Paradise: Birds Fly at Sunrise

Chapter Eight: Mama Namu

Chapter 8: Mama Namu

            I glanced warily at Kaston, who nodded encouragingly, before tentatively stepping through the doorway. The cottage was incredible. I found myself looking into a large space that was a jumble of rooms.    The far left corner was mostly an old-fashioned kitchen, with wooden cupboards on the walls and floor, giving it dozens of compartments. Devices that I assumed were ovens and fridges were carved out of rough black stone, as was a contraption that to me seemed like a mixture of a Victorian and a witch’s oven, only with yet more doors, and stretching up and out of the low ceiling. The floor tiles were large, round and pale peach. The walls were small squares tiles in autumn colours. Above the sink, a window – with no less than ten wind chimes dangling from the frame - looked out into a garden filled with weird and wonderful herbs, plants, shrubs and small trees, all closely packed into the small yard.

            To my immediate left below the kitchen was a large wooden table, carved into a rough rectangle and surrounded by ten chairs, none of which matched; some were fabric, others wood, plastic or even glass or a mixture. Built into the wall was an enormous brick fireplace, lit and glowing with orange flames. Sometimes a lick of blue, green or lilac curled around the huge black caldron than lay suspended above the fire, fuelled by whatever had fallen into the kindling. Here the floorboards and walls were both made of old, unvarnished wood, just lighter than the shade of the table.

            The rest of the room, spilling out to my right, was more or less a living room. A deep, plush couch faced away from the kitchen area, resting in front of a stout glass coffee table with a dark-wooded frame, along with an armchair of the same design: red pattered fabric and golden seaming. The rest of the space was occupied with other chairs, benches and cushions, tables, lamps, dozens of candles, a chest of drawers and a full length mirror, all pushed nearer to the walls, which themselves were covered in pictures, tapestries, paintings and more mirrors, most cracked or speckled with black. Plants, ribbons, spirals and dream-catchers dangled from the ceiling. The carpet was a few shades darker than the couches, well-worn but fluffy, and an ovular rug slept under the coffee table. Nothing particularly matched,  but everything harmonized together with a cosy, homely effect. I loved it.

            A woman was standing in front of the plush chair, three tea cups and saucers set out on the coffee table in front of her. She was very short, her back slightly hunched, and clearly incredibly old. Her skin was leathery and wrinkled, her grey hair tucked into a large bun, tied and held with a navy headscarf. Sapphire clips glinted against the light spiral curls, with matching gems dangling from her ears.

            She wore a long grey dress over her plump body, with a white blouse and dark blue shawl. Her fingers were glittering with rings, as were her wrists and arms with bracelets. She wore several necklaces, including a golden medallion, a yellow gemstone and her Parasis Waters, tied like Kaston’s with black string. The liquid inside was deep blue, almost indigo, with a swirl of grey-silver floating in the water like dust.

            I’d never seen Waters like that before. Not on Kaston, and not on any of the people in the street either. They all seemed to have just one block colour. But although that was strange, the most peculiar aspect of this woman was her eyes. The same grey-silver mist floated around in her irises like smoke, covering almost all of the piercing midnight-blue. She was beautiful in the way that an older person is when they clearly have been in their youth. 

“Mama Namu?” I said.

The old lady smiled. “You say that as a question. Do you not already know the answer? Surely Kaston has told you that this is my home. He has told you something of my appearance or my age. Do you believe that you are not correct?” Her voice was hypnotic. Something about the pace and the pitch.