The heat reigned over the town like a burning cloak. The streets, houses, and people were all bathing in a mixture of smothering haze and dry air. But even so, the people were not looking for shady shelters. With sweaty palms and beads of sweat going down their foreheads, they were gazing at the end of the main street, the only street for that matter that led to the tavern, the church, and... the cemetery.
'They're coming! They're coming!' came the long-awaited shout. A ginger boy was hopping around the hot tiles, in search for one that wouldn't burn his feet.
In the heat waves, a shaky silhouette began to emerge. The hearse. Everyone's hearts skipped a beat at the very sight. The carpenters, with their chisels resting in their deep scarred flesh of their palms. And merchants of all sorts, making their way through the crowd, without even noticing their booths were left unsupervised. And the small petty thieves for whom, suddenly, an unwatched booth wasn't of such interest anymore. And the barrow-women who had put an abrupt end to their deafening cackle. And the ladies who were still, God-knows-why, in the market, that late afternoon.
'And when you think about it, only a few weeks ago I was talking to her' said a portly woman with rosy cheeks, whose hair bun had gone soft under the hat she was now using as a fan. 'She was such a smart and well-behaved girl' she added, breathing heavily. 'And so young...'
The woman she was talking to didn't seem to notice her, rather looking for a better spot. The black horses passed snuffling by the gawking crowd, with their curious eyes carefully inspecting the strange convoy that waddled behind the hearse.
There were just three people, not counting the priest. Their eyes musing and hands quivering. But none shed a tear. They were rather absent than sad. And so different from each other.
The middle-aged woman walked slowly, her head bowed. Her mourning was discreet: a black hat with three small feathers of the same color and a veil covering her face entirely. Her clothes, although old-fashioned, were neat. Her gray skirt with fine tailoring matched perfectly with the white silk blouse with ample chest ruffles. The whole outfit was topped by a lace sun umbrella in the same shade of gray as the skirt.
A couple of steps behind her there was the old lady. Her dress, once black, now a cloth faded in different shades of gray was sweeping the street dust with every move she made. Her hair was hidden under a bonnet, just as faded as her dress. But a couple of silver hair locks had broken free from the velvety imprisonment of the bonnet and were now carelessly caressing her cheek. Her face was ragged, full of wrinkles, deepened in her skin by years and years of storms and winds. Her eyes looked relentless, many looking away from that gaze that seemed to drill deep inside their souls.
Further behind, as if he was afraid to join the two women, a boy whose age was hard to guess, was slogging his feet. His eyes were blue and clear and still had that prankish spark, just like that of a twelve-year-old. But his sunburnt cheek might have very well been that of a twenty-year-old. The boy, who rarely lifted his gaze from the ground, gave the impression that he would have rather been anywhere else but there. His gaze, like a frightened rabbit, gave away a certain awkwardness. His clothes, too big for him, given perhaps by a big-hearted widow, made him look even more solitary. He was wearing clogs that were two sizes too big for him, hence the slogging. He was the only one not in mourning. His clothes, although clean, were old and patchy, better suited for the work in the field. And his worn-down straw hat appeared borrowed from a scarecrow.
'The poor girl...' added the portly woman, not caring that she was talking to herself. 'Yet one thing baffles me: how come her parents aren't here? Has no one told them? What kind of world are we living in?' she nodded.
A middle-aged man holding his hat, his shoes covered in fine dust, joined the convoy. He greeted the woman with the umbrella and asked in a low voice. 'Pardon my audacity in this painful moment, but you haven't told me what to write on the tombstone...'
The woman looked at him as is awakened from a hectic dream. Her mouth shut, she gulped, but her words stubbornly remained unsaid, and she desperately looked at the old woman she was walking next to. The old woman's voice sounded somber, like a premonition, stopping the stonemason in his way.
'Write this: "Here lies the girl who saw beyond..."'
A month earlier...
The train was barely moving, each swing making the air in the compartment even more smothering. Victoria took small breaths, clinging to the chilly memory of the city she had left behind. She had accepted Aunt Alice's invitation with a heavy heart. What was there to do in a forgotten village, where everyone knew everyone else and every day was the same as the last one?
But since school had ended and summer was just beginning, she thought that perhaps two weeks of fresh air would suit her well. Especially since the last months of school had been exhausting. Admittedly, she had graduated among the top students of the Girls' Seminary, so she could ask her parents for almost anything.
The rest of the summer she would spend at home, her loving parents promising her that this year she could go, for the first time, at the Summer Ball held in August. The most anticipated event of the year for everybody in her city. But especially for the wealthy misses who could flaunt their fluffy dresses, tailor-made from the finest materials by the most famous tailor in town. And where, with ticking hearts, they hoped to find The One... Of course, one coming from a renowned family, with glamorous prospects, in shiny military attire. What else could a seventeen-year-old girl wish for?
She had been to her aunt's before, when she was a child. But, as the sweet childhood years drifted away, her desire to visit her grew dimmer. It was a stylish little white house, with a flower garden in the front and an apple orchard in the back. Behind the house, a walnut tree was growing old with every passing year. It had a thick trunk and hefty branches that seemed to protect the entire house, like in a hug. And from the thickest branch hung a wooden swing - the biggest attraction for the children coming by.
Aunt Alice, much older than Victoria's mother, had lost her husband when she was young and all she had left was the little house with the orchard and the swing. She was once a music teacher and now she was giving piano lessons to the wealthy children who spent their summers, along with their parents, in their country mansions. Every day, the little saloon echoed false notes and irritating piano clattering to the untrained ear. Not for Aunt Alice, though. For her, the children's visits were far more precious than the little money she received. During breaks, she would make them almond cookies and lemonade, and after the lesson was over, she would let them get a little dizzy in the swing under the walnut tree, with sky and land dangerously and irresistibly spinning around them.
