You’ll never save them, it giggles in a high-pitched voice, its large eyes glowing as brightly and eerily as its tail. You can’t even save yourself. Its jaws open wide and snap down twice. I toss the jar to the ground and leap back. The jar glimmers as the little beast flies innocently.
Suddenly Ivo is at my side. “You’ve only caught one fly?” he laughs. “Are you giving up already?”
“I just don’t feel like it anymore.” I peer fearfully into the jar.
He collects the jars and twists the lids open. The flies scatter, flashing through the mist as the thunder grows louder.
I walk toward a tree and rest against it, staring at my empty jar, haunted by the fly’s message.
Ivo follows, leaning next to me and I sigh.
“Ah, don’t be cross,” he laughs and nudges me with his elbow.
“No, that’s not it,” I say. He stands silently, waiting for me to continue. “Do you think I am weak?”
“When it comes to catching fireflies? Yes, you are terribly weak.” He smiles widely. I shake my head and cannot help but smile back.
I nudge him in the ribs. “Be serious! Do you think I am weak?”
He smirks, looks down at the ground, and shuffles his feet a little as he thinks. He sighs and shakes the hair from his face.
“We all have weaknesses…” he says, staring straight forward. His fingertips brush the inside of my hand. “But it’s the people, the things that we have weaknesses for that bring us the strength and courage to do what we must.” His fingers wrap around my hand and my pulse quickens.
A crack of thunder causes me to jump and the sky dissolves in a heavy downpour, drenching us immediately. I cup my free hand and the rain pools inside it. Rain pours down Ivo’s face and drips off his nose. I feel the same happening to my face. We look into each other’s eyes and smile.
He drops his jar in the mud and slides his hand beneath the soaked tangles of my hair, gripping the nape of my neck. My heart races as his other hand slides to the small of my back and he pulls me in close. His warmth is a welcome contrast to the damp cold of our clothing. I gasp, and feel the heat of my breath reflect off his face. A warmth rushes to my cheeks, my belly...
We both are weak. I relax in his arms and reach for the sides of his face. For the briefest moment our eyes catch and then close.
A flash of light blinds me through my closed eyes, and a deafening crash shakes the earth. Lightning. I cower beneath him and feel myself scream.
~
I awaken with a start, knocking over the empty jar. I grab my hot cheeks, still blushing from the dream. But it isn’t just a dream. It all happened nine months ago. When there was no fever and Mama was alive.
My stomach tightens as I think upon the kiss that almost happened. I look around. Father is not yet back. It is still dark. The thought of bed crosses my mind, but my heavy head and eyelids convince me to stay where I am. It is the kind of dream I hope to continue. But not just to see Ivo. I want to see Mama again. I rest my head on my arms and sigh as I surrender to slumber.
~
I hear the gong of church bells and realize it is the ringing of my ears. Ivo’s lips move as I scream, but I do not hear him. His hands grip the sides of my face like a vice.
“I can’t hear you!” I shout, unable to hear my own voice. I try to pry his hands from my head.
Staring at his lips, I realize he is asking me if I am all right. “I’m fine! Are you all right?” I shout.
His eyes dart across my face and he nods, mouthing the words: I’m all right. He releases my face and hugs me so tight I cry out in pain, but neither of us hears it. Our eyes meet again, and a wave of disappointment shadows his face. Our kiss shall not happen, at least not tonight. The ringing in my ears gives good reason not to have an uncomfortable conversation about it.
Lightning, I mouth.
He nods his head in response. His eyebrows rise as a wide grin spreads across his face. He shrugs, shakes his head, and laughs.
The ringing fades, but I still cannot hear. He points to the direction of Foller Strasse, and I nod in reply. In less than a moment, we are standing in the torrential rains a block from my home, the streets still empty.
I hope the lightning strike did not wake my parents. I hope they did not check on me. Perhaps Mama shall, but she is lenient. However, if she fears for my safety, then she shall certainly wake Father. He is not lenient. My stomach churns with fear of his punishment.
