Abelon Wisecraft could hear his mother coughing in the next room, the barking and gurgling broken up by her gasps for air. He turned onto his side to face the wall, studying the stained wooden panels. He was nineteen and already the world had lost its shine. Once his mother was gone, there would be no one left who gave a damn about him.
The gasping and sputtering stopped. He held his breath, jumping when she started banging on the wall with her cup. Abelon shoved the frayed wool blanket off his thin frame and slipped on his canvas shoes.
“Coming, momma,” he called.
The autumn chill sliced up his bare arms, and he grabbed a jacket on the way out of his room. The shuffle of his feet over the swept dirt floor filled his ears. Abelon opened the door to his mother’s room, and gagged. Incontinence again. It was more frequent now that she was at the end.
“Don’t look at me, baby. Will you please heat some water and bring me fresh clothes?” she asked, her voice ragged and torn.
“Of course,” he called, reeling back from the door to suck in clean air. Grabbing two buckets and a pole, Abelon slipped out into the early morning darkness to get water from the town well.
No one was awake. He passed the quiet huts, no candles, no filthy children dashing in and out of doorways. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders as he basked in the isolation. So many bodies crammed into the small village, converging on the square like rats to forage. He could do without them..
Abelon lowered the bucket into the water, a chill of fear crawling up his spine. He kept his eyes averted as he brought the full bucket up. Everyone knew it was dangerous to look in water under the light of the moon. You never knew what might look back.
Abelon filled the second bucket, his eyes darting to the dark, silvery surface of the water despite his good intentions. For a moment, he thought about looking. He wanted something to see him. The moment passed, and Abelon hooked the buckets to the pole.
When he got home, there was a pile of soiled clothing waiting for him next to his mother’s door. A scream of helpless rage and exhaustion ripped through his skull, but he only sighed. Abelon put the water down and dealt with the pile of clothes. He lit a fire in the hearth and hung the water to warm. The morning would require a visit to the village. Her nightgown wouldn’t make it through another cleaning. It was time to get another, probably the last one.
By the time his mother was cleaned and back in bed, sunlight was breaking over the fields, illuminating the thin wisps of fog. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. With any luck, Abelon could buy a gown for his mother and be back home to enjoy a good ale and a wash himself before lunch.
He grabbed his purse with the few coppers remaining to them and retraced his steps to the village square. A flock of chickens pecked in a cluster near the well. The really mouthy rooster was off a few feet crowing in a rhythm only it understood.
Children were popping out of houses and trampling over the few patches of grass the mud-pit village had to offer. Their mother’s were already busy at the day’s chores managing the livestock, the gardens, the family, and whatever trade they squeezed into the spare moments. Abelon’s mother had always been working. He could hardly remember her sitting down to eat before she got sick.
He hadn’t known his father well enough to know if he was a hard worker. One morning when Abelon was five, he packed everything of value in a sack and left for the field, never to return.
Gavin Durken was approaching down the rutted street from the other direction. His tufts of gray hair stuck out on either side of his head, but the top was smooth and bare. Abelon ducked his head so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact.
The older man slowed down anyway. “Abelon, how is your mother?”
Abelon kept his eyes fixed on the shop a few buildings down. “Bad, sir.” he muttered.
“I’m sorry to hear that, son. Anything me and the missus can do?” Gavin asked.
He was lying. They always were. No one ever showed up to help. “We’re fine, sir.”
Gavin leaned in closer. “Have you thought about asking Amma?”
Abelon shook his head. “Amma is as likely to kill her as save her. Her magic is trash.”
Gavin shrugged. “Hard times require risk. She’ll be at Goody Winds house tomorrow for the birthing of Goody’s fourth. Gods help her.”
Abelon smiled. “The gods never help.”
Gavin’s face darkened, and he stepped back. “Well, if you need someone to sit with her, let us know.”
Abelon nodded and kept walking. It was bad enough seeing them in town. He didn’t want them gawking at his wasting mother in her own home.
He made it to the shop without any more irritating chatter. Abelon knocked on the door before he entered.
“Come in,” Master Dobin called.
