Motherless and Fatherless. by hennethgalad

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Chapter 1

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                                     Motherless and Fatherless.

 

 

 

His sister turned and smiled as they set off, and winked at him. His mother and father turned to wave at the edge of the trees, and for the first time in his life he was alone. He could have gone with them, but the children’s party did not appeal; they were all very young children, and he felt his dignity would not permit such noisy frolics. He was so close to being an adult, so near to the age when he too would dine with them, with his sister and the friends of his parents, it would not be long...

 

But for the first time he was alone in the house. He could do anything. He could run up and down the stairs, he could jump on the beds, he could sing as loudly as he pleased, and no patient voice would rebuke him ! He grinned, and ran up the stairs, making sure to put his feet down hard on every step, feeling the echo through the wood, rattling the picture of the house his mother had grown up in, that hung half way up. When he reached the top he turned, took a deep breath and sang the opening lines of a very rude song he had learned from a neighbour that his father had carefully suggested might not be the best companion he could find. The sound echoed satisfyingly, so he sang it again, and grinned at the echoes. But as the sound faded, the house fell silent, and he stood, listening, still as a deer, hearing the creak of the stairs settling, and the hiss of the wind in the orchard, and the silence.

 

It was strange, he had never noticed the sounds of his family, he had always thought of the house as quiet; but his father was not singing as he worked, his mother was not calling from the garden, his sister was not clattering in the kitchen, there was nothing. He found that he was holding his breath, and shouted wordlessly. The echo of his voice seemed sinister in the stillness. He turned away and went into his room, but the familiar things seemed to belong to a stranger, to a person he had once known, the child he had once been. He picked up his juggling balls and tossed them into the air, but soon became bored, dropped them one by one onto his foot and kicked them into his open chest. The last ball hit the lid, which slammed shut with a pleasingly loud crash. But the echoes faded and the silence returned, and he left his room, frowning slightly, feeling that there was something missing, something he should be doing, but what ?

 

He thought of his sister winking, and wondered if she had meant something, whether she had left him a message, or a gift, or even one of his favourite treats in the kitchen. His face lit up, he leaped down the stairs, two at a time, and skidded across the hall, sliding halfway across the kitchen floor, which was utterly forbidden, and, when the kitchen was in use, as it generally was, obviously dangerous. But nobody was there to shake their head and sigh, and show him the knives, or the boiling oil, or the open oven door.

 

His supper was on the table, cold food, on a covered dish, and a huge slice of fruit cake, carefully wrapped. Nothing worth winking about, he thought, but definitely some of his preferred things to eat. He grinned again, nobody would say “Wait.”, and even though he was not hungry, he sat down and ate every scrap, though it occured to him as he bit into the cake, that he need not remain at the table, he could simply walk about the house, as he pleased.

    Ignoring the crumbs, he strolled through the empty rooms, flinging himself into his father’s chair, then immediately standing up and wandering over to the window. 

     The cake was delicious, he wondered if there was more, but the truth was, he was rather full, it had not been long since their last meal, he should have waited... But what was the use of having the house to himself if he just did ordinary things, as if his mother were there, watching over him. Watching him. 

 

     He was alone ! He laughed aloud and sang the rude song again, imitating an annoying teacher, and again, in his best approximation of the voice of the district counsellor, a wordy fellow who treated him like a small child when he came to call on his mother. He laughed at the old fool, and then frowned, feeling a little foolish himself. There must be something more interesting to do. Why had his sister winked at him ? It was not something he could remember her ever doing before, she must have meant something. He went back into the kitchen, looking for a message, or a sign, a clue to her meaning, but there was nothing. He ran back upstairs to his room and searched it, but no. He thought for a moment, looking round at his things, and darted out and into his sister’s room. He had not been allowed in there since she had turned adult, and indeed there seemed little to interest him, though he searched for a note, or anything. But apart from some really boring letters from her friend in the city, it was a dull, adult room, with a nice picture on the wall of a hummingbird by a flower. 

