Whisper of Suffering

by Samantha Jacobey

  “You’re a silly girl, Amicia Spicer,” he chided. “You think proposals fall in your lap every day? Not in Nalen, princess,” he mocked her.

  Pausing, she grunted, then cut her eyes over to glare at him. “I’ve known you since I was a child, Ru. Can I help it you don’t feel like a husband to me? We’re more like friends, not lovers,” she breathed. Dropping her gaze as she spoke, a wave of fear rocked her before she steadied herself and returned to her work, taking solace in the routine of it.

  “Now love,” he cooed, stepping towards her. His voice dripping with sweet honey, he plied her with thick, persuasive tones. “It would be the same as it is. We’d be friends of a better sort, that’s all. You would grow to love me as a husband, the way a proper wife would do.”

  The word proper grated on her nerves. She had seen many a man’s definition of proper, and she wanted no part of it. Holding her tongue, she continued to scrub and sort the berries to dump into the pot to simmer.

  Inside the house, the cough of an old woman interrupted their conversation, and Amicia sighed loudly. “I told you I can’t. My mother loved my father. It’s his passing that has driven her to the grave so quickly after he left us. I don’t feel that for you, and it wouldn’t be right to pretend that I did.”

  His deep brown eyes glaring at her in the afternoon sun, Rupert ground his teeth. “An old man your father was, and your mother is equally aged. Let them go, Amicia. Take up your new life with me, before I’m too old for children of my own.”

  Her hands shaking, Ami didn’t stop. She hoped that he would remain calm at her refusal. If her father’s health hadn’t failed, she felt certain she would have been married off to the man there with her already, and she was thankful that she had not been.

  But he was right about one thing; her parents had been old when she was born, and they had needed her to care for them and to run their business in their waning years. That’s the only reason she had remained with them after coming of age. As their only child, it was her place to care for them for as long as they needed.

  Not getting a response, he eventually grunted, his voice dense, “I’ll be at the mill if you need me.”

  Turning his back, Rupert exited through the side gate, giving it a slam before he took the road towards town. If her father had promised her hand before his passing, that would have been one thing, but with no such understanding, he had little grounds to force the issue if she continued to refuse. He wanted her but not badly enough to take her by force; at least not yet, it seemed.

  Watching him go, Ami pulled her long, braided locks with her hand, twisting them up into a quick bun to allow the air to reach her neck. Securing the knot, she continued her chore until the pot of berries hung over the fire and she could go into the cottage and tend to her mother.

  Inside, the air felt heavy, and a musty odor filled her nostrils. Glancing at the door to her mother’s quarters, she paused to listen to the ragged breaths. Opening windows in the kitchen and above her bed, she hummed pleasantly, pretending that everything was fine, and her mother would join her at any moment; but she knew that the older woman wouldn’t. Time was against Arely Spicer, and soon she would be buried in the ground beside her beloved husband.

  “Are you ready for some supper, mum?” Ami called pleasantly.

  “Yes,” a raspy voice replied.

  Placing a small pot on the fire in front of the chairs, Amicia warmed the meal and served it into a bowl. Entering her mother’s bedroom, she pushed back the drapes and opened that window as well. Pulling a seat up beside her bed, she cautiously fed the thin, cracked lips one small spoonful at a time.

  “You should marry that man,” her mother stated abruptly, disturbing their rhythm.

  “Why would I want to do such a fool thing?” the young woman bit tartly, softening the retort with a small smile.

  “I’m dying, Ami,” her mother persisted. “Gus and me will be buried. You’ll still be living, and you should take a husband, have a family of your own.”

  “I’ll make do,” Amicia snapped, standing and placing the bowl on the small table next to the bed. Her features drawn, she turned away, adjusting the bedding that covered her mother’s thin frame. “I’ve only been of age for a year, and I’m sure there are better suiters to be had.”

