informing me that our chores are done, evening is coming and supper must be prepared.

The vegetables I slice are washed thoroughly thrice before I can even think about preparing them. If I were to ingest even a spec of the dirt, Mother says I will die from infections. 

She knocks on the door before entering the house once again. I scurry out of the kitchen to the safety of the bedroom. I crouch down and slide under the bed, waiting for her.

“Daughter mine,” she sings.

I know it is her and I know it is safe for me to come out and return to my cooking.

“It smells so wonderful today, Willow my dear.”

“Thank you, Mother.” It smells the same as it does everyday but she must have noticed my standoffishness. 

Normally as I cook, she will stand over me. But she is not today. She has retreated to the bedroom. She only reemerges when she hears the gentle splash of the soup hitting the mismatched porcelain bowls.

“Thank you, daughter,” she smiles, taking the bowl from my hand and settling on her stool. “Willow, my girl, do not be mad at Mother,” she adds as I sit on her lap.

“I am not mad. I am afraid.”

“How so?” She tucks my wispy hairs behind my ear.

“What if I fall ill? What if something awful happens?”

She smiles gently. “I have an idea. I will write you a list.”

“A list?”

“A list of all the things you can do tomorrow to busy yourself with. Your regular chores of course and a few new responsibilities. You will be so busy you will have no time to worry about silly old Mother.”

“And if something goes wrong?”

“Then we can fix it together once I have returned.”

“And if I am ill?”

“I will leave a letter of all the remedies you could possibly need. You will remember to eat and take your bath. I know you are afraid, my dearest daughter. I am asking so much of you. But I am sure as the day is long that you will be fine. When I return tomorrow eve I shall be so proud of you I could burst. You must trust yourself, Willow.” A tear forms in the corner of her eye.

“Mother, do not cry. I will be just fine. I can be brave.” I nod my head. Mother’s faith in me is all I need. If she believes truly that I am capable then I too believe.

“Oh gentle Willow, when did you become so grown up? Finish your soup and we shall draw your bath.”

“Yes, Mother.” I take up my spoon and begin to eat. I admit I have never much liked this soup, it is bitter and thick but Mother says it will keep me well. “Why must you leave town?”

“My shoes have become quite worn. The cobbler in town is far too sour faced, I must venture to the next town.”

“I understand.” I force myself to smile.

She sighs silently. “I will be passing by the farm. Perhaps I can barter for some milk. You used to love milk.”

“You would do that?”

“If it made my precious daughter happy, I would do anything.”

It has been so long since I have drunk milk, I have almost forgotten how delicious it is. “Thank you, Mother.”

“You are most welcome, daughter mine. Come let us ready your bath. Tidy away the bowls.”

“Yes, Mother.” I kiss her cheek.

I never much used to like the baths as a child. The water would always scold my skin red. My entire body had to be under the water and stay there until it was ice cold so that none of the badness could make me sick as I slept. She would prepare a small bag of crushed lavender to add to the water only once she had swung it thrice and jumped over it. When I am feverous or sickly she must take special care.

I slip my dress off and brace myself for the burning sting of the water. I had grown accustomed to it over time. She sprinkles in the lavender and the scent makes my eyes water.

“You seem pale today.” She rests her hand against my forehead once again.

“Does that mean we have to do the leeches tonight?”

“It would be best. Especially with tomorrow being such a big day. We need you safe and well.”

“Yes, Mother.” I try not to pout but everytime those slippery worms pinch my skin I only feel more sick.

She takes a small cloth and begins to wash me. Her soft hands are yet to wrinkle as she delicately cleans me. She begins to hum to herself as she lathers up her handmade arsenic and lemon soap to run through my hair. Mother says girls who do not keep their hair long and clean are attacked by small beasts who suck the youth from their faces. 

I stay there until the water is cold against my skin. Mother says cold water causes sickness. I sit on the floor by our bed whilst she brushes through my tangled hair, braiding it once again. She retrieves my sheer nightgown and drapes it over the bed.

“Stay here, dearest. Mother will be gone but a minute.”

Across from our bedroom is a small basement. I have never been inside. It is forbidden. Mother says it would be unsafe for me and she has the only key. It is where she keeps her remedies and medicines. She returns with a small clear jar full of the fat, wriggling little monsters in one hand and a bottle in the other.

