Artwork: Rising from the Garbage by Will Jacques

Be Careful What You Wish For
Maureen Mancini Amaturo

 

I find solace in this swamp. The moss does not question me. Vines do not condemn. Here, no one mocks me, no one calls, “Fils de la Folle,” and I can forget my station in life. Beautiful Châtelaudren, my village, my home, where has your compassion gone? Lively blooms lead away from my village until color fades to the quiet of wood and leaves. Along the path to the forest swamp, hydrangeas line the road, full and frothy and bursting as if singing aloud. I am seduced by their colors. One in violet-blue calls to me. There is no one near, so I pluck it and make a wish. My country has had her revolution. Now, a revolution for myself – je souhaite que ma vie change. Yes, I wish my life to change as the new century begins. Up close, I study God’s brush strokes on the hydrangea petals. The colors deepen and fade and shift and blend – so rich, so miraculous.

After long hours working land belonging to others, in these dying afternoon hours, I come to rest on soil owned not by the wealthy but by the divine. My mind clears as I approach my place beneath the curtain of wet willow branches. Just as I prepare to sit, I spot something most curious. I am not alone.

This thing is both fascinating and frightening. Nothing about it is familiar. I am mesmerized. A person? No, not with such unnatural features. But there is a beauty there, too. Such exquisite, frail, green fingers. Skin, translucent grey. Hair, glitter on reeds. What creature did I stumble upon? Is she asleep? Dead? She, I think this creature is a woman, lies among the moss and branches and leaves and cattails surrounding her as if to keep the damp of the swamp away. I creep closer so as not to wake the being. Is she alive? What is it…she?

The smell of the marsh invades my nose. It is not the usual green wetness of fresh leaves and bark. Decay, it smells of old death. I hear the quick whips of the lizard tails and see the ripples left by scurrying minnows and hungry mosquitofish in the nearby water. I free my foot from the sludge and roots at the base of my tree. I approach her. Perhaps, I should not get too close. Frogs belch. Crickets play percussion. Yet, she doesn’t stir. I hear a twig snap. A footstep? I hide behind a rotted stump almost my own height.

I look at the sleeping form on the forest floor. Something is approaching. What is that? A shadow, but it’s not a shadow and looks to be a man without features. I don’t recognize the being. Though I have a clear view, I cannot define the form that is moving toward her. This shadow, sure in its stride, shuffles across the brown ground not hampered in the least by the mud and muck. It seems almost to float through the branches. Yet, its feet weigh on the dry leaves crushing them as it walks, and I hear their cry of distress in every papery scrape and crunch. It is as if heavy boots are forcing the sticks to snap, and yet, there is no substance to the shadow, no weight in its transparency. There is no man near to cast this shadow, and if there were, there is no sun. The shadow is its own being. I’ve heard of shadow people. My own mother saw one, but I never imagined I would see one myself.

The calm that usually greets me here is gone this evening. I try to focus on the scene unfolding, but I am being nipped by gnats and poked by pill bugs. There is a circus of spiders and biting flies, and I have to be diligent at silence and tolerant to aid my obscurity. I must not announce myself. I’d rather be bitten than be discovered by the shadow man.

He stopped. The shadow is beside her. He has no face, just form. He’s crouching now and circling his arms above her and moving them the length of her body, back and forth, as if performing a ritual. She’s stirring! I dare to peek further from behind my broken tree in time to see the shadow place what looks like a vaporous hand on her, and a web appears. It forms from nothing! It floats above that frail creature like a network of silver thread then swirls around her. She writhes within it, and the shadow man stands. The cicadas are getting louder. Their chaotic buzz seems to be melding to a rhythm, a music in time with the movement of that silver web.

A crack as if a shoe stepped down on dried branches jolts me back behind my tree stump. My heart is thunder, and I fear this shadow being may hear my heart booming even from a distance. I breathe slowly, deeply. Be calm, be calm. Out of sight, I am safe. I know I must be patient, though I am anxious to witness every moment of the peculiar spectacle.

Ma pauvre mère, c'était vrai. She did see it. Elle avait raison. They did not believe my mother when she warned of the shadow man. And now, who will believe me? It’s all too fantastic. My breathing halts, but my pulse races. I am not aware that my teeth are scraping at my own lips until I taste a drop of blood. My skin vibrates. I grasp the cross hanging from the chain around my neck and pray the most fervent prayer to St. Michael, the great protector. These creatures are not of this world. I need protection not of this world. Whatever is out there, I fear I am no match. I know I must remain hidden, but my curiosity is almost painful. I check the ground before stepping aside to peek again. I do not want to snap a twig or make any sound that would give me away.

The web is gone, and the shadow man is kneeling beside this creature now. She is going to rise! His arm, that transparent arm, is behind her guiding her to awaken. That shadow is patient, more patient than I. He waits. So, I wait.

