The Town Whispers: Season 1

Chapter 20: The Lessons of Edith Blackleech Pt.1

EDITH: Can you hear it? The wind between my words? Can you hear the rasp of thrumming flesh stretch and bend? Do you understand the vibration of the strings in my throat - plucked by wind?

EDITH: What if I whisper? Do you hear it now?

EDITH: Are you listening to me, child?

Mildred turned her to her mother dramatically furrowing her brow and staring at her from between the strands of long uncut hair which hung loose, messy, and wet from the rain.

There were knots in her fine hair, where the hair had been balled and twisted - Witch Knot's - her mother called them.

The acknowledgement of who she was, and a gift. The crude fingers of the world touching her for a moment to braid her hair - leaving it in knots - apparently that made her special.....

But Mildred hated them - they hurt and they pulled and tugged at her scalp when untangled

It was partly why Mildred hated visiting the Witch Elm Grove that her mother called Sanctum.

EDITH: They are the white noise between the words - the raspy afterthought of creation - they are the swirls of dust and air at the back of a falling leaf - pushing it down, down, down into the mud.

EDITH: They are what fill the world when your eyes are closed. They are what, with great power, push the moon and sun apart so never should those two lovers meet again. They are the web that both live and death cling to.

EDITH: They are the Long Shadows, Mildred. And whether or not you want to - you will serve them.

They'd been there before - but each time the words of her mother Edith, had rolled off Mildred's back like rain on the wing of a bird.

She groaned in discontent - she didn't want to hear the words her mother spoke - what child would want to hear the words of an cold, callous, and unloving mother in a place as dark and dank as the Witch Elm Grove with a name like Sanctum.

Mildred shifted uneasy, and pulled at a loose thread in her ragged dress.

Before kicking her feet, and clapping them together in an effort to shake away the mud.

Mildred's father was hardly a handyman, her mother was - whatever she was, and the shoes on Mildred's feet were the only nice processions she had, given to her by Mrs. LaPonte.

They'd been charity - Mildred knew that.

She was young, and quiet, but she wasn't simple in the mind. All she had was her mind, and it was sharp - honed through the hours, days, weeks, and months she spent traversing the depths of it.

Exploring the valleys and peaks of it.

Stretching and bending the reality of it.

So when Mrs. LaPonte had given her the pair of shoes she knew very well that it was an act of pity - Mildred could see the look of disgust when Mrs. LaPonte looked her her dirty sweat streaked cheeks as she ran and jumped and played hide and seek with the boys.

If the slightly less than subtle look of disgust would have been missed the first time are by duller children - then not a single child blind, and simple, or of sharp mind and sharp eyes would have missed the gasp, as Mrs. LaPonte covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief when glanced down at the small girl's bare feet caked in dirt and nearly black with filth.

The next day a very well dressed man arrived at the front door of the Morthey home, and presented a beautiful box, with crisp clean edges and an extravagant folded and fluffed bow on top.

The man asked for Mildred, as her father had been rushing out to do one of his menial tasks around town - perhaps it was to fish a dead bird from a well, or replace broken planks in one of the rough and shoddy docks that lined the river - it didn't matter what he was doing, it mattered very little at any point in Mildred's life, he'd always been too poor, and desperate to truly know her; always running out of the home to chase a dollar to buy some food to feed her, to cloth her.

But she was only 6 at the time, and when she'd think back later in life, the only thing she'd care about in that particular memory was the box, and what was in it.

She'd barely think about her father, who was so frequently around, too poor and too busy to know his daughter.

The box was white - that in and of itself was a rarity.... It was an unnatural occurrence. White was opulent, white was regal, white was rich and clean and..... All the things Mildred was not.

She was poor, showers were an after thought and when they did happen they happened with a bowl of water and with a wet cloth, her fingernails were chipped and lined black from the dirty that lived beneath the translucent shells, in fact if she'd never seen that box, she'd never have known what white truly was, she'd been told the walls were white, but in fact they were stained yellow with age, she'd been told she owned a white dress too, and she thought that it was white, she'd told all her friends and teacher how lovely her white dress was as she paraded around in it proudly but now.....

With the box being handed to her - she redefined the color - to own something white was fancy, it was rich, it was something she'd never have, except for that box.

It was so smooth and straight - their wasn't a single crinkle in it's corners.

The man handing her the parcel look confused at first - but slowly he began to remember what it was to be so young and poor, parents too busy surviving to teach and enlighten, world too dirty and grimy to know what clean was.

He urged her to open it making silly hand gestures.

Her eyes were still transfixed on the paper bindings and the bow - she loved the bow as well.

She nearly jumped as the well dressed man at her door leaned forward and thumbed the ribbon that fastened the corners of the box.

The box lid popped up ever so slightly, and a warm smell emerged from the box.

Mildred closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

It smelt like some foreign spice being spilt in a book store. The smell had a familiar but alien musk to it.

It was calming, and filled her heart with comfort.

Opening her eyes - young Mildred, grabbed the lid and pushed the box open with her tiny hands.