  She could see the deep lines in Arely’s face when she glanced at her and fought the urge to rub in the truth. Her mind leaping to her younger self, she recalled how long she had been working, first by their side as she learned and eventually in their place, as they had grown too old to carry out the labor of their small spice farm.

  Ami had been running the business on her own for years; almost since she had become strong enough to carry a bushel of berries. She picked and boiled, canned and dried. She even hauled them into town to conduct the sales and down to the docks to make the trades. She might miss her mother, but in the end, her life would be little different after she had passed.

  “I don’t need a man, mum,” Amicia held her resolve. “And I don’t feel I’m the sort to be raising young.”

  “Ami,” her mother breathed, her air noisy when she gasped the name. “I have something I must tell you, my child.”

  “Please, mum,” the younger woman begged with a shake of her golden lump of hair, “no more talk of Rupert. I’ll decide when it’s time to give a man my hand.” She grinned at her mother, hoping to appease her.

  “No,” the old head rocked against her pillow. “No, sweet Amicia. There’s something else you must know before I’m gone.”

  “What, mum,” Ami replied, taking her mother’s hand between hers and clasping it tightly. The boney fingers cold against her warm flesh, fear seized her gut at the realization that her mother had a few days at most.

  “Tell me, mum,” she stammered, blinking back tears. She could pretend her life would be the same, but deep down, she knew she wasn’t ready to lose her other parent so soon.

  Her clear blue eyes clouded, the older woman gasped. “So hard,” she wheezed. “After all this time, I always thought you would realize…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Realize what?” Ami prodded, lifting the frail digits and pressing them to her lips.

  “Me and Gus,” she panted, “we found you when you was a little girl. Three, maybe four you was.”

  “Was I lost?” Amicia smiled through her pain, her mother’s words confusing and probably delirium.

  “Yes, maybe you was,” her mother nodded. “You was lost, and we found you, and we kept you. No one ever came looking, and you became our little girl. Our little miracle, Amicia.” Her old set of eyes wide, she glared at her, unblinking as she made her confession.

  Staring at her as she spoke, an icy chill crept up Amicia’s spine, and the cool evening breeze from the window made her shudder. The words caught in her throat, she could feel hot tears trickle over onto her cheeks. “Are you saying you’re not my mother?” she eventually managed faintly.

  “Tis true,” Arely sighed. “So many times have I longed to tell you, but it never seemed right. But now the secret’s been told, and I can rest my head that it has been set right.”

  “Set right!” Amicia clipped, losing herself for a moment. “Mum, please. You can’t mean this. I’m your daughter!”

  But as soon as the words tumbled out, she knew her denial could not change what she had suspected most of her years; her parents had not been young when she was born. To the contrary, they had both been grey and wrinkled as long as she could remember. That, and they had always called her their gift from God. Could this be why?

  “Oh, mum,” she said quietly, squeezing her mother’s fingers firmly. “It’s ok. You think I should marry Rupert?” she changed the subject, the pain in her heart too much to face at that moment. Her only defense, she ignored the situation, pretending it away. Dropping their connection, she picked up the soup and stirred it to continue as if nothing had been said.

  “If he is the one,” her mother agreed. “Follow your heart, my sweet
Amicia. Follow your dreams to the place where you belong.”

  Pursing her lips, Ami helped her mother finish the meal, then returned to the kitchen to wash the bowl. Her mother’s words had stolen her appetite, so she left the small house and went back outside, ostensibly to check on her fruit.

  Finding everything in order and the water gently boiling, she gave the kettle a few stirs. Satisfied that her mixture would not stick, she walked around the far end of the structure and followed the path that led down the hill behind the small dwelling. There, the gentle slope gave way to a sharp drop-off that quickly shifted from grassy soil to broken rock and the ocean below.

  Staring out across the water, her mother’s words churned inside her thoughts. Follow your dreams to the place where you belong. More times than she could count, Ami had stood in that very spot, watching the waves and the sun as they met in the distance. The wind whipping around her, she rubbed her arms vigorously, refusing to go back inside.

