Published in Twelfth Edition of the 11.5 Literary Magazine at Eugene Lang College for Liberal Arts
Haunted
Mama opened the kitchen windows first thing in the morning. The air always had that sickly, sweet green smell. As the sun rose over the water, Mama would start baking the bread. People would soon be lining up to buy with their mouths watering. Over and over again, I would watch her knead the dough and then braid it. Kneading and braiding, kneading and braiding. Sometimes, I would sit out on the back steps and watch the steam from the bread rise and mix with the cool air, curling like snakes. I rarely saw the other townsfolk, and when I did, their eyes lingered on mine. One green, the color of moss, and one brown, like when a muddy stream catches the light.
Late in June, the farm boy up the street got sick. Pale with a fever, he couldn’t move from his sickbed. I didn’t know him all that well, but Mama still sent me up the road with a basket full of greens and the last of our goat’s milk. His mother, Mea, answered the door with a somber look. She accepted the basket and invited me in for tea. Tuwile lay with his feet up on the couch, two blankets draped over him. His cloudy eyes took me in and, in a hoarse voice, said, “Well, look who we have here.” Mea left us alone in the parlor while she prepared his supper. We made small talk about the harvest and the weather. When I turned towards the kitchen to see if his mama needed any help, Tuwile grabbed hold of my hand, feebly gripping it, and I was overwhelmed by a feeling of dread. Dark and deep, black like death. My eyes met his, and he gaped, mirroring my own surprise. He closed his mouth abruptly. We sat for a long while until he whispered like he was praying or talking to himself, “Haunting or hunted. Haunting or hunted. Haunting or hunted…”
I visited Tuwile twice again after that day. I begged him for some clarity, answers for the eyes I felt all over me when I was in town. After the second visit, he gave in to my inquisition. He told me the myth of the Old Seer, a tale taught in the nursery school. Mama educated me at home, said she needed too much help around the house. The Old Seer was odd as a young girl. But when she got older, she started seeing things. Touching things and seeing their future is a gift, they thought. Then, the storm came. Families perished in the wreckage, and in all the despair, they needed someone to blame. They pointed the finger at the Seer, claiming she brought it on, controlling the seas and the skies with her magic. They hunted her down, climbing atop the big hill she lived on, and set the house ablaze. Her eyes were queer, one blue and one black, dark as the night.
Tuwile passed shortly after my last visit. Mea ran through the streets in tears, screaming, “The girl! She did this with her black magic.” Soon, a crowd assembled, and the head of the militia tried to calm the hysterics. Discussions began, and accusations were thrown around. “I bought her mother’s bread and went deaf for two days,” “Her goat’s milk made me ill,” “Her eyes glow in the night, I’ve seen them myself.” The strike of a match woke me up. The bright flames were already licking the walls as I ran out the kitchen door, just in time for the slats of wood to collapse behind me. I couldn’t spot Mama through the flames.
I ran. I ran as fast as I could, as fast as my feet would take me. My hair whipped in the wind, smacking against my face. The forest loomed ahead of me, and I could just see an opening in the green, a beam of sunlight shining through. I felt something at the back of my head, and I hit the ground hard. Grass tickled my face and then I saw black.
“Alive we lay still while the dead roam our reveries.”
Someone is singing. I wake with a start. There are shackles around my wrists attached to a long, heavy chain latched to a rung high above my head. The stone walls are dirty and scratched at the edges. As if someone tried to pry the stones apart with their nails. I could see the light streaming in from the window at the top of the next cell. The song came again, just as pained and lovely as before.
“Haunting our souls, we bury our dead. We burn our enemies til ashes left.”
The singer stopped with a rasp, emerging into a coughing fit.
“Who’s there?” The voice said, barely a whisper. I hesitated, not sure what answer to give. Mama gave me the name Olenna, after the hearth, the center of the home. She always called me Lenna. My heart ached and burned to see her.
“Never mind your name.” The voice rasped again. The coughs continued.
“I’m sorry.” I had nothing else to say. The stone felt cool on my cheek, and I pressed further into the wall.
“What’s a youngin like you doing here? Steal from the market?” The voice asked me.
“I didn’t steal from the market.”
“Really?” The singer sounded curious.
“They think I’m evil.” Now I was the one rasping. “They think I’m dark, that I see things before they happen. But I swear I swear I never saw anything. I never did anything. I can’t do anything.” I gasped for air, unable to take a full breath, and I lay with my back on the dirt floor, huffing and puffing.
They dragged the old man from his cell hours later and hanged him for burglary. The men in the other cells jeered at the guards as they returned to transport the prisoners. A hush fell each and every time they crossed my door. I could hear their breath catching, an eerie silence, and then the bang of the jail door closing. I didn’t understand their fear, these strong officers, hardened criminals. They were losing their wits over a young girl chained up! Oh, what a laugh! I laughed and laughed until I was gasping for air again, doubling over on the floor. And then sleep found me again.
A warm glow caressed my face as I slept, and I dreamed of fire. Fire so bright it burned fast and strong, cascading off mountains and whipping through trees. I could almost feel the flames licking my face. Then I saw a storm. Crashing waves and white lightning across the horizon. Forests crushed and swept away. I could smell the sea, the ash of the burning embers, fire, and water. I awoke to the feeling of burning metal on my wrists. I cried out in agony as the flames from my dream ripped from the skin of my palms, breaking me free of restraints, burning and cracking the floor.
Panic came over me as I scrambled away from the floor, inspecting my perfectly fine hands and arms, free from any burns. Seeing it made me want to scream incredulously or maybe pray. But I was yanked out of my state by the sounds of boots pounding on the floor, running, and voices shouting orders. They were getting closer and closer; my palms started to heat, my heart beating out of my chest. In an act of desperation, I stomped on the blackened floor, kicking it out from under me.
I landed in a small room, maybe a cupboard, cluttered with canned foods and pastries. The broken floor had ripped apart the side wall, exposing the room to the jail courtyard. Exhaustion consumed me, even as I heard the voices and noises above me, planning my capture. The time to rest is now. Hurt and running on no food and water for days, my body was on the verge of giving up. Through the tears in my eyes, I spied a loaf of bread, days old but still fresh, sitting on the table. I recognized the braid; I had the same one in my hair. Rage consumed me. A fiery, red-hot rage that gave me my strength, as if I’d been resting for years. The officers surrounded me in the rubble I created, pointing their weapons and shouting orders. As I looked into their brave faces, arms at the ready, I thought back to my old friend. Haunting or hunted? Fire leaked from my palms.