Fiction flashquake |
The storm was picking up. Outside the wind gusted, rattling the windows in their frames. Mrs. Mallory, glad of the warmth from the fire, drew the crocheted shawl closer around her shoulders and settled in. Above her Ivy bustled about in the bedroom, readying her bed, no doubt, turning down the coverlet, fluffing the pillows, all in that brisk, no-nonsense way of hers. Good girl, that Ivy, not like some who would steal what was yours out from under you, figuring a half-blind woman in her eighties would never know. Her stiff fingers sought out and found the chipped edge on one of the bowls on the table beside her. The sugar bowl, good. With a shaking hand she measured a teaspoon into the cup, the one with the pretty blue and white pattern, and stirred. Tea sloshed over the side and into the saucer. She sipped, the tea sweet and hot on her tongue. The cup had belonged to her grandmother. Funny, she hadn't thought of the old woman in years. A fanciful woman she had been. Believed in ghosts, of all things, and the little people. Used to leave a bowl of warm something on the doorstep every morning. "For the wee folk, Eileen," she'd said. "So they won't get up to mischief making." Cup between her hands, Mrs. Mallory closed her eyes. She had been a sturdy, practical child, and she hadn't believed in her grandmother's stories, stories the old woman had packed and transported to the new country as carefully as her Irish lace and warm woolen undergarments. Like the pooka, that white beast of Irish lore. To see one, her grandmother said, was an omen of death. "An old wives' tale," her mother had said sharply. "Don't listen to her stories, Eileen." And she hadn't. One day, though, out walking in the countryside with her father, she saw a magnificent horse, huge and white, galloping free without bridle or saddle down a dirt lane. A delicious shiver ran through her and she remarked on its beauty to her father, who had merely grunted in reply. Upon returning home, she had been surprised to see the curtains drawn. Indoors, in the small bedroom where her grandmother slept, she found her mother crying in the darkening room. Her grandmother had taken sick and died while they were away. "What time, Mother, what time?" she had cried, tugging on her mother's dress and on her patience. "Three or so, child, what does it matter?" But it had mattered, for it was around that time that she had seen the white horse. She sipped again from her cup, shaking her head at her foolish, old-woman thoughts. Leaning over, she took hold of an iron stick and with it poked at the fire, stoking the dying flames. Soon Ivy would clatter down the steps with the tray of medicines and douse the fire. Soon she would be helped up the stairs-to bed, to sleep, to forgetfulness. Soon another long day, like all the other long days, would flicker and be extinguished. The wind pounded against the door, like an unwelcome guest demanding to be let in. Suddenly, without warning, the door gave way and in rushed the wind. Newspapers neatly stacked in the hallway scattered across the floor. She twisted in her armchair, but the room was so dim and her eyesight so poor, she saw nothing. A strong animal smell, familiar and not unpleasant, mingled with the smell of dirt and grass and wet. She reached out, felt the empty space surrounding her. Then the air stirred, shifted, as if parting to make way. In the fire's dying light, a massive shape materialized. She sensed rather than saw its white brilliance as it stood quivering before her. "So," she said, recognizing the animal even after all the many years that had passed. "You've come for me now, have you?" She felt for the flat surface of the table and placed her cup and saucer down. The creature tossed its long neck impatiently, eager to be off. She hadn't even time to finish her tea, to drain the last of its warm, sweet goodness. Silly to protest. To say it wasn't time. She, an old woman over eighty. Still, to be able to have one more hot bath, steam rising, to feel Ivy's rough hands scrub her aching back, then settle her in, firmly tucking in the bedsheets, snug and secure for the night. All that she would miss. The creature knelt before her, lowering its massive neck, and she leaned forward. Closing her eyes, she grasped its coarse mane, twisting her gnarled fingers into the matted wet hair, and rolled onto its back. It rose slowly and when at last it was standing, only then did she open her eyes. In the light of a dying fire, its red embers turning to ash, she saw an old woman slumped in her chair and Ivy descending the stairs, a tray of medicine vials in her hands. It was over, she thought, and before she could hear Ivy's gasp of startled surprise, the creature reared up and took off into the cold wet night. |
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