  Closing her eyes and enjoying the rays on her cheeks, the ball of fire sank deeper into the horizon. Rocking gently, she felt as if she could leap from the cliff and soar across the top of the sea. That’s what she dreamed of – flying across the water, to the west of their home. Always away from the harshness of life she had come to accept as her existence. Always into the sun, floating and diving, as if she were a gull, free to roam where ever the next gust of wind might take her.

  Dust to Dust

  Amicia awoke to the silence of the empty cottage. Lying in the still of the morning, she stared at the ceiling above her, the timbers of the old roof creaking eerily. The thatch thin in places, she could see the discolored patches that glowed slightly from the sun shining upon it. It was much later than she normally slept, but this day she would have no chores to complete, save one.

  Her mother had passed away the day before, and they had prepared Arely’s body for burial that evening. Then, everyone had gone, leaving her alone in the old house that no longer felt like home; not since her mother had confessed what they had done.

  For days, her mother’s words had torn at her heart. Retracing her life, the simple and honest work of her years, she could put her finger on no specific moment when the truth had been clear. But in the shadows of her days, she knew her mother’s claim to be true. She did not belong in that family, on that farm, or in that life.

  Sliding from under the covers, she slipped out of her night clothes and washed herself in a basin of cold water, as she had begun so many of her days before. Then, donning a simple black gown, one she only wore once or twice a year, she went over to the kitchen and made herself a small breakfast of bread and hard cheese. Sitting by the fire in the living area to eat it, she jumped when a knock sounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” she called, wiping at the tears that she hadn’t realized she had cried.

  “It’s me,” Rupert replied, pushing the wooden covering open a crack. “Are you decent?”

  “Yes, I’m dressed,” she replied, getting to her feet and smoothing her skirt.

  “I’m here to see you to the parish,” he informed her, removing his hat and holding it in his hand as he shuffled inside.

  Quite handsome in his dark suit, Ami managed a smile for him. “She’s in a better place, Ru. Father can look after her now.”

  “It’s not Arely that I’m worried about,” he replied, the dark circles under his eyes exposed as he moved nearer. Seeing the pain in her clear green orbs, he closed the distance and swooped her against his chest with his right arm, his left hand still holding the hat as he curled it around her. “I’m so sorry, Ami,” he breathed into her thick, blond hair.

  “I know,” she sniffed, her tears flowing and dripping onto his jacket. “I’m making a mess of you,” she teased. They had seldom so much as touched one another, and she felt awkward in his embrace.

  “I wash,” he replied, holding her firmly.

  Standing together in her parents’ home, the one that no longer belonged to her, Amicia’s heart ached, and she drank in the comfort that he offered. She had insisted she did not need a man, but in that moment, she needed someone; anyone who could keep her grounded in reality, that she might make it through what lay ahead.

  “How long before the service?” she whispered, her cheek smashed against the fine cloth that covered his broad chest. Her fingers toying with the lapel, she focused on it, rather than the raw ache that festered within her.

  “As long as you need,” he soothed, releasing her and holding her arms firmly while she regained her footing.

  “We’ll go then,” she informed him, raising her chin defiantly. She had not spoken of her mother’s confession and had no intention of doing so. If anyone in the town knew of their deception, they had never given any indication; not to her. She was Arely’s daughter in their eyes. She must complete her task before she would be free to decide her course.

  Guiding her out of the house, Rupert helped her onto the wooden seat of his carriage, a small two-seat buggy pulled by a single pony. He didn’t use it often. His old horse had seen better days and spent most of the remaining ones grazing in a pasture next to the mill.

  Giving the girl a firm pat on her leg, he stood up straight and marched around to the other side. Hoisting himself up, he adjusted himself into the driver’s side, glancing at her stiff form perched next to him. Lifting the reigns, he gave them a loud crack, which sent the aged mare stumbling along the cobblestone path.

