I remember the first time I caused two men to kill each other.
I was seven and was waiting outside a dressing room while my mother tried on summer vacation clothes. She had told me not to move a muscle, so that’s what I did. The department store was quiet and I soon felt myself getting drowsy from boredom and the breathing in and out of the same warm, recycled air. That’s when I noticed two men talking nearby.
At first I thought they were friends or worked together, but then I saw they were angry. They were standing on opposite sides of the check-out counter, and that seemed like the only thing keeping them from pushing or hitting each other. And then they were pushing and hitting each other. I heard someone yell from somewhere nearby, and when I looked back, I saw that one of the men had pulled a knife and was stabbing the other. As they fell down and out of view, I heard both of the men begin to scream.
My mother had come out at the commotion, and without another word she grabbed my hand and pulled me from the store. I was shaking as we walked across the parking lot to the car, but I didn’t cry. I never cried in front of her. Instead I just waited, tense and tight as a spring, for whatever my mother had to tell me. Five minutes down the road, she began.
“Did you see those men?”
I nodded from the backseat and then spoke up. “Yes, ma’am. I did.”
She was gripping the steering wheel tightly, her gold and silver rings standing out from her white fingers like strange, glittering mountains on some distant, hostile world. I saw her dark eyes flick up to mine in the rearview mirror.
“Did you see the dark cloud around them?”
I frowned, shaking my head. I knew my mother saw a great many things. Knew a great many things. And while she could be harsh, she was never dishonest or cruel. Even when I was afraid of her, I loved her. Wanted to be like her and never disappoint her.
In my heart, I considered lying. Saying I had seen the cloud around them, just so I could be like her. But she would know I was lying and it would make her angry. Worse, she would think less of me. So I kept shaking my head as I answered.
“No, ma’am.”
She nodded, her eyes unreadable. “Well, that may be for the best. It was a terrible thing to see. It was a dark cloud that made those men fight and have the lust for killing. Just a little thing swimming around the two of them. But that’s not the worst part.” She let out a deep breath. “No, the worst part was I saw a black string of it trailing back towards us like the string on a balloon. Trailing all the way back to my sweet little girl.”
I remember feeling so scared then, so ashamed. It wasn’t the first time my mother had told me secret, hidden things that she saw, or the first time she had hinted there was something wrong with me. But even at that young age, I understood how her mind worked. The meanings and implications of what was said and left unsaid. Normally I kept that all to myself, but this time I just couldn’t. I had to know.
“Mama, was the cloud coming from me?”
She closed her eyes for a second, and when she reopened them, I saw her mascara smudged from the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “I’m afraid so, honey. You made those nice men fight. Maybe kill each other.” We rode on in silence for several minutes then, the only sounds the road beneath us and my mother’s sniffling. I still wasn’t crying or even really afraid. There was a terrible inevitability to it all that made sense, as though my inherent badness had finally grown so strong it had spilled out into the outer world.
I looked back at Mama’s face in the mirror. “Am I going to hurt more people?” And then at the panicked thought, I added, “Am I going to hurt you with this cloud?”
Mama favored me with a watery smile. “I hope not, honey. I’ll do what I can to stop it.” She was suddenly slowing down the car until we were stopped dead in the road a few miles from home. Turning around, she looked at me intently, her face no longer smiling, but not unkind. “But don’t you worry, baby. I won’t leave you. And I’ll do my best to keep everyone safe from you.”
Six months later, Mama woke me up to tell me that the world was ending.
I hadn’t been back to school since the day in the department store, and aside from Mama, the only person I had seen was the mailman when he stuck his arm out to put mail in the mailbox. She told people I was being home schooled, but for the most part I was left to my own devices so long as I stayed inside. The house was huge, and even growing up there, I felt like there was always something new to explore in a forgotten room or a dusty corner of the library.
I loved books already, and once the outside world was foreclosed to me, they became my only real friends aside from Mama. I would carrying them through the shadowy halls of the old family house, whispering secrets to them and holding them up to my ear like a seashell to see if they would answer. They never did, of course, but I didn’t hold that against them. I knew sometimes it was best to stay quiet.
