by R. R. Smythe
I can’t pry my eyes from his face — and I bite my upper lip as I watch his hard mask return. The one he wears at school. Once I’m behind the sweets counter, he releases me. His body immediately stiffens, and his eyes leave mine, roving behind me, as if he anticipates an attack.
From what? A tiny, tin soldier from Beth’s curiosity cabinet?
I turn around, searching for the danger.
“Be careful… Mia.”
He strides out the door, crossing the field toward the barn.
Careful of what? My new heart? My inexplicable engrossment with your every move?
I lean with both hands against the glass, registering, but not seeing, every chocolate-dipped piece of fruit on the planet.
I have to get it together. If Beth sees me unglued—she’ll shoo me home.
My eyes wander around the shop, filled with Alcott replications and memorabilia. Draped over the rocking chair is Louisa’s ‘glory cape’ given to her by her mother. She wore it while she wrote to transport her to the worlds inside her head.
I understand Louisa; feel a bond with her despite the years between us. She had to write to stay alive, to keep from poverty.
I write to keep from going mad.
Doctor-parents make for a lonely house. I was imagining other worlds by the time I was eight. And I’ve been taking myself there, to my safe place, ever since.
I think of the round of rejections from my short story — which filled my inbox this morning with a cheery ‘ding!’
I fight the urge to borrow the cape — to superstitiously up my chances of getting published. Claire’s voice fills my head. Why can’t you have a normal interest — like running, or makeup or… something?
My eyes scan the bookshelves, filled with all of Louisa’s titles: Moods, Hospital Sketches, An Old-fashioned Girl. Four whole shelves. I’ve only made my way through half since I started working here.
I hear Beth in the neighboring room, continuing her tour. She has a perfect grasp of the period-slang, and I laugh as she tries to explain the game of Whist to a too-interested grandma.
“Bronson Alcott was kicked out of his school for teaching a black child. He and all his family were ardent abolitionists.” The group shuffles to the next room.
“He also couldn’t hold a job and was a bleeding peddler.” A male voice booms.
I startle so hard, the side of my head collides with a hanging birdcage. Morgan is back. How did he slip in without my hearing?
“So you know Alcott history, too?” I retort, buying Beth recovery time.
Beth looks shaken as she addresses the ladies. “Follow me. I will show you some wonderful Alcott artifacts we’ve only just acquired.”
Morgan snorts, his mouth in a disgusted twist. “Yea. I know the history. Lucky me.”
My stomach seizes, folding in on itself, till what remains is an anxious ball. I don’t understand. “What does Beth have you doing?”
His eyebrows arch in the middle, and his blue eyes scrutinize me. “I’m giving Battlefield Presentations.”
Beth re-enters the room, the gaggle of tourists in her wake.
“Bronson Alcott, Louisa’s father, was a transcendentalist.”
“What’s that?” the same blue-haired granny pipes up.
“It means he was mad.” Morgan’s voice is laced with acid. “And had more concern for his ideals than his family’s welfare.”
He’s loading a black powder musket, his eyes as hard as the bullet rolling between his fingers.
Beth’s eyebrows disappear under her brown bangs as her face goes crimson. Her eyes widen in alarm but her mouth is furious.
A couple of old bittys looked frightened. A few others are clearly excited, ready to see a fight.
Beth clears her throat. “Don’t mind him. He’s battle-weary. Too many cannon blasts, if you know what I mean.” She taps the side of her head and smiles. “Follow me below. This house was a stop on the Underground Railroad. A tunnel beneath the house leads the entire way to the center of town.” Her eyes flick to the setting sun. “We’ll have to hurry. I don’t do tunnel tours after dark.”
I open my mouth to ask since when, but bite down the question. I watch as the group shuffles down the trapdoor stairs behind me. Beth shoots Morgan a death glare before the lid snaps shut over her narrowed eyes.
I turn to Morgan. “We used to give night tours all the time.”
He finishes setting the rifle, extracting the rod from the gun’s barrel. “Well, things changed while you were sleeping.”
Anger at his flippancy rushes up my throat, igniting my words. “Excuse me? You do know that I recently had a heart transplant? That I almost died? That I couldn’t walk?”
My emotions run so hot, flare so fast, now.
I never had outbursts before.
His eyes empty. “People die all the time, I’m afraid.”
“What a terrible thing to say.”
I feel the tears looming. I do not want to give this terrible boy the satisfaction. I bite the inside of my bottom lip, refocusing myself.
His heavy-lidded eyes drop to the floor. He shakes his head infinitesimally. “That was horrible. I am sorry, Miss. Half the time I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”
My heart slows, but my mind is racing and my mouth is dry as I place a hand on the counter to steady myself. To try and keep my dignity.
“Apology accepted. I guess.” As I’m going to have to see your rude self everyday.
He motions to the door. “I’m going to leave, before I say anything else I regret. Mia, please, don’t go into the tunnels at night.”
Chapter Five
Morgan
The battlefield is tainted red as I stare out the stained glass. I fill my lungs. Breathe in, breathe out.
I tire of this place. I don’t think I shall ever adjust. I know Beth meant well… at least I think she did, bringing me here.
