No Matter What

Chapter I

I was to be home by midday. We would pick figs for sale at the festival at that time, it was an arduous job I would not let my mother do alone.

The shiny green pebble of my necklace swayed as I moved. The empty buckets I held swung back-and-forth. The way was long, but I knew how to keep my mind busy. I observed the birds. The great kiskadees had long conversations, the swallows danced to the robins' song. Kaleidoscopic wings glided through the branches. I observed the trees. They were old and tall. Twisting, tangling onto each other like dark brown serpents fighting for their lives. On their heads, a blood river. The leaves were garnet red. Almost as red as the small round fruit the trees offered. A mockingbird flew to one of the branches. It picked at the fruit, then, ate one. Satisfied, it flew away...

Until it did not.

Diving down faster and faster, the mockingbird thunked on the ground.

A fire grew in my stomach. I had stopped walking. I attempted to shake it off, that awful feeling, and kept moving, but images of the poisoned bird still lingered in my mind.

I found myself at the top of Great-hood hill. I could see my destination. I walked down, careful not to slip, then filled my buckets with the village well's water. The town center was awfully quiet, which was strange for non-Sabbath day. I assumed it was because of the proximity of the gathering festival. Everyone was busy with the preparations.

Mother wasn't at the farmhouse when I got back. I ran to the kitchen and picked up everything I would need, an apron, a hat, and two baskets, then rushed to the fig field.

All the trees were covered with the sweet fruit. From afar, I saw my mother feel the figs, picking only the ripest ones. Her left basket was halfway full. After a while of catching my breath, I started helping. The sun burned intensely at the center of the sky.

I felt for ripeness.

"Good."

Down plopped a fig in my basket.

My mother was on the other side of the field. We slowly moved closer as we picked.

Watching as she picked a fig, smelled it, stopped for a moment to cough, then took a bite, I remembered the dead mockingbird's unfortunate fate.

"Not dead," I told myself as my mother finished consuming the fruit. Though she almost looked it, she was so pale.

Feel, determine, move on. We continued until we met at the middle. My mother let out a relieved sigh. Together, we went onto the next row of fig trees, and soon enough we had completed the day's work. Except it was no longer day. So we went home to do what one does when a day has ended. Though, we both knew it would take us a while to complete that task.

I lay on my bed, staring up, and listened to my mother sob herself to sleep in the next room. She would sob so hard, she would cough. Cough so hard, she would vomit. Vomit so hard, the next day there were bloody stains on her wooden floor.

The church bells blatantly proclaimed a new day. They were nothing but faded echoes hearing from the farmhouse. My mother was already up, and had put a pot of water to boil at the fire. She had laid out bread, figs, and milk for my morning meal. Today the whole village would set up for the festival. My mother and I had all the material set aside months ago.

My mother was washing the dishes, back towards me.

"Beautiful morning," I mumbled.

"Would have never guessed it from your tone," my mother replied.

We chuckled.

"Always only half awake in the mornings," she added, "just like your father!"

I put down my bread. Mother stopped scrubbing.

There was a moment of inexplicable silence. A silence known by few. A dark silence. A silence that made the air around us heavy and thick and toxic. A silence that made our hearts burn and cringe. A silence that ripped out a piece of us. An empty space at a table for the worst reason.

"...Um" I said, my voice quivering, "we mustn't take too long."

I held my verdant necklace tight.

I picked up the bags of booth-building equipment and head out to the stables. My mother followed. Our poor old horse, Lear, would carry the piles of wood, one on each side. He was so old, he smelled terribly.

"It's alright, Lear," I whispered, wondering if he could understand me.

Now at the town center, we stood there, clueless. Mother and I had no idea how to build anything out of the piles of wood we had at our feet. It was the first time we had to do it alone.

"Your hero's here!" I heard a familiar voice say.

"Arthur!" I screamed as I ran toward the tall, chestnut-haired boy and we shared a warm embrace.

Hands on my hips, I said, jokingly, "You're late."

For a minute, I forgot the world. It was just me, my laugh, and my best friend. As the echoes of our laughter faded, so did our smiles. We were back on earth, populated by cruel men. Men that fought for the stupidest reasons. We were back to the wicked reality of incomplete families.

Arthur built us a stand. I helped my mother put a cloth over it that would shield our heads from the sun. Tomorrow we would bring the figs. The festival would commence then.

"It's beautiful, Arthur. Thank you," my mom said as we all took a step back to admire what we had made. Arthur looked at it proudly. The waves of his hair moved with the wind.

"It was no problem, really. Work is good for me," Arthur replied with a pained expression. Mother and I could not argue.

I looked around.

"Why is the town so empty on a day like this?" I asked him.

"You haven't heard?" he replied.

I shook my head. In fact, I did not know of any story. He went on,

"There have been—" he stopped and started once more, whispering, this time, "There have been cases of... of demonic possessions lately. It's... truly awful. The victim seems fatigued, at first. A work of the devil, I'm sure, bringing upon a family the sin of sloth. Then, they start to cough, of course, since their body tries to rid itself of this evil. The cough becomes stronger until the body tries to project the spirit out through vomit."

My mother's face darkened. Arthur continued, "Slowly, the victim becomes a corpse. Pale skin, sunken eyes, they start to smell,"

My eyes widened. I looked at old Lear then turned to stare at my mother. It couldn't be.

"Soon enough, awful black blotches appear on the skin. At that point, the darkness takes over. Within weeks... they..."

My mother rubbed her arm. I held my necklace tight.

"They die."

My heart attempted to escape my body, stronger and faster it pushed against my chest. A wave of pain shot through my left arm. My body burned and cold sweat made me tremble. I fell to the ground.

"Gwen?! Are you all right?" Arthur asked, far away.

Wait. No, he was right by my side.

"Is this what death feels like" I thought.

I would breathe as best as I could. The feeling drifted with each exhalation. I looked at my mother.

"Maria!!" Arthur shouted and I realized mother had fallen. Arthur went to get her. I was numb. Arthur shook her, I could see, but only through my peripheral vision, being it that I had been looking elsewhere.

"She's burning up!" Arthur yelled, "Gwen, we need to get the medic! Gwen?! Gwen, for God's sake!!"

I was looking at the white-bellied mockingbird that drank from a puddle of water on the side of the well.