Eternal Hunt

 

Hania R.

 

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To the eleven-year old me, you did it.

 

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Chapter 1

 Better Tragedy

☾

⊱—Spirit—⊰

 

I wonder how many lives I could've saved only if I were still alive.

     My eyes glance outside and spot Grace running. Forever an escaper. I unlock the wooden door of the treehouse by unhooking the silver chain. Grace has made it halfway on the plank stairs with a white bag tucked under her arm.

     “Here you go” she says while handing me the paper bag breathlessly.

     “Why were you running?” I ask while putting the white bag over my shoulder ready to set off-run-too.

    “Because I really do not wish to die that early. Especially by corpses”

     She’s already turned her back to me when I call out “Why do you keep forgetting that you’re invisible to those corpses?”

     “Oh” her abrupt turn to look at me makes a ripping sound. I peek behind her to look at her brown sweater which now has a torn window for her white shirt under built by my door’s hook.

     “Uh-oh” I say before dashing out of the door and down the stairs into the black and white yards. I can almost hear Grace lecturing me from behind about getting a better lock for my house.

     It’s not night-time, but it still feels dark somehow. I’ve crossed the main empty yard with the maximum speed I could, and now the smoking lanterns are a sign of my slow pace. I tuck the bag under my jacket, and it’s not visible for two reasons. One, because it holds quite a small box inside it for it to be suspicious, and other, because it’s quite cold for anyone to assume that it's anything other than just my layers of warm clothing.

     It’s a narrow pathway echoing with sizzling sounds of cooking and clattering of pots. Although it’s winter, a hint of autumn still remains from the rustling sound of orange leaves beneath my steps.

     “Hey, off for duty?” Florence asks while pausing mid-way with an empty wooden pail in her hand. She’s dressed in her usual black corset and dress with her cherry red hair braided loosely.

     “Hey. Yeah I am. Heading north too, Miss Florence?” I question while nodding at her pail.

     “Yes, I was.” She says while rolling her eyes. If there’s something she abhors, it’s being ordered to do something for the kingdom, and right now she’s to fill a bucket of water.

     “May I join you?”

     “You may”

     If there was no work to do, people would’ve probably died a million more times. It’s far better to do something-even if not for yourself-than to sit idle forever.

     “New season, new hostage” Florence sighs. We’ve made it out of the busy path.

     “Already?” I ask. As much as I want to sound normal, disappointment fills my tone. I would’ve hated myself for it if I were with anyone else, but I was with Florence.

     “Yeah. Saw it last night. Bet you’re going to be extremely occupied with your new assistant.” She laughs incredulously. Her subtle nod of the head to where I’m hiding the bag makes her smile.

     She takes a right turn towards the river whilst waving a hand to me in a goodbye sign. And I turn left to walk to the place where I’ve been living for almost seven years now.

     There’s a rocky grey path which leads to this graveyard palace. The hazy air becomes clear after a few seconds of walking.

     The front oak entrance is guarded by crawling Ivy’s up the grey brick wall which constructs this place. Let’s just say…the door is wide enough to fit ten dead bodies at once, and elevated enough to take fifteen piled-on-top-of-each-other coffins. That’s the only example I could come up with.

      I take a deep breath before entering into the oud air. It's just as rusty and musky from inside as it looks from the outside.

     Don’t look. Don’t speak. Just walk.  

     This is what Florence had told me at my first time here. And it’s been stuck with me forever. She didn’t only protect me, but taught me stuff which is keeping me alive till now.

     Behind the georgette long curtains are the rooms-more like jails-for people who’ve been held hostage for many years now. My job is mostly to check everyday if they’re alive. And I'm only ever appreciated if I come back with the news of a death.

     Some are senile, and some are…

     “I said, NO!” …just misunderstood

     I rush into room number 17, and see two women dressed in all black holding Isabelle’s arm into a bruising hold and dragging her across the floor.

     “What are you doing? Let her go” I interrupt while dropping on my knees and separating their tight grip from her skinny arm. I can already hear Isabel’s wailing heaves of chest.

     “It’s an order” the right one snaps, while letting go of Isabelle’s arm in a jerk. The other does the same. “We need to move her into another room. We have a new hostage,” she continues.

     I get up from the floor. “Where’s her new room?” I ask followed by a sigh. I don’t blame these two. I know how it's like to be ordered to do something you don’t have an interest in, if not hate it completely either.

     One of them has already made it out of the room and the other mumbles “Twenty-nine” while turning towards the door too.

     “Please be quick” she says while looking over her shoulder for the last time. I just nod, and she leaves.

     It takes everything in me to sit down and look at someone who’s too scared to live. Too scared to die. And too scared to be something in between.

     Her long cacao hair falls over her shoulders as she sits while hugging her knees and staring at the floor. She’s somewhere in her early thirties.

     I sit cross-legged beside her and spot the one slice of brown bread with blueberry jam spread inside it on the floor. I take out the white bag from under my sweater. Inside it are two slices of bread with strawberry-jam enveloped in newspaper.

     “You know, now I see why strawberries have always been your favourite fruit. They surely look, taste, and smell scrummy.”

     Isabelle shifts a little from her position and sits cross-legged like me too. Her hazel eyes look tired as if she didn’t sleep a wink last night, but I don’t ask her about it. I don’t like talking about the obvious truths. Changing the topic into something more riveting is what I do.

     “Glad you finally agree on something I say, kid.” She says as I hand her the toast. Isabelle doesn’t like blueberries, and similarly, not the jam either, but that’s all everyone gets. Two toasts a day with blueberry jam. She loves strawberries though, and I try my best to bring her that everyday.

     One thing I’ve learnt about Isabelle since the past seven years is that she doesn’t like eye contact, and so I’ve rarely ever looked her straight in the eyes for too long.

     Her room is a plain grey one with no windows or no bed or anything at all. Just a cold floor and an alive person in this deadly room. Florence used to be Isabelle’s old incharge, and she’d bring me with her too sometimes. That’s how I became familiar with Isabelle. Ever since Florence got kicked out of the place for “being too kind to the hostages” , I’ve been the one incharge of Isabelle. Even though it’s only been a year working here, I’ve seen far worse atrocities than I had ever while living here in the room which I only used to visit at night. I’d mostly spend all my time outside. I preferred it more than walking beside walla which echoes death.

     “Let’s go” I tell her after she’s finished eating while hiding the white bag again. She listens. “You’re the only one she trusts here after me” Florence used to say. Maybe that’s probably why Isabelle was screaming earlier. Because she didn’t trust where those two would take her. Especially if you’re dragging someone like that. Of course Isabelle would’ve thought it’s her time.

     Which is not true, and nor will it be with me and Florence looking after her.

     She gets up and we exit the room together while closing the door behind us. I don’t take any last glances at it, because it had utterly nothing to be worthy enough of being memorable.

     The concrete floor echoes as we walk upon it. A large gallery with rooms on either side made of wooden doors and carved with numbers on them. I look behind to check if Isabel is still walking with me. She is.

     I stop in front of the door with the carved number 29.

     “Ready, Miss Maristela?” I ask with a smile, and she shrugs while chewing her bottom lip in anxiety.

     “Right. There we go.” I swing open the doorknob of the room, and the first thing I spot is a window. A big window which gives a lively view outside.

     I already know it’ll be better.

 

Chapter 2

Worse Tragedies

☼

⊱—Mortal—⊰

 

There are a very few things that make me feel alive. Half of them have long since died, and the other half are quite rare for me. Right now I might be experiencing one of those rare lively moments without contemplating the ramifications or the little time which is left for my liveliness.

     “Miss, please be careful!” requests Edward-the caretaker who I managed to persuade to help me-from behind me. I can already sense the melting tone of regret in his voice about his decision of helping me.

