“What about my mother?” I queried anxiously. My heart raced as he might’ve exposed the information he’d so long withheld from me. I clenched my fists.
“Genevieve, this isn’t the time. Go back to bed.” He rolled over, hoping to sleep without the plague of night terrors. Soon after, his snores reverberated off the walls of the cellar. To ensure that his nightmares did not return, I watched his sleep for about an hour.
As I returned to my own bed, I stubbed my toe. When I peered down to inspect the object, I noticed that it was the book still open to the page I fell asleep over. I picked it up and stared at the page, a portrait of a woman. Her eyes were a vivid green, enhanced by the painter’s hand no doubt and her dark curls fell over her shoulder, a position perfected by the artist. The woman was nothing more than some supposed embodiment of a goddess. I rested my head back on my pillow after blowing out the lantern once more.
Bursts of color exploded in my face. Off balance from the popping sounds, I swayed back and forth. As I went to steady my feet, I was not on the ground, but on a cloud. The downy moisture swirled between my fingers. I giggled like I was a small girl again. The white fluff surrounding me turned smoke-like, black like charcoal, frozen like ice. My outstretched hands trembled with the cold. I crossed my arms over my chest, shivering. The wind violently swirled around me, messing my hair throwing it into my face. I found no ground beneath my feet. My body whipped around in the air and then slapped against the ground painfully. The vicious air flogged my face with strands of my hair. Staring up, the cloud funneled into the form of a cloaked man, long and spindly.
A hollow blackness replaced his face. A tobacco-stained smile was his only visible feature. “Hello, Genevieve.” His voice was soft lacking gentleness, a screechy pipe.
I wanted more than anything to run, to scream at least, but I said nothing.
His form elongated. His stretched body surrounded me. “Something wrong?” A thin white hand, bony and unnatural, dropped his hood.
“Jenny!” Papa shook me. When I opened my eyes, he sighed in relief. “You are never to scare me like that again!” There were bright red scratches up his arms.
Cool sweat stuck my nightgown to my back and plastered my hair to my forehead. “I’m sorry. It was a bad dream, Papa.”
“That I can see. Are you okay?” He smoothed down my hair. His hand made its way to my cheek. “It’s dawn now. I’ll wake you later. Go back to sleep.”
“I’m fine.” I pushed my blankets off. “I must learn to wake at dawn some day.” As he pushed me back onto my pillow and tucked me back in, he shushed my protests.
“That day is not today, Jenny. You will have many mornings to awake at dawn, but very few to sleep.” With a peck on my forehead, he clopped up the stairs.
My heart ached from its rapid beating. An uncomfortable throb settled in my head. Rubbing my temples, I sat up again. I stripped out of my nightgown and slipped into my daytime garments. I brushed my hair back into a braid. Hiking up the stairs into the kitchen, I spied at the bar Papa and Professor Lester at the bar. I ducked out of sight.
“I’m sorry about your husband.” Papa’s gruff voice was gentle.
“I’m sorry about your wife.”
Papa coughed, sputtering his coffee. “My wife?” He grabbed a cloth off the bar and wiped off the hot earthy drink.
“Yes, Jenny’s mother. She died, didn’t she? I thought perhaps childbirth…”
Papa swallowed hard, loud enough for me to hear. “We weren’t married. She had been staying at the inn for a few weeks…and I loved her. I probably didn’t even know her real name. After that night, she left. Less than a year later, she came back with Jenny in her arms, told me that she didn’t want her, couldn’t look at her.”
“Eric, you mean to tell me that Jenny was born out of wedlock? It’s…” The professor was at a loss. She placed her head on my father’s shoulder.
He blew out, “It’s damnable, I know. Mary, you should’ve seen her as an infant though. Those green-blue eyes and her red tufts of hair, she was beautiful. At that point, it didn’t matter how she was born.” Tenderly, he combed his fingers through her hair.
It was the most I’d ever heard of my mother. She was a traveler, a guest at the inn, no different from any old weirdo. My mind ran through who she may be, even her name.
“I’ll make you some bread.” Papa reentered the kitchen. He dropped the mug of coffee when he spied me crouched down. The clay shattered and the last bit of coffee spewed on the floor. “Jenny, I thought I told you to return to sleep.”
I stuttered, “I-I couldn’t sleep after my nightmare.” Hoping to ease him, I smiled.
