Narcissus

Snow falls behind the cracked windows of the old house like a neat, thick curtain of evil and dirt. So innocent of sight that the truth of its might to freeze in seconds beneath its touch seemed to be no more than a myth of people frightened by the fair sight. Something that in Erostey was not at all uncommon. Beautiful meant danger. Strange meant sure despise. And the combination of the two meant misfortune.

The girl didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to go out and she didn’t want to move. Her little hands were turning blue, and the shivers increased the sobs escaping between her lips and clenched teeth. The day was fading along with the ruddy color of her cheeks, but her loneliness and depression lurked like a wild animal hiding in the beauty of the snow, ready to paint the neatness with the scarlet of her blood.

But even with that constant stress of losing to her fears, she always found a way to hide in this neglected and forgotten room. In a strange way it provided her with what its owner no longer could. Peace and a bit of numbness that soothed the urge to cry.

“Dalia?”

Like the beacon of hope the girl had hoped for, at the door of the room appeared the old woman, she to whom the title of “grandmother” gave her glee and that of “mother” had already become a bitter story from a few years ago, from when the girl had not yet had the ability to produce any noise at all.

“What are you doing back here, child? You will die of cold.”

The girl doesn’t move, repeating that cursed word in her head as many times needed to push it away from herself, as the old woman walks over and takes a seat next to her on the old abandoned wooden bed. She knows the girl will not leave the place. At least, not until she finds the strength to move on.

“You want me to tell you a story?”

Like a magic she thought was extinct, the girl’s eyes look at her with lights within them, an unfamiliar look that has brought nothing but discomfort and negative feelings to the little girl. The old woman helps her sit up and takes her in her arms, wrapping her shawl and arms around her until she feels the girl’s cold, pale skin begin to sync with the warmth of her own, her attention set completely on the old woman’s eyes.

It was always the same story. But it always provoked the same feelings inside both. Longing and dismay.

“Far away from the limestone wall. Beyond the forest of wandering souls. There, where the light dances on glittering waters. Hidden from humans. Full of magic and creatures beyond imagination. Beauty and sin in a single whole. That’s where The Garden is. Its dazzling flowers waiting for prey.”

The little girl forms a small smile on parched lips that only makes the old woman’s heart sink. The feeling of wanting to protect her from everything grips her heart with each day the little girl seems to grow.

“Mother,” her son’s faint voice is so irritatingly familiar that the old woman doesn’t have to look to know he is standing in the doorway. And so many times it’s been the same, she doesn’t have to guess at the stooped posture of his shoulders and crossed arms. “Would you stop telling her all those lies? She’s a child, for Simon’s sake.”

“Don’t you dare say that name inside this house,” spits the old woman, staring at the snow outside.

“And you don’t dare say something like that outside this house. King Simon may forget his benevolence to this family.”

“That man has no benevolence for anyone.” The old woman laughs. “If he did, we wouldn’t be marooned in this village falling apart from the cold.”

“He is a good king.”

“That king took your wife.”

The very mention of the woman makes the old woman squeeze the girl tighter in her arms, as if she could somehow protect her from her reckless words. The man shows no other reaction than a tired sigh.

“Just don’t tell lies to the child.”

As always, he is a shadow as he disappears, identical to that of lost souls wandering the world aimlessly and without purpose. If the old woman didn’t know better, she would say that her son had been dead for several yesterdays. Her eyes turn to the girl, who stares blankly at the door, where her so-called father had been standing a few seconds ago. She takes the girl by the chin, forcing her to look at her. She was only to see her. She would take care of her and make sure that the same mistakes of the past would not be repeated. Her mistakes could not fall on the girl. Over her dead body she would let that happen.

“This is not just a story, Dalia. It is the truth. The Garden exists. I’m not crazy,” she sighs. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you...”

Outside, the air whips up snowflakes and sends icy waves freezing her bones.

“You must never go there.”