by Krista Rose
It frightened me more than his rage.
In the end, I resorted to treating him as Janis had, as if he were a small child in the aftermath of a temper. I bathed him, scrubbing months of filth from his skin as the water turned black from it. I trimmed his hair and shaved his beard and dressed him in clean clothes, throwing his soiled garments in the fireplace to burn. He wept through it all. At last, I led him to his bed, and he sighed as he fell asleep, whispering my mother’s name like a prayer.
I limped from his room to ours, wearily tapping on the door. “Brannyn, it’s me.”
He jerked the door open, his eyes reflecting all the pain that lurked somewhere deep inside of me, buried beneath the exhaustion. He reached out to touch the tender bruises on my cheek.
I flinched. “I’m fine, Brannyn.”
His eyes were dark, direct. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m just tired.” My bones were made of fragile glass; if I admitted how afraid I was, I would simply shatter. “I need to sleep.”
He stepped aside.
Lanya stared at me from the chair in the corner, her face tight with worry. The twins sprawled across the bed with Reyce, their limbs tangling with each other as they slept.
“Kryssa?” Lanya whispered, her voice trembling with unasked questions.
“I’m fine.” I curled onto my pallet on the floor, dragging my blanket around me, and closed my eyes.
But it was a long time before sleep finally claimed me, and my dreams, when they came, were full of blood and screams.
KRYSSA
569- 572A.F.
I would like to say that was the end of Father’s madness, that he repented of his actions in the morning, and returned to the loving, smiling man of my childhood.
It would be a lie, but I would like to say it all the same.
Since I cannot, I shall say instead: there were still good days, though they became more and more infrequent as time passed and his madness claimed whatever remained of his mind.
On good days, Father would rise, ignoring us children as if we did not exist, and leave the house to tend the fields, wearing himself ragged with their care. He returned at sundown, and fell, exhausted, into his bed, to sleep until the next morning. If we were neglected, well… At least we weren’t harmed.
On the bad days, Father screamed and wept, cursing both the Gods and his children for the loss of his beloved Adelie. Often, he would not even rise from his bed, and would merely glare at us as we tended to our chores, sullen and morose. It terrified the others, and I kept the door to his room closed, and entered alone if needed.
But even those days paled in comparison to the black days, and it was then I came to truly wish that the Gods had taken him instead of our mother. He paced our tiny house like a caged beast, striking out in blind anger at anyone who came near, cursing us unmercifully. At last, his wrath would spend itself, and he would sink into helpless despair, turning docile as a babe and allowing himself to be led back to bed, slipping into easy sleep.
We learned the warning signs of these dark tempers, how to hide from them, how to protect ourselves against him. But, all too often, he would raise his hand to Lanya, or Reyce, or one of the twins, and I would be forced to step forward, allowing myself to be his target, and suffered the brunt of his ire in marks upon my skin.
I became strong, in a way I’d never intended to become, in a way which would have made my mother weep. My father wished to break me; and so I learned to not be broken. I bore the beatings with singular purpose and stoicism, refusing to cry or beg, taking myself away from the ugliness. I learned to keep my face still, mask-like and defiant of the pain.
But try as I might, I could not fully protect my brothers and sisters. Brannyn refused to let me suffer alone, and took his share of the wrath from our father’s hands; no matter that I begged and pleaded, no matter that his pain echoed in my bones. He had determined that he would save me as he was able, and so he did. The others, though spared from the beatings, were not immune to his cruelty, and their faces soon grew haunted and unhappy, Father’s misery infecting us like a sickness.
In the months that followed, we came at last to learn the truth: our mother’s death had driven our father well and truly mad. The Crone’s potion- which he drank religiously every day, regardless that we could not afford it- made him forget his heartbreak, at least for a time, and allowed him to tend to the fields, numbing him to the emptiness and loss of his dead Adelie. But the potion did not heal his broken mind, and it made him angry and violent as it wore off. When his rage was over, he would weep like a child, ashamed and pathetic.
There are only so many times one can plead for forgiveness before it begins to sound hollow; only so much damage can be done before trust snaps like a well-worn thread. My nightmares were haunted by his hateful stares and vicious words, and my waking moments by dread and the taste of blood in my mouth. I found I could no longer love him- I feared him instead, and hated him, and cursed the Crone for helping him to live.
Malachi Rose had become a monster.
There was a lullaby Lanya used to sing to us, and whenever I am forced to think back on that time, it is her sweet, haunting voice that I remember, soothing the others as I fought to hide the despair that threatened to swallow me.
To sleep, to seek out all your dreams,
Find those quiet, sparkling things.
Stay here, wait here, in your bed,
Rest your lovely little head.
Night calls, light falls, no more sun-
Darkness plays when light is done.
Certainly, it seemed that the darkness enjoyed playing with our lives.
Time passed. We collected our pitiful harvest, selling what we could afford, and laying by a store to get us through the harshness of winter. The snows kept Father from the Crone, and, as the days passed without his potions, he slipped into catatonia once again. Though I worried for him, I was glad as well, for the weather kept us all trapped within the house, and I do not know how I would have protected the others from his brutality.