Her eyes, they’re open! Never have I seen such eyes, but they are not eyes – large, almond-shaped beams of pure light – pale, blue light. There is nothing of this earth about them. Aside from her eyes, her features mirror those of the dead – grey skin, a skeletal nose and taut, shriveled, black lips. Her hair is changing. It no longer mimics reeds. No, it’s smooth now, full and falling across her shoulders. This disfigured figure is part beauty, part horror. She’s turning toward the shadow now. Are they speaking without words?

She stands, and the shadow is helping her gain balance. She is taller than I expected, taller than any man I know. She is the height of a hay wagon. The shadow is backing away. He’s fading, almost gone. And she, that creature who seems to have healed from some sort of misfortune, is holding her arms out to him. He vanishes as mysteriously as he appeared. He’s gone now. I look between the trees, gaze across the ground, inspect the sky. He is nowhere. There is no sign that he was ever there. Only sorcery or insanity could explain such a thing. But she, she is becoming more beautiful by the moment. Her features are shifting from eerie to extreme beauty. Her frail, green fingers are changed and as human as my own now. Her lips are no longer black but have turned to the pink of dawn, and her nose has taken human form. She is mesmerizing, this beauty who was corpse-like moments ago. What unholy scene is this?

No! She is looking my way. I duck and hide. I pray again, please keep me safe, keep me hidden. Though she looks nothing as she did before and has transformed to something quite enchanting, her appearance doesn’t fool me. I remember what she looked like when I first came upon her. She wears the beauty of a woman, but she is no woman.

I hear the clicks and snaps of the forest floor, but I no longer hear the cicadas. It’s as if they have stopped in reverence to her. I lean slowly around my tree. She is gone! Completely gone. No prints in the mud. No remnant at the site. No trace of her in the distance. Something is breaking the surface of the mud where she once stood. Pieces of…pieces of white…bones! They are human bones! There, now a skull, and another. Oh, these unfortunate souls who have come to such a burial. How did they die? Instantly, the village legend comes to me, the legend villagers dismiss as just a child’s tale, imagination and folklore and fantasy. But this legend haunted my own mother, and now I know it is all true. So many times, I had heard the tale of the hooded woman who preys on souls for her own sustenance. She is more than vampire. She needs more than blood. Hunger must have brought her forth again. They say she is just a story. I know they are wrong.

What have I witnessed? Something shocking and chilling and not a bud of proof. I am stunned, frozen. I lean against my stump too weak to swat at the incessant bugs clouding me. I do not even feel the bugs stinging, the itch of their venom. I look again at the spot where that creature lay just minutes ago. The bones are gone, and there is not even an indentation where her body was. Yet, I know she was there. I know what I saw. The quiet reminds me I am alone, and I question my own mind. Hallucination? Illusion? No, I am sure she was there, and the shadow man, too.

I must return to the village. I need to tell someone. I run my hands down my hips and feel the rough, rumpled fabric of my own clothes. I brush the sweat-dampened hair from my brow. I scratch the bites swelling along my arms and neck, reminders of reality. Though what I witnessed is unreal, I know what I saw. Someone, surely, will believe me. If no one does, I’ll be hurried to an asylum and be thrown to the rats as they did to my own mother. My mother, oh dear God, mon Dieu, it was true. What she told me and the others was true. She did see this monstrous scene herself and was tortured for it. What pain, what desperation she must have felt. And now, all these years after she went missing, when her body disappeared though her shackles remained locked to the stone wall of her asylum cell, I know how she disappeared. A chill grips me as dread and disgust merge at the thought that those muddy bones could have been the last of my mother.

Dare I tell? Must I keep this fantastic experience a secret? I must prove the legend is real. I must affirm my sanity. I must affirm my own mother’s sanity. What unfortunate choices – buried in the soul of a demon or in the cold stones of an asylum. Heaven, please, I do not want to come to her end.

Running from the swamp, stumbling through dense and dismal trees, I hear my feet squelch in the mushy ground below me. My shoes are sodden. I am shaken. No one will believe me. I am not insane, but they will say so. I’ve seen the fate of neighbors who have been deemed ill of mind. I saw what they did to my own mother. They are not kind to those who are different. Unjust. So terrible. I cannot face that. I cannot tell. That would not be safe. Once I am on cobblestones in the light of the streets, this will be my secret. Yes, it’s best that way. Better to remain silent than to be thought a fool, or worse.

