These Barren Lands

Chapter 11 (Eero)

I was nine when my mother died.
I'm the one who found her.
Mama and I had a tradition. Every morning, I met Onkel Josef in the kitchens, and he'd give me a tray with two silver-domed breakfasts. Balancing it on my palms, I would climb the master staircase, my toes sinking into the plush navy carpet, and knock on Mama's room. Whatever Onkel was serving that day, Mama and I would eat it together, sitting cross-legged on a blanket made by the Lykke's quilters.
Every day, we'd watch the birds flitter in to eat the feed she scattered in the dish that ran along the bottom on her windowsill. It was the biggest window in the castle, made specifically for her. Just because Mama loved watching the birds.
"Look, min skat." Look, my treasure, my mother would whisper, looking up from her breakfast. Her accent was so thick when she blended common tongue and Anjordian, that sometimes I had trouble distinguishing between the two. "It's a roller."
I would look over my shoulder so fast that my neck would cramp, but silently, as to not scare the bird. Even if I didn't have all the species of birds memorized, I never doubted Mama. Sitting on the windowsill could have been anything but a roller, but the little blue bird with a thin, sharp beak and brown feathers along his back was still breathtaking.
"A vireo, Mama!" I'd coo a few moments later, pointing at a short, chubby bird with puffed up brown feathers. It burrowed in the feed first, scattering little yellow seeds into the room. Mama and I would laugh, scaring our tiny visitor.
Every day. New birds, same tradition.
So, on that morning, when I knocked with my foot, too afraid to drop the tray of food, I expected Mama to answer within the minute. She rose with the sun but preferred to stay in bed and read or write for hours. I waited for her sweet, timid voice to call out, "Come in, min skat."
She didn't, though.
So, I waited for a few minutes, until they started to feel like hours, and then the thought occurred to me—she's fallen back asleep. Sitting the tray in a nearby arm chair, I turned the doorknob and let myself in.
"Wake up, Mama," I whispered as I crept across the room. "It's time to feed the birds."
The shape on the bed didn't stir, so I went to the window and cranked it open. Then, I reached into the container where she kept the birdseed and scooped out a big (look it up)-year-old handful. Spilling half of it onto the carpet, I bit my lip and dumped as much as I could into the miniature trough.
Then, I stepped back, brushed my hands off, closed the lid (because "You never leave the lid off, min skat, the mice will have a feast," Mama said), and turned towards my sleeping mother.
She was lying on her back, her dark hair in a halo around her head. Her eyes were closed in gentle sleep; breathing parted her pale lips.
I climbed up onto the side of the bed. "Mama?"
She didn't budge.
Was she sick? Her cheeks did look whiter than usual. I grabbed the hand that she had left resting atop the covers. It was cold and heavy. The fingers didn't curl around mine, didn't squeeze me, didn't warm my nerves. I struggled to hold the limb hand and shook it gently.
"Mama?"
No response.
I lifted my hand to her face and laid my hand against her cheek.
One more time.
"Mama? Wake up, please, Mama. The birds want to see you. I brought you breakfast."
But her eyes remained closed.
Her hand remained cold.
Her lips remained parted.
Maybe she's sick, I thought. I caught an illness when I was very small and was bedridden for two weeks! She just needed rest. Yes, that was it!
Putting her hand down, I pulled back the covers and crawled into bed beside her.
"Don't worry, Mama," I said, cuddling up beside her, tucking us both in. "I fed the birds. You can rest. I'll take care of them."
And I stayed like that.
Until Tante Amaia brought us lunch.
The platter clattered to the ground with a sound like the crashing of a hundred drums. A collection of mourning doves scattered off the windowsill, leaving nothing but empty seeds and gray feathers behind. I sat up and scowled.
"Tante!" With my finger pressed to my lips, I hissed, "Mama's sleeping, Tante. Be quiet."
But Amaia was frozen in the door, her wrinkled hands clutching her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. She looked between Mama and me in rapid succession. Her shoulders drooped with every passing second. I clutched Mama's blankets, waiting. Watching.
Leave, I wanted to say. Let Mama rest.
But Tante didn't leave. She gathered her apron in her hands, ran over, and wrenched me out of the bed, screaming in rapid Anjordian, "Josef! Soren! Anyone, please!"
And then chaos descended on the palace.
I didn't understand what everyone was crying about.
Mama was just sick.
She'd wake up when she was rested. When the illness passed. After the physician gave her a tonic. There was no need to cry.
Then, they buried her in the ground.
Father cried for days. Onkel and Tante cried for twice as long. The maids and servants and guards hid their tears from me, but I knew. I could see their puffy eyes and sniffly noses. I hated seeing the darkness settling on everyone.
So, I did the only thing I knew to do, the thing Mama had shown me how to do when my cat, Maxie, had died: I made them all paper birds.
Cranes, doves, owls, swans.
I folded hundreds of them and left them scattered on bed and dishes and laundry piles and books—then, I watched the palace staff pick them up, smile for the first time since the funeral, and tuck the bird into their pocket. A little spark of joy lit my stomach every time I saw their face lift.
They might still be sad, but I could help. I wanted to help. Needed to help.
While the castle mourned, I got to work.
I pushed the grief into a small, dark place, saved for another day. It would eventually explode out of me, but not for many years. Not until I realized I was losing my father as well. Not to "sickness" either. To a man named Ursus and his greed.
By then, it was too late.
I was alone.
Until she swam into my life.