Children of the Silent Season (Heartbeat of the World Book 1)

by T. Wyse

  There was another tree, its trunk barely visible from the angle. It too was devoid of leaves and thick with age but there was a strange contrast in its stature. It towered proudly over a set of playground equipment and other fanciful distractions. The tree rose up tall, at least past an entire story before stretching outwards with two great branches almost as thick as its trunk. There was a murky puddle or perhaps a pool of some kind near the tree, the open sky reflecting on the still surface mixing it into a halfhearted blue.

  The closer tree was a cruder thing. It was hunched, weeping, a singular arcing branch moved outwards repulsively away from that playground scene. The yard it watched over seemed devoid of any joyful apparatus, though there was an inkling of a use. On the outcropped branch of the tree hung something, likely obscured in happier times by foliage. It was a cord of rope, bleached and frayed by time though its knot still held true. Whatever it had once held, perhaps a lonely tire swing or other silly pastime, had long faded from memory.

  The distractions were comforting. The details were useful in keeping her mind from the truth of the scene. In truth there was just the horizon, there was solely the strange oasis of reality inside a world of dirt.

  A pair of sleeved arms shot out on either side of Amelie, and with a tight pincered motion around her the drapes tore shut once more. The room returned to an even vaguer twilight.

  “Drapes and windows are to be kept closed.” The arms snapped back, and Amelie saw the woman’s shape on the wind. “There is nothing of comfort to be found out there, while we are inside we shall bask in the mercy that has been granted us.”

  Her breaths were clear and her lungs crisp with life, though there was a cooling aura of strain about them. She was perhaps angry at the infraction, but doing well enough to cover it up outwardly.

  The woman gently pushed past Amelie and stole a peek through the curtains herself, a disappointed scowl flashing across her face in the briefest moment. She paused there, curtains cupped carefully in a halo around her face as if the light would serve to burn the world within. “Nothing.” She sighed, but the scowl had disappeared.

  She looked down at the girl, cocking her head gently to the side. Her breaths remained abrupt, but her expression was imperceptible to Amelie’s experience. Perhaps probing? Confused? Not angry at least, probably not angry.

  "Uh, I'm sorry." Amelie apologized, sensing perhaps that was the expectation. She followed the woman who now began fastening the sides of the canopy bed open.

  The silent woman was average in most respects that Amelie could discern.

  She was perhaps middle aged, maybe younger, still with clearer features, but with age setting in. She wore a tan shirt and dirty khaki pants which stopped at a pair of immaculately clean shoes. Her hair had been tied and tucked into a soiled kerchief on her head, the loose frizzledness of her hair and the general state of earthen filth she was in implied that she had been gardening or perhaps rolling in the dirt with a dedicated fervor.

  “On your feet it would seem.” The woman turned to focus on Amelie. “Not a minor miracle that, a start of good things I suppose, a small start.” She gave a slow nod but stopped short of smiling. Firm hands turned Amelie’s face from one cheek to the other, cold eyes traced up and down.

  “Yet not a mark on you.” The woman’s hand was away, but Amelie still focused on those eyes. She recognized them, at least the driving force behind them, it was the same prodding thoughtfulness she had sensed in that large man before.

  The woman gave a series of pressure pointed tugs at the pajamas Amelie wore, and with the sequence of motions the lopsidedness of the cloth was gone.

  “Are you mentally sound?” The woman announced more than asked. She finished tying up the third side of the canopy without breaking Amelie’s gaze. “Start with your name.”

  “My name is Amelie Beren.” She recanted. “I…think I’m uh, mentally sound.” She offered an approximation of a meek smile.

  “I am Donna Woolley.” She offered a hand in greeting. “This is my house.”

  “I, uh, Mrs. Wooley, there was a dress I was weari-“ Amelie began, voice trembling slightly.

  “The Lord has seen fit to put a trial before us. He has blessed us with opportunity and purpose to prove ourselves righteous and charitable, and I do not intend to fall short of expectations.”

