When Darkness Loves Us

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  She slept on a bed of moss that her body heat eventually made dry enough to be pliable. She shredded it, braided it back together, and wove a bag that she could sling over her shoulder to carry supplies, but she couldn’t make a rope strong enough to be of any use. She braided another bundle of moss to weave a kind of shirt, since her clothes were long gone and the air from the well was decidedly cool. She made a snug-fitting pair of booties and wound some more moss around her elbows and hands.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and stood. She was ready. She grabbed a handful of pebbles and put her head through the wall. She threw a pebble to the opposite wall and found it to be only about three feet away. She threw a stone straight up, but could not tell by the sound whether it was bouncing off the lid or off the side. The stones fell a long way before they splashed. She pulled her head out of the opening and gave one last shout to Clint. “I’m going into the well now, Clint. I’ll bring your dad back.”

  Feet first, she entered the hole and felt for the other side. The sharp bricks bruised and cut her ribs before her feet found a purchase on the opposite wall. She walked her toes down until she could slide her torso through the opening and rest her back just below the hole. Slowly, moving her feet sideways, then inching her back around, she revolved around the inside of the well so as to miss the opening on her climb up the shaft. Already she knew she was in for an endurance test the likes of which she had never encountered. Her straining back muscles screamed, and she rested, willing herself to relax, placing the weight on her straightened legs and her toes.

  With her arms straight out to her sides, the weight of her whole body was on her toes and her back. She was able to give her back some relief by raising herself up on her hands a little. The rough surface of the well wall helped. She was afraid her shoulders or elbows might give way, though, so this was only a momentary respite.

  Up and up, through the vertical tunnel that had no ending and no beginning, she focused her mind on freedom and light and laughter in the sunshine and willed her bruised and torn back to go just one more inch, then one more, and another after that. She ate from her store and rested often, afraid of falling asleep, afraid of not falling asleep. Eventually she had blackout periods where she lost consciousness, and she was sure it was her mind insisting on the sleep she was denying it. Each time she awakened, her knees were locked tight and secure, but it was still startling, and her heart pounded.

  Except for the loosened chunks of mortar and dirt splashing in the water far below, the only sound in the well was her echoed breathing. Now and then she heard a soft scuttling noise, but she refused to let her mind dwell on what might be making such a sound. She finally removed the moss shirt she had made when the moss became embedded in the lacerations on her back. This exertion was enough to make her pant for breath and stay still until the dizziness left her. She put what was left of the bloody moss into her bag and continued her ascent after her head had cleared.

  Feeling faint and frail, she stopped and considered going back to the tunnel, but she wasn’t sure how far she had come, nor was she sure how far she had to go. The blackness was absolute. Going down would be as bad as going up, she reasoned, so she might as well make for the top. Giving up would be the same either way. Archaeologists would either find her bones wedged in the well shaft like a prop, or they would find them at the bottom. She felt the rough brick biting into her shoulders as she continued, and whispered a little prayer that thundered in the silence. Time for a rest. Just a little sleep. She knew she was in danger of hallucinating from lack of sleep and that her mind wasn’t functioning clearly, so she wedged herself in very tightly and planned to rest there for a while. Sleep came quickly.

  When she awoke, there were insects crawling over her legs. She screamed and brushed at her legs with her shoulder bag. “Oh, God! Get them off of me!” Cockroaches. They were two inches long, attracted by the smell of the rotting slugs in her bag and the blood and raw flesh of her feet and back. At her violent movements they scurried away—to wait. She suppressed the bile rising in her throat, and knew that if she allowed herself to be surprised like that again, she would be likely to fall. Then the venomous little beasts could feast.

  She began again her torturous climb. Below her she could hear scrapings, but dared not think about their significance. She had to concentrate. As she moved upward inch by agonizing inch, she felt close to losing all. This was a foolish venture, and now she would die and it would all be for nothing.

  “Mommy?”

  “Oh, Jesus.” More of a groan than words, she cursed the obsession that kept Clint foremost in her mind. She was surely hallucinating.

  “Mommy, are you up there?”

  “Clint!” The cry came from the depths of her soul. “Clint. I’m going to get us out of here.” As she spoke, her voice reverberated around the walls of her circular cell, but she noticed a new dimension in the echoes, a flat sound from above. She was near the top! “Clint! I’m almost out! I’ll come back and bring your daddy to get you out. Stay there.”

  The small voice came from far below. Much farther than she believed she could have come.

  “Mommy, come back. Don’t leave me here alone. You don’t need to go, Mommy. The darkness loves us.”

  Darkness? How could he talk of darkness? Pieces of thoughts, concepts swirled through her fevered brain. How could he talk of darkness when he knew nothing else? There is only darkness when there is light to compare it with. Does he believe, then? Exhausted, she could talk no longer. “Wait there for me, Clint.”