     Too late.

     “I’m fine!” I shout back as a smile frames my lips. Zephyr crashes against my face as I gallop on the horse in the prodigious green field. The wind rustles my hair in a manner which sends a wave of comfort throughout my body.

     I feel like a speeding dream. A dream who’s always wanted to be chased.

     The mountains in front of me all of  a sudden feel small. Very small compared to my urge of climbing them all in one gallop, and running away somewhere where answers are easy to find.

     Perhaps one day.

     I pull the strap gently in my hand to sign Merry to stop and turn away in order to get back before anyone witnesses me. I spot Edward walking towards us breathlessly. He stops a few feet away trying to inhale the maximum amount of oxygen in his lungs, and planting his palms on his knees.

     “Are…are you okay, Miss?” he asks, now shifting back to his normal posture and breathing normally.

     “I’m perfectly fine, Edward” I reply while climbing off the saddle and handing him the brown leather strap.

     “I’d be dead if you weren’t” he whispers to himself, but I suppose the recent sharp wind activity has made my hearing sharp too.

     I smile agreeably.

     Everyone would be dead if I weren't.

     We make our way out of the thicket of trees and to the front where I wave Merry goodbye as she makes her way back behind the wooden fences with her fellows. All of them who’re only ever ridden by male rumps.

     I amble in front of the place I was born in. A large gate guarded by sky-scraping towers on either side with pointed cones on the top. The kingdom continues from the top of the gate stopping right on the level of the side towers at a pointed top too. A sun shape carved in the middle of this wall.

     The sign of this place.

     Stepping inside is a colossal circular hall with a chandelier hanging in the middle enveloped in opals.In front is a staircase bathed in zaffre carpet which takes smooth opposite curves at the end resulting in two open lobbies which can be seen from down here from the wooden balustrades.

      I climb up while pulling up my dress a little from the end to not stumble in it while climbing. A patchouli scent swirls around the air, and how can it not be one of the most exquisite things ever.

     I turn right and promenade in the middle of the polished wooden doors, and make my way to the one and only door which holds space for a person just as glistening as the gemstones carved in the chandelier.

     “Isla, god, you scared me” Grace squeaks as I burst open her room door in excitement and see her quickly turn her back towards me as she finishes putting on her peach sweater

     “Oh, sorry” I apologise while closing the door behind me. “Guess what I did” I ask while attempting to bite back my smile , but I fail as she turns to me and her hazel eyes suddenly glisten with a mixture of excitement and astoundment.

     “No…” she starts shaking her head in an unbelieving manner. Her mouth agape with a smile joining in. “…you didn’t” The kinda smile she gives when mischief and excitement runs through her mind or our mind, because we do share the same brain cells somehow without being anything biological.

     “I guess I did,” I chuckle.

     Grace walks up to me and picks something from my hair. “Looks like you did” she says while holding up a wooden stick in her hand which was held by my hair a few breaths ago.

     Sometimes I’m glad this rule exists, because it gives Grace and I something to laugh about how we managed to break it once again without getting caught. However sometimes I wonder why this rule even exists.

     Women are not allowed to ride unless there is an emergency.

      And that wandering question has made its way to the tip of my tongue many times, but before it even completely escapes my mouth, it’s shoved back in my brain with a statement “There is no reason”

     There is or else this absurd rule wouldn’t have existed. There’s always a meaning behind every meaningless thing.

     We were only given riding training when we were young so at least we know how to maybe hop up, and after fifteen, we get to touch the horses once in a blue moon to only freshen the memory of training in case of any emergency.. Except that Grace and I changed some rules and regulations for the both of us.

     A loud bell rings through the kingdom, as it’s strummed by a man in a pattern.

     Lunch time.

    

    Grace and I make our way out of her room down the same staircase, which this time isn’t empty, but filled with people. Mostly children and teenagers.

     The Zaffre velvet carrying many feets of different ages down the hall.

     The opal engraved chandelier hanging down from the middle of the ceiling is enlightening the hall, but what’s even more enlightening are the smiles of adults and children as each one of them make their way to the tables on the right end of the hall.

     It’s filled with many circular tables surrounded by three chairs each. A long, immense table at the very right end filled with food items.

     Too many to name.

     Too many to devour.

     Flower-stands blooming with roses, jasmines, hydrangeas, hyacinths, and tulips standing at a distance from each other at several points in the hall.

     And lastly, a round stage at the very front covered in a golden carpet and guarded by two candle stands. And a wooden piano sitting in the middle waiting for me.

     Grace tugs the hem of my dress.

     “Your hair” she hisses while nodding her head at my hair.

     Oh shoot

     I look around and am confronted by my own appearance in one of the quartz decor embedded in the wall as decor.

     The beige silk gown flows downwards in vertical waves with little golden embroidery crawling up in designs.

     My chocolate hair is in the messiest conditions of all time, and a finger comb just won’t do it.

     “Just tie them up for now” Grace whispers from behind me as she takes off her white ribbon and hands it to me, as her dark silky hair drops straight on her shoulders framing her tanned skin. She’s so beautiful.

     I slide it under my hair and cross it on top, giving it a bow tie.

     “Thank you so much. I really wish I could give you a free ride on Merry right now, but I gotta make haste before I’m caught dead”

     She rolls her eyes amusingly as a smile frames her rose lips. “Go” she pushes me gently from the back as I finish securing my hair into a messy tie, and I make my way to the front stage.

     I walk past people almost settled in their chairs, shift their gaze to me as I climb up the stage and get seated on the piano chair.

     I take one glance at the audience.

    Still a speeding dream.

     I press the damper pedal from my left foot and press the black and white keys in a harmony which I learnt through a diary written by a woman named Isabelle Maristela, and is now being played today by Isla Maristela.

     Ink on paper must be one of the most powerful things. It’s like speaking words and tunes of someone else-someone not alive-through your voice.

     Respeaking phrases which once were spoken by another soul.

     But something was different about her diary. No matter how many times I read it, I never got tired of it. She’s just like a favourite song. No matter how many times I heard her lyrics, I never got bored of her.

     I never got to see her in real life, because she died before my senses became alive. But I have her journal. The only alive thing which answered my questions about her. The only thing which told me a lot about this place, and the people here. And also this piano, which once belonged to her.

     She’s the reason it’s being played today in front of so many people. Today is not only the day I was born, but also the day she died.

     I hope you know mother that I really wish it was you paying this piano instead of me. I really wish it was like that.

     My fingers slowly come to an end as their lingering dance ends on the keys.

     I lift up my gaze to meet the crowds’ and bow my head gently as an answer to their gentle applause. What a funny day. Don’t know if one should be sad or happy.

     I spot father and Cassandra descend the stairs and enter the hall, and everyone's gaze shifts to them. Thankfully. If there’s anything heavier than a heavy weight, it’s the weight of someone’s gaze.

     I try to look for Grace, but can’t spot her anywhere. She must be with her mom. Grace’s mom is one of the many chefs of this place, but ever since the first day I met her, she’s been nothing less than a sister to me.

     I almost saw the disapproving scrunch of my grandmother’s nose as her eyes spotted my hair, but it only lasted for a few milliseconds until she shifted her expression to the old one which she carried from the stairs with my dad: an expressionless expression.

     I look at my dad to find the same expression, but even under his trying of a stern face is the hopeless dismayed face of a man in a way that you’ve accepted the melancholy, but surely didn’t ever want it.

     Surely didn’t ever want me.

     It’s not my fault, but I am the cause.

     Perhaps another heavier weight is living under the indirect remorse of a murder.

     I get up from my piano chair and make my way down the stage and greet both of them with a slight bow and get out of their way and sit on the chair of the empty table at the front. The other two chairs are reserved for both of them.

