by Donald Brown
Secondly, because of her health. Despite the goat’s milk, Yara appeared to be completely immune to the pox or any other illnesses such as the common cold or the flu. There were times when Dorothy and Frieda would be sneezing and coughing like crazy while baby Yara was as healthy as a horse.
Lastly, because of her demeanour. Yara hardly ever cried and slept routinely from dusk till dawn. She seemed to be the dream child, the one everyone wanted to bring up.
While all of this astonished the citizens of Zion, it didn’t surprise Dorothy at all. She had known from before Yara was born that she was going to be an easy child.
In the months prior to Yara’s birth, Dorothy had felt almost “not-pregnant”, expect for the baby bump and the brittle fingernails. She’d never become nauseous in the mornings, like the other mothers-to-be, and she’d never felt tired or even a hint of weariness. Her pregnancy had been a complete breeze, barring the thirty minutes of actually giving birth.
Not that Dorothy noticed her small butterfly much. She was consumed by an on and off depression, which resulted from George’s death. A depression that sometimes left her raging, drawing the concern from the rest of Zion. It was left to Frieda to spend most of the time with Yara.
One time Frieda brought little Yara back to the house, to find her mother brooding at the table, holding a broken jar in her hand. Yara strolled over and exclaimed, “Hello, Mommy!”
But Dorothy barely seemed to notice her. She seemed to be focusing on putting the jar back together.
“Dorothy, why don’t you leave that alone and spend some time with your child,” Frieda advised.
“Why don’t you leave me alone!” she snapped back.
Yara’s eyes travelled to Frieda, startled, but Frieda merely smiled back and showed her to her room. When she had closed the door, she drew her to her full height and approached Dorothy, who was still busy with the jar.
“Dorothy?”
But this was once again ignored.
“Ms. Kuttle!” Frieda exclaimed, now moving to face her from across the table.
This at last brought her attention and she eyed Frieda furtively.
“You have to stop this nonsense and begin focussing on your child! George would have wanted you too.”
A flash of anger appeared in her eyes at the mention of his name, but Frieda waved it aside and marched out, leaving behind a further disgruntled Ms. Kuttle.
Frieda’s words did have an effect on Dorothy though and slowly she forced herself to pay more attention to Yara. When Yara was around she would forget about her previous life and enjoy the child’s laughter and witty comments. She grew to really love her child. Whenever Yara was sleeping (and not babbling her ears off) Dorothy would think about her George again and become miserable.
She would then consider somehow getting her revenge on the witch or languish in the fact that Yara might be next. Dorothy had followed Father Dennis’s advice and had slowly started to attend church in the hope that it would lift the curse from her. She would always bring along an unwilling Yara, who didn’t seem to find church life that interesting.
Still, it was something, a way to protect Yara.
20
Storm headed in the direction where he had seen the house in the sunlight, ambling through the usual depressed scenery in Sanctuary.
When he neared what he believed to be the location, he observed that the building was actually a small hut with stringy wood walls and a roof covered in branches and leaves. Smoke was emitting from a clay chimney at the back and something was amiss… Then he grasped it: there was no snow coverage around this hut!
Storm did a double take.
There was green grass growing outside the hut and a faint light, shining through the clouds, was falling on an area of about a twenty-yard radius around it. This was very strange indeed. Storm could swear he had walked past the exact spot on numerous occasions and had never seen this hut, nor this odd weather phenomenon. Even though he was pretty frightened, he felt that he needed to speak to the owner, whoever he was.
He walked up to a rusty steel gate and eased it open. The top of the gate was engraved with a peculiar symbol. Storm’s feet found stones on the ground as he wandered down a footpath, leading to the entrance of the hut. Clearly this place must have been here for some time. The hut had no door, only a curtain made of strings – dotted with feathers and little bells – which he had to pass through. Once he did, it made a subtle musical sound, announcing his arrival.
Inside the hut, the air was heavy with smoke and Storm had to squint to see what was going on. He could make out a collection of brass bangles hanging from the roof and a large pot with stew on the floor, boiling on… on a fire! Fire was not allowed in Sanctuary and he stood there and watched it, perplexed. Perhaps he was making a mistake in being here.
“Can I help you, Storm?” a snide voice came from behind him and he almost tore down the bangles from the roof in alarm.
Whirling around, he saw what could only be described as a woman (based on his vague recollection of his mother’s image), shooting past him and heading for the boiling stew.
The lady had long silver hair with a frizzy texture, like spaghetti, and the wrinkles on her face indicated her advanced age. She was supporting herself on a blue cane, which she had nudged him with when she had entered. While it was clear that this woman was very old, her eyes told a different story. Those clear hazelnut corneas still projected a youthful, energetic glow.
It was the woman he had seen in the crowd.
A familiar aura seemed to be radiating from her, even though almost everything in her hut was screaming against the teachings of Sanctuary. Perhaps it was just her quirkiness that made him feel more comfortable and welcome in her presence.
