Your Mother Will Be Waiting

She had been sleeping in the cot when the messenger had appeared before her doorstep. He was somewhat taken aback by the old woman’s disheveled appearance, but decided to be patient as she read the letter to herself. A fire convulsed from within her and shot through her loins as she scavenged the dust-ridden cupboards for a quill and parchment; hastily jotting down her response.

I have so much to tell you, but I’ll wait until you get here. We will have supper and a drink. Tell your uncle that I miss him and remember to take the way of the needle and steer clear from the way of the nail. Please hurry. Your mother will be waiting.

She folded the parcel and gave it to the messenger, who gave her a queer look before re-mounting and taking off, back into the wood. She thought nothing of his behaviour and closed the door with the fire in her heart still ablaze. After all this time, her daughter was finally coming to see her. A smile fashioned itself across her face as she reflected on the predetermined visit; wondering how her daughter might’ve looked after so many years. What a dashing young woman she must be! Her hair must be so long. And gold, no… copper. Like her father’s, her eyes grey and wide with curiosity as she threw herself into the world that her mother tried to hide from her.

She suddenly felt guilty and searched the space of her cottage, breathing in the ageless dust that seemed engrained in the swollen wood of the walls and floorboards. On the opposite end of the room was the bed, its covers drawn back in a sideways fold that exposed the faded sheets underneath. Moisture from the neighboring marshland entered through the window and settled on its surface, making it cold to the touch and dry against her fingers. Her hands felt dirty after touching the sheets and she suddenly felt self-conscious of her surroundings. 

The cat had jumped on the bed, massaging its orange paws into the bed covers, as if to dig into the mattress underneath. It glanced at her with inquisitive, marble eyes and licked at the dirt on its paw.

“This house is filthy,” it said. “Clean it up. You don’t want your daughter staying in a place like this, do you? What would she think of you? Oh, this poor woman is so disoriented that she can’t even bear to keep her house clean.” She felt a cold sweat forming on her brow. As much as she’d hate to admit it, the cat was right: the film from the marsh on the tapestry’s surface, the moss growing in the crevices of the walls, the erupting nests of wood lice crawling from the shadows. The voyage through the forest would surely take her daughter close to a fortnight to reach her. If she started now, she could make the space presentable before her daughter’s arrival. She rinsed her bedpan in the water from the mire and tossed the liquid across the floor, dropping to her hands and knees with a scrub and watching the film tear away beneath her fingertips. The wood underneath was white and shone like bone beneath the rustic dirt.

She recalled how white it had been when they had first appeared from the deep wood. They had decided that she was too far along for the entire journey to the village, so they had to stop and build a shelter. He settled her in a blanket atop their horse while he tore at whatever trees were available along the perimeter of the wood and fashioned them into a cottage. He was so quick with his work that the home was built in half a day. The next morning, their daughter was born. She had held her, wrapped in a crimson shawl, close to her breast for three nights, while her husband fished for mackerel and fermented wine from the vines that grew on the outer walls. They feasted and reveled in the presence of the child whom they had just given life, until the day when the grey devoured the sun.

She rubbed tirelessly for two nights until the floor had shed its skin; the wood underneath almost transparent in its whiteness. She started to grow dizzy as she breathed in the germ-ridden scent of the curtains and the sheets and stifled a series of coughs behind her hand. They needed cleaning too. She stripped them from the walls, and mattress, and dragged them out into the marsh, along with the washboard. Feverishly, she scrubbed as the cat came outside and prowled for nesting crows in the underbrush. She pushed and pulled across the board, imagining the folds of the fabric blending into the water. Fatigue forced her to dart her eyes across the perimeter of the wood, studying the swaying treetops until the wind directed her attention to the makeshift crucifix near the marsh’s edge. Something crackled from the distance and she tried to imagine that he was still somewhere out there; meandering through the dark wood, exhausted with age, hoping to find his way without a map. He never liked using maps.

There came a convulsion from the brush, followed by the colliding of feathers. The cat reappeared and settled beside her. Eight blackbirds shot into the cold, grey distance cawing to her; taunting her.

This land is cursed. This land is cursed.

She shouted at them as they disappeared into the horizon, finished scrubbing at the fabrics with an empty feeling in her stomach and returned to fixing the cottage for her daughter’s arrival.

In the following days, she scrubbed tirelessly at the cottage, making sure that everything was accounted for: She tore at the patches of moss with a butter knife and prepared the toiletries in case her daughter wished to bathe after her long journey. Outside, she tore at the dried vines that clung to the wall and yanked at the weeds that sprouted from the base of the walls. After a week, rats appeared from beneath the house and rummaged across the floors. The cat swatted at one with the back of its paw.

“These vermin require eradicating,” it said. She agreed and drowned the rats out by tossing a pan full of water across the cottage floor, watching their remains expel from the exterior baseboards. As the days progressed, her anxiety deepened. So much so, that she noticed that she was beginning to shed all about the cottage

“Do you want your daughter to find your hair all strewn about? What will she think of you then, do you imagine?” the cat said.

“Stop it.” She tossed a shoe at the cat and took to wearing her bonnet inside the cottage, so that her hair wouldn’t fall out. Finally, after a fortnight had passed, she examined the house one last time, searching for any minor incongruities that may have materialized in the process. She fashioned the curtains into a makeshift net and caught a fish for the two of them to share, when her daughter got there. After setting the table with a single candle placed in the center, she sat and waited. The cat circled the interior of the cottage, sniffing at the baseboards. 

“Perhaps she won’t appear,” it said. “What will you do then?”

“Be quiet.” She didn’t want to believe in such a thing, after all the hard work that she had done to prepare herself for this day. But something deep inside of her knew that it wasn’t impossible; that perhaps her daughter hadn’t heeded her mother’s warning and took the way of the nail, losing herself in the forest just like her father. Or perhaps the messenger hadn’t even reached her at all. Would that have meant that she still had a journey to take through the forest? 

The thought made her agitated. She flexed her fingers and scratched at the wooden surface of the table. The fingernails were black with dirt and shaking in the light of the candle flame. One of her hands reached for a few strands of hair that stuck out from her bonnet and traced the contours of her wrinkles. She thought about the messenger’s reaction to seeing her all those days ago. Would her daughter react the same way? 

Her blood slowed as a knock came upon the door. Through the window, the grey of the sky bled into black. The cat was nowhere to be seen. She stared at the door for what seemed to be an eternity before gathering the courage to get up and answer. With every step she took towards the door, a memory was triggered: A cold night through a dark wood, a husband who tore down the forest to support the love of his life, a child held close to her breast wrapped in a scarlet shawl. The fire in her heart started burning once again as she thought about finally meeting her daughter. 

She opened the door and suddenly, the fire in her heart died. There was no copper hair, no curious wide eyes, no hood of crimson, no dashing young woman. Only two yellow eyes set within a mountain of fur drenched in midnight. It towered above her, taking a single step past the doorframe and barring the threshold with its massive shoulder. The wolf’s nose reached the top of her head as its mouth curved into a large, sinister grin.

“Hello madam,” it said. “I believe I ran into your daughter in the woods. She’ll be here soon enough. Mind if I come in?”

This work of fiction is property of Trevor Ruth