Abelon pushed the door open and entered the general store. He scanned the tables and shelves of merchandise. He was the only customer. Breathing a sigh of relief, Abelon nodded to Master Dobin and closed the door behind him to keep the animals out.
“What are you looking for, boy? I have fresh honey, just came in yesterday,” Master Dobin offered.
Abelon shook his head. “No, I need a nightgown for my mother.”
Master Dobin sat back in his chair, wrapping his arms around his gut. “I have a few gowns already made for sale. Two for thirty coppers.”
Abelon shook his head. “I just need one.”
Master Dobin shrugged. “Twenty then,” he said.
Abelon counted out the coppers. “Where is the gown?”
Master Dobin grunted as he stood. “In the back. Maggie. Bring out the gowns. I got a buyer.”
A young woman with strawberry blonde hair and generous hips appeared in the doorway holding out two gowns. Abelon pointed to the blue one, and she nodded. Her face flushed when he made eye contact with her, so he went back to staring at his feet.
He placed the money on Master Dobin’s table and left with the nightgown tucked tightly in his fist. People and livestock were already beginning to fill the street. Abelon was careful to stay well to the side so as not to get knocked over by the wagons leaving to sell in the city just south of them.
The breeze was starting to pick up. Abelon wrapped his jacket around him, dodging a pile of horse manure outside the walkway to his mother’s cottage. The house was quiet as he shut the door. He slipped his jacket off and hung it over the chair.
“Momma, I bought you a new gown,” he called. “It’s blue.”
He waited for her to acknowledge him, but there was nothing. No rattling cough. No wheeze. No answer.
Abelon stepped lightly as he crossed the room to her doorway. He gave the door a light push, and it complied with a mild squeak. He held his breath and listened. Silence. He rushed to her side and turned her face towards his. She was gone. He felt for a pulse anyway.
It had finally happened, and while he was away from home. She had died alone. Abelon pressed her hand to his head as he folded in on himself. He began to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks spiked with the guilty pleasure of freedom. He let it all out, grief and relief leaking from his pores in gut wrenching sobs on the verge of laughter.
He spent the day next to her, until the sun was setting and the smell was no longer tolerable even with his nose pinched. He retrieved her the delicate blue nightgown from the table and prepared for the last unpleasant task he owed his mother.
Abelon grabbed a rag and a bucket of water. He washed her naked body and dressed her in the fresh gown. The bed underneath her was stained and rotting from bodily fluids, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. It wouldn’t matter much longer.
Abelon grabbed a sack and put the little left to him in it. It was depressingly light. He grabbed a torch from the shed. The rest of the village was drinking in the square. Tomorrow marked the beginning of the Novena to the Three Sisters, and it wasn’t a holiday until everyone in the village was hungover and a third of them were newly pregnant.
Their cheers provided an eerie exuberant chorus to all Abelon’s actions. He started in her room. He couldn’t stomach the thought of them putting the fire out before her body was cleansed of all the filth of a frail mortal coil. Abelon touched the flames to her body. The dress lit beautifully, covering her in a blanket of flame.
When he was done, Abelon left the torch in the doorway. People were shouting, remarking on the smoke. They would come to check it out, but Abelon would be gone.
He made his way with just the moonlight to guide him, a beautiful clear sky, the bright full moon promising paradise just beyond the bend. Abelon felt a hitch in his throat now and again when he thought of his mother. He supposed he would have to cry about her again at some point, but not now. Now was a time of action.
Abelon stopped by a pond near the Derry’s fields. The bank was muddy, but Abelon sank down to his knees anyway. The ground soaked his pants and brought goosebumps to his arms. Placing his hands on his upper thighs, Abelon leaned over to stare into the depths. He willed something to be there, but he was alone and his mother was dead, and he just needed there to be more, more of something. Abelon’s reflection contorted and stretched, pulled back and forth by the wind over the water.
Abelon felt his heart sink, and he was beginning to realize how stupid he looked. The reflection twisted, and Abelon felt a hot cramping in his gut like he might throw up, and then it was there, looking back at him.
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