I rise and lay flat on the bed. I grip the sheets and close my eyes in preparation. She places three onto my stomach and two onto my face. I wince. A leech’s bite is not painful but the slimy wetness of their bodies wiggling over my skin is irritating. I know the bites will overnight turn to bruises. Mother sits by my side, holding my hand and running her thumb gently over my knuckles. I start to feel woozy. My head clouds.

“Mother…I…”

“It is alright, sweetest. Let Mother help.”

She pulls them off one by one, placing them back in the jar. She takes the bottle and dabs the water-like substance over the bites. It stings and turns my skin a deep red. The stench of it burns my throat and nostrils.

“There, all better.” She kisses my head once again. “Into your nightgown, I will bring you your medicines.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Once she has left the room, I groan to myself. Forcing my body to sit up, I tenderly prod each of my new bites. I pull my nightgown over myself and settle into bed. 

Every night before I sleep, Mother brings me a drink. She says it keeps me well and protects me from sicknesses of the night. It does not taste especially nice and it often burns my lips but Mother says it is the most important precaution we can take. She says if I do not sleep from sunset to sunrise then my mind will become sick and I will forget her and how to speak and my body will give itself up. I do not want that. 

She sits on the end of the bed and hands me the small bowl filled with the clear liquid. It is bitter and piney and spicy but I drink it all. I cough a little afterwards, the strong aroma wafting into my watering eyes. 

“Good girl.”

Since I have grown, our routine has become even longer. She soaks the leftover ends of bread loaves in vinegar and ties them around my feet. She also cuts up onions and scatters the chunks around the bed. She says they stop plagues and flus. 

“Mother?” I ask timidly as she pulls the blanket up around me. 

“Yes, daughter mine?”

“Will you wake me up before you leave in the morning so that I can say goodbye?”

“Oh Willow, how thoughtful you are. Your rest is more important. To interrupt your sleep could make you very ill.”

“Can I say goodbye now?” I stifle a yawn.

“Goodnight, Willow. I will be Home before the sky blackens.”

“Goodnight, Mother. Goodbye. I will be brave I promise.”

“I know you will, my precious girl. I love you.”

“I love you, Mother.”

She brings my hands up to her lips and kisses them. “Rest now, child. I will go to bed soon, Mother needs to make some preparations for her trip on the morrow.”

“And you will still hold me as I sleep?”

“Aye.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Willow.”

I have never woken up alone. I do not like it. There is no warmth. I know Mother is not there yet I still find myself reaching for her. I pull the blanket up around myself but the comfort I find in her arms escapes me. I rub my eyes and let my head fall back to the pillow. I wonder how I am going to braid my hair when I have never been taught how. My dress is left out for me as always. I wrap the blanket around my body as I wander towards the unlit fireplace. Mother had filled it with kindling, leaving the flint and iron to the side. I strike it up and wring my hands in front of the gentle orange glow. My breath fogs in front of my face. 

On the kitchen table I find my medicines for tonight. The onions already sliced, the bread already soaking. There were two notes. The first read:

Make the bread

Wash the clothes

Darn the undergarments 

Make the bed

Check the mouse traps

Empty the chamber pots

Eat

Bathe

Take your medicines

The other listed all of her remedies:

Leeches for paleness

Opium for headaches

Comfrey for heartache

Apples for toothache

Camphor for bruising

Coltsfoot for coughs

Wolf’s Bane for fever

Gin for cuts

Anise for flatulence 

Pilula Hydrargyri for ill mood

Rose hips for stomach pain

Ginger for nausea

Pennyroyal for breathing

White willow bark for pain relief

Hemlock for joint pain

Stay by the fire for warmth 

Arsenic and lemon soap for itching and rashes

She has laid each cure out in labelled jars. Every ailment has been planned and catered for. My jaw finally unclenches. I will be safe.

I return to the bedroom and make the bed before undoing my braid and dragging the brush through the kinks of my hair. It hurts less when Mother does it. As I stroke the brush through it snags and pulls. Mother says you must brush one hundred passes. I make no attempt at braiding my hair. I tie it back with the white ribbon to keep it away from my face. It is much more difficult to tie up the back of my dress by myself. I cannot get it as tight or comfortable as Mother does but it is functional enough for the day.

I eat my bread in silence. It dawns on me that I will not hear my own voice today. I endeavour to complete all my chores as quickly as possible so I can return to my stool and wait for Mother. 

