Fearful Symmetry

by Francis Gideon

  Dryden went outside and kicked the wood he had spent all morning chopping. He tore apart the kitchen, making a mess out of everything. But he refused to touch his bracelet, and he knew he would be damned for it.

  His mother found Dryden at the end of the day, perched in her chair, staring out at the woods.

  “Sweetheart.” Her voice was soft, forgiving. She seemed to know what had happened without asking. She embraced Dryden, holding him to her chest and cooing in his ear. “Dryden, sweetheart. It’s all right. There was nothing you could have done.”

  Dryden’s eyes widened, pleading with her. “I could have made more mistakes. Then maybe the universe would have been fair.”

  Her lips fell, but she didn’t confirm or deny Dryden’s suspicion. She only hugged him tighter. In a way, Dryden knew this was worse.

  AFTER THE funeral, his mother was grief-stricken for days. They wore the black bands of mourning on their arms and collected food from the three cottages along the dirt road. When that food ran out and there were no more sheep to butcher, Dryden’s mother seemed to awaken from her sadness for a moment.

  “Dryden,” she called from her chair. Though her voice was shaky, she still sat atop her chair as if she were a queen. “You need to make us some soup. Something to eat so we can move on.”

  “But we have no money. Not anymore.”

  “I know. That will come soon enough. Go to the market anyway and tell them we are in mourning. We have lost your father. The universe should take care of the rest. It owes us, as far as I’m concerned.”

  THERE WERE so many smells inside the market: spices and cherries, ash from fire pits, whale oil for lamps, and cigarettes from newly established companies sold by the entrance. Dryden had gotten a ride from one of the farmers nearby after walking along the pathway for over half the way. He carried a canvas sack at his side, filled with nothing but a list for his mother’s favorite soup recipe. She had left off one or two items, like she always did, in case something better came along.

  As Dryden wandered around, he could feel his hope coming back. People met his eyes and gave him a solemn nod. He was nervous when he walked over to the first table, nothing inside his palm, but they took one look at his black band and held up a hand.

  “I understand,” the butcher said. He carved off a small section of the pig he had on the side, then packaged up one or two rabbits. “Here you are, Dryden.”

  “Thank you, sir. Forgive me. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “Malachi.”

  Dryden repeated the name. “Nice to meet you. How do you know me so easily?”

  Malachi’s dark eyes beamed. “Well, your mother talks about you all the time, young man. She looks forward to when you can come here and sell her jewelry for her instead.”

  “You’ve bought my mother’s jewelry?” Dryden placed the meat into his sack, the burlap digging into his shoulder with new weight. He could feel the thaw of winter on his body, his cold fingers and skinny ribs left over from a season of scarcity, of staying inside, and of death. Hearing his name from someone else’s lips—and that they knew him, knew of his mother and her work—was a pleasant change. It should have been obvious to Dryden that his family was known. But knowing something and understanding it were completely different. Dryden could attest to that now more than ever with his father’s death.

  “Of course,” Malachi said with a hearty laugh. “Your mother made the opal bracelet my wife has.”

  “What kind of opal?”

  “Um. It’s white, that’s all I really know. I’m no good with this.”

  Dryden nodded. He hoped this man had bought the opal with a crack in it. He imagined it on the delicate wrist of his wife, and smiled. “You’re fine. You know it’s an opal and that’s something.”

  “She tells me so. Her name is Ophelia, and so the stone reminds me of her.”

  Dryden nodded. He patted his bag. “Thank you again.”

  “Not at all. Enjoy it and be careful. After all, you’re the man of the house now.”

  Dryden gave Malachi another smile as he moved on. The rest of the merchants were just as nice. The man selling spices, though Dryden hadn’t been told to get any, saw Dryden eyeing the small pot of smoked paprika and gave it to him without question. Dryden made conversation with each vendor, asking what piece of jewelry his mother—and sometimes he—had made for them. He could picture each item in his head, and he remembered the flaw for each one.

  Maybe his mother’s words weren’t crazy. And maybe, he thought, feeling how full his once empty bag was, the world is going to make everything balanced again. Even when the merchants reminded Dryden that he was the man of the house, he no longer thought this was strange. He could see himself being the responsible adult he now was. Even though it seemed like yesterday that his mother was telling him stories, today—at nineteen years old—he now truly knew what they meant.

  At sunset, Dryden was almost done with his shopping trip in the market. He only had one more place to visit for some herbs. The seller was a short man with a bulbous nose and balding head. He nodded at Dryden’s approach, but unlike the others, his face did not fall when he noticed the armband of mourning.

  “We close soon,” the merchant said.

  “I won’t be long. I just need something for soup.”

  “Ah. Well, what do you need precisely?”

  When Dryden couldn’t recall, he handed over the list. The merchant’s eyes narrowed but he glanced through.

  “There are no herbs here.”

  “Oh. Well. Just give me whatever you think will work.”