  Donna straightened the sheets of the bed with a single motion, the covers falling in line quickly after that. With a few wide and crisp motions, the bed lay perfectly reset and smooth.

  "We have a fair supply of non and semi perishable food, a gift from paranoia and forbearance. It needs to be rationed of course, but as long as you are willing to work you will receive a fair share. With grace and mercy we will be able to establish crops before they run too thin.”

  “We cannot expect too much of you, but as long as your efforts are earnest I will not fault you. You are twelve or so?”

  “Um, fifteen ma’am.” Amelie itched at the green sleeve nervously.

  “Fifteen? Are you…certain?” Mrs. Wooley’s firm visage melted into a dumbfounded awe.

  “I was always told it’s not polite to talk much about age, but—“ Amelie began, scratching harder.

  “Yes yes of course.” She shook her head, and the visage returned. “I suppose you won’t eat like a lion at least. We do not have power, and you are never to light a candle or any sort of fire within the house under any circumstance. Is that clear?”

  “Y-yes.” There was a strange urgency in that tone.

  “Never, is that clear?” She repeated, glaring down at the girl.

  “No fires, I understand.” Amelie nodded. “Never.”

  Apparently satisfied she continued. “Water is collected from the ponds outside, no one has become sick yet and I have faith no one will. We cannot boil it in enough quantities for everyone here.”

  “Additionally we have…bathroom facilities set up in the back yard,” the woman winced, the thought of this being offensive to her core. "I will lead you there now if you can walk. I trust you have need? “ She looked down at Amelie.

  "Oh," Amelie paused, "no, I'm fine, thank you." Oddly, she really didn’t need to.

  "Alright then," Mrs. Woolley made a dismissive gesture tainted by frustration. "I will send my daughter up with some food for you, before we figure out the specifics.”

  The woman began walking to the door, her hand lingered a moment on the handle.

  "Uh...I wanted to ask, there was…" She made a quick motion to the pajamas. The woman’s eyes wandered away, her breath catching a little. The evasiveness served to confuse Amelie more, and she itched a burning shoulder.

  “There is nothing sure of what has occurred. I will not theorize or philosophize.” The woman’s words were careful and slow at first but came naturally now. “We must accept what we have lost, be grateful for what we have been left with, and deal with what comes with humility. “There are others here, including myself and my daughter Meldice. There are six adults residing here currently, and have only had two groups of passersby so far. They have told us that the desolation has likely reached to the western coast, and at least as far as the western third of the country.”

  “I’m sorry, but…” Now a leg sang out with itching. “Are you sure there wasn’t anything, uh, with me? I had—“

  “Goodness sake stop itching child, you’re going to cut yourself.” She gently swatted the hand aside.

  “I…I’m sort of allergic to most fabrics.” The easy lie she had practiced.

  “Allergic to cotton?” Mrs. Wooley’s face screwed up slightly, and she leaned in to check the tags at Amelie’s back like a mother cat chewing scruff.

  “The dyes are bad too. If you have anything wool that’s what my blankets are at—“

  “Wool?” The woman’s face scrunched in distorted awe. “Meldice will help figure something out. Until then stop scratching! I’ll not have you waste perfectly good cloth.”

  The woman hesitated at the door, a gre
at intake of breath glowed in her lungs and then she sighed:

  “I have placed what was with you in the top drawer, here.” She motioned to the dresser. “It would…perhaps be better not to look, but your will is your own.” The door shut softly behind her, and the sound of sure steps trailed off through the hall beyond.

  Barely waiting for the door to close Amelie opened the top drawer of the dresser, looking inside.

  Her heart plummeted as if caught in a chilled breeze. Her White dress was barely recognizable. The milky off-white had been the victim of some horrible abstract artist's designs. Red splattered streaks cut across the dress. Rips and tears were everywhere, their thin and jagged lines following a pattern of motion. Its pouches still managed to retain their shape somewhat, but they certainly wouldn't reliably catch the wind again until repaired. Beneath the folded dress was her single remaining shoe. It had been white and relatively pristine before, now only small strips of the white could be seen upon their reddened surface.