I have never heard such a noise as the strange cry that ripples just beyond my door. I have heard the songs of birds that twitter in the morning. This was no birdsong. It sounds of pain. It is so loud I have to cover my ears. My heart beats rapidly in my chest. 

Another scream. Another wail. Louder this time. Closer.

I push myself up from the stool and stagger back. 

A third. It is not one long cry but shorter, breathier. They are sounds of exhaustion. Sounds of hopelessness. I hear footsteps barrelling towards the door before the bang of a hand smacking against the wood. Mother only knocks once, never so fast and frantic as this. This is not Mother. 

I clasp my hand over my mouth and run to the bedroom. I crawl under the bed and cover my ears as the thudding continues.

“Help me,” a deep and dark voice bellows. “Please, I pray. My lifeblood trickles from me. I beg, shadowy death beckons me. Let me in. Let me in.”

“Go away,” I whisper to myself.

“Please, let me in, please. I am going to die. Please…” the voice is weakening. The beating of its hands against the door slowing.

I can feel tears falling down my face as I ball myself up as small as I can with my knees tucked against my chest. Mother please come Home and save me. I do not know what to do, Mother. I am scared.

The door smashes open and the footsteps echo from the kitchen.

“Hello? Please if someone is there…” it wheezes. “Please.”

The steps are irregular as if they are staggering. I hear it clatter into things. Glass shatters and floorboards groan. The gentle moans of ‘Please, please’ grow quieter and quieter still. A dramatic and enormous crash seems to shake the whole crash before a stark silence falls.

I do not know how long I stay hidden for. I know I cannot stay here forever. If Mother returns and finds such a state, she will worry. I cannot cause Mother worry. I know not the current mess the intruder left the kitchen in. Mother cannot stand mess. She says it is living amongst mess that made me sick.

I roll out from under the bed. I ease off my shoes so that I can tiptoe silently. I pull gloves onto my hands. Mother has no more cloth masks. The clothes are still unwashed. I use our emergency mask only for the most drastic circumstances. Mother calls it her Medico Della Peste. It used to frighten me as a child with its sullen eyes and pointed peak but I know I must don it now. I cannot be certain what creature has trampled its way into Home, I must take every defence that I can. 

I tremble as I leave the safety of the bedroom. I hug the walls and stalk as silently as my crooked legs allow. I hold my breath. 

“Mother,” it whimpers. “Mother…”

It knows Mother. Perhaps Mother sent it. I lower my guard though not enough to leave myself exposed. 

It is laying on the kitchen floor, barely breathing. Blood is seeping from its chest and face and arms and legs as if it had been slit and sliced a thousand times. It is human no doubt. It does not look like Mother or I. Its chest lies flat. Its chin is dotted with spiked hairs. Below its hips something pushes against its rag trousers.

A man. 

I had never seen a man before. Mother spoke of them as disgusting monsters. ‘Depraved and disturbed’ she calls them. This man looks as human as Mother does. His skin is darker than ours. Our skin is paler than milk, his is like the wood of the logs burning on the fire. His thick and black hair is wavy but cropped short. His body is lean so his red stained clothes hang baggy. His face is strange. It is soft, not sharp like Mother’s. His eyes gaze up at me, wet with tears and manically darting around. They are green like the stems of the flowers Mother makes my medicines from. He is afraid. 

“Demon…say it is not so. My life was clean of sin.”  

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jude,” the hurt strains his voice. “Am I alive?”

“Aye.”

“Please, Miss, help me.” His fingers twitch as he reaches up for me before falling limp and quiet, his eyes flickering shut.

With my gloved hand, I poke him before scuttling away. He does not move. I walk the room. The stool is knocked over but thankfully the medicines have all remained on the table. The door is still ajar. I know I have to close it. I hold my breath and close my eyes as I run towards it, shoving it shut. I will have to clean every inch of Home. 

I return to Jude. Still and colourless. I rest my hand on his heart as Mother does with me. The beat is uneven, slowing. Mother has told me that as humans grow a time comes when their heart must sleep as they do and that this sleep cannot be stirred. Mother calls this death.

Mother has always prioritised my safety above all else, but has also taught me to be kind, to be helpful and how to treat most injuries and ailments. If he succumbs to death, he will pollute Home. We will never get his death out of the walls. I have to help him.