Spring came at last, the sun shining through the grimy, soot-streaked windows, the grass turning pale green beneath a breathtaking sky. Father disappeared for two days, and came home in the terrible, familiar rage, his clothes and breath reeking of ale and sweat and something medicinal.
He had returned to see the Crone.
It is strange, in memory, how quickly the harrowing can become routine, how easy it is to find normality in horror until it is scarcely noticeable. The tragedies of our life, though at times they seemed insurmountable, forced us to grow until we were strong enough to overcome them. We had lost our mother, and Janis, and somewhere in between them we had lost our father as well. He was like a ghost in our home, a shade of someone else, eaten by his desperate loneliness and the obsessive memory of Adelie.
The summer came, and the fall. Our harvest was even less that year, for Father gave up halfway through the planting, and nothing I could say would convince him to finish it. We struggled through the winter as he sank into despondency, and I rationed our food as we prayed for spring, wishing I dared to forget Father’s meals so that he would not survive to see it.
So the years came and went, making us hard. Our innocence had been ripped from us, and it made us bitter- but we were stronger for it.
We grew. I was forced to mend our clothing over and over, struggling to make it fit our lengthening limbs. I took to wearing a much-hemmed pair of Father’s breeches and one of Brannyn’s old shirts, wearing them more for their utility than out of choice. I used Mother’s wardrobe to dress my sisters, and a chest of Janis’ late husband’s clothing was divvied among my brothers. I did my best to keep us warm throughout the winter, turning ragged sheets into shirts and ripped coverlets into cloaks. I even made a hazardous trip to the village, to beg the Crone for help procuring what we needed, not knowing where else to turn. She gave me a pile of used sheets and blankets, covered in unidentifiable stains, her dark eyes unreadable
as I stammered out my gratitude.
So we were clothed, though most would consider what we wore little better than rags. But at least we were covered, and warm during the cold.
I turned thirteen without notice, as the wild roses bloomed in glorious profusion on the hill. Underfed and gangly with growth, I struggled alone through the changes of womanhood, shielding the others from knowledge of my discomfort. I knew what the changes meant, thanks to Janis, and hid them, afraid of being bride-sold by Malachi to offset the debts of our farm.
For debts came, and quickly. Taxes to the Empire, which our meager harvests barely covered, were a constant burden as I took over the household budget. I watched Father’s addiction to the Crone’s potion with rising suspicion, and wondered how we were affording it- for I knew by then that she did nothing without payment of some kind. At last, I offered to clean for her, thinking to repay what I was certain was a substantial debt, and she agreed, though her gaze upon me seemed filled with remorse and self-loathing.
It was then that I finally learned the steep price Father had promised to forget his darkness.
KRYSSA
572A.F.
It seemed that time stood still in Desperation, for little had changed in the village since my parents had fled there from Fallor. Even now I would wager that it is still the same: a pathetic huddle of houses centered around a single general goods store, cowering beneath the fringes of the Siriun Forest, as if trying to shrink away from the giant northern evergreens which rose for miles up into the sky.
Less than fifty people lived within the village, and it was not long before several heard the rumors that I cleaned for the Crone and came to seek out my services. I began a routine of cleaning for one of them per day: sweeping floors, washing walls, and scrubbing fireplaces, performing backbreaking labor for only a few copper dhabis. The money offset what we lost on the harvests, so I did not complain, even though it exhausted me.
The women of the village tolerated me; though they did not know me, I was Adelie’s daughter, and most remembered her with some measure of jealousy mixed with fondness. It is the curse of beautiful women to outshine those around them, and, for all her charms, my mother had been very beautiful. Thankfully, I did not resemble her, and my boyish clothing made me appear both younger than I was and unappealing in their eyes, and so I was dealt with more fairly than I otherwise might have been.
On Moonsday, I cleaned the house of Goodwife Therese, who watched me like a hawk, certain I would steal her precious things if left unattended, though they were little more than painted glass and useless to me. She paid me an extra copper to weed her gardens, a chore I quickly learned she detested, and, when I was finished, she would dole out the coins with her thin lips pursed, her eyes alight in her florid face as she watched me leave with them, thinking she had gotten the best of me.
On Airsday, I went to the house of Emmis Lonisdaughter. She was married to Tellis, who owned the general goods store, and her status as wife of the wealthiest man in the village gave her airs. She gossiped in condescending tones about her opinions of the other village women as I scrubbed her floors and fireplace, and I clenched my jaw until it ached, my head throbbing from holding back the words I wished to speak against her spitefulness. But she paid more than any of the other houses I cleaned- proof, she said, that hers was the most generous house in the village- and so I held my tongue.
Watersday was a joy, for that was the day I cleaned the home of Widow Ellisa. She was elderly, unable to attend to much of the heavy cleaning herself anymore, but her eyes and wit were as sharp as a girl of twenty. Her home always smelled of baking things, and she forced food upon me along with my pay- a loaf of bread, an apple pie, a pot of stew- to take back to the farm to feed us “unfortunate children.”
