James woke to hearing his wife singing a sweet lullaby to their daughter. He couldn’t help thinking that usually Lara was too busy to take the time. He marveled at the beautiful alto she had. Quietly, he slipped from their bed. He wanted to see the moment without disturbing it.
The lullaby she had chosen not one he had ever heard before. Incredibly sweet, it spoke about the faeries taking away an abused child. It spoke of love and gentleness. Whisking the child to safety, the faeries could keep her safe.
“Sleep softly, little one, Sleep until the morning comes. Sweet baby, worry none, Titania the faery queen here does come. Child forgotten, Child living in life so hard, the faeries will protect you from here on.
Sleep Softly, Little one, Sleep until the morning comes. From here until your life is done, Titania’s care will keep you yon.”
The baby’s room was closer to the stairs. He kept the house spotless, so the floor was soft on his feet as he padded across to the open door of their daughter’s room. Kayla was not quite six months old. His job was able to be worked from home, so he was here all of the time. Lara worked for a busy firm, and was gone more than not. James was grateful to find the door cracked so that he could see in.
The house had been Lara’s dream, the baby his. At one point he had thought that they could share the dreams. Minor fighting in the last six months had occurred as Lara accused him of loving Kayla more than her. James mostly wrote it off as frustration from work, and exhaustion. So to hear Lara singing a lullaby was so sweet, and a relief that he really did not want to disturb it. He could hear Kayla gently cooing in her mother’s arms.
He peeked in shyly, revealing the beautiful long brown hair of his wife as she was sitting in the rocking chair. The chair had been in her family since the revolutionary war. Honestly, it creeped him out. Lara loved it. Said that she felt loved when she sat in it. Lara claimed that the women in her family had always loved their babies there. He worried sometimes that Lara did not love Kayla. To hear her sing such a lovely song warmed his heart a bit. He wanted to clear the air. He wished he knew how to undo the arguments…
Just as James considered going in to talk to Lara, there was a knock at the front door. Not wanting the moment to be disturbed, he hurried down to answer the door. He opened it to find three men, two in police uniform and one in a suit. They started telling him how sorry they were for his loss and how Lara had died in an accident that morning. He denied their condolences. It couldn’t be true, she was singing in the nursery. The lead policeman, the man in the suit, told him it had been verified. That the facts did not lie.
Time stopped, James could no longer hear the singing, he knew that he had to check. James turned and ran back to the nursery… only to find it empty.
The beautiful poem by miss Sylvia Plath The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage—— My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
My 2 cents –
Okay I know that this is a poem…being sung to music. But I love Sylvia Plath and I couldn’t Resist Sharing it. It is so pretty.
The world seems to be a place where myths are taken for granted. Everyone knows the myth of the pilot of the River Styx. The Ferryman who ferries souls over to the afterlife for a cost. They all have it wrong though. The Reaper doesn’t want coin. They are an immortal being. Such creatures have no need for money. The ferry driver instead takes the best story each soul has to tell. Sometimes just the telling of the story is too much for a soul to bear. Words carry weight. They are the most painful things in existence. They can also be the most gratifying things that life has to offer.
The ferryman has so many names, and most of them are just the myths coming to signify the way the mortal beings see them. For me, they are my creator. I guess you could call me the reaper’s child. It is not exactly correct, but it is the closest term for what I am. I am a story that became too much for even an immortal mind to bear. So, I grew sentience. Now I search the world for the others like myself, dark stories and memories that weigh heavy on mortality. Stories of killers, and crime, heartache, and such twisted thoughts that they are relegated to impossible fiction. That is the sort of thing that I collect. Like the ferryman I take these weights from the ones who cannot bear them any longer. I think of it as saving those souls who would break under such terrible weights.
I save each story in a notebook, lovingly hand written. My creator kept the stories told to them in perfect memory…I am not quite that blessed. Instead I will keep my notebooks…Stacked full of nightmares. The only story I have been able to remember without writing it down is the one that caused my creation. Perhaps someday I will meet the snowman…I would love to collect all of Frosty’s stories. I can only imagine what notebooks I could fill with that.
I have collected the tale of a vampire that would use it’s victims for the creation of art.
And the tale of the ghost who used to be a mercenary in a rainforest expedition that went badly. He was a wealth of stories. He gave me my own nightmares for weeks after taking his stories.
I collected the story of the nun who was cursed with immortality. It drove her mad. She spoke of becoming a killer, and how it was a kindness to save the women from the hands of the priests.
Each tale has it’s own power to describe a different aspect of life, a different aspect of death.
The story of the woman who went back after she died to steal away the child that her husband loved more than he loved her…She sang it sweet lullabies as she took it to the edge of the River Styx.
I could easily entertain so many with my tales. Which story should I share? Perhaps about the creature named Harvey? The flesh-eater that enjoyed driving it’s meals mad first?
I have considered passing myself off as a horror writer. Telling my tales as if they were fiction to see if anyone would recognize. It is not as if I do not have thousands of dark and dismal tales.
There is the one about the three ghosts who tried to get a rich man to change his ways before it was too late. Or the one about the Witch who gave five teens their wish…but at what cost?
My notebooks are a treasure. I do not write the story whilst the teller yet lives. I make sure to leave them a tale to pay the ferry with. I can at least be that kind. Though I have considered what would happen in this world if there where not enough stories left to pay the ferry. Would all of the storytellers end up stuck here? And if they did would that just create more interesting tales?
I don’t dare allow myself to consider it too closely. I might just decide that I want all of the stories.
Pattimouse 