The largest wounds are to his gut. They bleed the deepest. I ease his loose, cream shirt over his head. It is littered with holes but nothing I can not repair. The gouge to his right rips is torn and mauled with ferocious precision. The one to his stomach is deeper, smaller, cleaner. His arms and neck are torn by hawthorns. They truly have protected us. I boil water and mix in some of the vinegar soaking the bread. I soak some rags in it and mop away the gore until his rich skin is almost clear. I tear up a white dress that has become too small for me to fit into and use it to dress the wounds; wrapping and knotting the fabric around them. I dab the nicks down his arms. The bleeding has largely stopped. 

I slip off his trousers and find countless thorns, shards of glass and other prickled oddities I do not recognise piercing his naked feet. I pluck them out and clean them first with the water and then the gin. His bare form is peculiar. His hips don’t round like ours and his stomach does not bloat with womb. His breasts are flat as if he has none at all. What is most new, and most disgusting, is the strange tube of hair-sprouted flesh that flops where his womanhood should be. Perhaps men have a manhood and only women a womanhood. It is vile and shrivelled.  

I tend gently to the scars and cuts disfiguring his face. He is not unhandsome. 

I mash some camphor in my hands and spread it over where his skin is most bruised. I did the same with the hemlock, smearing it over his joints before binding them. I mix together the leaves of pennyroyal with the white willow bark and comfrey. He can eat it when he wakes to ease his aches. 

Finally, I bring a pillow from the bedroom and rest it under his heavy head. All I can now do is hope he wakes in fine health and can answer my many questions and be on his way before Mother returns. 

I have never been so close to another human before, except Mother. I wonder if they are all like Jude. Dark haired and bright eyed. 

As I set about doing my new list of chores, I check on him intermittently to make sure he breathes still. He is sweating out a fever. I squeeze some Wolf’s Bane into the mixture he will soon taste.

I make the bread, wash the clothes, check the mouse traps, empty the chamber pots and he is yet to wake. 

I settle on the stool and begin to stitch up the holes in his shirt. I have never seen fabric like this before. It is thin and light in colour. I doubt it would deter any winter chill. I have to assume that men do not wear dresses either. I start to hum to myself, the same delicate rhythm as Mother does. I have learnt I do not like silence. Quiet is nice, peaceful but not silence. Silence is so daunting. Jude must not like silence either. Almost as soon as I start to hum, he rouses. 

I stand and retreat out of the kitchen, peering around as he sits up, clutching his side.

“Mother?” he slurs, looking around the room. His eyes scrunch open and close, open and close. He observes his hand-me-down dressings and the mixtures soothing his pain. “Hello?” He rises to his knees and onto his feet, slow and unsteady, gripping the table like a crutch. “Hello?” he says even louder.

He picks up his repaired clothes and pulls them on, wincing as they brush against his injuries. His eyes fall to the mixture I have prepared.

“Eat,” I say almost silently.

He turns in the direction of my voice. “Hello? Is someone there?”

“Eat. You will heal.”

“Can you come out? I would like to meet my hero.”

“Eat.”

He nods in my direction before taking the bowl into his hand and, with grimace and gag, eats the pulp until the bowl is clean.

“Thank you. You must be very skilled.” He approaches me slowly.

With each step he takes my way, I take one back. “You cannot come near me. I am vulnerable and you infected.”

“I have no infection.”

“I am sick. You doom me.”

“May I see you from afar? If I remain here and you over there, will you reveal yourself?”

It is a great risk. I think about what Mother would do. She would want to calm him. Mother says never fight unless a fight is the only way. “I will stand by the light of the fire. You must not come close.”

“I swear it.” He places his hand on his heart. His voice is almost sweet now his pain is subsiding. It has lost the rough, tear-soaked edge it had but a few hours ago.

I position myself in front of the fire so the warmth shadows me. His eyes look up, down then up once again.

“Strange. You speak like a child, your frame slight yet your bosom is developed.”

“I am not slight. You are a giant.” I only see it now as he stands, our doorways graze the top of his head.

I am not beautiful like Mother. I do not look like Mother. I do not even have Mother’s eyes. “What is that name you keep calling me?”

“Miss? It is not a name, simply a greeting of respect.”

“Because my name is Willow.”

“So bizarre a name I have never heard. It is a most pretty name.”

“You know Mother? When you fell down you were calling for Mother.”