  The merchant handed the list back with a lift of his eyebrows. He busied himself behind the counter, pulling down what Dryden recognized as sage and rosemary. “These should make a nice broth. With all that meat, you’ll need to season and smoke it too. I’ll also give you something to do that easily.”

  “Thank you. We appreciate it.”

  Wind blew inside the marketplace, and a chill nipped back into the air. Dryden scanned the market crowd, now significantly less dense than it was before. The cigarette salesmen now smoked their product; fruit and vegetable vendors swatted away flies as they ate what was left over; and those who sold the whale oil now lit lamps to prepare for the upcoming night. Dryden’s hunger beckoned again, and he reached inside his bag for some grapes and a small chunk of bread.

  “Here you are,” the merchant said. He paused, arm on the counter, as he eyed Dryden. Dryden could feel the anticipation in the man’s gaze, as if he needed to give him something. Dryden extended the grapes to the man.

  “Would you like to try?”

  The merchant held up his hand. “I’m waiting for….”

  As soon as Dryden shifted his bag, the mourning band came into view once again.

  “Right. I apologize.” The merchant pressed his lips together in a tight expression. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Dryden ate another hunk of bread, his hunger now assuaged. He was about to turn around and find his neighbor once again when the merchant picked up his black ledger book from the side. He wrote down a few items, then scanned Dryden’s arms as if to account for what was there.

  “What are you doing?” Dryden asked.

  “A ledger. I’m writing my inventory before the day is done. Like everyone else is.”

  “But….” Dryden glanced around the marketplace. Now that he knew what he was looking for, all the ledger books became visible by the counters. The men who smoked in between bites of fruit also tallied what was left of their food and what money they had on hand. Dryden felt some of the merchants’ gazes linger on him, assessing. He turned back to the herb merchant, who was still calculating for his day.

  “But we’re in mourning,” Dryden said. “My mother and I, since father is dead, have no money.”

  The merchant glanced up. His expression was thin and tense, as if he dreaded having to explain the ways of the world to someone who, in spite being an adult, s
till acted like a child.

  “Of course. All people in mourning get what they need from the market for one week. But we must write down your name.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then, when the kingdom comes to divide the estate, we will get paid.”

  “What?”

  “This is how the system works,” the merchant stated. “You don’t think the food just happens, do you? All life is worth something to the kingdom, and that’s worth something to us.”

  “But my family. My mother—”

  “We have a family too. You are no different from us in that regard. This calculating…. It’s just how things work.”

  Dryden felt the red blush etch across his cheeks. He could see his name—Dryden Morris the Third—being entered into the ledger. He didn’t like being kept track of in this way. It seemed so crude, nothing like what his mother had taught him. The canvas bag full of their dinner wore against his skin even more.

  “But my mother. She makes jewelry. Surely she could help.”

  “That is how you pay your rent,” the merchant stated.

  “Rent?”

  “You don’t own the land.”

  “No one owns land,” Dryden argued. He was about to talk about the beast—the one person who had tried to own something perfect but only started the darkness of the forest—when Dryden realized his mother had been lying to him this entire time. There was no universe taking care of them, and if that wasn’t true, then there was no beast, either. He closed his mouth in a tight seal.

  “I’m sorry,” the merchant said again. “Your mother makes good jewelry. The people here love it.”

  “Do you? What have you bought?”

  “I’m not one for jewelry.” The merchant smiled. The edges of his grin cut at Dryden. He wondered if the merchant never bought anything from Dryden’s mother because those pieces were never perfect.

  “Again,” the merchant said, clearly eager to leave and go to his own family. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Dryden’s eyes went to the ground. He could hear the horses nearby. The chatter had died down, and most vendors had now packed up to go home. The sun moved lower in the skyline. He thought of chasing after his neighbor for the same ride back to his home, but it wasn’t the same. Was the neighbor calculating what Dryden would now owe him for the service? What had once been kindness in Dryden’s eyes now became a payment he couldn’t afford. He folded his arms across his chest and turned toward the dirt pathway.

  “It’s all right,” Dryden said to the merchant before leaving. “I’m sorry too.”

  Chapter Two

  “YOU TOOK longer than I had expected.”

  “I didn’t get a ride the second time back.”

  Dryden’s mother looked up from her jewelry with a concerned expression. As her gaze fell on the bag of food over Dryden’s shoulder, she smiled. “Well, no matter. Shall we get dinner under way?”

  “You’re feeling good enough to cook?”

  Her face fell, as if she suddenly remembered her grief. Dryden’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what to do now that the illusions his mother had helped to create were shattered by the world beyond his front door. All the bad things that happened, Dryden realized, happened by accident. Their house was paid for under the king’s rule, the city council made the path he walked on, and everything else was up to those who ruled the kingdom. It was all so simple, so boring. In a way, Dryden understood his mother’s need to make up a story for the world to be in order.

  But why, he wondered, did she also create such ugliness alongside her story? The beast in the middle of the woods, a hollow man with tree fingers who dwelled in darkness from striving too high, was a horrible addition to the tale. Why wouldn’t she strive to make this world perfect?