     They walk up the round stage and deliver their speeches about my mom. Half of it seems familiar from last year. The words and prayers move past my ears though this one sentence enters sharply through my ear canal like an electric wave.

     “It’s been seventeen years since the tragic death of dear Isabelle, and also seventeen years since the birth of Isla”

     No, no Isla. Stop.

     But I can’t, as bitter liquid wells up in my eyes.

     Just come home.

     I’ve thought many times about how today could’ve been celebrated rather differently than how it is. Thought about how it would have felt to exist without a regret.

     The food table empties as people start filling up their plates. Something inside me empties too as it starts getting filled by something much bigger.

     Nothing passes between the three of us as we take our place on the table, and greet guests later. Half of the time it was hard to distinguish if people grieved with my father about my mom’s death or my birth.

     I tried searching for Grace, but couldn’t find her anywhere. I did spot her mother, but Grace was nowhere near her. I thought of asking Miss Browns about her, but I really forgot how to speak. Forgot my own voice, so I just stayed quiet and continued the meet and greet circle with my father and Cassandra.

 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick…

     The big needle takes small steps forward to pass the time, just like I’m taking small sips of my drink to pass my time.

     The enlightened hall which was filled with voices and people is now dark and filled with the noise of this clock ticking and my sipping of the drink.

     It’s midnight, and I feel as awake as ever. Like sleep doesn’t even exist. I’m sitting on one of the chairs and watching the big, round, beige clock stay up with me. It’s either the mint drink which is refreshing or the silence.

     But above all, I’m accompanied by someone else. A person.

     Isabelle Maristela.

     Accompanying me from the thin paper sheet of the brown leather diary.

     I place my drink on the table and replace the busy hand with the diary now. It’s cold just like the weather. Though holds very warm words.

     “Hi, mom” I whisper as I flip open the diary to reread the very first entry she ever wrote.

 

Chapter 3

 My Little One

☾

⊱—Spirit—⊰

 

 

I’m not usually ever tired. Today might be unusual, because I’m knackered to the point I can’t even walk.

     It’s almost dusk and the temperature has dropped even more. I’ve made it out of the busy world, and now I’m in the open yards. I can see the flickering golden lights from the far end, and that’s a sign that either Grace or Florence is at the treehouse.

     The breeze is sharp and furious and I’d do anything to be as fast as it.

     I remember when I first arrived here and how Florence invited me inside the treehouse. It was scattered with pages all over. We were almost the same age. Eleven or twelve. And she was looking for something. I asked her what she was looking for, and she told me that she’s looking for a letter, but all I remember is that she ended up finding nothing. She was looking for a goodbye letter from her mother. And she never found one.

     She definitely ripped many pages and sent flying paper balls everywhere, and we actually ended up playing with them. I didn’t know a lot about where I was, but she seemed to know everything.

     The truth was, both of us were alone in that simple treehouse. However, we both were somehow enough to take care of each other.

     I’m only a few steps away from the treehouse and I can see Grace’s excited hand waving at me from behind the window. She surely is something, aside from being my sister. Something incredible.

     I quicken my steps and climb up the hard planks. Grace has already unlocked the door for me to come in.

    I find Florence standing there first, smiling with Grace. 

     “You’re late” she says as she looks at me.

     “Sorry, Flora” I reply with a guilty shrug.

     “There’s something I got today,” Grace says.

     She rummages inside her brown bag which was lying beside the big basket of fruits she’s carrying which was probably the excuse she made to escape from the palace. I also spot the daisy crown lying on top of it which she asked me to make for her friend.

     “You’re welcome” I say while nodding my head at the flower crown.

     She smiles, “Thank you”

     “Found it” she whispers as her hand reappears with a jar in her hand.

     There’s a pale blue butterfly fluttering inside it with indigo shaded ends of its wings and pathways created by black lines, so captivating.

     “I caught two. Blue and pink. I wanted to give the blue one to you guys, and I’ll keep the pink.”

     “Where’s the pink one?” Florence asks as she takes the jar in her hands and gazes at the blue butterfly.

     Grace smiles and reaches for her bag while saying “In my bag. Let me show” she swiftly takes out the jar and throws her bag away, and gets up suddenly to catch the bag, because it was going in the direction of our golden light bulb, but it makes the jar in her lap fall to the ground and shatter into pieces, and the pink butterfly escapes and flies away through the open window.

     “Grace, are you okay?” I rush to her.

     “I saved the bulb” She laughs, but cries, but laughs too. 

     “Oh, Grace” I take her in for the hug as she laughs-cry. Behind her, Florence stands with her watery eyes as she smiles and chuckles at Grace while shaking her head.

     “I guess, someone is taking the blue butterfly home now” Florence tries to lighten the air by putting the jar of blue butterfly in Grace’s bag.

     Grace pulls away and sniffles and wipes her tears with the sleeve of her sweater while chuckling. Just then I spot red liquid smeared on her palm as it flows outside the fresh cut.

     “Grace…” I reach out to hold her hand, but she pulls away.

     “I should get going. I’ll get it bandaged from the kingdom, don’t worry. Take care of yourselves” She picks up her fruit basket, but leaves two apples on the table and exits the door.

     “You too!” I wave from the window and she waves back with her other hand before sprinting off.

 

Chapter 4

Grief Stories

☼

⊱—Mortal—⊰

 

 

I’ve been awake for a little time, but I choose to keep my eyes shut, and refuse to wake up. Not that I can't. Just that I don't want to.

     The morning bell was loud enough to jolt me awake, but not strong enough to get me out of my bed. I lift up the fluffy white blanket and bury my face in it to block the sunlight. I’m surprised no one came to wake me up, but also satisfied.

     I hear the creak of my door.

     Speak of the devil.

     I keep my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep, but a yawn is on its way, and I doubt that a person yawns while asleep or else I would've had it covered.

     “You’re up” says Cassandra politely as her footsteps near my bed.

     “Yes” I say in a monotone voice.

     I’ve never hated her, but I've never liked her either. Maybe it became like this after I read my mom talk about Cassandra’s dry behaviour towards her in the diary or maybe I had no feelings towards her since the beginning.

     She must be in her sixties.

     I shift a little in my bed and slowly sit up against the back of the bed, as she sits on the end of my bed.

     “You look just like your mother” she smiles while locking a strand of my hair behind my ear which sends an electric wave through my body. I want to ask so much about her, and I know she's the only one who can answer my questions about her, but I never asked her. Probably because I had a feeling she wouldn’t tell me, and hates me for the death of her daughter.

     She’s supposed to abhor me for it, but she never did. She never loved me either, though.

     “What was my mother like?” I ask, and she stares at me for a few seconds in astonishment, before answering.

     “Your mother…” she looks outside my room window at the sky “...she was such an ambitious woman. So passionate about the things she loved.”

     “What did she love?” I ask, already knowing the answer from her diary.

     Cassandra turns her eyes at me and smiles. “Painting. She loved painting, and nature”

     “Do you have any of her paintings?” I ask. One of the many forbidden questions.

     “No. She never told anyone where she kept them. Those paintings were really close to her so she kept them a secret, but I knew she painted everytime her hands or dress were smudged with different colours,” she giggles feebly.

     She just answered a question no one else ever did. Not my father, nor the old maids and chefs. My heart forms a soft spot for her for telling me about my mother. It also develops a guilt spot for taking away something so vulnerable from her. Her own daughter.

     “Anyways, come downstairs and have something to eat” she says while getting up from my bed.

     I nod my head and give her a smile as she makes her way out of my room, and I suddenly feel a little lighter. I don't even know why, but I just do.

     I walk up to the floor mirror in the corner of my room.