  Blood. Your blood. The voice whispered without malice and for some reason seemed content to spare her the fear, it seemed happy to allow her dulled shock for the moment.

  So it hadn't been a dream then. She had been attacked, but then how could she possibly be here? She rubbed her cheek gently, again expecting to find at least some lingering trace at the beginning of her wounds. The illusion had not been broken, and her cheek remained intact.

  The numbness didn’t come initially, but it took hold quickly. She had realized that she had simply thought to use one of the other two dresses, the older ones, the less wonderful ones. The ones that were in her room, with her silly mobile, her wind chimes, her awful yellow carpet.

  The watery sickness returned and bubbled into her throat, a queer weak burning licked at her skin. This was beyond itching, and she struggled to cradle the broken and dirtied thing in her waterlogged arms.

  Her feet had stumbled drunkenly into the path of the mirror, and without realizing it she had come face to face with that awful stranger again. The face of the girl looking back was tired, her hair frazzled and unkempt from sleep, but no scars or marks marred its surface.

  She reached to the back of her head again with a desperately shaking hand. It was a reflexive thing, and one that sent her rushing back to the drawer. There was no sign of the wooden trinket from her father, and the bubbling coldness yawned forth as she pictured it sinking into the stilled earth, its importance lost in whatever struggle had occurred.

  She had never truly known loss any more than she had known fear, but now it came rushing to her consciousness. They were gone, both gone, just as much as the ornament was, cold logic stated. She wouldn’t touch them again, wouldn’t suffer through another lecture, wouldn’t…

  “Eyes dear, eyes.” It echoed in her mind. All her useless and stupid eyes could see were torn artifacts. She tried to close out the bitter sight, to deny it, wallowing in the denial of darkness.

  Yet that desperate balm didn’t stop the slow and hot tears.

  Amanda’s unwelcome voice chided her. She was stupid selfish, a worthless child! There was a comfort in the burning rage, and she followed the feelings.

  How many others, others who surely felt these things more properly, more profoundly, felt this loss? How many others whose tears would flow more freely than her own?

  Amelie had cried few times since the days of the scientists, since the long days of the tests. Each time had been out of helplessness, of being unable to do battle against the situation. It was a feeling she desperately wanted to stem now because, she realized…

  No!

  There was still hope, hope to cling onto, hope to allow her to stay here for the moment. That hope helped her secondary thought, the more selfish one. Surely they were alive, and surely they could fix her dress, make a new one. She didn't dare think that this was the end of her world inside the sky.

  There was no shining glint of the world itself, no possibility that it was localized. Two days had passed and there had been nothing, no word, no rescue.

  There was a tinge of dark amusement at the fact that the world had been the third of her hopes, and it was enough to extinguish that hope.

  “They’re gone.” The voice punched at her and she doubled over hugging the dress tightly. “They’re gone, and you’ll never be whole again.”

  The tears came again, bitter and free, her eyes refusing to close. She desperately clung to the limp rag. They would never stop, and she would never be able to stand again.

  Within her enclosure of misery, with the light seemingly drawing inwards around her, there was a sound. It was an odd sort of chuffing, like a squirrel’s voice but with the chirping muted by water.

  It was, oddly, curious enough to break her from that state for a moment. She looked through blurred eyes and saw the shape of the cat through the now opened canopy. It stood on the bed, leaning down, as if to relay some secret to her. Its mouth opened gently and a different sound emerged from it, something of a hiss with a punctuated ‘t’ sound at its end.

  She was in no mood to listen to the nagging of some animal, bothered by the sounds of her grief.

  "Shut u—" Amelie, in the middle of screaming, was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  She felt humiliated by being caught in the moment of unbridled rage.

  “J-just a minute…please.” She begged, her trembling voice apparently enough to give pause.

  “I can come back, it’s not a problem.” The voice offered.

  “No, no.” Amelie choked.

  "J-just a minute please" She begged towards the door. She stuffed the rags hurriedly back into their drawer mausoleum.