  “How about I get something started for us?” She rose from her chair and took the bag from Dryden’s arm. “I would like to tell you a story as I do, if you will allow it.”

  Dryden didn’t think he had any other choice. He ran a hand through his curly hair and sighed as he sat down. “Go on.”

  “Once there was a man,” she began. She stoked the flame on the stove and added more wood to the pit. She took down a large copper pot from where it hung against the wall and placed bundles of the sage and other herbs on the wall for them to dry out. “He was a poor man, having nothing after his wife died. One night, when his hunger was at its peak, he walked along a neighborhood and knocked on someone’s door. He told the man who answered that he could make a soup out of nothing.”

  Dryden nodded along. He had heard this one before.

  “The man at the door was impressed. ‘Something from nothing?’ he said. ‘Show me.’ So the other man came inside and asked to use his kitchen. He put a stone in the bottom of a pot, added water, and then tasted his soup. ‘It still needs something more,’ he said. So he asked for carrots, onions, and other vegetables, and the other man gave him some without question. Then the man asked for meat and beans and anything else. After an hour, the soup was done—and it was delicious. The two men ate their meal together in happiness. And it had all been because of a stone!”

  His mother smiled as the story concluded. She moved to set the table, while Dryden still remained seated by the window. He didn’t get up or offer to help—but his mother didn’t seem upset at all by this. Dryden realized now, more than ever, his mother just liked to talk. If he could allow her that luxury, maybe that was all he needed to do.

  “So that was the story of Stone Soup. I named my recipe after it for that very reason.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we have nothing now that your father’s gone. But people were still kind enough to share this with us.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His mother’s eyes narrowed as she set the pot on the table. “You know, I never told you what your father did.”

  Dryden lifted his eyes. He walked over to the table as his mother dished out soup for each of them, along with a hunk of bread. His heart longed to know what his mother would tell him, even if it would most likely be a lie.

  “When we first married,” his mother began, “we had no money. So he gave me rocks instead of a ring. He said if I planted this, then my favorite jewel would spring up in its place. Then I could start the business I always wanted.”

  Dryden took a sip of his dinner slowly, before setting his spoon on his plate again. He knew his mother’s favorite jewel. It was an ochre color that was extremely rare, a light shade of yellow like a diamond. He often called it the lemon stone when he was younger, and there had been plenty of them to go around.

  “Is that true?” Dryden asked, not looking up. “What happened?”

  “What do you think? I have a business now. Would I lie to you?”

  Dryden laughed. If it had been two days earlier, he may have let his mother get away with this. He may have even believed her. After all, didn’t she have a business? Among all his family’s modesty, only the jewels seemed out of place. They were the only magical items in the house. So maybe there really was a tree that gave off diamonds and yellow orbs so big his mother could support them. He did have a memory of working with the yellow stones once before. So why couldn’t it be real?

  But Dryden was older now. He was nineteen and no longer nine. Even if he had held the yellow jewels in his hands, that didn’t mean they had come from a tree. Now, more than ever before, was not a time for fairy tales. He gave his mother a weak mumble at the table, before she moved on with another tale. Dryden ate the rest of his soup in silence, though the broth was weak and needed more salt.

  Once the meal was done, Dryden glanced out the window that looked out toward the forest. He saw the moonlight over the horizon and the tree branches that stretched across the skyline. Maybe if she’s wrong about Stone Soup, about the universe in balance, she’s wrong about the woods, too. A prickle of fear came over Dryden that soon turned into desire. Maybe he could finally walk beyond the brambles that marked the woods away from the sma
ll neighborhood of houses. Maybe, for once in his life, Dryden could go exploring without his mother’s permission first.

  At the table, he smiled at his mother before he poured another glass from the large pitcher.

  “To Dad,” he said, holding up his drink.

  “To your father.”

  “And his stones.”

  His mother grinned, then touched her throat where the purple necklace still was. “To stones that tell the future.”

  Their glasses clinked once more before they lapsed into silence.

  DRYDEN ROSE from his bed as soon as the cabin filled with his mother’s soft snores. He tiptoed into the cottage hallway and grabbed his jacket from the closet. On second thought, he went back to take his father’s larger coat and his boots from the side. He made sure the last bracelet he had made was firmly on his wrist before he set out into the night.

  The spring air was still chilly, but the green grass under the moonlight gave Dryden hope. Hope for what, he was not sure yet. But Dryden knew that if his mother had told a story about the woods, there was something she was hiding.

  In his bed, he realized that was what Stone Soup was really about. The man didn’t get something from nothing, but distilled what he knew into a tiny, tiny item. His mother told stories not from sheer imagination alone; she borrowed and she bartered. The universe may not have been the ordered place she thought it was, but someone did provide for them. There was the king who showed them mercy, and the land they traded for jewelry. Walking outside, Dryden was more determined than ever before to figure out what the secret of the woods really was.