by Lincoln Law
My mother fought for my life, she thought. I have to hold onto it.
She returned her attention to the coffee she was making and left her thoughts there for now.
The next day, both her and Charlotte dressed in black dresses. They pulled their hair up into neat buns and removing all jewellery out of respect and mourning for cousin Larraine.
“I’ve never been to a funeral before,” Charlotte said, sitting on the bed with a slightly glazed-over look.
“Yes you have,” Adabelle replied, as she finished tying her hair back with a black ribbon. “You were just very young. It was mama’s.”
“That doesn’t count,” Charlotte said. “I would have been only weeks old. Days!”
Adabelle frowned. “Then this will be an experience for both of us.”
Charlotte cocked her head. “You don’t remember mama’s either?”
“Not well,” Adabelle replied. “I would have still been young myself. I remember flashes of it. I remember they said Aunt Marie had gotten very sick all of a sudden and couldn’t come—that was the Buffer Sickness taking hold—and I remember cousin Larraine being there with us. Mrs. Abeth walked us to the cab—she carried you—and I remember smelling vanilla.” She paused, thinking of her mother’s perfume. Mrs. Abeth must have been wearing it that day.
“I can remember they played The Dreamer’s Lullaby as they lowered the coffin. It was a string quartet there, and they played it…beautifully.” She sounded distant now, squinting her eyes as if to gaze deeper into her past. There were few things that made Adabelle cry, but remembering the funeral was one of them. That last gazes at the wood of the coffin as it dropped below the earth.
She had tried to mutter goodbye back then, but had been unable to muster the strength. The closer the words came to her lips, the closer she came to crying. She pushed those images aside, spraying herself with a spritz of her mother’s perfume. Only a moment later did she regret it. The scent brought back more memories.
It was going to be a long day indeed.
They left the University with Mrs. Abeth, who was dressed in black as well. From there, they took a cab to the hospital to collect Aunt Marie. Her mind may not have been entirely there, but she deserved to see her own daughter committed to the earth.
When they arrived, they found Aunt Marie dressed in a black dress, a hat and shroud placed on her head. She was sitting up in her bed, looking rather lucid all things considered. Her eyes were still lost elsewhere, yet she sat still and quiet, and she seemed rather careful in her movements. It was nice for the hospital staff to dress her nicely for the day. They helped her into a wheelchair, strapping down her legs to keep her from wandering away from them. Charlotte kept to the doorway as usual, leaving Mrs. Abeth and Adabelle to get her into the chair and to push her down the hall.
“Please bring her back before five o’clock if that is agreeable,” said the lady at the counter while Mrs. Abeth signed Aunt Marie out.
“That should be fine,” she replied, smiling as she put a dot at the end of her signature.
From the hospital, it was only a short walk to the cemetery. When they arrived, a handful of people had already begun to crowd around the burial site, a handful of chairs set out for the closest family—which was Adabelle, Charlotte and Mrs. Abeth, though she didn’t count as direct family.
They took a seat before the coffin. Adabelle sat between Charlotte and Aunt Marie, though her younger sister still did not look comfortable at all.
Not long before the ceremony started, Adabelle glanced over to Charlotte and noticed that she had a hand held up to her temples.
“Are you okay?” asked Adabelle.
“I’ve got a headache is all,” Charlotte replied.
“It will probably stick around,” Mrs. Abeth said. “Funerals do the same to me.”
“No, this isn’t that sort of headache,” Charlotte said. “It’s different. I don’t know. It hurts, though.”
“I’ll get some water for you then,” Mrs. Abeth said, rising up and heading over to a trestle table set out with a jug of water and some cups. She returned with two full, handing the first to Charlotte and the second to Adabelle. “You’ll need that, too,” she said.
The service was simple and quiet. A handful of people turned up—mostly university students who had been close with Larraine. During much of it, Adabelle kept her mouth closed for fear of breathing in too deeply and releasing the torrent of emotion that threatened against the flood gates. She gripped tightly to the handkerchief she kept in her lap, occasionally raising it to her face to dab at the tears that emerged.