     You look just like your mother

     Did she have chocolate brown hair like mine with wavy ends? Did she have thin almond eyes like mine with dark brown lenses? What did she sound like? Did she love to be free like me and loved to feel alive?

     Oh how much I’d die to be loved by her. If only it were possible. Would she love me if she knew I’m the cause of her death? Would she wrap her arms around mine and tell me it's not my fault, and sing me to sleep?

 

I changed from my night gown to a simple long blue dress.

     The food table stays set since the morning for everyone to make their plate and eat at any time.

     “Isla!” Grace sings my name from behind me as she sprints down the stairs to me with her smile as big as ever as she approaches me.

     I open my mouth to ask her where she’d been the entire last night but she shushes me with her finger.

     “Now, before you ask me where I’ve been the entire last night…” She knows me too well. “...you should know that Grace Browns caught a nervous fever from how good Isla Maristela looked while playing the piano.” she bows-a little too low-in front of me.

     “Oh my god, tell me honestly where you’ve been?” I ask while pointing my spoon at her as a lying detector weapon.

      “Okay, so I might've cut my hand in the kitchen, so I skipped dinner and stayed in my room. I’m so sorry to skip such an important day of yours.” She shows me her hand which is enveloped in a beige bandage.

     ‘Oh, Grace, please be careful”.

     “I’m fine,” she smiles. “And, just because I couldn’t be at your birthday, doesn’t mean I didn’t get you anything”

     I wanted to correct her at the birthday part, because last night was celebrated just in the memory of my mom, but I didn't.

     “It better not be something scrumptious. You know I don't like-” a beautiful sight intrudes my speech.

     A daisy flower crown made by hand with green thin stems and blossoms.

     “Wow” I whisper while taking the crown from her hand. It may be something very simple, but that’s exactly what I like.

     “You made it yourself?” I ask while putting on the crown.

     “Mhm…you look beautiful” she says while looking at me.

     Grace is a leal friend, and the elysian daisy crown is proof of it.

 

     I went back to my room after having breakfast. Grace asked if I wanted to join her for a walk outside, but I refused. There are greater things which I have to do, and that is finding answers.

     I told Grace about mine and Cassandra’s recounter in the morning, and also that I’ll start talking to her more often to find more about my mom, but Grace said that it might not be a good idea. She never said why.

     As much as I’m excited to find more about my mom, I really wished it was someone else to tell the dern life of my mom, aside from the diary.  Someone to show me the places she walked on, the canvases she painted, the people she sat with. And for now the only window to all these views is Cassandra.

     I clench my sweaty fist and slowly knock thrice on the hard, wooden door. Our rooms are different from the others. They’re bigger and the room numbers are written on a golden plate instead of silver.

     The number “4” swings backwards from my sight as the door opens and my eyes slowly take in the inside to a dark dingy room, and a smoky leather odour fills my nostrils, before my eyes collide with Cassandra’s surprised ones.

     She’s shorter than me and has a normal physique, but the way she stands behind the door and peeks out at me really makes me wonder if I scared her or if this is how she normally greets all her doorstep visitors.

     Haha! Surprise!

     “Isla,” she says.

     “Yes” I answer in a half whisper not knowing if my name was a question, statement or a ‘Was I expecting you?’

     No you weren’t. I’m just quite unexpected.

     “Come on in” she finally says while putting on a smile and holding the door wider for me to enter. The door shuts gently behind me with a click as I take a step inside on the café noir carpet.

     A few candles are the only thing bringing light to the dark room. There’s a rocking chair swinging leisurely on the front right corner of the room which tells me that she was previously sitting on it. A small oval rug lays in front of it and a side table piled up with many newspapers.

Great reader eh.

     Then on the left side is her bed which is made perfectly without a single wrinkle on it, and then a closet at the side.

     “Lost ways, did’n’ you?” she asks while appearing from behind me.

     “Oh, no. Not at all. I actually came to see you" I force a smile, but the awkward twitching just kicks in.

     She sits on the bed (it almost hurts to ruin such a perfectly made bed) and beckons me to sit too.

     “Whatever for?” she asks.

     Straight to the point. Right. I didn’t expect her to ask me for coffee or tea anyway, since I might be visiting her after years today.

     “Just…to talk to you” I answer, and somehow she never inquires me with the “about what?” question.

     The air inside is heavy, and I can feel the tempting headache already pulsing on its way. I’m almost worried about Cassandra smoking at this age, but I don't say anything.

     “How’re you?” I ask.

     “How can one be without her only child?” she exhales. I don’t answer, because I don't know what it would be like. Is being without a child just as painful as being without a mother?  Cassandra had more memories with her daughter than I ever had with my mother. In fact I don’t even share a single memory with my mom.

     “What do you do when you miss her?,” I ask. Not out of curiosity, but out of reality.

     She joins her hands together, and you can clearly see the swelled up veins popping out of the thin layer of skin. She isn’t looking at me, but then again I hope she doesn’t, because I don't think I'll ever be able to take in the agony in her eyes.

     “No amount of grief is ever enough. In the first few years I used to cry hysterically from dusk till dawn. There are four stages to every grief: Denial, in which you refuse to accept reality. Hurt, in which you cry hysterically. Anger and bargaining, in which the urge to burn the entire world takes over you, and at last…acceptance. In which you accept the past and the fate, because nothing can truly be done to undo what has happened…instead of accepting it. And, I, my dear, am past all these stages, but just because I’ve accepted the reality, doesn’t mean the past doesn’t haunt me”

     She finally lifts up her chin to meet my gaze, and her deep round eyes glisten under the candlelight while she puts on a smile, and then slowly lifts up her hand and cups the side of my cheek.

     “I hope you learn how to overcome grief one day too, and I promise to help you in seeing the greater beauty in accepting grief than fighting with it.”

     My heart sinks lower with her words, now almost floating above the tears I’m holding back, and hanging on the edge of that lump in my throat which is too big for me to swallow down. So I do what she has done many times too. I smile. I don’t know what for, but whatever for, it makes things better.

 

I went outside to join Grace for the walk. She was out of sight at first, but then out of the blue appeared.

     “Hey, you came!” she shouted from a yard away.

     “Yeah, I did. Where were you?” I ask as we both walk to each other, and I suddenly smell…

     “I was…just playing with the horses in the barn.” …horses.

      I believe her on this one, because she looks like she’d been playing with the horses. Or the horses had been playing with her.

     “Looks like you did” I say, turning her words on her from the last time, as I eye her from head to toe covered in golden grass and soil.

     “Stop making that face” she elbows me in the ribs. “I’m going to take a bath”

     “Alright” I chuckle as she turns away from me, and stomps her way back in the palace. She’s just even cuter when she’s angry.

     I named this russet horse in the barn Merry, after my mom’s horse Merryn. Merry had always been comfortable around me, even when I used to take sneaky rides on her with a bumpy experience. This is exactly why I named her Merry, because Merryn used to be comfortable around mom too.

    What’s even funnier is that I found this diary from the barn. Buried very poorly under those golden grasses. I sometimes wondered if Edward knew about this, since he’s an old stable hand, but I never asked him. I just took it to my room with me, and I was twelve at that time.

     I personally couldn’t interpret half of the things Isabelle wrote, but something I do remember is looking for that hidden basement. After a week I gave up, because I absolutely couldn’t find it. I still can’t till this day, but I’m not too sure about that, because I stopped looking for it.

     But I’m afraid, the urge to find the basement has again caught a fire inside me. This time with more hope.

 

Chapter 5

Haunting Words

☼

⊱—Mortal—⊰

 

 

“No, sorry I can’t.”

     “Why not?”

     “I’m gonna go pay Cassandra a visit.”

     “Again?”

