08-09-2020, 08:03 PM
The child can taste her mother’s relief, too.
And something stronger. The magician’s warmth. The magician’s conviction.
It is almost enough to spur the child to her feet. But she is so dreadfully tired.
It is both her mother’s exhaustion and her own. The child feels these things so intensely.
Even more intensely than her hunger.
The child feels all of these things while Leonora wishes more than anything that she could touch her. Just as fiercely as she had wanted to touch Pentecost. Just as fiercely as she has always been forced to want these things.
But there is some tremendous comfort in Isilya’s presence and the memory of how the birds had burned and the magician had smiled good-naturedly and made them anew. Made them in such a way that they did not ignite when she hesitantly reached for them again. When the magician tells her that it’s going to be all right, Leonora believes her.
And so the child believes her, too. Although the child does not know how horribly things have gone wrong. All the child has is her hunger and the women’s emotions and a memory of all the ways she had burned.
But they are safe here. Her mother knows it, so the child knows it, too.
The child delights in the way the flowers turn so effortlessly into birds and then back again. She watches in wide-eyed wonder, the same way her mother had some years before. The child hesitates only a beat before she takes one in her mouth, chewing it with vigor. And she can feel her mother’s relief – even more potent now – flood through her own veins.
“Thank you,” her mother sighs and Leonora does not look away from the child while she eats, giggling quietly at the way the flowers burst and bloom before her. The child can taste the magician’s concern, too, but does not know how to identify it. It is something that merely itches at the base of her spine.
It is several moments before Leonora has swallowed enough of her panic to eat herself, nearly choking on her breath of shuddering, grateful laughter. After a lifetime of surviving on the charred remains of her food, the flowers dissolve on her tongue so sweetly that she could weep.
“I don’t think she’s like me,” the mother says after a beat of silence, turning to the magician, something like shame in her eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t consider the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to care for her.” She looks away, fastening her focus to the child, before she asks, “is that terribly irresponsible of me?”
And something stronger. The magician’s warmth. The magician’s conviction.
It is almost enough to spur the child to her feet. But she is so dreadfully tired.
It is both her mother’s exhaustion and her own. The child feels these things so intensely.
Even more intensely than her hunger.
The child feels all of these things while Leonora wishes more than anything that she could touch her. Just as fiercely as she had wanted to touch Pentecost. Just as fiercely as she has always been forced to want these things.
But there is some tremendous comfort in Isilya’s presence and the memory of how the birds had burned and the magician had smiled good-naturedly and made them anew. Made them in such a way that they did not ignite when she hesitantly reached for them again. When the magician tells her that it’s going to be all right, Leonora believes her.
And so the child believes her, too. Although the child does not know how horribly things have gone wrong. All the child has is her hunger and the women’s emotions and a memory of all the ways she had burned.
But they are safe here. Her mother knows it, so the child knows it, too.
The child delights in the way the flowers turn so effortlessly into birds and then back again. She watches in wide-eyed wonder, the same way her mother had some years before. The child hesitates only a beat before she takes one in her mouth, chewing it with vigor. And she can feel her mother’s relief – even more potent now – flood through her own veins.
“Thank you,” her mother sighs and Leonora does not look away from the child while she eats, giggling quietly at the way the flowers burst and bloom before her. The child can taste the magician’s concern, too, but does not know how to identify it. It is something that merely itches at the base of her spine.
It is several moments before Leonora has swallowed enough of her panic to eat herself, nearly choking on her breath of shuddering, grateful laughter. After a lifetime of surviving on the charred remains of her food, the flowers dissolve on her tongue so sweetly that she could weep.
“I don’t think she’s like me,” the mother says after a beat of silence, turning to the magician, something like shame in her eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t consider the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to care for her.” She looks away, fastening her focus to the child, before she asks, “is that terribly irresponsible of me?”
and in the dark, i can hear your heartbeat
leonora