“I did not know a house even stood here. What family name does your father give?”

I have never heard that word before. “Fath-er?”

“Your papa? Or daddy? Your father? The man wed to your Mother.”

“I have no Father.”

“I am sorry for your loss. Grief is such an ugly monster.” He takes a tentative step closer.

“How can it be loss if there never was one? I am born only of Mother.”

He tilts his head, churning words over in his mouth. “All men and women are born of a Mother and a Father. All children come from the womb of a woman but that is swollen with the seed of a man.”

“Not I. There is only Mother.” Jude sounds so silly. I cannot believe the rest of the world believes in such nonsense. “But when you fell you called for Mother. Why would you say so if you do not know her?”

“I thought I was going to die. I remember not crying out though I can deduce I was calling for my own Mother. It is common for men to seek comfort when they believe their time has come.”

“So you do not know Mother?” I reach back for the mask, readjusting it onto my face. “You are well and healed, you must leave so I can scrub home clean of your badness.”

“Willow. How long have you been here?”

“My whole life.”

“How old are you?” His voice has changed. He speaks like he is speaking to a babe - hushed and pitiful.

“I do not understand your question.”

“How many years have you lived here?”

A novel and unpleasant feeling replaces my terror. I have the urge to louden my voice as my fists curled into themselves. “Speak in words I know. Not of ‘years’ and ‘fathers’ and other such nonsense.”

“You said you are sickly? A doctor must attend to you.”

“Twice now have you said that word and yet you have not claimed to know what it means.”

“A doctor tells you that you are sick, he provides medicine and treatment to make you well.”

“Then Mother is my doctor. She tells me how to stay well, tells me what makes me sick. Mother keeps me safe.”

“I ask only out of curiosity. How do you live here? A day in the life of a girl named Willow with no family name to boast.” He sits down on the floor, his legs knotting over each other.

Something about the way he speaks soothes the burning of my chest. I walk towards him, uncovering my face once again. “I wake with the sun. Mother dresses me, brushes my hair. We eat and then we spend our day cleaning home so that I do not fall ill. She tends to the gardens outside so I am not exposed. We eat again then I take my bath and medicine and rest.”

“You never leave this house?”

“Home is safe. The world is very, very bad.”

“Where is your Mother now?” His eyes of green gaze at me in a way I have never seen. I do not understand it. But it calms me and draws me in.

“Mother is away. She will return before nightfall. Home  must be clean and you long vanished when she arrives. Knowing I caused so much trouble, the danger I brought through our door, it will devastate her.”

“Perhaps I can help? Four hands are surely better than two.”

I mirror his position on the floor. “Tell me how you found me and I will consider it.”

He clears his throat, rubbing his eyes. “It is a most unpleasant story that I fear you will not understand.”

“I am very clever. Mother always tells me.”

“I do not doubt it but the matters of people raised in more conventional manners are complex.”

“Tell me, Jude. I will let you help if you tell me.”

“Alright,” he nods but his hesitance was obvious. “I was abandoned in the woods circling your home by my townspeople in Springhollow.”

“Springhollow?” I have never heard of such a place.

“It is the town just beyond your dwelling. They have some unusuals customs of their own. I was pronounced guilty of a crime. Do you know what crime is?”

I shake my head.

“It is…a very bad mistake that someone makes. Sometimes people do it on purpose, others it is an accident. Mine was an accident yet we are punished all the same. They beat me and allowed their men to pelt me with stones. They took me to the woods and left me tied to a tree. I know not what attacked me. I know only the agony that followed and waking up to your song.”

“That is so cruel. Did you apologise for your crime?”

He laughs out of the side of his mouth. “If I regretted it, I would have. If I had to endure punishment for anything, I am glad it was for this. For something that mattered.”

“What was your crime?”

“I must warn you, it is a messy story.”

I shuffle a little closer, resting my chin on my hand.

He sighs deeply, dropping his eyes. “I killed a man. With my own, naked hand I killed him.”

My whole body tenses as a chill kisses my spine.

He outstretches his hands.“Fear me not, Willow. Pray, listen. My little sister, she was betrothed to a wealthy man. He was unkind and brutish.”

“To which you responded with unkindness and brutality? To kin?”