     As guilty as I am for not spending much time with Grace, I’m just as excited to go visit Cassandra for the third time in a week now.

     Yes. I did go to her again for the second time. Something about her or her words just pulled me again to her doorstep. She told me about my mom’s childhood this time. About how she used to love horse riding. Something about her which I was already familiar with from the diary, but I heard her anyway.

     She told me about the incident which started the horse riding interest in her. The heroic accident, she called it. About how my mom read a story about a child who was about to be hit by the bull, but then his mother came, riding on the horse, and saved the child.

     She said that it not only made her start loving horse riding, but also the mother and the children bond.

     “If she were here, she’d have taught you so much about how to ride a horse. It’s almost awful that you’re not allowed to.”

     I immediately asked her about the rule, but she wished me goodnight and said that I should sleep.

     “I’m so sorry Grace, I-” but my apology is cut off as she slowly pulls me in for a hug, and I’m almost confused.

     “It’s alright. I know it’s your mother that takes you there. It’s okay, but…just be careful” she says before leaving me alone in my room as she goes outside to play with the horses again. I’m stimulated by her new hobby of playing with the horses, but something else stimulates me more…

     “Hello there, dear. Come in”

     …my mother.

     I might not have grown very familiar with her place yet, but somehow when I enter her room, it fills me with a familiar scent.

     The smoky, leather smell and the drab room. The newspapers scattered across her side table unlike the pile they usually are in.

     “Quite punctual,” she remarks as I take my seat on the end of the bed and take a glance at the small round clock sitting on the side table and notice that it’s exactly half past five. Just seconds away.

     The day before yesterday was when she said she’d show me something.

     She takes a seat on the rocking chair this time, not caring about some hanging from the edge of the table newspapers that fall to the ground from the swinging motion of her chair.

     I almost get up to pick them up, but I don’t.

     Her silver strands shine under a single candle as her deep round eyes stare into my soul. She’s creepy sometimes, but I don’t let my assumptions stop me from the unhealthy attachment I’ve formed with her.

     From above the scattered newspapers, she picks up a photograph which was placed upside down so I hadn't caught sight of it before. She hands it to me and I take it. It’s a picture of my mother. I take in her soft tinted smile as she’s sitting on the lush green ground in a pink and white chequered sweater, and scrunching her nose at the bunch of blueberries she’s holding from the tip. She looks young.In her early teens probably, but not any less beautiful. I flip the picture and see something written on the white side in Cassandra’s handwriting.

     “Isabelle turns 15 today. P.S she still hates blueberries.

     “Do you believe in ghosts, Isla?” I’m startled by the sudden question.

     Do I believe in the dead’s soul? Do I believe that souls can haunt people, and live somewhere out of their graves?

     “No,” I reply.

     “You’re erroneous for that” she laughs incredulously.

      I stay silent.

     “What would you do if I told you that you could meet the dead?”

     I wanted to laugh. I almost laughed. Almost wished I could laugh, but her dead seriousness dried my throat and tied my tongue.

     What would I do if I could meet…

     The dead?

     Like corpses and being able to talk to them?

     “I don’t know. I’d not believe you?” I say-the last sentence in more of a question-because I really don’t know.

     She smiles. Again. I wish I could read her mind. Wish she could just tell me everything and not hand me the rope down the hill and then not proceed to pull it upwards. That’s exactly how her words make me feel. On the edge.

     My back and my legs urge me to sit down somewhere, because I’ve been standing for too long. I take my place back at the bed with the photograph still in my hand.

     Just as I sit down, she gets up and it makes me automatically stand up too-making the picture in my lap fall on the floor.

     “It’s almost dinner time. I need to have a look in the kitchen and make sure everything is going alright.”

     “Oh. Sure.” I say, but she leaves me in her room and goes outside. Am I supposed to wait for her until she’s back?

     I exhale the frustration Cassandra can cause anyone in just minutes. I should probably leave before a corpse appears from thin air and eats me up.

     I kneel down to pick up the picture which had fallen earlier, but before my hand could get the hold of my mother’s photograph, it got a hold of something else…

     A handle.

     To somewhere.

 

Chapter 6

 Deception and Veracity

☾

⊱—Spirit—⊰

 

 

There’s been a weird kind of chaoticness today. Not like it’s not here before, it just seems like something is different.

     There was a hustle in the midst of the town which grew larger by the time I entered the morally black and grey kingdom. I can’t see women serving the men anymore nor can I see them sitting joking about how they saw a dead chicken running by.

     Don’t look. Don’t speak. Just walk.

     I need to remind myself all the time to stop the urge of walking up to someone and asking how their day had been. It may sound like a genuine question now, but to them it’s like asking them how you’d like yourself to be re-killed.

     I spot Hugo climbing up the right staircase. He’s a few years younger than me, so probably around fifteen something. I quicken my steps to catch up with him. He probably knows what’s going on. He always does.

     “Hey. Headed where?” I ask as I almost match my steps with him, but he’s still walking faster than his normal pace. “Extra duty” he breathes as we almost touch the wooden flooring of the second floor.

     “Huh?”

     “The Candle Night. Don’t you know?” he says while finally stopping to look at me with his brown eyes.

     Oh

     “I didn’t know it’s hap-”

     “You’re being called right now” asseverates a stout man with an almost bald head who looks like he’s in his forties. I’ve seen him before delivering messages to people around the place, but don’t really know him.

     “Guess you’ll know now” mumbles Hugo before turning away and sprinting to his extra duty, I suppose. I follow the man as he turns and ambles across the hall.

     We walk past the extensive rectangular table in the middle with round jewel embedded head chairs. The walls are plain livid colour with a large glass circle in the middle with pointed glass surrounding it like a sun. The other side is embedded with a cyclopean glass moon. The walls are too high, so you almost feel like an ant in a den.

     At the far end there is another narrow gallery which opens up the hall where usually a ball happens every year, or any other meeting.

    “He’s here, sir” the messenger says as he stops mid-way in the lobby almost making me stumble and bump into him. He doesn’t pay attention to it. Just turns and walks away leaving me with Ralph-the tall, thin, tidy man with his black slick hair combed perfectly and his suit with not a single wrinkle. He supervises most of the things around here.

     “Adrien” he declares.

     “Yes?” I ask while holding my hands at the back, and straightening my shoulders just to appear a little taller, but he’s still way taller than my minor gravitational stretch.

     “Visit Isabelle’s room and make sure she’s prepared for the Candle Night. And by preparation I intend the meaning of her knowing how to walk and talk around the hall. The hostages must appear in good condition, and not like they have been enclosed in jails.”

     But isn’t that exactly how they have been?

     I nod, “Yes, sir,” and turn around on the polished wood and make my way towards Isabelle's room. It’s going to be the first Candle night I attend. I’m both thrilled, and curious about the only enchanting event to have been held here. It’s the night the Eternal decides to visit her kingdom or else Ralph is the one incharge.

     I knock twice on the door before touching the doorknob and twisting it to open it. There are no padlock or keys. It’s my touch. Which is why no one else can truly enter her room except me or Ralph.

     As the wooden door swings open, I spot Isabelle sitting by the window sill with a pink butterfly fluttering its wings and swirling around Isabelle’s extended hand. She turns around, and smiles subtly when she sees me. I close the door behind me and walk towards her, unaware of how I am to fulfil Ralph’s commands. There’s nothing one would change about Isabelle. She’s like an essence of honey, sunshine-embraced eyes, and like a fluttering scent of jasmines. What could I possibly change about her or teach her? She’s enough to enchant anyone who’s going to be present there.

     “I was waiting for you” she says in a sweet voice while getting off the little shelf under the window on which she was sitting.

     “Is that so?”

     “Yeah. I’ve got a message for you”

     “From who?”