“Uhm…Who are you?” he asked hesitantly. He felt he should get the obvious out of the way first. The smoke was making him slightly dizzy.
She glanced up from her frothing pot and stared him down. “I have wondered when I would finally see you here, Storm,” she said in a calming tone of voice.
“Wait, how do you know our name?” Storm asked, scratching his head.
“Please sit,” she said, indicating a large purple cushion against the wall, “and I’ll explain everything to you.”
Storm stepped forward cautiously and took a seat on the soft cushion, cross-legged.
“Are you comfortable, Storm?”
Storm was about to open his mouth to respond to that when the woman interjected. “You know, your mother and I were very good friends once.”
Storm was taken back by this piece of information
“Yes…” she continued, now with a half-smile on her lips. “…I know everything about Mama bear… you have her eyes.”
Bustling from her pot to a cabinet against the opposite wall, she opened it and quickly removed four glass bottles, filled with something that looked like spices to Storm. After making a satisfying “hmm” sound, she walked back to the pot and added some of the ingredients from each bottle while murmuring words in another language.
He frowned and then spoke at length. “How have you not been killed? …or thrown out? …or gone mad? …wait …do you have the Jacobites?”
The witch cackled at the mention of the deadly Sanctuary disease. This laugh transformed her and for a glimpse of a moment Storm saw a vision of a much younger woman.
Stirring the pot slowly, she lifted her eyes to face him once again. “I don’t think anybody cares that I’m even here, but they need me, although most of them without knowing it. I can be quite stubborn, I admit, but it’s almost as if people around here can’t live without me.”
Storm had no idea what she was talking about. He decided to change the subject. “How come this is the first time we have seen this place?” he asked. “We have passed this spot many times before and your hut had never been here.”
The witch shrugged. “Perhaps you weren’t looking for me.”
What? Storm considered this for a moment. They
were going nowhere with this conversation. “You speak in riddles,” he stated the obvious.
“I like to speak in riddles, I have learned that most things are never so clear that they deserve simple answers.”
He scanned the room, absently, trying to find something else to talk about. It was a bad idea to come here, Storm, he thought as he noticed more and more creepy items in her hut.
He was just about to stand up to leave, when the witch spoke again. “So, are you going to ask me or not?”
“Ask you what?” Storm replied.
She peered up at him again, fixing him with a deadpan look. “If those pictures you saw in that book are real.”
She knows everything.
He now had to shoot from the hip. “Look…We accidentally stumbled onto that,” he stammered, “We didn’t mean to…”
“Oh, save your terrible excuses, Storm, they won’t work on me,” the witch snapped, which sent Storm mute. His excuses usually worked. She was like no one he had ever met in Sanctuary.
“We are sorry,” he offered another apology. “What do you want us to say?”
Her eyes widened. “I want you to get to the point. You want to know if those pictures are authentic,” she said, sounding like an oracle, “but the real question is this: if there actually was another world out there, a world where you could be happy, would you really want to know about it?” She paused for a moment to let the words hang in the air and then added “…or go there?”
“Yes,” Storm replied instinctively.
“Really?” she said, looking up at him with a frown on her forehead. “Even if that means abandoning everything here, doubting everything you have ever known and not seeing anyone you have ever met here again?”
Storm gave this some deep consideration.
Before he could respond, she continued. “You see, you can tell someone that there is a happier place somewhere, but if that person does not choose to believe it exists, what difference does it make?” She watched him for what seemed like an eternity. “But, then again, you are different from the rest of the Sanctuarians, aren’t you?”
“Guess so,” Storm replied sheepishly.
“Well, then let me tell you the truth now, Storm of Sanctuary. There is a world outside, far more advanced than this one and you can go live there if you so choose. In fact, I will use everything in my power to assist you and on your journey you will have all your questions answered. That is your destiny… Do you believe me? Would you really like such a world to exist?”
Storm didn’t know what to believe anymore.
There is another world?
This brought his attention back to the photo he had seen.
“What happened to Zion?”
She let go of her stewing pot and sat down beside him. Her shining eyes lost their focus, before she peeked up at Storm again. Behind the stringy hair, there was a look of bemusement on her face. “You know, Storm, you are the first person to ask me that and one day I will tell you what happened, I promise, but not today.”
They lapsed into silence.
“We don’t know if we are ready to go into the outside world,” he admitted, “even if it genuinely existed.”
She locked her stare on him. “Let me ask you this: what are you afraid of?”
His mind ran around in circles for a short while, then he said, “Of letting Sanctuary down, especially our brother and the Spiritual Leader. Of not being… being chosen for a service. That is why… why we would like to escape, even though we are not ready.”
“You are afraid of letting your fellow Sanctuarians down,” she replied, “but you have no problem with escaping. Wouldn’t that let them down in a way? So, I’m going to ask you again: What are you really afraid of?”
Storm was becoming annoyed with her repetitive vagueness. “O.K. then. You tell me what it is we fear! Seeing as you–”
“You already know what it is,” she said abruptly. “I can tell you everything you need to know, but what is the point of that? What would life be like if you simply knew everything. I am not going to just tell you everything, but I will help you to find the answers to your questions.” Rising to her feet, she dusted off her hands. “So, Storm, one last time, do you want my help?”