  She rested for a while before continuing. Knowing she was near the top gave her added strength, but even when the spirit is renewed, the flesh needs sustenance. She knew from the odor that the food in her bag was no longer edible. She ripped the moss armband from her elbow and chewed on it. She managed to swallow a couple of mouthfuls before continuing. She also knew she was losing a fair amount of blood. It mixed with her sweat and trickled down her back. She couldn’t quit now. Her baby depended on her.

  She persevered, eyes closed, up the wall which was growing continually warmer. She kept going until she heard her breath echo off the lid; then she raised her hands and felt it. Wooden. Old. Cracked in the middle and split along one side. She braced her poor toes against the far wall and pushed with one arm. The bricks ripped freshly into the skin on her shoulders, but the wood gave a little bit. Encouraged, and blinded to the pain by the relief she saw in store, she heaved with all she had. One leg slipped off the wall, and for one precious moment, one heart-stopping second, she hung suspended, held only by one toe and one shoulder. Holding her breath, she inched her other leg up to join the first one, the muscles groaning and stiff, and soon she again had both feet on the wall. The blood rushed through her veins with a maddening roar. She rested.

  Try again, she encouraged herself. She found one crack with the tips of her fingers and felt its length, looking for an opening large enough to accommodate her hand. Almost, but not quite. The second crack was a little bit wider, and by sacrificing the skin from her knuckles, she could get her fingers all the way through. She pulled, then pushed, and felt, then heard, the old wood splinter. Carefully, so she would not lose her precarious balance, she wiggled the board back and forth until it came loose, and she dropped it to the water below.

  The opening was now about four inches wide and a foot and a half long. She inched her way up and reached through the hole; she felt nothing. She loosened the next board and it came away more easily; now a full half of the opening was uncovered. The remaining half of the cover was loose, and she wrestled with it, afraid it would fall on her on its way past. Successful, she heard it bounce and scrape its way to the bottom, for a final splash. The opening was now clear. So why wasn’t there fresh air to breathe?

  PART TWO

  1

  Michael strode up the porch steps and into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him. He kissed his wife on the side of the neck, then pulled a cold beer from the refrigerator an
d sat at the kitchen table before opening it. She was a lovely girl, Maggie. A little plumper than the day they had married, but her face was just as pleasant and her disposition just as cheerful. She had passed that precious quality on to their children, too, both in their natural demeanor and in their attitudes. He loved her very much.

  Maggie dried her hands on her apron, poured herself a glass of fresh lemonade, and sat at the table with him. The kids were not yet home from school, and these midafternoon talks with just the two of them at the kitchen table had become a daily ritual, one they both enjoyed. She looked at him closely. The years were wearing on him well. The lines etched deeply in his skin gave his face character. Tanned and rough, with a generous sprinkling of gray in his hair, he was more handsome now than ever before. Put a suit on him and he’d look the picture of a successful executive. She smiled. He was a farmer, though, and she liked that.

  “I went to see your mom today,” he said.

  “How is she?” Michael had always felt closer to Maggie’s parents than she had, and he visited Cora often since her husband had died of a stroke two years ago in the fields.

  “She’s good. She sent her love to you and the kids. She also sent some peaches she put up last season. They’re in the truck.”

  Michael wished Maggie would pay more attention to her mother but didn’t press the issue. He knew the problem. He sipped his beer.

  Maggie stared into her glass. “I thought I’d drive her into town tomorrow. Maybe we could go shopping or something.” Michael worked hard to suppress his surprise and pleasure. He didn’t want to overdo it, but to have his wife and her mother together on a social basis was more than he could have wished for. It was, in fact, an answer to his prayers.

  “I think that’s a fine idea. Why don’t you pick up some more yarn and knit me another of those sweaters? The winter is coming, and I’ve worn holes in the elbows of my favorite.”

  “What color would you like?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think red would make me sexy?”

  She laughed and got up. “You don’t need no help.” She shooed him out of the kitchen and went back to fixing dinner.

  2

  “Momma? Sit down here a minute, would you, please? I’ve got something on my mind that I think needs put to rest.” Maggie was in her mother’s kitchen for the first time in a year. The table was piled high with their purchases from town, including some new red wool for Michael’s sweater and a bolt of Pendleton blue plaid for the kids’ winter clothes. She knew Michael would laugh when he saw she’d bought a whole bolt of it, like he did when she bought a whole bolt of red and white checkered cloth from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. But it had made a tablecloth, kitchen draperies, several aprons, towels, and dresses for the girls. He had liked the effect, even though it was all the same. Economy, she had told him, and he’d given her a kiss.

  Cora sat across the table from her, a pot of steeping tea between them. She moved the packages aside and looked at her daughter.

  “Yes, I believe it’s time whatever is between us was laid to rest, Maggie.” She poured the tea and waited.

  “Momma, I’ve prayed long and hard about this, and I think I’m at fault. I’m feeling guilty, and have been laying it on you and Papa. Ever since Michael and I . . .”

  “Hush, child. There’s no reason to go over all that again.”

  “I can’t hush, Momma. I’ve got to talk this out, and I’ve got to do it now, in order to cleanse myself and be rid of this feeling.”

