Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  Dangerous.

  What if I can’t do this?

  The doubt surfaced, again. She ignored it and pressed on. Once she got started, everything would be okay.

  When one of her pieces fired, Sara just prayed it didn’t explode. A sculpture might transform a hundred ways into something others couldn’t read. The vision could die, unrealized, as the process destroyed it.

  Sometimes it did.

  Maybe that was why she loved working with clay. It had to pass through a fire and survive.

  Sara chewed her lip. Dr. Carol said she shouldn’t pin all her hopes on this one sculpt.

  Yeah. Right. It only stood as her final, the capstone of her portfolio. It was the difference between working in Hollywood and teaching third graders how to make pinch pots. No pressure. Nope. None at all.

  Sara really hadn’t finished anything since the accident. Oh, she’d submitted work, but it was substandard, not finished. The head of the program, Polly, had been patient, but Sara knew she wouldn’t even graduate if she didn’t present something exceptional.

  Marilla screaming. Her face contorted with rage and anguish.

  Sara gasped. Her twin’s image flashed before her eyes, obscuring everything else.

  So vivid.

  You don’t deserve a life. It should have been you. Selfish.

  Her chest tightened. It felt heavy.

  She focused on her breath.

  In and out. In and out. Stay calm.

  I won’t think about her.

  Not now.

  I can choose.

  Dr. Carol’s instructions floated up. Listen to the music in your mind.

  She focused. Tuned everything else out. If you can’t finish a piece, you can’t succeed as an artist. Would you like fries with that?

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Just…start. Don’t think, Meat, just throw. You’ll only hurt the ball club.

  Sara opened her eyes and began again. She let her mind go blank. Her breathing quieted.

  She dragged a step ladder over, climbing to reach the upper portion of the towering figure.

  She should focus on the face. The whirling cone was becoming a person. Its hair needed to float. She picked, prodded, and picked again. A small brush flicked away crumbs. Nothing ever really matched what was in her head. But she was just beginning. Should she add another media to get the right effect? Wire? Maybe spun glass. She’d come back. Try again. She’d get it right. She’d get it done.

  Sara set her tools down and stared at the form.

  He needed a name, a strong name. Something mystic. Powerful, like him.

  Storm King.

  What was that, Norse? And probably the name of every villain in those stupid movies Peter likes.

  “Till I come up with something better, Storm King it is. You remind me of a tornado.”

  She covered him with the shroud. A little part of her rebelled, a voice that urged her to continue working, to stay.

  No, she had enough done. Tomorrow would come. In the meantime, the Storm King rested. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight, too.

  “So you’re still sleepwalking.” Dr. Carol Sherman pushed her glasses up her nose and made a note. “Are you keeping the dream log? Are you focusing on music to calm yourself?”

  “Yep,” Sara said. She winced as she searched her satchel. Her finger was sore. With a flourish, she handed her notebook to the therapist. Dr. Carol flipped it open and scanned.

  “What do you hope to accomplish in today’s session? What’s bothering you?”

  “Okay, this sounds nuts, I know it.” Sara took a deep breath, and her questions spilled out in a torrent. “Am I really just sleepwalking? Or is there any chance my dreams are real? Say on a quantum level? Is that a thing? It sounds nuts when I verbalize it, but it’s what I’m afraid of. I gotta name it, right? I got a splinter last night in my dream. I brought it with me, physical evidence. How is that possible? The dreams aren’t real, of course. I know they can’t be...”

  Silence dropped like a cloak. Please fix me. I’m losing it for real. She heard herself breathing. Her blood pounded in her ears.

  I’m not crazy. A few irrational thoughts are normal.

  The doctor waited for her to continue, her thin eyebrows raised.

  Sara pulled a plastic baggie from her pack and handed it to Dr. Carol.

  The doctor’s eye flicked over the splinter. She laid it aside. Her lips twitched.

  “You dreamed you got a splinter and woke with one? Remarkable. Sara, your mind created a story about the event. How did hurt you yourself in the dream?”