The night the world ended, Mama carried me down to the lower basement. It had been fashioned into a storm cellar decades earlier, with a heavy metal door and rooms set aside for storing food and water. I had always been intrigued by my earlier glimpses of it, but now I was afraid. When she pulled me inside and twisted the door handle shut, I felt my stomach clenching.
“What’s happening, Mama?”
She was dressed up like always—wrapped in a green cocktail dress and glittering with jewels, from behind she looked like she had just gotten home from attending some fancy party or hosting an elaborate dinner. She was even holding her little metal box like a tiny purse a model or actress might carry. But when she turned to look at me, her face was pale and drawn, with make-up caked and running into a thick, melting mud of sweat and tears. In the unforgiving sodium lights of our little underground bunker, she looked like a monster when she told me of the death of our world.
“It was your cloud, honey. It was such a terrible thing. I thought if I kept you hidden away, you wouldn’t be able to hurt anybody.” She shuffled over to one of the two small metal beds stuffed against the walls of the front room of the storm cellar. Her eyes were distant and her lips trembled as she sat down unsteadily on the edge of the mattress. “I…I started hearing news stories and gossip about people fighting. Killing each other. At first I hoped it was just normal evil that people do to one another. That my safeguards were keeping everyone safe from you and your little cloud.”
Leaning forward, she bit the knuckles of her clenched hands. “But I was stupid. And I supposed I always knew in my heart of hearts. Then, just today, I saw it when I went into town. It was almost as big as the sky, and I saw people fighting in the streets. Going crazy.”
Turning to stare at me with her wide, raccoon eyes, her voice cracked with emotion. “It’s only a matter of time before they figure out it’s coming from you. And then they’ll come for you, those that are left. That’s why we have to stay down here where it’s safe. In a few months, everything will be settled one way or the other, and we can go back outside. Try to make a life in whatever world is left.” Mama smiled weakly. “I know it won’t be fun, but if we’re careful we have enough food and water to last a year down here. I’ve been getting ready just in case.”
I went over to her, hugging her both to comfort and to be comforted. I was so ashamed and guilty for all the bad I had done without even realizing it, but what I hated the most was what I was putting Mama through. She already had so much on her with her special sight. She had foreseen Daddy dying weeks before it happened, and she had known since I was a baby that something wasn’t right with me. But she always stuck by me, forgiving me, protecting me. I squeezed her tightly, my heart thudding with fear and sadness, but most of all, love.
It was hours later, when I was still softly crying in some twilight realm of not-sleep, that I felt her crouched in the darkness next to my new bed. I felt her hand light on my head, gently stroking my hair as she murmured to me.
“Nothing to worry about, baby girl. I’ve seen what needs to be done. We’re going to stop this bad ol’ cloud.”
Looking up from my tear-stained pillow, I stared at her voice in the dark. “How?”
“Well, I’m going to wait a few days and then I’ll head up into the house. Into the attic. Your father’s old bow is up there somewhere. With it, I can try to kill the cloud, or at least drive it off.”
What she was saying made no sense, but she seemed so certain. “How do you know that, Mama?”
I heard the rasp of metal on concrete as she reached down to find the small box in the inky black surrounding us and give it an affectionate pat. Of course, the box. She had seen something in it. That was part of how she got her visions, and while I had never been allowed to touch or look into the box myself, I knew how powerful it was. It was what had first showed her I had something wrong with me when I was just a little baby.
“The box of shadows, dear. It showed me the way.”
I could have left it there. I knew the rhythms of conversation with my mother well enough to know when she was satisfied, and I could have just let the silence stretch out until she tired enough to go back to bed. But I wanted to show her how much I cared. That I was a smart little girl that wanted to help, even if I had wickedness in me.
So I sent one more question out into the dark.
“Where are you going to get arrows for the bow, Mama?”
Her breath was hot on my neck as she leaned close, crooning the words into my ear as she began stroking my hair again.
“Why from your bones, my heart. I’ll make my arrows from your bones.”
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Credits
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