Or was it out of fear? I check the clock — she’ll be back any moment.
Her laptop is on the sweets counter, open and humming. I know it’s dishonorable — but of late, I’m having difficulty with noble. It’s as if my former self dried up and blew away on the journey here. Like my bitter circumstances have finally taken root in my heart, and bloomed into an acidic man. At home, I was a man. Here… men my age are still boys.
I stare at the screen, and the page is open to Beth’s email. It’s a letter to Edward, her husband, who is constantly traveling for work. I’d never consent to leaving someone I loved for so long. My throat constricts at the thought — but I put those feelings away. They will do nothing but harm.
Dear Edward,
I really need to have you home. Too much has been going on. I think I made a colossal mistake bringing Morgan here. He is utterly miserable, and rightly so. He did not ask to come — to be saved.
I don’t know if my sister made the right decision, sending him to me. There’s something wrong with the tunnels, and Mia — well, I don’t want to put it in an email. Please write and tell me when you’ll be home. I have trouble staying strong without you.
All my heart,
Beth
P.S. The pregnancy test was negative. Again.
My teeth grind together, I can’t decide how I feel — but the constant vacillation is making me insane.
Empathy floods half my heart for Beth — who so longs for a child. She is so very kind. Too kind. On one hand, I want to protect her, despite being ten years her junior. On the other half, the shriveled side… I want to scream in her face till I’m hoarse, till I make my pain, her pain… for being so selfish. Did I ask to live?
She and her bullheaded, meddling sister.
My conscience whispers in my ear. Beth isn’t the heart of your pain. You must move on. You cannot change the past. You can only change the future. My irritating conscience takes the voice of my dear mother, now long gone. I know it to be right.
I just have utterly no idea how to follow her advice.
I have no wor
ds of wisdom from my father. The fraud refused to acknowledge my life. My very existence, no doubt, caused his already troubled life great sorrow.
It’s like my heart is a blistering sun, emitting scorching rays of pain. The anger is my protective clouds; blotting out and dampening down the full effect of my bitterness. So I can live — if that’s what I’m doing.
Beth’s car spits gravel as she pulls into the driveway.
She’s up to something again.
I can feel it, something, besides me, is wrong with the cottage. Juvenile as it may be, I bolt to the back room and hide.
The front door jingles its silver bell as she enters. She looks around, “Morgan?” cocking her head, waiting for my answer.
Empathy kicks my gut as I see her tears, her trembling lips. My old self itches to hold her, soothe her — tell her all will be well.
A Jewish friend once told me, “God counts the tears of women.”
I believe that.
Beth slides around the counter to the laptop, checking her email. The slump of her shoulders tells me Edward hasn’t yet responded.
Her dark hair cascades around her as she tilts her head, checking outside. She crosses the room, locking the shop door and flipping the sign on it to ‘Closed’.
Her face pinches in guilt as she slides a faux-book from her Louisa-shelf. Opening its cover, she extracts a folded piece of paper.
“No,” I whisper. “She can’t still be writing her. She knows the rules.”
But she is, I feel it to my core. Taking more risks — that will affect us all. Doom us all, my conscience chastises.
She ducks behind the counter, hauling open the trapdoor that leads to the tunnels.
I hurry over to the entrance, making my feet still while I count to 30, giving the tunnel time to swallow her.
I glance outside before stepping onto the steps. Twilight. I jam my eyes shut, debating.
I shake my head. “Blast it, woman.”
I haul open the door and slip into the gloom.
****
I can make out the dim outline of her skirt, flying through the tunnels. My eyes flick warily left and right. At any moment, the tunnel will transform — and I will be stuck in the middle of it. But what choice do I have? Beth is being irresponsible — thinking only of herself.
A popping, crackling sound, like a fire stirring, rustles behind me.
I will not look. I do not want to see.
Gooseflesh prickles my skin, remembering the first night I happened down here after dark. My breathing hitches and I plow forward, ignoring the instinctual recoiling in my mind.
Beth bobs and weaves ahead through the familiar passageways, just out of earshot.
I watch her move through the dark and witness the tunnel coming alive in her wake. Beneath her feet, toadstools erupt on every footprint.
They follow her, popping up like white stepping stones in water. With every touch of her hand along the cave wall, streaks of light match the drag of her fingertips, as if they’re dipped in colored ink. Flowers sprout from the black soil, appearing as green shoots and spiraling into wildflowers, which grow on either side, till she’s cutting a path through them.
The draw is a blessing and a curse. To become one of the court.
The dark thickens in circular whirls on either side of me and suddenly yawns open with mirroring, blinding doors of light. Pulsing and contracting like a live being.
I hear them coming. I hear their footsteps.
Approaching behind the churning white gateways.
“Beth!”
She is running now and doesn’t hear me. My legs pump, and I break a sweat, weaving through the animated flowers.
I’m gaining on her now.
Another blasted letter is clutched in her ghostly white fingers.
In the twitch of an eye — the tunnel solidifies so quickly her forehead crashes into the dark rock in front of her.
A tree stump materializes at her feet. I know it is exactly like the one she used as a child to play post with her sisters. She shoves the letter inside, jamming down the carved top.
