Awake

Chapter Four: Pack Your Bags

Chapter 4: Pack Your Bags

Tressa was seated on her knees before the Night Mother’s sarcophagus.

She appeared to be in prayer, though Tressa was not much the praying type. Mother’s “devine” voice, though, as at least one she’s actually heard.

Usually, Tressa never had to beckon it. The unholy crone had a knack for beckoning her instead…most often at the most inconvenient times…

However, as awkward as Tressa felt in this position, she called upon her Matron for some “motherly” guidance.

 “Speak to me,” the Listener quietly pleaded, “Please, Mother. There must be more than what you’ve said? Why send us blindly?”

Honestly, Tressa wasn’t expecting any sort of answer. Rarely did Mother ever answer when spoke to. The Night Mother listened at all times for her “children”, but it was more her job to be heard, by her selected Listener, and followed without question. But the raspy voice of the Unholy Matron slithered through the shut doors of her tomb, responding to her chosen child now.

 “You are to listen. Not yet to see.”

The Listener tilted her head, and she did her very best to restrain the annoyed grumble in her throat. She could only hope Mother couldn’t read her thoughts or sense her exasperated mood…

Instead, Tressa tried asking the question a little differently, more direct.

“Mother…What must end?” she asked.

The Night Mother was silent.

Tressa sighed.

“Figures…,” she couldn’t help but grumble.

The silence, perhaps, was because whatever Tressa had dreamt, was simply just a dream. Perhaps the Night Mother hadn’t a clue what she was asking.

Tressa thought to perhaps explain her question further, tell her of the dream, but to her surprise the Night Mother began to speak once more.

“The night…”

…

It did not help Tressa’s understanding one bit.

 Damn these otherworldly spirits and their cryptic nature!

Tressa fell forward in frustration, slunking herself upon the small steps before the sarcophagus, burying her head into her arms.

Creatures of the Void, indeed. An expanse of NOTHING in their every riddle.

Tressa was downright about to beg--or even unwisely demand--that Mother’s rotted lips spill the details. To tell her with full clarification, what all of it is about, but a jester’s voice startled her from her near tantrum.

“Wakey~ Wakey~,” Cicero’s sing-song pitch rang from above her. She felt the taps of his boot on her own boot, “Wouldn’t we all love to be cradled in Mother’s arms, but even Cicero finds this an odd place to nap…”