“You misunderstand. My sister never wed. From the silken curtains of her own bedroom she did hang herself. The shame he had forced upon was a burden too much for her to carry. She was just a girl.” He pushes his hair from his face, covering his eyes with his hand as a shaky breath escapes him.

“What burden do you speak of?”

“The man she was to marry. He…” Tears rush to Jude’s eyes as he chokes on the words. “He dishonoured her in a most violent and devilish way. Her very innocence was stolen…you would not understand.”

“Mother says the same of herself when she cries in the night. I understand not the action but have seen the results.” Those nights are the worst. I would shut my eyes and pretend to sleep whilst she held me. She mourns. I always make sure to be as kind as possible the morning after one of those nights.

“He spoke about her in such a disgusting tone. He bragged to his friends of her ‘tight, wet cunt’ and mocked how she screamed and fought. When our paths crossed not a week ago, I lost control of all the grief I had been stomaching since losing her. I killed him in front of one hundred stunned witnesses and I do not regret a minute of it. That was for me but more so for her.” His whole body stiffens as he recounts it. The rage is still fresh for him.

“The man to whom she was betrothed, did he receive no punishment for his abuses?”

“Nay. In the real world, Willow, money is everything. If you can pay, well, you are immortal.” He throws his hands up seemingly in surrender.

“I do not think you did crime, Jude. I think you defended your little sister in the most perfect way. Mother always says ‘all humans are bad but men even worse’. Your punishment was unjust. I am honoured that I could be of help.” I rest my hand on my heart as he had earlier. 

“Permit me to assist in cleansing your home. I fear I must away soon lest they find me.”

“Aye. Most of my own chores are complete. Mother does not like it when I clean. She says it will harm me and make me unwell.”

He rose, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. “Your Mother is delusional. Why in Springhollow, we have people who are given a wage to clean and many of them are still spritely into the final seasons of their lives.”

I rose too, straightening out my dress. “Are you a doc-tor?”

“Nay I worked as a blacksmith. But I am the son of a doctor. Any dust or dirt in this house will not harm you, sweet Willow.”

I turn away from him as I slip off my gloves. I will never have home tidied by the time Mother returns on my own. I have no choice but to accept his help. “I have to stay away from the windows. You may dust the sills and wipe the panes. Then you will sweep the rugs and the rafters. I shall scrub the floors and then I must cook and prepare my bath.”

“It shall be done.”

I direct him towards the kitchen where the broom and dusters are kept. Jude is a very good cleaner. He is thorough but quick as if he has done it all his life. Maybe even more so than Mother. I have so many questions to ask him about this place Springhollow but every time I try, the words would get caught in my throat like the mice in the traps. I know Mother would be ashamed seeing me turn my back upon the life she has so graciously built for my comfort. But I cannot deny how fascinating Jude is. A whole world full of Judes must be spectacular. He attempts to open the windows but the nails hold them shut. He fights against the carpentry but Mother’s protection is impenetrable.

We work in the same comforting quietness as I do with Mother. There is no need for talk, our scufflings and rustlings as we clean are enough to offset the silence.

Scrubbing the floors is much more strenuous than I had hoped it would be. Mother makes it look so easy. The splashing of the warm water prunes my hands and soddens the hem of my dress. My back cracks loudly as I stand for the first time in an age. A thin film of sweat covers my body and my hair has come untied.

“Jude?”

“Yes, Willow?”

“Do you know how to braid?”

“Aye. My sister insisted upon it.”

“I ask…” my hands turn clammy and I cannot speak.

“Turn around.”

I do as he asks. I hold my breath as his slender, crooked fingers neatly weave my hair into a long, tight braid, topped with the little white ribbon.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Now you said you must cook.”

“And you said you must go away.”

“A man cannot go on the run from the law with a belly that rumbles.”

Jude sits on the stool and eagerly watches me from the table as I cook. I imagine this is how I look as a child watching Mother. Eyes wide and wondrous, mouth salivating. I have half a mind to tell him to take his elbows off the table.

Jude is not bad. He does not seem dirty or contagious or a monster. Jude is funny and sweet and dim. He is also incredibly appreciative of my soup. He wolfed it down with room for seconds. He cannot remember when he last ate.

“I have never met someone who does not consume meat,” he muses as I clean the bowls away.

“Meat?”

“Aye. The flesh of animals. Cows, sheep, pigs. It is delicious.”

“Mother is bringing me milk when she returns. It is a very special treat. That is my most favourite thing.”

