Queendom at Dusk

Chapter Six: Gemma

Gemma's legs and back ache from being so stiff, standing in front of the crowd. She feels her auburn hair brushing her shoulder blades as she stares at the sky. Half a thousand eyes are looking at her, but she's having an intimate conversation with the divinities. Except they never listen. She swears, yells at the sun without a sound, at the Gods for cursing her so, but also at herself for being a miracle and for having condemned her whole village. This is her minute of rage, of concealed blaspheme, if her mind still belongs to her at all.

The music grows louder, deeper, more complicated, and she feels the climax of her despair coming, as looming as the pounding of the drums. She reaches a point when she nearly lets out a scream, and she forgets if her temporary blindness is due to her tears or the bright sun she's fixing right above her head.

The pain is excruciating and she almost faints; but the beating suddenly drops, the echo of the fiddles becomes a mere memory. She relaxes her arms at last, and lets go of Cal hand that she has probably crushed. She stops shaking and her tears dry as if they were never there.

She has come to a decision: she is not going to fall. She is not going to let herself be overwhelmed. She will bear the child as the miracle it is, even if she's not going to love it. She is going to survive, for the sake of Mother who will leave her next year, for Cal's. She opens her eyes at last, lays them on the crowd. She's breathing again. A smile appears on her lips. She is at home, and she has hope.

Gemma takes on the beginning of the prayer with a shaking voice. "To the Glory of Hera, to whom we are thankful for my fecundity, to whom we owe the miraculous gift of life."

The crowd answers in one voice, raising their heads at last, "to the Glory of Hera, Queen of the Gods, Goddess of Creation!"

Until the last voice stops resounding, goosebumps creep on the villagers' arms, and silence reigns on Willow's Lair, as the shadows of the afternoon grow on the ground. Gemma steps behind the table and the Matriarch declares the feast open.

Gemma displays a fake smile for her neighbours as they queue in front of her table to fill their plates. She tries to keep a blank mind, thinking about how blessed she is to be here, but it all sounds wrong. She greets happy families, shakes the hands of the lumberjacks and the fishermen, compliments little girls and boys in their festive garments, salutes the widowers with respect. It's all an act, a rehearsed farce, and she knows that underneath the happy faces all the resentment in the world is hidden.

The queue opens in front of her like a curtain on a stage and a little boy appears. There's something about his expression; he throws a bitter rancour at Gemma with a controlled frown, and his mouth is ready to spit snakes. Gemma's smile fades. She has never seen a child look so angry. The little energy she has leaves her progressively, and she forgets the queue of some five hundred people on the other side of the table; she is alone with this boy. The first snake comes out.

"Mother says you're a cheat. You've stolen the other's joy. All you want is fame." He closes his mouth for a moment, and gathers all the hate he has in his small body to spit the mortal blow, "Bet you're pleased now, witch!"

Gemma's blood turns cold in her veins as her lips purse. The boy runs away without a plate and gets lost in the crowd. Gemma looks at him as he disappears, along with her hopes and confidence. Her gaze locks on the horizon, above the willows and the flowers in the branches. The blue sky loses a bit of its colour. Her eyelids shake and her legs are numb.

People continue to succeed one another at the buffet, but she doesn't have the strength to greet them. She's lost somewhere in a dark world, she's devoid of what she had left. She feels Cal tense behind her, and maybe he has his hand on her shoulders – but a bubble of loneliness holds her captive, muffled from the outside world.