  “I touched a table in the gnome’s kitchen,” said Sara. She put her forehead in her hands. “I can’t even believe I just said that. I’m certifiable. Crazy artist? That’s me. Who dreams about gnomes? They’re not even cute. They’re kinda creepy. Why can’t my crazy manifest with dreams about hot firemen?”

  Ice-blue eyes flashed in her mind, halting her tirade. Peter.

  Sara ignored him.

  “Am I nuts? Do I just have daddy issues? Can we skip to the catharsis bit of all this before I sleepwalk into traffic?”

  Dr. Carol chuckled and said, “Sara, stop trying to analyze what’s real and what isn’t. You know you were only dreaming. You aren’t crazy. You’re firmly rooted in reality. That’s why you’re mocking yourself. You’re not seeing gnomes in your waking hours.

  “Dreaming is healthy. Normal. You’re not going to sleepwalk into traffic. You got a splinter in your apartment. That’s what happened. You processed it to become part of your dream.

  “In dreams, we work through pain. Your mind knows the level of stress you have, even when you aren’t aware of pressure. Yes. You might be processing emotional pain. More likely? The accident, your twin sister going into a coma, all of that is causing you enormous grief. Your mind can translate a feeling of powerlessness to the experience of being a ghost. But you’re beginning to heal and find your power. So now you touch something. That’s progress. If you’re concerned about the sleepwalking, I can prescribe—”

  Sara held up both hands, palms out. “No pills. We’ve been through this.”

  “I respect your decision. And to some extent, I agree with you, but a compromise might be in order. No sleeping pills or antidepressants. But there’s a natural supplement called 5-HTP. It helps you sleep. Would you consider taking it?”

  “I guess so.” If it will get you off my back. Wow.

  “Also, I have something for you.” The doctor held out a silver necklace. “Use this as an icon.”

  “I’m not religious, Dr. Carol.” Sara held her hand up, dismissing the offer. No way was she getting into some crackpot hooey.

  “It isn’t that kind of icon. You’re an artist, I’m sure you understand the power of symbol.” She handed the necklace to Sara. Sara took it, turning it over slowly. The words covering the square pendant were in a strange script she couldn’t read.

  “Ancient Hebrews believed an inscribed prayer protected their children from demons as they slept. They hung these on the walls of a child’s room. They said Lilit-Abi. That’s the origin of the word lullaby. This amulet bears the same protective words. It was my grandmother’s. I’ll want it back, but you can borrow it for now. Use it as a reminder. When you see it, remember, you’re safe. You’re not alone.

  “Myth speaks to deep places within us. Those places aren’t rational, so symbols can be effective. I’ve seen the power of suggestion and myth, even of prayer. If this doesn’t help, we can try something else. Hang Native American dream catchers, perhaps.

  “Now, how is your new sculpture coming? Have you been able to work?”

  Sara made a face. “A little. Usually I end up daydreaming and all my time is just...gone. I can’t focus. I did better today. But the last three pieces I turned in weren’t close to finished, and if I don’t up my game, I’ll fail the practicum. I won’t graduate.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Tell me ab
out it. Mom is on my case. She’s loving it. She thinks the entire art gig is beneath me. Impractical. The truth is, I just remind her of Dad, and she hates it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s a professional cellist. He left her.” Sara shrugged. “Oh, he still comes home every few weeks, but he isn’t really there. He doesn’t try. They’re strangers. He bailed on us years ago. Well, he bailed on me and Mom. He loooved Marilla.”

  Sara fought down her resentment as memories, long buried, surfaced.

  Once, they were on vacation. She had swum out as far as she could. Too far. Mommy and Daddy didn’t see her. They were building a sandcastle with Rilla. Sarah yelled and waved, but they still didn’t see her. She sank under the waves. She kicked as hard as she could, and a tall girl saw her choking. The girl pulled her to shore. Sara sat on the sand, shaking and crying. Daddy said, “That’s what you get for not listening to me.”

  He started yelling. Mommy started yelling. Everyone stared at them. Vacation was ruined. She had ruined it.

  Dr. Carol made a note. “How so?”