 

     He sighed and strolled back into the upper hall and looked at the door to his mother and father’s room. It stood ajar, the waning Light sent a long beam across the shining floor, but the spilled crumbs of his cake cast long shadows on the polished wood and he blushed guiltily. His mother would rush to sweep them up when she got back, and be disappointed in him. He sighed, thundered down the stairs, fetched the small brush and carefully swept up the mess. His mother worked so hard, and never seemed to go anywhere. She had been excited to go out, and spent long evenings with his sister, making gowns and... and things...

 

He opened the front door and stepped outside, the wind was dropping, the trees were quieter, the air warm and scented with ripening fruit. He felt hungry again, not hungry, but... 

     He opened the thick door of the cake cupboard and found the fruit cake. There was plenty left. He broke a piece off and stuffed it in his mouth, but he really was full, and closed the cupboard with a sigh. Why had she winked ? What was he missing ? Should he have followed them ? Sneaked in ? And then what ? Be sent home in disgrace, or, worse still, led away kindly to the children’s party. He scratched his stomach and frowned. His sister did not chatter, as some people did; when she spoke, it was with a purpose. What was he missing ?  

 

He thought of the light on the floor upstairs, and the open door to his parents room. He looked up, as though he could see it, and then slowly, silently, with his heart sounding loud in his chest, he climbed the stairs, as quietly as if his mother were resting downstairs. The door was still ajar, nothing had changed. Nothing could change, there was no one there to move things, no one but him. He swallowed and opened the door wide. 

 

Of course, the room was just as he expected, the wide bed, with the pale green curtains, the tall mirror, the chairs, the low table, the two chests... He froze. The chests. He had never, in his life, seen inside the chests of his parents. The prickle on the skin of his arms seemed to him the first clue, the first sign; he knew then that years before, left alone to mind him as he slept, his sister had stood where he was standing, gazing at the chests, wondering...

 

He took a deep breath, moved silently across the room and opened his father’s chest. For a moment he was deeply disappointed, for the chest seemed full of clothes, nothing interesting at all. He sank to his knees and dug his hand down the side of the chest, smelling the cedar wood and mint his mother used to keep the moths away. But there was nothing. He tried the other side, and slid his arm, wriggling past the thick pile, groping with his fingers to find anything more promising than a pile of old tunics, but still nothing. Impatiently, he leaned forwards over the chest and dug his fingers down inside the back, and near the bottom his probing fingers found something hard. A casket, he thought, prodding at the smooth surface buried under the clothes. He thought for a moment, then pulled his arm out and sat back, looking thoughtfully at the neat pile. In truth, after his rummaging it was no longer neat. He snorted, he would have to straighten the pile anyway, or his father would know... He blushed, thinking of his father, with that look on his face, so patient, so wise, so impossible to argue with...

 

He pressed his lips together, and with the cautious gentleness he would have used to plant delicate seedlings, he lifted out his father’s clothes, one by one, and placed them carefully on the low table. It took him only minutes to empty the chest, and there at the bottom was the casket. 

He had never seen it before. He picked it up, it was quite heavy, he could not imagine what was inside it. Neither his father nor his mother bothered with jewels, he did not think his father collected anything, the family pictures were all in the main hall, on the shelves, what could the casket hold ? He thought of his sister, winking at him, and knew that this was what he had sought. He sat back on his heels and lifted the lid of the plain, polished wooden casket.

Inside was a long box, the base carved from stone, a shining, polished stone, like marble, or something fancy with a long name, that adults would know. He pursed his lips and resolved to learn more about rocks; they were obviously important to adults, or the casket would not be hidden away. He would need to know these things, he would soon be an adult himself. 

 

The lid of the box was clear, glass, or crystal, he did not know. He lifted the lid and looked at the reddish powder inside, wondering what it was, what it was for, and why his father kept it in such a nice box, in such a secret place. He sniffed carefully at the powder, but it had no scent that he could tell. He thought of tasting it, but decided that it might be nasty, and his stomach was too full, he would be sick in his father’s chest, and the trouble he would be in...