A figure stands outside our house, gazing into the distance. She floats in a diaphanous cream-colored chainse and surcote, untouched by the rain. The wind has died down, though her hair and the fabric of her clothes blow around her. By the grace of God, it is Mother who looks for me. I know I must hurry before she wakes Father.
A man runs across Filzengraben from Hay Market. It is Father, drenched and panic-stricken.
I utter a curse. Ivo looks confused so I point in Father’s direction. A pang of guilt and fear strike me, for I have worried my parents and caused Father to hunt me down in the middle of the night through a storm. Such is the burden and blessing of being my parents’ only surviving child.
Ivo shan’t be punished or worried for. His father cares only that he is back by morning, ready to work.
I swallow my guilt like a lump of dry flour. My father has only struck me once in my life, and I deserved it then. I deserve a much harsher punishment for this, and, although half-resigned to it, I am afraid of it as well. At the least, a harsh punishment shall alleviate my guilt and the dry lump that accompanies it. My parents shall believe my lesson learned, which shall allow them a good night’s slumber without worry for their insolent daughter.
Ivo slows to a jog and follows me through the rain-soaked street. He walks with me.
“No,” I pant between breaths. My words echo again.
“No?” he shrugs.
“You are not walking me home. If Father sees you with me, he may say something to your father. There is no sense in us both being punished.” Father will be more severe with me if he knows I was out at night with a boy, even if that boy is Ivo.
“Adelaide!” My mother’s cry echoes through the storm. As our eyes meet, I can see her relief. She looks at Ivo and smiles knowingly at him. I run with a throbbing side and legs into her arms. She hugs me tightly, but she is cold, and her arms are as light as the linen of her dress.
“You are covered in mud!” she cries as she frantically looks me over for mortal wounds. “Are you all right?”
“She fell when the lightning struck,” Ivo responds before I can. “I asked her to come catch fireflies with me, Frau. It’s my fault.”
Worry washes over Mother’s face as she realizes how close the lightning had struck. She’s always been so good at hiding her worry, so seeing it now makes me feel terribly guilty. Tears well in my eyes as I wrap my arms around her neck.
“Please, don’t worry and don’t be angry with Ivo, Mother. I chose to go. It is my fault, but I shall never do it again! I swear it.”
Father rounds the corner of the house.
“You’ve found her?” His forehead wrinkles in confusion, and he stops in his tracks when he notices Ivo standing behind me. “Did Ivo find her?”
“No—” Ivo starts.
“Don’t be so modest, Ivo,” Mother quickly interrupts. “Addie told him she planned to catch fireflies tonight. He heard the lightning strike and got worried so he went to look for her.”
I am shocked by her ability to lie so quickly. Even so, Father is too wise to fall for it, but loves her enough to allow her such little white lies.
“Thank you for bringing her home, Ivo,” he states dryly. Ivo nods, his eyes shamefully turned to the ground. “We should get sleep and so should you. Send your father my regards. If you should be so kind to return my daughter twice, I shall send my regards to him myself,” he threatens.
“Yes, Herr,” Ivo replies. Father waves his hand to dismiss Ivo who turns and jogs along the street
back to his home.
Mother throws a weightless arm around me, looking me over with a grin. “Let’s get you inside and scrub that mud away until that pretty skin of yours is looking snow white again. I shall tell you how I prayed for a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as the sill of our windows.”
Snow White is a name I do not enjoy. It is a term of endearment from my mother, but a phrase of torment used by the artisan and merchant children who mock me for my fair skin and black hair. I would never tell Mama, for it would hurt her to know, and while I have no love for the name, Snow White, I do have love for the way she speaks it.
~
“Addie?” a soft whisper calls, but I do not recognize the voice.
“Addie? You should go to bed.”
Galadriel shakes my shoulder, softly coaxing me out of my dream. I open my eyes reluctantly, but hesitate at my parents’ bed, not wanting to sleep in it. But exhaustion and hopes of good dreams lure me, and I slip beneath the blankets on Father’s side. I roll over and inhale deeply. The pillow still smells of her. Lavender, wheat, and a crisp breeze. I am careful not to disturb her side. I hope it shall smell like her forever.