     “Florence. She wants you to visit her at the treehouse. She told me to convey it to you, because she was in a hurry.” she elucidates.

     “How did…” Isabelle nods her head sideways in the direction of the window, and I nod while understanding.

     “Candle Night is happening” I tell her, and she presses her lips together and looks down at her hands.

     “Am I to learn a dance, or do any extra work or anything?” She asks submissively.

     “Not at all, Isabelle. I don’t think you need to learn or do anything, and even if you were told to, I’d make sure that you don’t get to. Don’t worry, please”

     She stops fidgeting with her hands and looks up at me with the softest of her smiles, and I can see my reassurance seeping into her eyes with utter belief.

     “I’ll go see Florence.” I say.

     “Take care of yourself”

     “You too” and with that I unlock the door, and make my way out again. Good thing is that Ralph is upstairs so making my way out of this place isn’t arduous at all. I sprint straight out of the black curtains, and out of the large entrance out on the rocky path.

     I wonder why Florence had called me. I hope she’s not in any sort of trouble. Treehouse isn’t far from here, but it’s also not near. You need to cross the small town of Altalune, and that means sprinting through the shops and tents and people until you start to reach the empty yards.

     I fasten my pace as I spot the wooden house from here. As I cut through the air, it sighs a cold breath which encages my ribs.

     I climb up the wooden planks which squeal under my weight and knock on the door. I hear the chain rustle from the other end until the door swings open. I see Florence in her caramel gown and tied hair. I enter and I see how things are not in their place. The table is moved away, so is the bed, so are the couches, so is everything.

     “What happened-”

     “I found a letter.” she blurts out while holding up a black envelope in her right hand. “Addressed to my mom.”

      She hands the letter to me and I take it and turn it around in my palms as I spot the broken red wax seal on it.

     “From the date she died,” she whispers.

     I open the envelope and take out the hard parchment from it and read the scribbled writing.

      13th February, 1994

     Dear Bella,

     I hope you’re doing well. I thought it would be best to inform you first as it is you who’s responsible for this as much as anyone else is. I’m writing this letter to inform you of your husband’s death. Aster’s body lies here in front of me, helplessly. Perhaps you could offer him some of your help? I await you, but only until evening. I shall leave afterwards, and so shall your husband’s body. I cannot witness this filth for much longer anyways.

Yours truly,

Your helper

 

Chapter 7

The Floral Runs

☼

⊱—Mortal—⊰

 

 

I’m running so fast. Everything is almost a blur. I stumbled twice and almost fell on my face, but managed my weight.

     I’ve made my way down the stairs, out the hall, out the main gate, across the front garden and now I'm speeding towards the barn-

     “Oh, sorry…whoever you are” I apologise breathlessly as I bump into a boy almost my age.

     “It’s o-”

     “Oh, hey, Isla. What’s wrong?” Grace appears from behind him. Her eyebrows scrunching from worry.

     I walk past the random guy and towards Grace, and hold both of her biceps.

     “Guess what happened”

     She looks terrified by me right now and honestly I can’t complain.

     “What?” She says almost in a terrified whisper.

     “I found the basement”

 

She’s been pacing in my room for about five minutes now while biting her nails.

     “It just doesn’t make sense.” She finally says while throwing both her hands up in the air.

     “What?” I ask.

     She sits with me on the bed. Her messy black hair is tied up in a loose bun.

     “If the basement's way was from Cassandra’s room then why wouldn’t Isabelle-your mom-mention it in the diary, and if the way was really from her own mother’s room then…” She stops for a few seconds “...wouldn’t her mother have known about it too?”

     “Maybe she does” I say and both of our eyes collide in confusion.

     “Did you go inside it?”

     “Do you want me to die? Of course not. I just saw the handle and ran to you” I stare down at my hands in the lap “I even left my mom’s photograph there” I mutter in regret.

     “What if it was something else?” She says and honestly that sounds bad. I hate myself for actually wanting that handle to lead to the basement. One of the places owned by my mother.

     “I have a feeling that it was the basement. Don’t you think so?”

     “Well…maybe? But I expected the door to be somewhere else.”

     “Wait. Repeat what you just said.” I ask while standing up.

     “Uhh…I expected the door to be somewhere else” she repeats in confusion.

     “Maybe the door is somewhere else.” I wait for Grace to get my point as my hands start to tremble from realisation.

     “Maybe there are two doors.” We both speak at the same time.

     Her eyes wide with risk and excitement, but also horror. Two doors mean two entrances to the basement. And by two entrances mean, there’s still another door somewhere. But where?

    

It was around dusk when Grace suggested we go for a walk. I didn’t want to of course, but she said that overthinking about it wouldn’t open a magic door in front of us, and she said it’s too risky to be any practical around here checking under everybody’s bed for the second door. She had solid points so I couldn't argue. Besides, my room walls are too monotonous to stay with for too long anyway.

     The sharp cold breeze has started to curl deep around your ribs when you walk outside making you hug yourself. It’s so much less suffocating out here. And open too. The sky being illuminated with infinite glittering stars is an exquisite sight itself.

     Grace’s hand joins with mine as she speeds to the dim golden light at the far right end of the yard. The barn. Lately, it has become her favourite place of all times. I see my mom in her.

     We make it to the wooden hut in no time. The horses are moved inside at night for protection and warmth.

     Grace knocks on the wooden door vaguely. Too gentle to disrupt any horse’s sleep. We stand there for a while until the wooden door drags open by someone familiar. It’s not Edward, but I’ve seen him before. Edward’s son.

     “Good evening, ma’am” he bows gently to me.

     “Good evening” I greet back with a smile.

     He looks at Grace and smiles too which she politely returns. He holds open the door for us to enter.

     It’s a large one. Hay is scattered all over the floor. A large broad gallery follows to the right with segregated rooms for every horse. It’s not too bright in here which also makes it a more comfortable place than bright white lights.

     “How may I help you?”, Edward’s son asks as he appears from behind after closing the door. It’s also somehow warmer here.

     “Oh no, we were just wandering-”

     “Let’s play that game we were playing yesterday!” Grace squeals while jumping and smiling so wide.

     I give her a look, because I don't remember playing any game with her yesterday. Her eyes are still shining with that glimmer though.

     “Everette, don’t just stare at me like a horse. Go bring the cards” Grace says while giving him a little go-to push from the back. He hesitates though and looks over his shoulder at me for approbation. I nod slightly with what he turns around and runs lightly to the end of the barn and enters inside one of the right stables.

     “What cards?” I query as Everette goes out of sight.

     “Oh, you’ll know in a few. Have patience.” she says. She stands on her toes with her chin up looking for a view at the end of the barn.

     “You’re the one being impatient right now,” I jest.

     The gable roof isn’t very high, but isn’t very low either. There are square crossed windows on the side wall after every four feet or so. The very first wall Grace and I stand in front of provides a clear view of the entrance of the kingdom. I wonder how easy it is to just sit inside here and stare at the kingdom and know every detail, because of the position this barn is specifically located at.

     Light footsteps on the hay catch my attention as I spot Everette ambulating towards us. A small brown sack is what it appears to be in his hand.

     “There you go” he says while holding out the small bag, tied with a white ribbon on the opening, to Grace.

     “Alright. Let’s play then.” she says as she beckons us to sit down on the ground with her. It takes Everette one, and me, two seconds to be settled on the ground.

     “Well, what is this card game I'm unaware of?” I ask as my eyes follow Grace’s fingers as they slowly untie the white ribbon from the opening.

     “It’s the floral card game” her hand scavenges into the small bag “Every card has a flower on it” she explains while holding out a bunch of small rectangular cards in her right palm. “And every flower has a word on it” she says as she smacks the cards straight with the help of her left palm.