“Beth, are you mad?” I hurtle forward, pushing her out of the way. I lift it… but the letter’s already gone. “Haven’t you broken enough rules already?”
Beside her, a handful of toadstools rot—the dank stench immediately surrounds us. Her hand accidentally brushes a circle of flowers; they wither and crumple to dust.
Her brown eyes are wild and empty. She slumps against the tunnel wall, scratching her fingers down her face. “I cannot do this anymore. I don’t want the responsibility. I—”
“So you thought you’d just pawn it onto me? Is that what she told you?” I jerk my head toward the stump.
A snuffling fills the air, and a blast of acrid smells: gunpowder, decay… and one most familiar. One whose presence fills me with indignation… death. I smell death.
“Oh, Morgan!”
“Run!” I grasp her hand, hurtling her down the passageways, which have altered since we entered. I weave right, then left, hoping I am heading toward the house.
The snuffling rises and rises into a frenzy. A growl rips behind us. Just a few feet behind.
My gut twists like a slipknot, strangling my stomach. The odor intensifies, and I choke, coughing into the crook of my arm, gasping for pure air.
“I never should’ve given in. I’m so sorry, Morgan. They’re coming.”
I grasp her hand tighter as the whirling circles imbedded in the tunnel’s walls pop in and out; in orderly intervals like a swinging pendulum.
People appear at the holes, all with searching eyes. They aren’t solid; their bodies are more like puffs of gray smoke than flesh and blood.
One man, in a uniform like the one I once wore, steps out into the tunnel. As his feet pass the circular threshold, his body solidifies, to black and white. He’s headed in the direction of the snuffling.
“No, stay away from them!” Beth chokes.
“Beth, he’ll be fine — they aren’t after him!” I yank her arm, wheeling her around, and pull her toward the steps.
They arrive.
Thundering, cloven hooves barreling down the tunnel.
So large, only two can fit at one time.
Adrenaline bursts at the back of my spine, coursing down my arms in stuttering shockwaves of fear.
I push Beth up onto the stairs.
Sweat breaks on my brow. I hate them. My hand slips to my waist, for the ghost of a pistol, left on my dresser.
“Blast. Go Beth, hurry!”
I turn around, squinting into the tunnel’s depths. I see its condemning, coal-black eyes.
The sharp, white tusks jutting from its mouth.
Beth scrambles through the trapdoor. I fly up the ladder behind her and feel hot pain as its bristles cut my ankle.
My hands grasp the hardwood floor, and I heave myself up, swinging my legs out in one motion.
We lunge for the door in unison, and it slams shut with a bang. The sound echoes through the empty shop.
Beth steps back in fear. The sound of tusks scratching against wood lifts the door an inch.
I jam it down with my boot, and throw the bolt.
Chapter Six
The Heart is Treacherous
“No, Mom. I’m fine. If I feel… weird, I’ll go to Claire’s.” I roll my eyes at Claire as she eases her Mini-Cooper into Orchard House’s gravel parking lot.
She rolls her blue-eyed ones in return, but they quickly flick forward, waiting for my conversation to be over. She knows as well as I do where it will go. How it will end.
With me alone in the house, as usual.
The brief interlude of extra attention after my surgery is officially over.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll see you after both your shifts are over. Yes, I’ll page you. Mom — I’m going. You’re making me late for work.” I snap my cell shut.
My heart hurts, and not because of my new scar. It’s an old, familiar hurt. I am so differen
t from my parents.
They’re so analytical… and I’m so flippin’weird.
Claire’s eyes search mine.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Will you need a ride home?”
“You mean after you practice, and then go shopping, and then do fifty million other errands?” I smile and shake my head. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ll walk.”
Claire opens her mouth to protest.
“Beth will drive me if I don’t feel up to it,” I amend.
Claire gives me a little soldier-on-with-it smile, and I slam the passenger door shut.
I wait till she pulls away. My heart filling with the familiar gratefulness as I watch her go; grateful she’s been my friend since I was seven. Grateful she never leaves me. Grateful… just for her.
I sigh and walk toward the shop. A group of tourists are trudging off the battlefield. Their presence ignites the whispers, so I turn my head, curious.
Sure enough, Morgan is buried in the center of them, animatedly explaining another battle scene. The whispers are like some weird, polarized, mental-magnet, and Morgan is the other pole. Constant attraction or repulsion—depending on the day.
I ignore the stupid little murmuring voices and push the door open. The shop is mercifully quiet. The inside of my head is clanging like the old church bell with the remnants of today’s high school noise. The day lasted for-ev-er.
I slump against the sweets counter, close my eyes, and breathe in the comforting, familiar scents. I suck in a deep, steadying breath.
This place… is home. I trail my fingers over the counter. My eyes fill with tears and my emotions jumble. I’m sad my home isn’t exactly as I’d like it to be, but am very grateful to have Beth. To have a place where people understand me and my need to live inside my head.
Footsteps shuffle in and I open my eyes. Beth gives me a tentative smile, but it quickly crumbles on her quivering lips. The contrast between her chocolate eyes and the red veins popping out around them make my stomach flip.
“Beth, what’s wrong?”