I miss her. A tear rolls down my cheek as the numbness fades away and an odd array of emotions radiate through my empty chest; longing, joy, sadness… too many for one night. My face sinks into Father’s pillow, which smells of ale and leather. I no longer resign to sleep. I welcome it.
12 March, 1247, Afternoon
I open a squinted eye. I am alone in a dark room in a large bed, cold from sweat. A biting chill blows in through the open window, and I pull the blankets over my head. I want to close the shutters, but I cannot convince myself to leave the warmth of the covers.
My head is pounding. I squeeze my temples, shifting tangles of hair from my face. I am exhausted, but too cold, too in pain, too restless to sleep.
For a moment, I resign to waking. For a moment, my memories of the past few days escape me. I am the girl I was before this horrible fever struck Cologne: a girl whose worst problem was just a bad headache and having to close the shutters though she’s shivering. Then I wonder why I am in my parents’ bed.
Memories come back in a flash and I sit up. Any peace or confusion I had moments before is gone, and grief twists itself like a drill through my chest.
I fall back onto the bed and roll over to Mama’s side. The smell of lavender swims through the air, and agony spreads from the pit of my belly to form a lump in the back of my throat. I cover my head with my arms to escape the smell and the pain it brings. I cry for a few moments and fall asleep.
Worry plagues me, but not enough to wake me fully. I toss and turn, and then I sleep deeply and dream.
~
Mama stands in front of the hearth cooking porridge and berries for breakfast. It was all a horrid dream, I think, as I reach out to touch her, but my hand passes through her arm to the smoke billowing around the pot.
“Where is your father?” she asks, handing me Father’s bowl of porridge. I gasp. She is nothing but steely ashes. Flakes of her skin glide like snowflakes to the floor, revealing bones beneath.
“I…I do not know where he is.” I stammer and step away.
“Take this to him.” she says coolly and coughs a cloud of black smoke.
I open my mouth to tell her that I do not know where he is. How can I take him his porridge if I do not know where he is? But fear robs me of voice. Mama’s cloudy, lifeless eyes look back at me, and she cocks her head as if she wonders why I am looking at her strangely, why I do not follow her orders, why I am frozen and speechless.
I take another step back and she steps toward me. Mama opens her mouth to speak, but stops, distracted by the ashes flaking from her half-skeletal hand. Her eyes widen with fear, with shock, and she coughs roughly. The black smoke billows from her mouth and she chokes. She gasps, and a coughing spell consumes her, flames shoot from her mouth. She falls at my feet and crawls toward me. I am frozen. She grabs my dress and pulls.
Finally I am able to leap back, but the floor vanishes. I am falling from a great height, but just as I am about to hit the ground, I awaken.
~
I sit up in bed and cry out. I look to Mama’s empty groove in the bed next to me and my stomach twists. I’ll never run to her when I have a bad dream ever again.
“Adelaide…” moans Galadriel. “Are you all right?” She walks in, gripping the walls. Her usually porcelain skin is sallow.
“I am fine. Has Father returned? Have you seen him?” I ask.
“No.” She says, inching closer. Sweat beads across her forehead. “Perhaps he is at the market.”
“You are unwell.”
“It’s nothing to worry about. It’s not the fever. I am well enough,” she says.
“No, Galadriel, you look...unwell. You should rest.”
She sits on the end of the bed and a crisp wind blows across her skin. I can smell the ale in her sweat. I don’t want her sitting on Mama’s side of the bed, even if she is only on the end.
She pulls a small loaf of bread from a pocket in her dress and sets it on the bed, her nose shriveling up as though the smell of it shall make her retch.
“I thought we had no bread,” I say as I fumble with the loaf. If it weren’t for my rumbling stomach, I would leave the whole loaf to Father. Food has had no taste since Mama had taken sick. I chew a bite and my mouth fills with the taste of moist, mealy sawdust. We haven’t any bread in a week with all that has happened. I should salivate over it, savor it, but it is tasteless.
“Your neighbor, Igor, brought it this morning.”
“Igor?”