 

He put the lid back on the box and laid it aside. Beneath it was a book. He frowned, a book ? All this trouble for a book ? It hardly seemed worth it. But he thought of his sister, picturing her kneeling where he was, and finding the book, and then, years later, when she knew that he would find it and look at it himself, she had winked at him. He looked at the cover, it was hand painted, a lake, still as glass, reflecting a sky crowded with stars, the like of which he had never seen. For the Light of the Two Trees overwhelmed the tiny pinpricks of the stars. He stared at it for a while; it was a lovely picture, he had a great urge to dive into the calm water, and send the starlight scattering into sparkling ripples. He opened the book.

 

There was no writing, it was all pictures, excellent pictures, of people by the lake. He cried aloud, astonished at his own stupidity, it was Cuiviénen, of course it was, how could he be so slow ! The people were singing, it was the Awakening, and one of those people was his father. Of course, there was no telling who any of the people were, they were much too small to distinguish, but still, he thought, feeling a great heat rise to his skin, none of them were wearing anything at all.

 

He turned to the next page. This time there were only two people, and neither of them was his father. Both had brown hair, which was wet, as though they had just come from the water. They were holding hands, both hands, and looking at each other with a strange expression. Eagerly he turned to the next picture, and gasped with understanding. The people were drawing on each other with reddish paint, or clay, perhaps; he looked at the box of powder and nodded slowly. No wonder the box was so nice. An image of his father drawing on his mother sprang into his mind, and he winced and screwed his face up, and turned the pages.

 

He learned a great deal from the book. He did not understand much of what he was looking at, but he gazed intently at every picture. All thought of his parents, his sister, and even himself, was driven from his mind by the vivid pictures, the loveliness of the Elves who had sat for the artist, and the strangeness of the things that the people were doing to each other. 

 

He grew hotter, his body seemed to itch all over. He shifted uncomfortably, his mind filling with strange thoughts. The pictures seemed to come to life in his mind, he could envisage the people moving, as they mated, as beasts mated, thrusting and moaning. His breathing was shallow and fast, his palms were damp with sweat, his clothes were damp with sweat, he reached the last page. The final picture was of the faces of the first couple, their heads thrown back, their throats exposed, lines and swirls of the reddish paint decorating their bare skin, and on their faces, strange expressions. For a moment he thought they were in pain, he thought of the cry of the fox, for whom mating was a torment, it seemed. But no, these people were not in pain, they were in ecstasy, he could feel it with his skin, from the outside, and from within. He was looking at the release from torment, not torment itself. 

 

He closed the book and lifted his head, staring unseeingly out of the window. The Light was growing as Laurelin waxed, he had been looking at the book for a long time. He thought with horror of his mother becoming tired, of them returning early from the party and finding him with the book. He wanted to look at it again, he thought of replacing the casket without the book in it, but he had no notion of how often his father looked at it. What if he came back from the party and went to his chest and found it gone ? He would know at once who had taken it, he would knock on the door...

 

With a sigh, he put the book back in the casket, and picked up the box of powder. Now that he knew what it was for, it seemed obvious, he felt silly not to have worked it out. Driven to recklessness by the strange heat that seemed to be melting his bones, he opened the box and dipped his finger into the powder. It stuck to the sweat of his skin, he looked at his reddened fingertip and sniffed it, there was still nothing to smell. 

 

      Feeling more daring than he ever had, he pressed his fingertip onto his chin and ran it down his throat. He turned to the mirror to see if it had worked, and jerked back in surprise. He hardly recognised himself. He stared for a moment, then realised that his eyes had changed colour, the black centres were twice the usual size. He was sweating to the very roots of his hair, and the rippling curls which generally made him look taller and bigger than he really was, were gone, he looked as though he himself had been bathing in the lake. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were swollen.

 

And at his throat the reddish line of paint had him marked.