He buried his face in his hand. “What am I to do with you?” Slowly, he bent down to dispose of the coffee-stained mug. “You heard everything.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Papa, why didn’t you tell me any of this? I’ve wanted to know for so long and you couldn’t tell me, but you could tell a professor?”
“It just…it hurt too much to tell you. You scare me with your similarities to her, not so much in your looks. You are just as intelligent as she was, as logical, as lovable. Jenny, I didn’t want you to repeat the steps of your mother. It was selfish and greedy, but I feared you would outgrow this inn, the way she did…and then you would leave.”
The inn was where I was raised, every memory I had originated in its modest walls. “I couldn’t, I wouldn’t! You know I wouldn’t leave.”
“Did you think that your mother was dead?” He wondered.
I responded, “I didn’t know what else to think. I hated to believe that she left, but I guess it’s the truth.” By his pained expression, I changed the subject. “I’ll make the bread this morning.” When his face turned doubtful, I laughed, “I think I can handle it, Papa.” I poured the flour in a bowl, eyeing the measurements and poured a jug of water over it. I added ingredients as my father did. I’d been watching him for years; surely I could duplicate it.
It burned and tasted like adhesive. Papa chuckled and tossed it to the birds. “You are something else.” He ruffled my hair.
“And the dowry increases,” I joked. I observed his cooking process more watchfully. Maybe, I would get it right after another tutorial, but this didn’t happen because Professor Lester called my name. I approached her; she wore a dress today.
“Good morning, Jenny.” She smiled at me. The steam rose off her tea, reminding me painfully of my nightmare. “How did you sleep?”
“Not so well. How did you?” I responded politely, rubbing my eyes and yawning.
“I slept quite well. Thank you.” Her voice grew soft. “May I ask you something?”
I nodded interested in her words and also curious as to her motives for hiding her words from Papa. I wondered what she could ask that I would be best to reply.
“Jenny, your father wanted to eat dinner with me tonight, alone, away from the other professors. I have seen the closeness that you two share and, well, it only seemed right that I ask your permission before I answer. Would you be alright with that?”
“Professor Lester, I have seen my father so unhappy for far too long. If eating with only your company will please him, then I am not one to object.”
The professor smiled at me. “I’ve been unhappy lately as well. Your father is a wonderful man, you know, very kind, generous…” Her voice trailed off though I couldn’t help but feel there was a word she denied my ears.
“I know.” I continued, “He’s my best friend, but I feel like he just put everything on hold for me. It’s been sixteen years.”
She smiled. “Your best friend. Not many girls say that about their fathers. Most have only awful things to say. Unfortunately, many fathers beat or rape their daughters. It’s truly repulsive. I’m glad to see there is at least one family in this world that is happy.”
“Why do I feel that you’re alluding to your own life?” My elbows dropped onto the bar where I sat next to her. Exhausted from my nightmare, I rested my head in my hands. The smell of bread from the kitchen met my nostrils, sweet and warm, nothing like the glop I’d baked earlier. When I peered up from the wood grain of the bar, my eyes met the professor’s wry grin.
“Your father has reason to be worried. You’re a very bright girl.” She avoided my query. Her memories probably troubled her as my father’s dreams disturbed him.
Another professor wandered down. He was of average height with short black hair. He wore a fancy suit with what appeared to be a silk white shirt. Following he came other scholars in expensive looking suits. One sneered toward Professor Lester, “Mary, I’m glad you woke earlier to cook breakfast.”
“Cooking, a woman’s sole duty,” Another mused, tormenting.
“They are good for other things.” One snickered. Grown men acted as children.
I furrowed my brow. “Do you get any respect? After all, you are a professor just as they are. What does gender have to do with it?”
“Politics. Politics of Universities is all about gender. It determines promotions, and patents and theses and funding. I push through because I hope other women will join me and I will receive less ridicule. This has not happened yet.” With her melancholy tone, it was easy to see that their snide remarks wounded her.
“Do not let their comments hurt you. They are simply arrogant and they cannot see genius if she wears a dress.” I returned her smile and placed my hand on her shoulder.
Swiftly, she flicked my hand off. “Thank you, Genevieve. You are intelligent beyond your years with the hope and ignorance of youth. They will not change.”