  Sara couldn’t breathe. The memories were choking her. She recalled them as her six-year-old self, unable to stop. She closed her eyes and focused.

  Another time, Dad’s bow was broken. She hadn’t meant to do it. She’d snapped it in two, and Daddy yelled at her. She broke everything. Daddy’s face got all twisty and purple.

  “Sara?” Dr. Carol broke through her reverie.

  Sara’s eyes popped open. She gulped and shook her head. “Sorry. Thinking about Dad. Remembering.” She chose her words carefully, otherwise he would find out what she said, somehow. Mom would pry it out of her. Or it would come up in the next family group session. Sara wasn’t sure she cared. But he wouldn’t speak to her for weeks. “What was the question?”

  “Why do you think your father loved Marilla more than you?”

  “They’d spend hours watching old movies together. Their thing. But if I tried...or if Mom tried...to spend time with him, he’d make excuses and say he had to go practice, work. He’d yell.”

  “And he was unfaithful to your mother.”

  “He went away for almost a year. He wanted a divorce.”

  “How did it make you feel?”

  Sara was silent. She wanted to scream, but held it in. If she spoke, she’d end up crying. She struggled to keep herself under control.

  “Sara?” Dr. Carol prompted.

  “I don’t know what I feel. I feel numb,” Sara lied.

  “Try this. When you don’t know what you feel, say what you think is going on, out loud. Use your body to help you know if it’s true. If you get a twisty feeling in your stomach when you say how you feel, you probably aren’t being honest with yourself. No twisty feeling? You’re telling the truth as you understand it. Go ahead. Give it a try.”

  Heh, well she could try that. Anything to keep from crying. Sara reached out, trying to name how she felt.

  “It made me feel like I was too much,” Sara said. No twisty feeling. Okay. She took a deep breath and kept going. “Too much. I was the loud one, the one that followed Dad around. The one that laughed too loud, never knew when to shut up. The one who wouldn’t leave him alone. Begged him not to leave.”

  He would be at the door with his suitcase. She would be hugging his legs, crying hysterically. Marilla would hide behind the door, watching. He’d pull her away, set her on the couch and leave, angry. Angry again. He would be late for work. It would be her fault. She’d cry herself out, alone. Every week for years.

  Needy. She was so needy. Selfish. She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

  He couldn’t wait to get away.

  Her eyes prickled and a few tears leaked out. Sara fell back on old movie quotes out of habit.

  “Insanity runs in my family. It pretty much streaks.”

  “Arsenic and Old Lace? But you’re misquoting the line.” Dr. Carol arched a brow.

  Sara grinned through her tears. She plucked a tissue from the box next to her. “It’s an old habit, a game I play to see if people catch my references. I do it when I’m nervous.”

  “And if someone catches the reference…?”

  Sara wiped her eyes. “I don’t know… I guess I trust them more. Extra points if they correct me.”

  Dr. Carol made a note. “So, Marilla is more reserved?”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “She’s always been kinda perfect.”

  Dr. Carol frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “She wanted to be a doctor like Mom. She never pushed. She was quiet. She always studied, got good grades, kept her room clean.

  “Dated one guy her whole life. Marilla was ladylike. Not a klutz like me. She made everything look easy.”

  And everyone loved her.

  “So you feel you’re different from your sister.”

  “Everyone said we were opposites. She was sporty, I was artsy. She was neat. I was messy. She was quiet, I was loud...”

  “Did you get along?”

  “I love her. I haven’t been the best at showing it.”

  “Our time is almost up. This week I want you to journal, but instead of logging your dreams, I want you to log thoughts. Remember not every thought is verbal, so verbalize any impressions or images.”

  “I don’t hear voices,” Sara said.

  “No, but you think about yourself. We all do. It’s called self-talk. Write down what you’re thinking.”

  “Honestly? There’s mostly just music in my head. Soundtrack to my life. I don’t think a lot.”

  It hurt too much.

  “All right, if there’s music in your mind, listen, Write down the lyrics, not just titles. Do this throughout the day, and we’ll look at it together next week.”