  Nalen was a sprawling town, with a few thousand people in and around. Some were new, some were only visiting, but most had lived their entire lives in the area. As the miller, he knew almost everyone, as did most of the tradesmen, such as the Spicers. The small parish would be standing room only for the old woman, her legacy in the township spanning half a dozen decades or more.

  Rocking next to him as the wheels turned, Amicia felt disconnected from her body, as if she hung in the air above them; watching as they ambled along. The morning bright, it seemed unfitting to bury her would-be mother on such a fine day. How could they have kept such a secret?

  To have been adopted would not have pained her so. There were some occasions when a child would be in need of a home. Her parents had not been unkind, after all. Teaching her their trade would be expected of any family, real or contrived.

  Opening her palms, she stared down at the lines and thickened hide of her fleshy pads. They had been toughened by years of picking berries, harvesting stalks of dill and leaves of thyme. Her years of service were not what drained her spirit.

  Closing her hands into fists and lowering her lids, Ami drew in a deep breath, then blew it out through her nose. She wanted to calm herself and to wipe away the regret that twisted her gut. But she couldn’t. It sat there, like a lump of putrid meat in her belly. Aching, gnawing at her innards incessantly.

  Jerked back from her thoughts, her eyes fluttered. Rupert’s hand clasped around her smaller digits, offering her what comfort he could. She had accepted his hug at his arrival, and she feared that doing so had only encouraged something that could not grow.

  Biting her lip, she stared at the appendage, considering her options. Not accepting him by opening her grasp, but not pushing him away either, they rode in an uneasy silence she dared not defile, with his palm pressed against her closed knuckles.

  Arriving in front of the long sanctuary, a middle-aged man with a wide girth met the wagon to help Amicia out of the cart. A baker by trade, Ami knew him, as he was a regular client of the Spicers.

  Accepting her hand, he held her balance to the ground and once there offered his arm. Her fingers planted in its crook, he walked beside her, leading her down the center aisle to where a place had been reserved for her on the front row.

  Taking her seat, Amicia kept her sorrow in check. Her hands curled loosely in her lap, she stared at the floor before her and waited for Ru to join her so the service could begin.

  A moment later, a dirty pair of tattered shoes stopped before her. Facing her, the visitor st
ood perfectly still, and she raised her eyes slowly to take in the young man’s equally soiled clothing. Her heart pounding, she reached the face of a stranger with the scruffy beginnings of a beard and shaggy red hair. “Yes?” she squeaked.

  “For you, my lady,” the boy offered, holding out a single red rose. The stem long, it had been freshly cut and the bud had only just begun to open.

  Accepting it carefully so as not to catch one of the sharp barbs, Amicia’s mouth twitched. Staring into the clear blue eyes, she pondered where he might have gotten it. Holding her speculation, she whispered, “Thank you. You are new to Nalen?” she asked, certain they had not met before.

  “I only visit from time to time,” he explained, his smile oddly soothing. “Do you travel?”

  “Travel?” she repeated, the idea peculiar. Her gaze dropping to his offering, she absently drew it to her nose and inhaled deeply to breathe in the scent. “No…” she began, lifting her chin to see that he had vanished.

  Looking to the left, then right, she pivoted in her seat to find Rupert marching up the center aisle. However, the young man who had presented her with the sweet gift was nowhere to be found.

  Arriving at the front, Ru planted himself next to her, and the pastor began to speak. They had waited for him to join her, and she knew in their eyes she already belonged to him. Cursing that fact under her breath, she adjusted herself and put a cushion of air between them. She then focused on the podium and the service as her heart thumped heavily inside her chest.

  A few people spoke, offering kind words and condolences, but Ami hardly heard anything they said. Her heart ached with the loss of her mother, but not for the physical body they would soon lay beneath the earth. When she wept, it was not for Arely, who had been her caretaker for as long as she could recall.

  No, her tears were for something far deeper; far darker. Her so-called parents had kept their secret and could have taken it to the grave, if her mother’s conscience had not gotten the better of her on her deathbed. Smelling her rose again, Ami almost wished that she had.