Even after all the warnings, Storm knew the answer to that question. He had no choice. “Yes.”
She beheld him for a moment. “I will help you, Storm, but you have to realize that it is going to be a tough journey and the questions you want answered, well… let’s just say you are searching in the wrong place. You have to get out of Sanctuary for your own sake.”
“Do you mean head for the Republic?” Storm asked. His heart started to beat a bit faster now.
She nodded, still with a bit of a smile on her face. “Amongst other things.”
Then he figured it out.
“That’s why the Old Man left! He believed the pictures to be real.”
“Most likely, yes.” The witch replied, smiling and nodding.
“But, he had Jacobites…” Storm began.
“I think you will find that it is only the persons that go crazy here, who will survive in the outside world.”
“Wait… what is that supposed to mean?” Storm inquired.
“That’s all I can tell you,” she replied, the smile returning to her lips. “Enjoy your journey, Storm.” The witch walked to the doorway and pushed the curtain aside. “Goodbye, young man. I hope we will find each other again.”
Storm left the hut without taking a look at her again, too absorbed with all the new information. Once outside, if he had glanced back, he would have noticed another plant breaking free from the hard soil, revealing its green leaves.
The former witch of Zion watched him leave. “Oh, I will help you, Storm,” she muttered. “But, not in a way that you will like at all.” With that she let out a cackle and went back inside.
21
When Yara celebrated her fourth birthday, Mr. Meyers gave her a real-life pony as a present. Although the pony (Yara named him Punter) stayed at the stables on Mr. Meyers’s large property on the outskirts of town, she could go there at any time to feed it and ride it.
It was probably this act of generosity that later caused Yara to regard Mr. Meyers as the father she never had. Mr. Meyers seemed to have no problem with that. He in turn, loved the affectionate little butterfly.
Dorothy, who had fallen into a habit of visiting the market every morning for half an hour, was once again turning more cheerful. There was a light rain in the air, as she was once again throwing her smiles to everyone around her, until she witnessed something frightening.
The Black Knight was arguing with one of the marketers. Apparently he had been overpriced. Dorothy, however, doubted the now tiny, old and conservative Miss Pennyweather could overcharge anyone. Losing patience, The Black Knight beckoned to his now black clad cult following and they stormed her market, ransacking and taking anything they wanted for themselves. One of them advanced on Miss Pennyweather, who was petrified with fear, at which point Dorothy intervened.
She stepped in between them, relishing her chance to face the followers of the witch.
“Leave her alone,” she stated, her voice brimming with fury.
“Want to go visit your husband, Ms. Kuttle?” the Black Knight smirked
Ms. Kuttle responded in kind and whipped a nearby coconut solidly into the Black Knight’s face. It made a loud crack as it connected with his cheekbone.
He stepped away, wiping his bloodied face. “I hope you and your daughter remain safe,” he seethed and with that marched away, his entourage following him.
His last words left her troubled. Why did he mention Yara?
“Thank you, Dorothy.” Miss Pennyweather stammered. “I don’t understand what just happened… I am sure I gave him the same price I have always given for my lemons… Did I get the price wrong perhaps?”
She became busied with her papers before her.
“It’s not your price,
ma’am,” Doctor Ron said, approaching them. He had been buying items from the vendor next to her and watching the scene silently. “The Black Knight is just looking for trouble.”
“But why?” Miss Pennyweather asked, startled.
“The witch,” Dorothy stated. “It looks like she is supporting this new group.”
Comprehension dawned on their faces.
“Something terrible is happening to this town,” Miss Pennyweather admitted. “and with all the butterflies leaving…
“…It can’t end well,” Doctor Ron finished her sentence.
***
On a sunny Saturday afternoon, a week before the annual watermelon festival, she was having tea with Frieda in her front room, when Yara burst through the door.
“Mommy! Aunt Frieda!” she shrieked, running towards them. She was now five years old and cute as a button. She had her mother’s smooth, blonde hair and today it was tied into two cheerful pigtails. She was wearing a merry yellow dress and her head was thrown back, with her little freckled nose up in the air.
“How are you, my angel?” Dorothy asked, hugging her bundle of joy. “Did you enjoy playing outside?”
“It was wonderful! Wonderful!” the child babbled. “Right next to the lake, we went up to the mountain and played in the fountain.” Then she began to giggle, the way only a little girl could giggle. “Up the mountain… played in the fountain. I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it, Mommy!”
That made the two grown women burst out in laughter. Not only because of the child’s clever humor, but because the “mountain” she was referring to, was merely a low, grassy mound next to the house.
After a short while, Dorothy did a double take.
The Lake?
“Yara, I told you, you shouldn’t venture far from here! Especially not to the lake.”
Yara nodded, then her smile vanished and was replaced by disappointment. She clearly hated to disappoint her mother.