  "C-come in." She invited, trying to collect herself.

  A girl who seemed somewhat older than Amelie entered the room, holding a small plate and an opaque cup. The girl herself wore somewhat faded pants and a sweatshirt, her straight black hair was tied back in a bow. Her clothes were almost as soiled as Donna's had been, but her face was much more collected, her hair neater.

  "Hello, I'm Meldice." She introduced herself. Amelie tried to stop the tears, wiping her eyes in frustration.

  "Mother tells me your name is Amelie, right?" The girl asked softly, mercifully leaving things unsaid. The girl’s face and breath were even, but certainly not as strong as her mother’s. It was, however, enough for Amelie’s spirit to lean on.

  Amelie nodded, finally drying her eyes to a degree.

  "Well Amelie I hope you like peaches, cause that's what we've got today, peaches, sardines, and some stale crackers." She offered the plate to Amelie.

  The misery still lingered, but the girl’s smile was warm, her breath even and true. Amelie took the plate and mug, the cup held some tea. The teacup was barely warm, but just enough to be soothing.

  Meldice watched her and the plate, hand resting on her hip. "Believe me you want ‘em more than you know." She urged.

  Just to humor her host she picked at the peaches, chewing them. The sweetness awoke a savage hunger and she quickly devoured the remainder on the plate, their soft flesh and sweet juice soothing her swollen throat.

  "Thank you,” The words were easier now. “I'm sorry for being so loud, the cat was being weird." The cat gave a condescending and dismissive look in response.

  "I don't know how you can be so calm, the others here must be in a terrible state." Amelie said, then immediately regretted her words.

  “Oh, no.” Meldice was taken aback, and her breath paused for a pensive moment. “It’s…not easy I suppose, the first couple days were the worst for everyone. Once you’ve been asleep though, it gets better.”

  “Wait how long was I…sleeping?”

  “Oh, two days. Did you have the dream about the forest? That’s what helps the most. That makes me believe in mother’s stuff a little more.”

  Two days? “A forest?” There had been a forest there, beyond that wall.

  “We weren’t sure at first, but all of us have the same dream every night. We’re i
n a dark clearing, but you can sense the trees, very dream logic there. All surrounding you is this spiraling circle of your friends and family. They’re all asleep but they’re calm, smiling, and at peace. And there’s this powerful sense that they’re safe, that they’re alive, just not here right now.” Meldice gave a soft smile, “did I get it right?”

  “Well, I guess so.” She looked away.

  “Oh, and the people who are here aren’t in the dream. I see my father and brother there, but mother isn’t there. Kim doesn’t see Louren but she sees her relatives. Roger thinks that means that the people you don’t see are still around now.”

  “I only saw one person.” Amelie confessed. “Do you think that means my parents are fine?”

  There wasn’t even a trace of a lie in Meldice’s breath, her lungs dimly glowing and utterly true. “I hope so.” and Amelie couldn’t help but smile a little.

  “There are other people left too, and some of them are even better prepared than mother.” Meldice smiled. “Some…not so much, but it hasn’t been really bad yet.” Meldice looked at the curtained window.

  “Haven’t been many passing by true, but there’s always determined, fixed on finding something or another. Some just want to wait it out like the ones who decided to stay here, but others had some point on the horizon planned out.”

  “I think mother is right, that we need to sit still right now not run around looking for things that might not be there. We need to figure out how we’re going to eat, what we’re going to do in the long term, we need people who can rally and lead those who can’t see that.”

  “It’s nice to have comfort, nice to believe in almighty mercy or whatever, but we’ve still lost everything. Gotta survive, gotta keep going.” Meldice concluded, the words on her breath a tangled retread of something not quite hers.

  Meldice pointed out the obfuscated window. "We're planting a garden. Plants are already sprouting just on their own so we're hoping to get some crops going. I hope you're ready to work...pretty hard." She smiled at Amelie. "Or you can wander if you feel you need to. Maybe you could find your parents." Meldice hung her head sadly.