When the train finally stopped in the little train station, Victoria gave a sigh of relief. The sun was much more daring in those parts and the three hour ride seemed to last forever. She had plunged into a boring book so she wouldn't have to take part in an equally boring talk with a fat and inquisitive lady. Who, believe it or not, had the same destination. This didn't stop the madam to jabber away the entire trip. She introduced herself as Virginia Pop and confessed that she had made the trip to the city for an important party, where she "had a ball with noble girls of the highest rank", as she put it. And, of course, to buy the latest outfits, hats and purses because: 'As you know, my dear, a true lady should keep up with the latest fashion, even if she were in the middle of nowhere.'
Victoria didn't have the slightest desire to listen to her, but her attempts at being polite ended up in her being dragged in the conversation. And the fat madam easily found out (perhaps too easily) from Victoria herself, what her destination was, as well as the purpose and length of stay in the small, forgotten village.
After hearing her aunt's name, the madam frowned, seemingly annoyed. But Victoria didn't mind her. This kind of woman was very hard to please, anyway.
⃰
Aunt Alice was waiting for her on the platform, following every hat that got off the train. She was wearing a little brown hat, too, with matching ribbons that barely hung on to the lofty bun on top of her head. Short and skinny as she was, she had to make clear efforts not to be toppled over by the hasty travelers. Her red wine colored dress seemed older than the hat, the velvet with pinkish spots here and there. But unlike Victoria's travel companion, her aunt didn't care about the latest fashion trends.
When she saw the girl, she glided among the travelers on the platform, and, with a hasty move she grabbed the luggage out of her hand, standing on her tippy toes to embrace her niece. She smelled of sweet cookies and fruit perfume. And suddenly, the trip didn't seem so horrible anymore. The two walked holding hands, while the aunt chattered like a sparrow. 'Come, my dear, the carriage awaits. And I had Matilda make her famous vegetable soup for dinner. And I have a full tray of apple and cinnamon pie in the oven, your favorite. See? I remembered,' she said, winking.
Victoria took a breath of he cool evening air, while the horses were galloping away. The carriage creaked and squeaked, almost in tune with the horses' trotting. In the end, it was going to be just another short holiday. A pleasant one, that is.
⃰
Victoria went upstairs to the room especially prepared for her and threw her suitcase filled with clothes and books on the bed. And, like always, her clothes were clearly outnumbered by her books. The room Aunt Alice prepared was the same; she's known it since forever. But with every summer, it grew smaller, like it was turning into a dwarf cottage. The white walls, painted every year, the bed with white linen, starched and neat, the walnut furniture that crackled at the finest touch made her feel like a child again. In the yellowish wardrobe that opened with a squeak she found perfectly arranged linen and towels, as if getting ready for a parade, covered in the sweet smell of dried lavender. And the mahogany rocking chair by the window, covered in many colorful pillows, was just perfect to bask in, with a good book in one hand and a cup of cocoa in the other.
But something else caught her eye. Something different from the other childhood summers she spent at her aunt's. And then she found it. Next to the window, the garden reflecting in it. A mirror. An old, oval-shaped mirror, with a withered milky surface. Surely it was brought in the room merely as a piece of furniture, since it could scarcely reflect anything. Victoria looked for a moment and saw her blurry and twisted reflection, as if she was seeing herself in crystal waters bent by the blowing wind.
What made her even more curious was the mirror's frame; coming closer to it, she could inspect it better: made from an old, dark wood, it was too old for Victoria to recognize it. It was richly ornate with rosebuds, ivy and lilies of the valley, among which beastly heads with open mouths made their way. Four angel faces, with their heads up towards an unseen God, were arranged in a cross, more imposing than the other ornaments. The frame was attached to a dresser table on which Aunt Alice had put a vase with multicolored flowers which filled the room with a fresh, field-like smell. In the mirror, the flowers seemed lifeless as is they've been withered for weeks; on both sides of the mirror, two hinges held shutters made from the same dark wood. The thought that she could shut them and get rid of that lifeless reflection made her happy. But after they were shut, her happiness faded. Each shutter had a hand with spread fingers carved on it, and they came together when the shutters were closed. It seemed to Victoria that they were the hands of the dying person, waiting for the last breath. She trembled and hurried to open them, her twisted face appearing once again in the mirror.
That's how Aunt Alice found her. She had brought her a wicker basket filled with green, yellow and red apples that oozed the sweetest smell.
'I see you found it' she said, pointing at the mirror. 'Do you like it?'
'It's... interesting' mumbled the girl.
'Isn't it?' said the aunt excitedly. 'I found it in an antique shop, hidden in a corner, full of dust and cobwebs. I wouldn't even have noticed it if there wasn't a sparkle on its surface. That's how I got around buying it. I didn't really notice the glass, which looks pretty old. But you have to admit that the ornaments are carved by a true master...'
'I suppose so...' said Victoria, walking away from the mirror which was giving her a weird feeling of anxiety. Then she bit into a red, sweet and sour apple and all her being lightened up. She threw herself on the cool bed and smelled the fresh scent of the linen.
Aunt Alice smiled and put the apple basket on the nightstand. Then she sat on the bed and caressed her niece's forehead:
'Look how much you have been growing up... Where is the child that used to climb to the topmost branches of my apple trees? Time is flying away so fast...' she whispered, gazing, lost in her memories. Then she swiftly stood up. 'Oh, no! My pie! I hope it's not all burnt!' And she stormed out the door. Leaving Victoria staring, like in a dream, at the milky surface of the mirror.
So, a new story! Excited! It's a different genre and I'm anxious to know what you think of it. So please, don't be shy! Vote, comment and let me know your thoughts!