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When the Bough Breaks
A "Take Your Pick-Axe" Honorable Mention
Option B
byAnna Cleveland
Of all the village children, there was one little sprite who stood out in the crowd. It wasn’t that she was that pretty. Her eyes seemed too large and dark for her pale face and her skin was more like alabaster than cream. But when you looked at her, you saw her mother, and you softened your criticism for her sake.“Such a tragedy,” everyone whispered, behind her back, watching her guiding the little one by the hand. “So young, too young, to lose her husband.” The poor man had been brutally killed, his neck snapped by the hooves of a runaway horse. The village had stayed at a distance as the young mother buried him, her family’s only provider. There were no relatives to help and no friends. A small remaining savings from him was all she had. The money did not last long.
Now Mary had a hungry child to feed and no way to get food. People began to notice that she appeared in public less and less, and when she did, she looked pale and tired. But the child looked so healthy that they shrugged their shoulders and chalked it up to the emotions of a grieving widow and raising little Canaan. Thank goodness that Canaan was the most well-mannered child you could imagine. When asked how her mother was doing, she would always say, “Oh just wonderfully. See this new dress she has made me?” And she would whirl around in a circle and curtsy so prettily that people soon forgot that they never saw her mother anymore.
Even the village priest, a sour old fellow, had taken a liking to the little charmer. She had learnt her Catechism far ahead of the other children and was never late for Mass. In fact, the priest was keen on her making her First Communion ahead of the others, come Easter. When asked about Canaan, the priest was quick to comment that if all parents raised their children the way Mary raised hers, he would no longer have to spend hours hearing confessions.
As far as the village knew, everything was pleasant with this little family. People held Mary up as an example to all mothers and her daughter as an example to their children. And when the priest announced that Canaan was to make her Communion early, the village began to plan a party for the favored child, as jealous mothers sighed over their own wild children.
Everything was in place that bright Easter morning as the fair-haired girl awoke and went to wash with the warm water already in the basin. Then she brushed out her golden hair and dressed in the white silk dress and veil her mother had made for her. She whirled around before the mirror, admiring herself. She took the full goblet from her dressing table and drank the smooth scarlet liquid it contained, licking her lips to get every drop. Then she devoured the contents of the plate beside it.
A cold, wispy shadow surrounded her, and she settled back into the familiar arms. “Good morning, Mother. Don’t I look pretty?”
“So beautiful my little one. You have eaten your breakfast?” The empty plate and cup shifted slightly.
“Yes, Mother. Just as you said.” The arms tightened around her and a breeze tickled her ear. Canaan’s hair was quickly smoothed beneath the veil as a knock sounded at the door. She closed the door to her mother’s bedroom and went to answer it.
“Good morning, Father. Is it time to go?”
He gave her a rare, gap-toothed grin, glancing quickly around the house and finding everything in order. “And will your good mother be attending today?”
She lowered her eyes sadly. “No, Father. Mother is feeling ill today. Perhaps you could come and see her after Mass?”
He nodded. “Of course, my dear. Now, let us be going. I must get vested for the service.”
As the two of them left, the bedroom door swung open. There lay the remains of a once-lovely woman, remnants of a white silk dress covering the twisted limbs. A bloody knife hovered in the air beside it, and then dipped to slice into the little remaining flesh. A goblet caught the last bits of blood as it trickled down. The shadow set about arranging her daughter’s next meal.
“She’ll bring the priest here after Mass, and then my little one will have a fresh supply of food and drink,” the shadow said and shook her head at the rotting mass that had once been her mortal body. “And you, my poor bones, we shall bury beside my husband afterward.”
The shadow that had once been Mary slipped through the walls, making her way toward the village church. She wasn’t about to miss Canaan’s First Communion. Then after the priest had been snared, she would begin selecting her daughter’s next meal.
Little Canaan never knew her mother was dead. She was fed, clothed, and loved; that’s what mothers do. The way Mary saw it, being dead changed little. She’d given Canaan her breast as an infant, the clothes off her back as a toddler. Now she gave her all that was left, her own flesh and blood. And being dead did have its advantages when it came to scaring up more food for her daughter’s growing appetite.
“The Body of Christ, my child,” said the priest as he placed the Host in the girl’s open mouth. Canaan swallowed the wafer and sighed. It wasn’t nearly as tasty as what her mother fed her.
People wondered later why “Rock-A-Bye-Baby” echoed through the church as Canaan knelt to pray.
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© Cleveland, 2006