  Cora sipped her tea and listened. Maggie always was a strong-willed girl. She waited.

  “I guess I always thought it was wrong when Michael and me started loving one another, so soon after Sally Ann died. And then we went against Papa’s wishes and yours and went ahead and lived together before she could be pronounced dead, and that bothered me a tremendous lot. That’s why we went off and got married without you and Papa there. I was pregnant with Justin, and I was angry that we had to sneak around with our love for so long out of respect for Sally Ann’s memory. When she just up and took off. Or whatever.

  “But you have to know, Momma, it was all my doing. Michael loves you as well as he loved his own folks, and he was against getting married without your blessings. But, Momma . . .” The tears began to spill over her eyelids. “I was so tired of having to deal with Sally Ann. I had to deal with her all my life, because she was older, and slimmer, and prettier, and she married Michael, and I was always so jealous. And then Michael loved me when she took off, and she didn’t deserve him and I did, but still I had to live in her shadow for seven long years. It was hard, Momma, and it went against my grain, and I always felt you and Papa were disappointed in me for not respecting Sally Ann’s memory like you taught me to.” The tears were coming faster, and the sobs broke from her chest.

  “I’m a good wife, Momma. And a good mother. Our kids are bright and nice and Michael and I love each other so much . . . and I love you too, Momma, and I want us to be friends.”

  She looked up and saw silent tears on Cora’s face. Neither spoke for a long time. Maggie felt the knot in the pit of her stomach ease up for the first time in all these years, and love for her mother and sorrow for the missed chances in their relationship coursed through her. The pent-up flood of tears broke and she put her forehead on her arms and cried. Cora came around and sat beside her.

  “Maggie. I know you’re a good wife and mother. I’ve got eyes. So did your papa. And we could see the way you and Michael looked at each other. There are no more perfect grandchildren in the whole world than the ones you’ve given us. What happened with your sister is over and done with now. Only God knows her fate, and it was God that brought you and Michael together right here under our roof. We’ve always loved you, and always prayed that you’d come back to us. God bless you, child. You’ve lived with a burden that wasn’t necessarily yours to bear. Come now. Drink your tea.”

  Maggie looked up and smiled at her mother. And soon they were both laughing. Laughing with a joy of togetherness that they had never known.

  3

  Life sure is good, Michael thought to himself as he loaded the last of the calves on the back of the truck. He jumped in the cab, started the engine, and with a final wave to Maggie, set off to the city, where the calves would bring a nice price on the auction block. He always enjoyed this yearly three-day trip away from the farm. It gave him some time to think, to miss the family, to see some new sights, to get a taste of the other side of life. It always renewed his appreciation for what he had.

  As he turned onto the main highway, his thoughts automatically went to Sally Ann. His first trip to market was one week after she had left, and she was the topic of conversation all the way in and all the way home with his father-in-law. He never seemed to be able to drive this way without trying to figure out why she had left, or where she had gone. It was so long ago, but still the mystery remained. He couldn’t bear to consider that she had been killed, or kidnapped. He preferred, no matter how much it hurt, to think she had left him and was living a happy and comfortable life.

  Oh, Sally Ann, how I loved you. I hope you are well. With that, he turned his thoughts to the load of beef on the back of his truck.

  Maggie watched the truck disappear down the highway and returned to the kitchen where tubs of plump blueberries were to capture her attention for the rest of the day. She got the recipe file from the shelf and pulled cards for jam, jelly, and Michael’s favorite compote. She called to Justin to get out of bed and help her bring in the cases of jars from the barn, then rousted the twins to wash their hands, then wash the blueberries. Time they learned how to get their hands all purple, too.

  She was holding the door for Justin as he brought in the last case of jars when the phone rang.

  “Maggie?”

  “Hello, Momma.”

  “Maggie, has Michael left for market yet?”

  “About a half hour ago, why?”

  “Well, there’s a noise going on over here
that’s starting to concern me and I was hoping I could catch him before he left. I’d like to find out what’s wrong. I sure hope it isn’t the water heater again, but I’m afraid it is, and it’s been going on for a couple of days now.”

  “Justin and I can come over before we start the blueberries, Momma.”

  “No . . . I hate to bother you.”

  “No bother, Momma. We’ll be right over.”

  Maggie hung up and wished she hadn’t volunteered. Most likely it wasn’t anything they could do anything about anyway, but it might set her mother’s mind at ease.

  “C’mon, Justin. We’re going over to Grandma’s for a few minutes.” The girls squealed with delight. “You two keep washing those blueberries. We won’t be gone but a couple of minutes.” They returned to their task with sullen faces.

  Cora met them in the drive, and the three went behind the house to the water-heater shed.

  “Now listen.”

  A faint tapping broke the stillness, erratic but high-pitched, metal on metal.

  “The sound’s comin’ from over there,” Justin said. They all turned to where he pointed, and saw nothing but the neighboring field and the old well cover that stuck up about two feet from the ground. Justin walked toward the well cover, but the sound had stopped.