  Sara stood, gathering her things. “Magic necklace. Inner voice. Lyrics. Got it.”

  Dr. Carol smiled. “And Sara? For the record, you’re not too much.”

  Sara stiffened. You don’t know me.

  “Thanks, Dr. Carol. I’ll see you next week.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  DANE PUSHED HAIR from his eyes and yanked up yet another weed. Neat rows of vegetables, flowers, and herbs stretched across the field. He inspected the leek in front of him. It wasn’t as large as it should be, this late in the season. Tunebells chimed softly, swaying in the wind. Their precious flowers needed to be harvested for oils. He still hated taking the delicate cups and leaving the stalks naked.

  Tunebell scent reminded him of his mother. Her eyes, her laughter. He moved to the next plant, pushing her image away. Weeding was tedious, but it gave him a chance to feel the wind on his face.

  The ground beneath Dane’s feet gave slightly, soft with late summer rain. Birds sang, a symphony rising and falling as kinglets asked and answered questions only they understood. Dane planned as he worked, measuring the number of blooms he would need to create oils and infusions for his varnish.

  He moved to the next row. In the distance, a jackdaw cried. The forest behind his rambling hold stretched up a rising slope. His was an island of order on the edge of the Heyegrove, the fabled forest of giant trees.

  Dane sensed darkness flowing through the stone wall surrounding the property and the hedges enclosing his garden plot, reaching into his home. He raised his head. The jackdaw had sounded a warning, a harbinger of battle. Slowly, Dane lifted his eyes. A dark bird, its gaze fixed on him, perched on the hedge, eerily silent.

  Jackdaws are never silent. Dane’s breath caught.

  The bird waited, still and soundless.

  Dane shook his head. His real work was waiting. He would not pay heed to superstitions.

  He threaded his way back to the cottage. As he approached, Dane heard his gnomish guardian, Pezzik, rumbling in the kitchen. She clanged pots and stirred something over the hearth. Pezzik would be grumpy. She always was, this early. Dane grinned and pushed through the half door.

  “Avoiding the new lute build, I see,” Pezzik said. She pointed at the mud he
was tracking in. “That garden is mine to tend, and you know it.” She clucked and bustled over, poking him out of his overshoes and swooping them up. She herded him into a chair at the wide-planked table.

  Pezzik clanked a metal plate before him, filled a mug with goat’s milk from an earthen pitcher on the sideboard, and set it down with a thump, punctuating her disapproval. “Women’s work,” she muttered, with an angry sniff. Her bulk, swathed in homespun, rounded the table. She stepped on her stool and settled on her chair.

  “I’ve cared for tha’ plot since yer poor Mama and Pa passed, and I’ve cared for you. You need to work the shop. See to your business, lad. I will see to mine.” Her spoon waved admonishingly. She stabbed at her eggs and shoveled the bite in. Her blue conical hat bent like a wagging finger, reproaching him.

  Guilt is the domain of women. Especially gnomemothers.

  “I expect you are ready for the inlay. I’ll have the Essence finished this evening. I’m brewing the base.” Pezzik nodded toward the hearth.

  “Heard jackdaws this morning,” Dane said, changing the subject. “Might want to get the goats in early and gather the hens.”

  “Aye, bears are about, and they will thieve my fowls.” Pezzik’s brogue thickened when she worried. “I’ll see to it.” The fire crackled in the large hearth, its cheerful warmth chasing away the morning chill.

  “We’re likely to have a visitor soon,” Dane said. Gnomes were very superstitious, and he could not resist tweaking Pezzik after she’d been so bossy.

  Her eyes widened. “You saw one on the roof?” She squeaked in consternation. “Was it on the chimney?”

  “No, it was on the hedge,” Dane said. He fished an acorn from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of her, tapping it. “Death will not visit us this day, deema.”

  Pezzik blinked at the endearment and the acorn, her lips softening. She picked up the acorn and turned it over in her hands, nodding.

  “The Storm King is in control. I know. He lets the great big trees grow from something so small…” She blinked and put the acorn in her pocket, suddenly businesslike.