Madness At Noon {COMPLETED}

The Caretaker of the Gentleman 2/5

There is no How-To guide for living with a dying master and a traumatized killer under my roof, no wise guru that I can turn to. I would even take Noon's advice – my master has done that in the past and it has always led him true, once the price was paid – but she and I have not moved past the one-sided "Good morning," "Good afternoon," and "Good evening."

If only the Gentleman would trust me. Just a little. To allow me to carry some of his burden.

There is something else going on here, some dark and terrible Thing that lies over my master and Noon like iron chains around their throats. I do not even have a name to give this mysterious evil. Instead, it hangs above us all, choking the air of this room like a black fire, devouring life and sanity.

It is a fine line we walk on. A whisper could be all it takes to break those of us in this room. But still, I risk it. I must risk it. Because things cannot remain the way they are now.

"Sihuehuet." The word is a breath of air. A test.

She blinks. Slowly.

I run my fingers over the coarse page of the book in my lap, drawing courage from the written words and comforting smell of old ink, and continue. "That's what he calls you, you know, when he thinks no one is around. I've never asked him what it-"

"Sihuanaba." Dear God. Even her voice is beautiful, like a siren's dying song, even as lifeless and weary as she has become. Again, I can't help but wonder what this woman might be in her prime. Kings and gods must have thrown their crowns at her feet simply because she asked. Then she thanked them by slitting their throats in their sleep because it was fun. "That is what he calls me."

"What does it mean?" I ask.

She does not look away from his face, does not acknowledge me in any way, but amazingly she responds. "It is an old legend. He learned it from Westly years ago."

She takes a single breath, so slowly that I think her lungs might collapse. Her body has gone through so much, too much. The strain of talking must be enormous, but somehow she speaks.

"Long ago lived a woman by the name of Sihuehuet, a peasant girl so beautiful she became a queen by bewitching all who laid eyes on her. She married a prince and lived happily ever after, as powerful women often do. But in the end, it was her love for the prince that destroyed her. She wished to offer him the most powerful throne in the kingdom and so brewed a potion to give him great strength and immortality.

"Her potions worked too well: her prince became a fearsome monster with two heads. His loving hands transformed into twisted talons. Driven mad by the change, the prince destroyed his city, his own people, before he was finally destroyed.

"Drawn by the scent of human blood, the gods caught Sihuehuet and cursed her as punishment for her wickedness. Sihuanaba she became, the 'hideous woman.' By night she wanders the shores of rivers and streams, combing her hair with a golden brush, hoping to catch a glimpse of her once beautiful reflection in the waters. If a man happens to come upon her, he will see the back of a lovely woman. But if she turns around, her hideous, cursed face is revealed. And then she has her way with the man before eating his flesh and bones."

"Which woman are you?"

She shakes her head. "There is no difference between them, girl. Sihuehuet was always Sihuanaba, and Shihuanaba was Sihuehuet. Two faces of one woman."

I do not know what makes me so brave as to argue with her, but now that I have started, I cannot stop. "I disagree. Even if she was the most beautiful woman in the world, there is no way a normal woman could become the queen of an entire society just because of a pretty face. She must have had the support of the people. Perhaps she had been kind in the beginning. Maybe things changed."

Noon's words spit from her lips like flaming needles. "Or perhaps she was cruel and cunning and knew how easily human hearts can be led astray. You give people too much credit, child."

"You do not give them enough. We do not all view other people as slabs of meat to be bled dry. Some of us would like to believe in a better world."

She blinks. Slowly. And took her eyes from the Gentleman's face. The full weight of her gaze falls on me. I scarcely dare to breathe.

"The world is the world," she says. "Sweet fantasies and wishing stars do not wipe away the bodies lying in the gutters, the rotting babies starved and burned together in mass graves, the plagues and poisons man creates to destroy one another because he feels entitled. One woman's happiness is another's broken heart. Give, take, rip away. As long as you can justify the end, the mountain of bones can so easily be wrapped up in garlands from the victors of war.

"No one wants to see their ugly, ugly world, so they cover it up in pretty white lies. But I tell you: all good is corruptible; all evil is intrinsic. Do not speak to me of secret kindnesses and imaginary happy endings and paper stars in black tar: while you sit here, sating your curiosity, watching me night and day, writing your notes in that old book, those boys are weeping and tearing holes into their pillows at night in terror that the boogywoman is coming to cut out their hearts. You preach goodness like he does, but you are capable of the same sin: the worst: lying to your own heart because if you do not, the only alternative is to realize that you are all wretched."

Suddenly, I am a child again, sitting on the cold wooden floor of St. Josephine's Home for Orphaned Children, dragged before the Head Mother by a scowling police officer for shoplifting an apple, a colored pencil set, a dreamcatcher, other miscellaneous objects depending on the time of year. Black and white, the Head Mother's wooden spoon beat into me after the apologies and fake croonings of concern over my well-being were made, the world is made of Black and White.

The apple was for Jordy, the youngest in the Home, who had not eaten in two days due to depleted funds. The colored pencil set was for Ann, the girl I disliked the least, who dreamed of being a rock star artist in New York City with her pictures made from thousands of tiny, lovingly sketched birds flying free. The dreamcatcher was for the seventeen children in Room 4, the problem children, who could never sleep because we all woke up screaming to the same nightmare.

Were these acts... wrong?

Were they... sin?

Why must I apologize for being gray?

The words on my tongue tremble. All my life I have fought for this balance between the Black and White. 'Growing up' does not make the path any clearer; I am more confused than ever over which way I must take to keep my soul.

Noon does not speak in absolutes. The world in her eyes is not soaked in right or wrong. It simply exists. Such confidence, such clarity, is frightening. Numbing. Yet somehow captivating.

The book in my lap is heavy on my thighs like a great weight grounding me to the earth. It anchors my body so that I do not cower or beg for forgiveness from this terrifying lady.

It is not my own strength. I know that. Maybe it is from the Gentleman's teachings. His relentless training regimes – despite the fact that I can never aid him in his quest, never even go outside except under necessary circumstances – has changed me from the good willed orphan child I had once been.

I am curious and cannot stop even as my rational mind screams at me to shut up. "Is that how you see the world, Noon?"

She blinks. Slowly. And I am released as her eyes turn from me and return to him. I had not realized I had been holding my breath until my lungs painfully expand.

"This world is cruel," she says. She lifts a hand and brushes aside a strand of charred hair from the Gentleman's face with such tenderness my heart breaks. "And beautiful."

She does not look at me again. I am grateful for that.

I return to reading my book and writing these notes in the margins.

~Dawn Everson, Caretaker of the Gentleman