Adabelle rosed when asked to read the eulogy. She had very little prepared and spoke only for a short while, but in that time she held her composure, spoke slowly and calmly, and managed to finish it without crying. As she gazed out at the crowd, she noticed Larraine’s father absent. She supposed he didn’t find out about his daughter’s death till it was too late, if at all.
She took a moment before the coffin was lowered, breathing heavily through her nose. She could smell vanilla again, only it wasn’t her. She turned slightly, looking at Aunt Marie. The woman was looking at her, with eyes as lucid as any other; eyes as emotive as someone with their whole mind. She was crying, her tears flowing heavy and fast.
“No, no, no,” Aunt Marie whispered, shaking her head. She bowed her head, as the coffin began to lower, sobbing.
And just like that, Aunt Marie lost all lucidity and the scent of vanilla faded.
Adabelle turned back to the coffin as it lowered, the slow, painful descent like a knife to her heart. She wondered whether Aunt Marie was truly aware of what was happening, or whether the sadness was just a response to the others crying around her. And her eyes, they’d seemed so lucid, so aware. Even during those rare moments of utter sentience, she had never seemed as calm and alive as she had then. Her eyes had held none of their craze; none of their madness. These were her eyes and hers alone. They weren’t lost in other thoughts; other dreams.
She left that thought to her subconscious and let out a sob as she heard the coffin touch the bottom of the pit.
“And so closes the life of Larraine,” said the priest, as was tradition.
There ceremony was over, and with that, a handful of people began to disperse.
“I thought while we’re here we’d visit your mother,” said Mrs. Abeth, nodding slightly up the hill where more graves lay.
“I’d like that,” Adabelle said. She pushed Aunt Marie up the hill, the scent of vanilla strengthening as they neared the plot of her mother’s grave. Adabelle decided it was the closeness she presently held to the memory of her mother that kept bringing up that scent. She thought of her mother, and therefore thought of her perfume, and with that thought came the wave of sweet vanilla.
Her mother’s grave was a small and simple plot, the headstone bearing her name, the dates of birth and death and a small inscription below. IN OUR HEARTS, IN OUR MINDS, IN OUR DREAMS; FOREVER.
Apparently she had chosen that inscription before her death, or so said Mrs. Abeth. A small piece of her memory made Adabelle think that it was Therron who had chosen that particular phrase, but she couldn’t press down exactly why that thought struck her so.
“Miss you, mama,” whispered Charlotte, who closed her eyes and touched her forehead with an open palm and winced.
Aunt Marie made a whining noise suddenly, shaking her head, blinking swiftly, groaning loudly. She appeared distressed, and judging from the way she shivered, in pain. She had been a little fretful during the ceremony, yet this seemed worse.
“Aunt Marie,” Adabelle said, stepping quickly around the wheelchair to kneel before her. “Aunt Marie, it’s just us. She raised a hand to touch her face, stroking the woman’s cheek softly with her finger. Spittle clung to her hand from where it had fallen from her aunt’s mouth, but Adabelle didn’t mind. She attempted to calm the woman with a gentle shhing noise. Aunt Marie responded with more head shakes, more distressed whimpe
ring.
“I think we ought to go,” Adabelle said, rising up. She glanced down at the woman and said, “It’s okay, we’ll be going soon.”
“My head’s hurting worse now,” Charlotte said.
“I think we’ll go then,” Mrs. Abeth said. “I’ll let everyone know we’ll skip the wake and head home. I don’t think Aunt Marie is fit to be doing anything right now.” She paused, staring past Adabelle. “No mother should ever have to bury their child. Whether she’s in her right mind or not. Let’s take her home.”
“Okay,” Adabelle said. She took the responsibility of the wheelchair, guiding it out of the cemetery and up the street.
“I think I need to sleep,” Charlotte said as they walked down the street. “My head…it won’t stop hurting.”
“I think we’ll all need a good sleep,” replied Mrs. Abeth.