A moment of silence settles where it is clear he has more to add.

“Willow. Are you happy here?”

“Of course. I am safe and well and Mother loves me.”

“Aye but do you never crave more? Knowledge, conversation, culture. Have you ever felt the sun of a glorious summer beat upon your skin?”

I shake my head. He makes it sound like poetry. “My world is here. The world is-”

“Very, very bad, I know.” He leant against the doorway. “When I flee you should accompany me.”

I almost drop the bowl as I whip my head around. “Foolish man you speak of impossible things.”

“I do not think you are sick, Willow. I have spent my life around people with real sickness and they do not speak nor act as you do.”

“Look at my legs. They are abnormal.”

“A common ailment. Cod liver oil and time in the sun heals it in almost all children.”

I shake my head as I try to head towards the bathtub. “You say Mother lies to me. You do not know Mother. You do not know me.”

“I do not know you for there is nothing to know. You are but a shadow of what she has crafted you to be. The world can be brutal and frightening and bleak but there is much beauty that will escape you lest you see it with your own eyes.”

“I must bathe.”

He grips my arm. “You are almost too skinny to stand. She is making you ill, Willow. Come with me. Live.”

“Unhand me,” I shout, shaking him off. “I must bathe before Mother returns and you must leave now.”

“Willow,” he speaks so gently, “you are not safe here. You have known nothing but this life and for that I pity you. This is not how the rest of the world lives. That is the most abnormal of all things I have seen here. You have not known life and that is the most cruel thing a man can imagine.”

“She has known life.” A voice sweeter than any other.

“Mother,” I shout, seeing her in the doorway. I had not noticed her entering. I run across the room, hugging her waist. “I am so sorry.”

She pats my head. “You are safe now, sweet Willow. Did he hurt you, daughter mine?”

I shake my head before burying my face against her bosom.

“You are Mother? You are the beast that keeps your child locked away?”

She lowers the hood of her dark cloak and places her woven basket on the ground. “I keep my child safe from the dangers of the world men like you built.”

“Tell her the truth. Tell her that she is not ill.”

“Willow, to bed, Mother will come see you soon.” She strokes my face.

I look into Jude’s eyes as he shakes his head subtly. 

“Yes, Mother.” A tear creeps to my eye as I find myself once again hiding under the bed.

I cannot entertain the nagging seeds of doubt fostered by Jude’s lies. Mother loves me, Mother keeps me safe. 

Voices raise in the other room.

“She is just a girl, you keep her as a prisoner.”

“She is not just a girl. She is sick. Only I can protect her.”

I press my hands over my ears. 

“She does not know better. She is too frail for the world. I will not lose my only child.”

“One day she will have no choice but to leave.”

I pull my knees into my chest. 

Something smashes. Something else shatters. Something scuffs and skids against the floor. Something bangs. Something else crashes.

“Wretched boy. Forcing himself into women’s homes to defile their daughters.”

“You old witch. The girl has been mistreated so long she sees no problem with such abuse.”

Their voices get louder and louder. I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

A scream. A thunderous, distressed cry. I scramble out from under the bed and run back to the main room. Jude. Mother. I could not bear to see either of them hurt.

She stands over him, in the doorway to the kitchen. Around her foot rich blood pools, thinned by the medicines leaking from their fractured glass containers which now laid in fragments. Their herbal stinks all mingle into one foul odour that sticks to everything it touches. She holds a dagger in her hand. Silver, sharp, seldom used. I did not know she owned one.

Jude’s wheezing pants of my name pull my eyes to him. His throat is half-slit. His trembling hand clutches the wound. There is so much blood inside of him. His big, green eyes widened as he tries to turn to face me, my name still falling from his lips as his gore splutters out. His spare hand reaches out to me, begging. I cannot look at him but I dare not look at Mother either.

My hands twist over each other as I am overcome with a warm dizziness that spins the room. I try to speak but my throat is swollen shut. I want to cry but my eyes simply stare and sting and water.

“Daughter, come to Mother.”

“Willow…” Jude breathes, “run.”

“Willow, I will not ask again.” I have never heard my Mother’s voice so stern. I walk to her side, holding her hand when she offers it. “Good girl.”

“Monster!” Jude yells, unable to move.