“A tall, blonde boy,” she says, shakily. “He asked after you.”
“Oh.” She means Ivo, but I do not bother with correcting her.
Galadriel turns forward and stares out the window once more. There is a long silence. I worry Father is not in his shop below, for I hear nothing, so I excuse myself to check for him, finding him absent. I return to my parents’ bedroom, disappointed and worried.
“Is he there?” Galadriel asks.
“No.”
“Surely he is at the market purchasing leather or selling his wares then,” she says with clear doubt.
I chew on my lip as I try to think of a way to leave without her knowledge. I know she’ll not let me go to Hay Market, even with the excuse of purchasing food or leather for Father. She would insist on accompanying me, even in her condition, and slow me down.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask half-heartedly.
“Yes… well enough.” She struggles to get the words past her lips.
“You don’t look like you did,” I say, knowing I have been rude. “Perhaps, you should rest some more.” If she would just go back to sleep, I could leave and look for Father without her interfering.
She says nothing, sitting silently for a long time. I lean toward the edge of the bed to peak at her face. Her pasty skin has turned a gruesome shade of green. Her eyes squint and lips fold with discomfort. A wiry strand of blonde hair falls into her line of vision and many others poke out of yesterday’s perfect plait. But even like this, she is remarkably beautiful.
She starts to rock back and forth and the sweat beads across her pallid forehead. I can see she needs to retch. I feel guilty for what I am about to do. I really do. Mama used to do this to Father all the time, for he had the liquor sweats every Sunday before Mass. It seems mean, but is a cruel kindness in the end, and it shall get rid of her so I can go find Father.
“I wish we had some eggs to cook. Father used to purchase them on Fridays and Mama cooked them Saturday mornings, boiling them in hot water. It’s been weeks since I’ve had them,” I say.
“Uh…” A sickly sigh squeezes through her lips. I lean across the bed again. The green in her face deepens, so I continue.
“Mother cooked them too long. I like them soft so you must soak up the yolks with your bread or lick it
out of the bowl.” Just speaking of egg yolks made Father retch every time.
The ferocious roar of Galadriel’s stomach startles me, and I am afraid she might retch all over the bed, but she does not. She doesn’t retch at all, so I must think of something more disgusting.
“Father would always grow sick of the eggs though and sometimes he’d want a chicken. There was a man who’d butcher them at the market fresh for us in trade for a pair of turn shoes. Have you ever watched a chicken run around without its head?”
Galadriel’s stomach howls. She turns to look at me, but I stare at the ceiling and avoid her gaze.
“It turned my stomach to watch, but it was worse to clean it out. The smell was horrid, like old chamber pots. I couldn’t even eat the poor thing after that. But Father never minded, he’d have wrestled me to the ground for the heart, not that I wanted it. He would slurp it right up and squish it between his teeth.”
Galadriel gags monstrously. I shield my face with the blankets in case she turns my way to vomit. Thankfully, she jumps to her feet and runs to the window. She retches once out the window and then runs down the stairs and out the door.
I cover my ears so I don’t have to hear the splashes and coughs, which make my own stomach turn. Every few moments, I ease my grip to see if she is finished, but it seems she’ll vomit for eternity. I feel a little guilty for making her sick, but, from what I know about Galadriel, she would have suffered all day to avoid the embarrassment of what she just did.
The sounds of her vomiting stop, so I rise from the bed. I grab a mug and dip it into the water basin. I walk down the stairs and through Father’s shop, carefully checking the floor for anything I might not want to step in. I slowly open the door, but am too afraid to look. I stick my arm out the door, shoving the mug in her direction. I gag over the smell and have to run back inside, placing a piece of leather over my nose.
“I’m sorry you’re unwell,” I call out the door.
“I should be sorry,” she calls back, then swishes the water in her mouth and spits it onto the ground. “I’m supposed to be caring for you.”
“You should rest,” I say as she enters the room, no longer green, but wickedly pale and dripping with sweat. Several strands of hair dangle from her head now, and I feel for her. Had our roles been switched, I would be mortified, but I need for her to go to sleep so I can leave without her sending someone after me.