     “Everyone gets four cards. The rest sit separately. On your turn, you take a card from here…” she points at the backside facing cards on her side “...and keep it with you. Then you throw out all the similar cards you have. When left with different cards, you pass it to the player next to you. They throw out all the similar cards too, and pass it to the next player. They repeat the same, and at the end, the cards or card you receive back after the complete rotation, you see the words, and tell and act out a story using those words.”

     “What’s the point of flowers on them then?” I ask as Grace shuffles and give out four cards to both me and Everette and sets down her four too.

     “If your story is good enough…” She sets the remaining cards in the middle with the front facing flat on the floor. “...we go hunting for that flower, and bring it to you”

     I pick up my cards. They’re thin, hard textured cards with a leaf outline around the borders. Between each of them is a flower. Looking so real. I got a white tulip, a bluebell, a sunflower, and another tulip.

     At the bottom of the card, under the stalk, is a word written for each one of them in cursive handwriting. For the tulips it’s ‘joy’. For the bluebell it’s ‘gratitude’. For the sunflower it’s ‘hope’.

     “Everyone ready?” Grace asks as she hides her cards to her chest and looks around at Everette and I.

     “Yes,” Everette replies.

     “Yeah,” I say. “Who will go first?”

     “You can. We’ve played before too.” she says.

     Subtle gentle whinnies create a humming pattern, too soothing to be disrupted with even our shallow breaths.

     I take a card from the set sitting in front of me, and add the card to my set. It’s a rose. A deep red one with the word inked in a fancy scribble: love. Not a pair. I place the tulips out and set them down in the middle as they’re the only similar ones I have. I pass my other two cards to Everette. He’s sitting with one leg up. Grace is sitting cross-legged and I’m sitting on my knees.

     After a few seconds of concentration, he takes out two bluebells and places them on top of my tulips, and shortly after, a jasmine pair which goes in the middle too. He then passes his three cards to Grace. I notice how the back of the card is actually a garden with a field of many kinds of blooming flowers. There’s also a sun in the top middle of the card. Shining upon the garden.

     Grace sets down a pair of red lilies, and a pair of daisies.

     “There you go” she mumbles as she gives me back the three cards that are left after the rotation. It’s a sunflower. A rose. And a lotus with the word ‘resilience’.

     Everette changes his position to cross legged, and Grace leans back on her palms. I set down the cards in front of me separately.

     Hope. Love. Resilience.

     I take a deep breath as I close my eyes to think of a made-up story, but another image shades my eyelids pushing back the imaginary fairies and frogs I was thinking of. The image of a blurry garden hovered upon by butterflies and moths.

     A perfect dawn arising from the east, shining on the flowers planted in the garden. There’s a cottage nearby with a white horse outside. So tall and elegant as he neighs and pulls out a brunette woman from inside the cottage who’s cradling a baby in her arms. She caresses the horse’s face with her palm on which he rests his head peacefully.

     “You alright, Merryn?” she asks.

     “You alright, Isla?” Grace asks.

     I open my eyes as the blurry portrait colours drain slowly into the black and white reality.

     “Yeah. I think I know what story I’m going to do”

 

Chapter 8

 The Paper Soul

☾

⊱—Spirit—⊰

 

 

I got hit by the very last paper ball. Or I thought so. Because she hits me again while giggling and running to fetch another paper and crumple it to make another ball. I get mine made in the meantime too. I have to get back home before dusk too.

     I throw the paper ball I just made in her direction, but it misses her by an inch and lands at the wooden table on the back. She then aims her paper ball at me which misses me too. It’s hot, and I'm sweating, but it’s fun playing with her. I want to keep playing with her.

     I try picking up an already made ball so that I can aim faster than her. She does it too I think. She’s smart. Smarter than me. She goes to pick up the ball which I had thrown earlier from the round wooden table. It’s a mess everywhere. There is a calendar sitting on the table too. It’s a flip card calendar with the number card 13 on the right side and February on the left side.

     I get my shoot ready and hurl it in her direction which hits her back and drops to the ground.

    I cackle “I win!”

     She doesn’t turn around. Maybe it’s her plan. I tiptoe to her until I'm standing with her.

     “You don’t want to play anymore?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer.

     She’s holding a picture in her hand. There’s a lady sitting with a man on the green ground with a little baby in between them, and they’re all smiling in the picture.

     “That’s you!” I tell her by pointing at the baby in the middle.

     She smiles “Yeah. And that’s my dad…” she says while pointing her finger to the man “...and that’s my mom” she says while pointing to the lady enthusiastically.

     “Woah. That’s your family! Where are they?” I ask.

     “Dad’s gone to work for a very long time, my mom says” she says while putting down the picture back on the table.

     “And your mom? Is she gone to work too?” I ask.

     “I don’t know” she says, and then walks to the corner of the room and sits down there while hugging her knees.

     “What are you doing?” I ask while going to her and sitting beside her. I can clearly see the dark sky and clouds from here through the window.

     “Waiting for her to come back home”

     “Can I wait with you?” I ask.

     “Yes,” she smiles.

     I don’t think I’ll be going back home now. I can’t leave Florence alone. I must stay with her. I want to stay with her.

 

“Wake up” someone jerks me up from my arm making me stand on my feet. I rub my eyes to fully see who it is. It’s an old woman. I look around to find Florence. She’s rubbing her eyes too. 

     When she sees me and the old woman, her eyes quickly widen and she stands in front of me while extending both her arms as though she’s shielding me.

     “Leave us alone.” she says.

     “Ah, like mother like daughter. You’r e jus’ like your mothe’” the old woman grins.

     Florence slowly puts down her arms. “You know my mom?” she asks as the old woman bends down to tilt up Florence's chin with her thick index finger. “Oh, sweetheart. She’s gone.”

     “Where?” she asks while frowning.

     “Very far away. She’s not coming back. But I'll be here to take care of you two on behalf of your mother.” She stands up. “Now follow me, and call me your mother from now onwards, or else I’ll leave you two to rot here in this-” she looks around the pretty treehouse and makes a disgusting face “-rubbish. Move, now.”

     We do. We climb down the thin wooden stairs of the treehouse behind the old woman. Florence waits for me to catch up with her, since I'm walking the most behind them. When I reach her, she holds my hand in a tight grip, and then continues walking. She was taking care of me. Something my mom and dad would do if I hadn’t left them yesterday, and stayed at home or returned by evening. I didn’t do either.

     It’s a long walk. Too silenced. However, I can hear many voices from somewhere. But where? It’s dull everywhere. Only a few crows hovered by, but aside from that I saw no parrot or sparrow flying by or chirping. The land is barren of flowers.

     We walk for a while until we stop at what looks like a huge gate. Aroma of freshly baked food and well-aged drinks lingers to my nose.

     “Where are we?” I ask in a whisper as I try to peep inside the gate  which has slightly opened for us to enter by a tall, broad, sedate man with his armour on.

     “I don’t know” Florence whispers back as we follow the old lady inside the gate. There are people. A lot of people. Dressed so fancy. There are candles and chandeliers. All burnt bright, lightening the place. It’s all so bright, yet so dark.

     She looks behind her at us for the first time in the whole journey. She extends her feeble hand for me to hold. She looks worried. Maybe she’s worried about losing us in the crowd. I hold her hand. And now we’re like a train on this perway of glass stairs we are climbing. Me behind the old woman, and ahead of Florence.

I wonder where we’re going. People in fluff and feathers, white and black, jewels and emeralds, and other ravishing dresses, pass by us. Everyone’s in a hurry. In a chaoticness. However, they’re trying to pretend to be calm. Like running while walking.