“I will never abandon you so again, my beautiful little girl.” She kisses the top of my head. “But should anything ever part us, I know you to be old enough and wise enough to handle the matter. Should this ever happen again, you must protect yourself first. Do you understand me, Willow?”

“Yes, Mother. But how?”

She takes my shaking hands in hers and eased the handle of the dagger between my fingers. “This is your power, my girl.” She moves to Jude’s head, squatting down so she could pin his flailing arms against the floorboards. “Come,” she orders.

I kneel at his side. The heavy blade hurts my fingers when I grip it. I am relieved to feel the wood under my knees. If I stood any longer I feared I would collapse.

“Perfect, my beautiful Willow. Now, raise the dagger high.”

I lift it above my head.

“Willow…” Jude groans as he wriggles against Mother’s hold. “I am your friend. Do not…”

Mother shouts over him. “Aim for the heart that beats in his chest.”

“Mother…I am scared.”

“Be not afraid, daughter mine. It will not hurt him. He will be just fine if you let Mother tend to him once your deed is done.”

“No…” Jude whips his head to the side.

Mother’s eyes find mine. Our eyes of different colours. “Who keeps you safe?”

“Mother does.”

I bring the dagger into his chest. His breath flows from him as his mouth opens, gasping. For a moment he seems to shake before falling limp and still just as he had this morning. I look down and see the red coating my hands. It stains my dress. Its hot, stickiness trickled down my cheek. His face looks so afraid.

I turn my head from him as a burning and sudden expulsion of bread and carrot soup leaves my throat. 

“Oh, my girl.” Mother ran to my side, pushing my hair away from my mouth. 

“Mother…when will he wake up?”

“Soon, gentle girl, very soon.” She holds me tight. “I am sorry. I should have prepared you for this. I knew this day would always come but I hoped I would be here to defend you and I failed you once again.”

“Nay, Mother. I am sorry. He seemed nice and he was hurt.”

“Apologise not. I am so proud of you.” She kisses my forehead once again. “We shall run your bath and I will clean away this mess. We shall speak on the morrow. Tonight, I simply want my little girl safe.”

She guides me to my unsteady feet as the viscera-soaked dagger clattered to the ground. I sit naked and unfeeling next to the small metal basin we bathe in whilst she fills it and adds her lavender. I cannot stop thinking of how cold Jude looked, so restless for a man asleep. I hope Mother lets me say goodbye to him before he leaves.

“Plenty of soap, my dear.” Mother reminds me. “Once I have helped our friend and cleaned his destruction, I will come and help you. I will bring opium for your head.”

“Yes, Mother.” I step into the tub. The steam does not concern me now. My whole body is oddly numb. I have never felt numb before. It is strange. “Mother?”

“Aye?”

“Who is my father?”

She stands, wiping her hands on her dress. “Well I…” she stutters. “Where did you learn that word?”

“Jude told me.”

“Jude is a very silly man. There are no such thing as fathers. Only Mothers.”

I knew he was lying. “He spoke of lots of things. Doctors, crime, flowers and the sun. Were these all untrue too?”

“Sweet Willow, you are young, naive. There is still much for you to learn. Bathe. In the morning we will talk.”

“Mother…”

She sighs, “Yes, Willow.”

“What made me ill? As a babe?”

“I did.” She shamefully looks down, kneeling at the side of the tub. “My own mother raised me so that my body would carry life of its own. My body failed me. Failed us. Do you remember how I told you how small you were? You were too small. My womb flowered too soon. I laid unfound on the side of a path until the sun went down. Someone found me and took me to get aid.”

“The scar on your tummy from where I was cut from you. Are all babes recovered so?”

“Nay. Only you, most special girl. I was told to ready myself for death, both yours and mine. But we fought. With my own daughter in my arms, the pain of your arrival no longer mattered. You were my world, you are my world. Men, doctors, fathers. We defied them all. We live still.”

“And that is why I am ill? Because I was born small?”

“Babes grow suckling from their mothers. I could not produce what was needed. It is the milk that makes a child strong and well. I was unable to provide for you then. I have spent every day of our lives since, making you strong.”

I reach over and grab her hand, seeing tears sprout to her eyes. “I am strong Mother, thanks to you.”

“I must go and tend to our friend before he…wakes up.” She rises, drying her eyes and heading for the doorway. She gazed over her shoulder, a sad smile upon her rosy lips. “I love you, daughter mine.”

“I love you, Mother.”