They dropped Aunt Marie off at the hospital. Once she was in her own bed, and settled down a mite, she looked at ease. Her pained mutterings ended, breathing calm. Her expression returned to that of vacant serenity.
“I had the oddest moment today,” said Adabelle in the taxi back to the University.
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Abeth, leaning forward to look around Charlotte, who sat in the middle seat. Charlotte presently slept.
“Well it’s just that there was a point where Aunt Marie looked to me and she looked…well…lucid. She looked completely alive and aware, like she wasn’t sick.”
“Haven’t you said she sometimes has times where she seems entirely well?”
“Well yes,” Adabelle said. “But I mean she might have a moment when she speaks and it’s a coherent sentence, or that she might hug me when I’m sad, as if to comfort.” It was true there were times where Aunt Marie could seem another mother, despite her sickness. She was able to sense emotion, seeming attuned somehow to that particular part of the human mind. “Things like that. This…well…this was her looking at me. She stared with such sadness and understanding and awareness. It was…shocking to say the least. But she did. And then like that,” she clicked her finger, “it was gone.”
“Suppose it was just the emotion of the moment that brought it out?” said Mrs. Abeth. “Suppose she was so overwhelmed by the sadness that she was drawn from the sickness for a time. The mind is a beautiful thing, sometimes. It can be a vault for secrets and for memories, and yet, when unlocked, it can unleash some of the most wonderful things. I had a friend who was abused when she was very young by her father. He used to beat her something fierce, and whenever she’d come to school, she’d always have a black eye or a bruise on her arm. She used to say she fell, and we all believed her. We thought she was a klutz. But one day she decided to tell me what was actually happening, and it terrified me. I met with her again recently and she said she’s moved on, but that she doesn’t remember much of those times.” She paused. “She’d repressed those memories, so that she didn’t have to deal with the pain. She’d gotten past it, and she didn’t want it to define her, so she forgot about it. The mind can lock away some horrible things, and also wonderful things.”
“So it seems,” Adabelle said, turning from Mrs. Abeth to the window, to stare at the passing city outside. The Halls of the Oen’Aerei went by. She wondered whether Lady Morphier had uncovered anything else about Therron in the time she’d been away. She had said a full investigation would be undertaken. She wondered why she hadn’t heard anything yet. Perhaps the delay was owing to Therron’s ability of mental espionage. He seemed so sneaky, able to move through the dreams with nothing but The Dreamer’s Lullaby and the scent of his own cologne preceding him.
Still, it did seem odd that she had heard nothing about her father. She’d been taking the Slugleaf tea religiously, brewing herself a hot mug before bed. And every night she was able to sleep peaceably. She paused, wondering what Therron would see in her now that she was blocked from the dream to a degree. Would he see her mind at all? Was he able to pass through it despite the fact there was nothing occurring within? Or was it like her sister’s mind, where she saw only a shadow where a Dreamer’s mind ought to be. A great wall of unfathomable darkness. No matter how hard she pressed against the darkness, she could not pass through. She could slam her fist against the shadowy barrier, throw her entire mental weight against it, and yet there was nothing. Her sister’s mind was completely inaccessible.
“No, no, no, no!” cried Charlotte, shaking awake suddenly and violently. She looked red in the face, tears in her eyes. She lifted a hand and banged it into her head. Each thump released a wince, and yet she continued.
“Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte!” said Adabelle, grabbing her sister’s arm before she could beat herself again.
“I saw something,” Charlotte said. “Something in my head. Oh God! It won’t go away! It won’t end. Make it stop.”
“Charlotte,” Adabelle whispered, holding her arm strong. Charlotte struggled against her hold.
“There was a person in my head,” Charlotte said, sounding even more distressed than she had before. “There was a woman in my head. She spoke to me! She said something.” She paused, thinking deeply. “It was mama! Mama was in my head!”
Adabelle’s heart froze for a moment. Charlotte had broken out in a cold sweat, sobbing softly, apparently on the fringes of waking up.
Or dreaming, Adabelle added.
“It was just a dream, Charlotte,” Adabelle said.