Earthsday saw me at the house of Goodman Malik, who acted as carpenter and man-of-all-work for the village; a renowned bachelor, he had been the first to seek me out when it had become known that my services were for hire. His house was filthy, covered with years of accumulated sawdust and grime, and I worked harder there than on any other day. But Malik left me alone while I cleaned, and it was there, for a few hours at least, where I finally learned a little of peace.
Firesday I worked at the house of Allis and Demson Stroud. Allis viewed me with open hostility at first, and would bark her demands of the day at me with a glower upon her unpretty face. Though I never asked, I assumed she was jealous of my mother, and she seemed to delight in finding the most humiliating tasks for me to perform, as if daring me to protest so she could put me in my place. But I did them without complaint, and her enjoyment melted into resentment, until at last she left me alone, content enough with the knowledge that I was forced to work for her for pennies.
It was in her home that I met Vitric.
He was the middle child in a brood of sisters, about a year older than I, and openly friendly despite his mother’s obvious disapproval. His hair was fair and curly, his eyes the shifting colors of the distant sea, of which I had only ever seen pictures, and he watched me as I worked with a lopsided smile. He followed me wherever I went, telling me stories I pretended not to listen to, and asking me questions I refused to answer. I had never had a friend outside of my brothers and sisters, and was afraid to make one, worried what he might think if he learned my secret.
For that is what I had come to think of Father as: something shameful, to be hidden behind false smiles and empty words and the mask I wore, trapping my fear of him within my skin where no one could see it. The people of Desperation thought Malachi to be a tragic hero, admiring him for raising six children on his own after the death of his wife, for none knew of his madness or his addiction, save the Crone. What was thought of the bruises that so often appeared on my skin, I did not know, for they were never spoken of in my presence. Most likely they were written off as a well-deserved punishment; children are more harshly treated in those outlying villages than in the larger towns and cities, for life is severe and ruthless, and we must be strong enough to face it.
It was only Vitric who ever seemed curious.
He found me outside one day, laboring to pull weeds from Allis’ garden in the wet, sticky heat of midsummer. My sleeves were rolled up, my shirt unbuttoned as low as I dared, and still the sweat rolled down my neck and back, making my clothes cling to me uncomfortably.
I could feel his gaze upon me like a weight, and scowled at him from beneath my lashes. His presence made me nervous for some unknowable reason, and I resented it, wishing he would leave me to my gods-forsaken chore in peace.
“Why are your arms covered in bruises?” he asked abruptly, kneeling beside me so that I was forced to look at him. His eyes were blue that day, clear as the skies above us, and held no trace of judgment or malice as he examined the dark marks on my forearms.
He was close enough that I could smell the sandalwood oil that lingered on his skin, recognizing the scent from the jar by the tub I cleaned upon every visit. Something in me stirred, disquieting me, and I glared at him in response. “They’re nothing. I fell.”
“Onto a pair of hands?” His fingers were gentle as he touched my bruises; still, I flinched, and he frowned. “It looks as if you were helped to fall.”
I jerked away from his touch and the strange feelings he created in me, remaining silent and sullen as I returned to weeding. Let him think what he would; I did not want his pity for my secret.
Starsday is the day we worship Diona, our creator, and it was still my own. That day I cherished, for it was my only full day with my siblings. Though I spent most of it catching up on the work that was neglected while I was in the village, I was able to spend the late afternoons with my brothers and sisters upon our porch or in front of our fireplace, telling them exaggerated stories of the villagers I worked for, and listening to their tales of what had happened on the farm while I was gone. Strangely, I could not bring myself to tell them of Vitric, though I repeated the stories he told me, my heart fluttering oddly when I saw
the joy it brought to my siblings’ faces.
On Sunsday, I at last cleaned for the Crone.
Her home was filthy, though not quite as bad as Malik’s, and filled with strange books and instruments and bottles that I feared to touch. More than once I would lift something- such as a doll made of feathers and blackened wax, or a jar labeled bloodroot- only to have it snatched quickly out of my hands. Once, I moved a book, written in pictures instead of words, and felt as if my soul had been jerked within my chest. I dropped it immediately, but it left me nauseous and shaking. The Crone had screamed at me for touching it, and sent me back to the farm without finishing my work.
It was the only house that I left without pay, for I worked simply to alleviate the debt I believed our father had placed us in. The Crone watched my every move, her eyes gleaming in the sunken hollows of her face; I think now that she let me try to work off the debt out of her own guilt, rather than any true desire to be repaid.
Late fall arrived, and with it a chill, biting breeze that stripped the leaves from the branches of trees, leaving them stark and naked against the cold sky. The air smelled of early snows and sleeping earth, and I worried near constantly for the upcoming winter. I struggled to clean faster and harder each day, for when the snows came, Father would again sink into his melancholy, and I would not be able to return to the village till it thawed.
I was in the Crone’s bedroom, scrubbing grime from the thick stone walls, when I heard the frantic knock upon the front door. The Crone answered, her raspy voice catching my ear as she allowed the visitor inside. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Please, you must give me more.” The brush I held tumbled from my nerveless hands at the sound of my father’s voice, broken and hoarse. “The memories- I can’t take them.”
I cautiously stepped to the door and peered out into the great room, watching as the Crone led my father to a chair. He was pale and trembling, his eyes lost in desperate pain.