centre of the universe - the dreaming: Zephyr

09/09/2008: "Zephyr" Most days, Marek took his wife with him out to the field. He sat her in front of him on the horse and spoke softly in her ear as they trundled through the pasture. Sometimes, she would do nothing but scream, and he stayed with her in the darkened bedroom, trying to make sure she didn't harm herself. He'd made the mistake once of leaving her alone, and had returned to find the window smashed out and Maeve trying to dig her way through the floor with a shard of glass. Her hand was sliced to ribbons, and Marek moved the kitchen table to cover the bloodstains that wouldn't come out.

None of the doctors or priests could tell him what was wrong with her, why she'd say nothing but stare off blankly as if blind. Perhaps she had gone blind, and deaf, one doctor suggested. Marek asked, yes, but overnight? And the doctor, shrugging his shoulders resignedly had answered that stranger things had happened.

Even the old midwives and grandmothers from the reserve could provide no help. They brought Maeve to the medicine men and women, who reassured Marek that no evil spirit was within her. But when he asked one grandmother what *was* wrong with her, he was told "your wife has powerful dreams".
"But what can I do to help her?" he asked.
The grandmother gave him some dried plants and told him to burn it for her, which he did. It seemed to give Maeve comfort when she was agitated and screaming, but no amount of injections, concoctions, poultices, or prayers seemed to do much of anything.

He learned to sleep lightly, so he could hold her closely when she tried to return to her crouching pose in the kitchen. He learned to bake bread, though not as good as Maeve's, and to scrub his clothes and the bedclothes. He was an utter clod when it came to mending, but while the cattle were to pasture, Marek would tidy their home and watch his wife.

As it came time to harvest, Marek grew concerned; he couldn't take Maeve out to the field and be with her every minute. He thought of leaving her in the house, of tying her to the bed so she couldn't hurt herself. He would give her water and cold soup in the morning before he left, and again when he returned at night. What else could he do?

He swept the kitchen floor furiously, knocking dust and cobwebs out of corners, spraying weeks of accumulated dirt into the centre of the room. As he reached far under the stove, he felt the corn broom pulling on something heavier than dust and grime. It was a small leather pouch, tied shut with a braided hank of horsehair. Marek tossed the broom aside and held the bag to his nose. He shut his eyes and breathed in so deeply lights flashed and he felt lightheaded.

The whole house grew still; even Maeve, still catatonic, seemed to hold her breath. The dry stalks of wheat made no sound outside; no birds or crickets chirped. Benedict, the house cat, slowly opened his eyes. Marek towered over the stove, the little leather bag crushed in his fist. His eyes glowed with fierce intensity, and the muscles in his jaw began to twitch.

"Ich Will" "Here comes the Sun"

4 Comments

furktard , on Tuesday, 9th September:

American one balled ghost writer! I will sell more books than you.

cenobyte , on Tuesday, 9th September:

You keep saying that, but you never deliver.

The Ms. S , on Wednesday, 10th September:

Lovely details of the *managing* of a domestic crisis.

Brielle , on Thursday, 11th September:

I read these ya know. I love them. But I am left wanting more. Such is life.

Thank you. People don't say that enough. They may feel it, but they rarely say it. So I am.

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