“What?” Charlotte looked entirely befuddled. She stopped struggling, ceased her crying, apparently out of sheer shock.
“Just a dream,” Adabelle said.
“But…I can’t dream,” she said. “We know that.”
Adabelle paused, unable to think straight herself. “That’s right. You can’t. But you must have if you saw mama in your head. There’s no other way. It’s the only possible outcome.”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ve never had that happen. One moment I’m here, and the next I’m somewhere else. And I can see and I can smell and then mama appears.”
Adabelle hesitated. “Dreams are always triggered by things we see or hear. It’s our mind making sense of the world. The fact we visited the grave is probably what had you see that.”
Charlotte sat up straighter, folding her arms across her legs. She swallowed deeply, exhaled and stared out the window. She wiped a tear from her face. Her breathing for a time came in deep gasps till she calmed.
“We’re nearly home, anyway,” Adabelle said. “Don’t fall asleep again.”
They arrived at the University, stepping out of the ca. Charlotte was quick to return to her room to sleep, Adabelle followed, deciding she was quiet exhausted enough herself and that a nap might be the best idea as well.
She closed her eyes as she lay on the bed. Within seconds was Dreaming. Charlotte was quick to fall asleep, too, thankfully. Adabelle had only one task to commit while here. She turned to her sister’s mind—or rather, where her mind ought to be—and began her way towards it. The black barrier was still there, locking her away from her sister’s mind. She ought to not be able to dream at all, and yet she had. There was no other explanation.
What is happening to us both, Charlotte? Adabelle thought, as she raised her hand and touched the darkness. She pushed against it, the wall forever firm like granite. It would not give, no matter how hard she pushed.
“You’re still safe from Therron,” she said, gently releasing a sigh of relief. “I can sleep easy now.”
She supposed the dream she’d had in the car must have been a temporary weakening in the barrier. Stranger things had happened.
She pulled herself from Dreaming, and entered the darkness of her sleep. She hadn’t the energy to make any Slugleaf tea, and it was only going to be a nap, after all. No need to protect against something that couldn’t happen.
When she awoke, it was late in the afternoon and the sky outside was golden. She looked up and out the window, passing a quick glance at Charlotte who still slept soundly.
She s
tepped up beside the bed and shook the girl awake.
“Wake up,” she said, “else you won’t sleep tonight.”
“What?” asked Charlotte, groggily stirring.
“You gotta get up. It’s dinnertime.”
“Oh, okay.”
As Charlotte got ready for dinner, Adabelle asked her, “How did you sleep?”
“Well enough,” she replied. “I didn’t dream again, if that’s what you mean.”
Adabelle bit her lip. “I know. I checked your mind, and that wall is still up, hard as ever. I suppose it could be a sign you might be able to dream at some point.”
“That would be nice,” Charlotte said, smiling a little. “I’ve always wanted to. And despite the shock of it, I want to see mama again. Do you get to see mama in your dreams?”
Adabelle paused, lowering her gaze. “Very rarely.” It was a lie. She’d never dreamt of her mother. She didn’t know why, she just never did. She occasionally had flashbacks to the night her and her mother had run from Therron, but they were memories, not dreams. There was a difference.
“Well I’m glad I might be able to dream soon.”
I’m not, Adabelle thought. The day you start dreaming is the day I have another life to protect.
“I wonder if I’ll ever become a Dreamer,” Charlotte said.
“I wonder just the same,” Adabelle thought. It seemed entirely likely, given their parentage—two of the most powerful Dreamers ever seen in Odilla.
“I wonder if I’d be a Sturding,” Charlotte continued. She then stopped for a moment as she tied her shoes. “On second thought, I don’t think I’d be a Sturding.”
Adabelle grimaced, brow furrowing. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said. “I suppose it’s the distance I have from dreams. I don’t imagine if I could Dream that I’d know how to go in physically. It’s like any muscle, isn’t it? It requires working. The harder you push, the stronger it gets. I mean I’ve heard of Dreamer children, but Dreamer babies? There’s none!” She hesitated on that thought. “Well, none that I know of at least.” And then she laughed.