Stairs finally come to an end. She doesn't let go of my hand. It’s more peaceful up here. Better. It’s a big lounge. With tall walls. They’re of  a design I’ve never seen before. Mirrors. Jewels. All decorating the wall.

“Ow!” a hushed cry escapes the old lady’s mouth as I bump into her from the back. She turns around with a frown.

“Sorry,” I say.

Florence’s hold on my hand tightens.

The old woman takes a deep breath and turns her expression into a happy one with a smile on her face.

“Alright kids…” She comes behind us and places a hand on both of our end shoulders, and whispers in our ears from the back. “...It’s your time to shine'' and gives us a gentle back push. We walk, until we pass the long rectangular dining table placed in this room with so many chairs.

From the end of the room, there’s a lobby to the left which we enter. Beneath the lobby there is a colossal hall. Thrice as large as the dining table one. It’s round with a large chandelier hanging from the middle.

We descend the staircase from the end of the lobby. There are a few chairs and tables around the border of the hall, but the rest of it is empty from the middle. The floor has a large crescent moon design on it spread upon many tiles.

I turn around to look at the old lady, but she’s busy fixing her small rough curls with her fingers. I look at Florence, but she’s staring at the dark green dress of the woman standing a few feet away from us. The dress is beautiful. Everyone here is dressed beautifully. I’m in a simple white shirt and brown pants, and Florence is in a black frock which is really pretty.

The hall gets crowded with everyone in just a few minutes. It’s too rushy. Everyone is mumbling to either their partner or to themselves.

The lights suddenly go out, and Florence screams a little.

“Florence? Florence, you okay?” I call out in the darkness as I try to find her in the darkness from her hand.

“Shhh!” snaps the old lady. “Stay shut, menace”

I find Florence’s hand finally, and I hold it tight and close. They’re as cold as river water in winters.

It’s quiet. So quiet that I can hear myself breathing, and my heart beating. I wonder if others can hear it too.

Dark is terrifying, God.

Who blew the candles? And why?

A golden light suddenly brings a little light to the room. I turn around to find where the light is coming from. It’s coming from the far end of the hall. It looks like someone is holding a single candle in their hand.

“Welcome” a deep voice echoes in the hall. It’s coming from the same person who's holding the candle. It’s very loud.

“Where is it?” the person with the candle asks in a hiss.

Where is what?

Are we playing hide and seek and finding an object in darkness? I wait for someone to answer, because it looks like the  question was asked for us people to answer.

“Here, my Lord”

My heart beat doubles, when I hear the old lady respond from behind me.

“Bring them here” The person with the candle demands.

Even though the light is very less, I can see the old lady’s weird smiling face, as she clenches my right shoulder and Florence’s left, and pushes us to walk like how she did earlier.

I don’t want to go. I’m scared. I hesitate to walk, but the old lady’s grip on my shoulder gets painful when I try to. So I do as I'm forced to.

I walk.

I walk until the golden light gets closer and the sight gets brighter, but somehow it all feels darker.

We reach the candle. I’m too scared to look up so I shut my eyes and bow my head down. I don’t know what’s about to happen. This is not how you play hide and seek.

I can smell a deep spicy scent. It’s too thick; it's giving me a headache.

I can feel someone coming closer to my face, and their shallow breaths on my forehead.

“Bow” another demand.

Florence flinches from the loud voice, and I can feel it through her hand how scared she is. I want to run away with her. I want to leave this place.

“As you wish, my Lord” the old lady says. A moment of silence passes by. I slowly open my eyes. Maybe it was all a dream. My eyelids slowly open.

It was not a dream.

I see someone wearing a long black dress covering their body from neck to toe with no exposed skin. The dress is fancier and weirder than any of the people here. It’s full of glass. The person is wearing a black mask which covers their face completely, leaving only two holes for eyes. The eyes that are just as dark as anything else.

In their neck is a necklace of a stone. It’s a black stone. So black, that their black dress even looks paler in comparison to it.

“Did you not hear what your Lord has demanded?” the old lady finally speaks, breaking the silence.

“Bow.”

I look at Florence beside me who’s just as stunned as me. I know how it feels. Not knowing what to do or where to go. We were just the same. With no one to take care of us.

“Bow!” the person with the candle shouts.

I flinch, and drop to my knees immediately. I hate crying. Beside me, Florence does the same. I shut my eyes tight again before bowing down and touching my forehead to the ice floor.

Mine and Florence’s hands are still held, and she tightens the hold after every other second passing by.

“You got something good, Blakesly” the deep voice sparks a hiss. I can hear footsteps surrounding us. It’s as if the person is circulating us.

“Yes, my Lord. I’m glad you like them” the old lady speaks gleefully.

Something hard pats my head twice. Not hard enough to hurt, but still hard enough to be felt throughout my brain.

A few seconds pass by, until I hear the same sound of the rock hitting something. This time with Florence’s head.

Tightened grip again.

“Welcome, Immortals. You’ll be taken good care of only if you return us the same. I’ll take my leave now”

That was the last thing I heard before the brightness came back. Lights turned on. I sit straight on the floor. The chandelier is lit, and the people are walking normally as if nothing happened.

“Get up, both of you, now” the old lady-Blakesley-snarls. It feels so restricted to even breathe anymore.

We do as we’re told. We get up. Violin and piano are being played in the hall now. Some are swirling. Some are going up the stairs, and coming back with filled plates and glasses.

“Go, take a round around. You’ll be staying here now. It’s your new place” Blakesly smiles while disappearing in the crowd, leaving us two alone. We finally let go of each other’s hands, and I see the visible red fingerprints of her fingers on my upper hand.

I look beside me at her right hand with similar red marks. She looks at it for a second, but then shrugs and walks around disappearing amidst the group of people of elegantly dressed women, and debonair men. I turn around and look at the walls and the place too.

 

“They died on the same day” Florence runs her fingers through her hair, and holds her head in her hands. She sits on the couch nearby.

“Was this letter opened or did you open it?”

“Opened” she replies.

“Hey, listen.” I try to sound calm, even though it’s completely different when I see Florence-someone as close as a blood sister could be-drowned in her very deep thoughts.

“I want to know who wrote this letter. I need to know, because a part of me says that this helper is the murderer of both my parents-”

“It’s a black envelope,” I tell Florence.

“-because they can’t possibly die on the same exact date-”

“Florence” She pauses and as if hearing just now what I said before, her gaze lingers on the black envelope in my hand.

“Black envelope. It means…”

“That it was written by someone from the kingdom.” I complete.

She looks up at me. Her nose is red and her eyes are watery.

“The Eternal?” she leers.

“Could be or could be Ralph”

I caress Florence’s arm, even though I know that her rage is far more deeper than that. The kind of burning rage which doesn’t rest until it has burnt something.

“She didn’t deserve to die like that.” Florence gets up from the floor. “And I will not be the one to sit down, and watch her blood seep in vain, just because she made a mistake to listen to whoever wrote this letter.” She walks to the end of the treehouse and pulls out her bag from under one of the shelves, and puts it over her head, down to her shoulder.

“Florence, where are you going?” I ask while getting up too and walking to her.

“To find the one who killed my parents” she says as she stops in front of me.

“But we’re not sure of it, Florence” I ask in confusion.

“But I am,” she utters.

“No, Florence, don’t…” I’m shaking my head, but I don’t think it seems to have an affect on her anymore. She has her motto. And she’s going to go beyond every boundary for it.

“I’m sorry. I have to” she tilts and walks past me towards the door.

“Florence, this is…insanity. The Black Swan of Altalune? You’re off to find her? The one with the utter control over…everything?”

“Yes”

“Flora, I cannot lose you in this battle of you finding someone you’ve lost,” I plead.

“I can not find myself now until I find the one who made me lost”