“Cold blows the wind tonight, my love, cold are the drops of rain.…”
I follow the voice to the kitchen to find Auntie Cath, wearing another sundress, swaying in the kitchen while she peels and cuts apples into chunks.
“I only had but one true love, and in Greenwood he lies slain.…”
Cath turns, an apple pie base in her hands, and begins to fill it with the apples she has cut. There is a smudge of yellow paint on her cheek, and she looks… happy.
“I do as much for my true love as any young girl may.…”
She pops part of an apple into her mouth.
“I’ll sit and mourn all by his grave, for a twelve-month and a day.”
“Auntie Cath?” I whisper, stepping closer.
“Oh, there you are, Silla darling!” Cath puts down her pie pan and sweeps me into a firm embrace. Unshed tears choke their way out of my chest and I shut my eyes, feeling her arms around me. So warm, so genuine. She smells like fresh bread and mowed grass and paint.
It is a good smell.
I hug her back, tightly.
This can’t be real. This is La Baume, but when was it not rotten? When was it bright and clean and alive? When was Cath not crazy? When was the land not cursed? I almost can’t remember.
I breathe this Cathy in, and something stirs on the edge of my memory. A ghost of a scene that I have almost lost in the Nothing my life has become.
Cathy, sitting on the edge of my bed. A book in her hands. Finishing a story. Then a soft kiss on my cheek as I fall asleep. Cathy stroking my hair, telling me I’m okay, loved, wanted. So safe, so warm.
When did I feel like that?
When was the world not cold, damp, and decayed?
Back in the kitchen, Cath pulls away. “I want you to get some more apples from the tree, okay?” She begins to cut strips of pastry to lattice over her pie.
Movement outside the window catches my attention. Nori is playing in the garden—a bright, living garden full of flowers and vegetable patches. The sun shines down from a cerulean sky. Nori’s mouth is stained purple, her hands as well—hands that are picking all the mulberries off the bush and shoving them into her mouth with delight. I choke on a laugh, eyes bright.
Oh, Nori…
Gowan is beside me then, hands clasped in front of him.
“What’s going on?” I ask him.
He just stares at me and says nothing.
I go into the garden, ready to eat mulberries—to try, in this bright version of my life— But I am suddenly back in the cave. Dark, cold, echoing. Alone.
“Nori?” I call. It echoes back, and expands, growing in size and volume.
Nori? Nori? Nori? Nori? Nori? Nori?
Nori? Nori?
Nori?
Nori?
Nori?
The echoes then echo, distorting and bending around one another.
Nori? nOri? NoRi? NOrI? norI? Nori? nOri? NoRi? NOrI? norI? Nori? nORi? Nori? nOri? NoRi? NOrI? norI? nOri? NoRi? NOrI? norI? Nori? nOri? NoRi? NOrI? nORi?
“Stop it!”
Stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit!
I collapse onto my knees, pressing down on my ears. The noise is so loud it’s going to burst my eardrums. It is dripping derision.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!”
It’s like someone flips a switch. The world is mute.
When I lift my hand, I am in another place. It is dark in here, and closed in. Slanted wood panels all around me. A shuttered window, high up. It must be night because moonlight shoves in through the cracks, silvery white.
A little girl sits in the center of the room, head bowed low over something in her hands. Her hair is blocking her face, but I know her anyway.
It’s Cath. Little Cath. Only older now. And the room is different. More cluttered. Less clean. Cobwebs hang from the corners of the attic and a thick layer of dust rests on all the surfaces she hasn’t touched. Where she has, there are streaks.
I kneel in front of her, and she ignores me. Or maybe she can’t see me. Her hands are nimble and quick as she sews the doll. A new doll? The same doll? It’s an ugly thing, like the other, made of sackcloth, a black slash of a line for a mouth and no eyes. She seems to be repairing a tear in one of his long legs, but the thread isn’t right.…
I squint and peer closer. Mud. The thread is dipped in mud. Or clay. There is a little bowl of it beside her thigh.