Papa brought out the bread, golden and steaming. Crunching beneath the knife, the crust tore and soft torrid innards within were revealed. Papa looked to me. “Eat fast, Jenny. You have laundry today.”
I stifled a moan. It was my least favorite day of all because of its interminability and physical demand. There was little leisure time in laundry duty with not only Papa’s and my belongings, but also the clothing, bed sheets, and towels of guests. Caught in my thoughts, I waited for the guests to grab bread before I dared to reach for any.
“Jenny, you should get started,” Papa recommended placing a crust in my hand. He kissed atop my head and shooed me off. “Start with the guests’ things. We can wait.”
I nodded in understanding. Tough it out, I told myself. I nibbled my breakfast as I stood to collect the piles of laundry outside the rooms of guests. The pile rested in one hand; a washboard rested in the other. I forged my way to the lake out back with a bar of soap. With a heavy sigh, I started the endless task.
Once it was washed, lathered, and wrung, I set it on the hangers. The sun started to set, warmth and cold battled in a war of color across the territory, the horizon. Though, it was dark, the day’s heat still hung thick in the air. The blackness and the heat were just enough to put me to sleep.
I opened my eyes. My hair hung in my eyes. Reasoning that the braid probably fell out, I sat up and rubbed the soreness out of my neck.
It was light out. How had I been asleep for so long? There was a slight bitterness in the air, an autumn feeling. “Papa? Papa?” I called out. Confusion in my tone.
The lake had a sheet of ice coating it. When a toad fell through it, I knew it was too thin to stand upon.
I turned back toward the inn only to find nothing. An empty field. A woman walked across it. She carried herself slowly and elegantly. An infant was in her arms. Anxiously, I sprinted toward the woman and the child. My legs would not take me anywhere. Only to that spot by the lake. Feeling faint from the useless exercise, I clutched my head. My fingers were red with numbness. Air passed from my lips, smoking like tobacco in the air.
The woman approached me. Before I could see her face, she covered herself in a veil of midnight. She dropped her hood. Her face was empty of all but a grey cold smile.
“Thus, we meet again, Genevieve. I knew I could get your attention.” He cackled. His laugh was squeaky and rusty, pipes and whistles in sound.
“W-why are you doing this to me?” I quivered from fright and from rising cold.
His grin widened into something utterly malicious. “I do this to everyone, Genevieve. Do not think you are very special. You’re only an innkeeper’s daughter.”
The wind picked up with each step closer the cloaked figure took. My hair lashed my face as the violent gust compelled it to. There was one question festered in my head. It was a long shot of a question, but I still needed to ask it. “Do you know anything about my mother?” I yelled over the ferocious noise of the wind.
“Do I know anything of your mother?” He laughed. “It seems you’re the only one who does not! Well, other than your father.” His own cloak was completely unaffected by the tornado of air. The air snapped off one of his bony fingers. Sand began to leak from the wound. Granulates flew straight into my eyes.
Through tears, I saw brightness on the tip of his finger, a flame; he touched it to where the finger had once been. I cringed at the thought of cauterization. Then I contemplated his ability to feel pain or even bleed. “Will you tell me what you know of my mother?” I wondered, hopeful. Awaiting his answer, I gnawed at my lip.
“No, she’s asked me not to,” He responded resolutely. Still preoccupied with the wound, he seemed to ignore me. “I wonder where that finger has gone,” he murmured.
“Why would you tease me by telling me then?” Exasperated, I roared over the still increasing wind. Then the whistle jerked me sadistically off the ground. Nausea rolled over me as I squeezed my eyes shut. Still, I could feel the flips my body was forced to do. I spiraled toward the ground. Cool unforgiving earth. I braced for impact and found myself suspended, dangling between earth and sky. Who held me there, but the cloaked figure himself?
The wind hushed itself, but the bitter frost remained. The hand of this…thing in my dreams stopped the elements from further battering me. “You are used to being teased, are you not? Why would I cut you any slack, Genevieve? After all, you’re just a young scullery maid. Not even that, most maids go to school.” He released me. With a gentle plop, I was on the ground. Then I opened my eyes.
Author's Note: Well, that took a while. So sorry about the wait, I had a lot going on between these chapters. It still isn't making too much sense, but hey, there's mystery in every good exposition and rising action, right? Really? No..okay. I hope you enjoyed. -Alex Thomas