Finally, I reach the village, such a relief to see familiar townsfolk, daily traders marketing bushels of vegetables, their baskets piled high. I stop to appreciate the normalcy of it all. The baker’s wife lines new loaves on the wooden rack outside their door. I inhale the aroma of baking bread. I had not realized I was hungry until this moment. The lone coin in my pocket will be just enough for one of those loaves. As I reach for my bread, I feel a passerby brush against my back. When I turn, I see the shadow man. He disappears quickly, then a towering woman in a hooded cloak stands only feet beyond me. I see her long, full hair falling from the front of her hood. She turns to me, her face toward the ground, her arms folded, her hands within the sleeves of her cloak. When she looks up, I see her eyes, the eyes of a doe with a glimmer of blue light within. As I watch, her skin grows grey. Her lips become black. Her beauty morphs before my eyes. I look at the demon as she draws one arm from beneath her billowing fabric sleeve, and with a frail finger, she points at me. I become ice. She is here, in my village, among my neighbors. She has found me.

No one seems to notice her. The cooper at work nearby doesn’t even look. The smith goes on pounding. The baker’s wife next to me seems not to see that cloaked woman. I hand over my coin and ask, “Do you see her?” I point, and I see the demon’s face has replaced the doe-eyed enchantress. She is both beautiful and horrible, of two natures, and she is showing me both. The shadow man appears beside her. “Do you see them there? Do you?”

The baker’s wife scrapes the coin from my palm. She squints, takes time to look. “Who? I see no one.”

Though when I look, they are there. Then, the shadow man fades away. She remains. Her eyes are fixed on me. Her lips again become black and curve to a knowing smile. I hug my bread and run to the cooper. “Do you see her?” I point. “There, look at her.”

He leans on a nearby barrel. “Look at who?”

I stare at the figure in the cloak, her blue-beam eyes bathing me in fear, her black lips still smiling. “Her, that creature. I came upon her in the woods, and she’s followed me. She is the hooded woman, the soul-stealer, the legend. It is true. She exists.”

The cooper looks. He shakes his head and turns to me. He backs away. “Are you well? There is no one there.” Silence hangs between us, and he narrows his eyes at me and points. “Tu es fou! You are crazy, crazy as your mother was.” Calling to his helper he says, “Come, the town legend is here. Come meet the soul-stealer!” He laughs. “Careful, son, she is following you.” He rolls his barrel to his door, laughing. “Allez! Go away, now.” He swats me away just as I swatted those forest bugs. To him, I am nothing more than that.

I grab the shoulder of a man passing by. “Look, please. Look at her. Do you see her? Tell me you see her.”

He shrugs away and grips his coat more tightly around him. “I see no one.”

“You don’t see her? The woman in the cloak with the blue light for eyes.” He backs away and leaves me there in view of the haunting specter who has changed form again, and her face is bathed in the blush of innocence, pink and soft. What a shrewd demon this is.

This passerby, whom I hoped would be of some help, shouts, “Leave me alone. Blue light for eyes? Are you mad?” His face is twisted in judgment and fear. Stepping further away from me, suddenly, he turns and runs.

I see him stop to speak with a neighbor. Others gather, and they are pointing at me. Their faces have no pity. More join them. All of them huddling close together as if to protect themselves from the likes of me until they form a crowd of hateful glances. They are laughing. I knew it would happen. Only a secret is safe from scorn.

Secrets must remain hidden, but my secret is free to roam. My secret is no longer in the swamp. I fear it is everywhere I am. No longer need I worry how I will keep my secret because she and her shadow companion are visible to only me. What do they want? Do they know I am my mother’s son? My secret preys on me, and I cannot tell a soul. I cannot ease my soul. I run until I cannot breathe. Finally, I see my own door. Inside, I place my bread on a nearby stool and rest against the wall. I slide to the floor, my legs weak and shaking. The chill in the air moves me to light a fire. As I step toward the hearth, I see her. She, again with the features of a demon, stands beside my mantle. I bury my face in my hands and rub my eyes. Surely, it is my imagination. She remains there, the shadow man joins her, and then they are gone. She, alone, reappears near my table. My legs give way. My body shakes. I cover my mouth not wanting the scream forming in my soul to agitate her.

With my hands, I climb the wall. I haven’t the strength to stand on my own. Run, I must run. I leave my door wide, bound through gardens and over fences, across neighbors’ pathways and past barns. I look behind me, and she is there. My chest is rising and falling in great waves, and I run. Rest, I need to rest. Ahead, I see a place to sit, a soft patch of moss around a small hill of rocks. A few minutes to ease the pounding of my heart, and I’ll continue. With my forehead in my hands, I close my eyes. I will myself to consume the quiet and ease my mind. When I look up, they are there. I run.

I cannot run to the marketplace, so I head outside my village toward the fields. My hope is someone, some farmer, will welcome me to his home for the night. I remember the bread I purchased earlier and wish I had taken it with me. I have no coins to offer. I wish I had brought that bread to trade for a night’s sleep. My legs collapse. When I rise, I brush the dried leaves from my britches, and she is there. She stares at me. Her black lips taut.

Panic propels me. I run faster than before. I search the fields. Is she watching? Run. There is a barn in view, and I head for it. I recognize old Mr. Ferrik, who is carrying a coal bucket. “What’s your hurry, boy?”

Grateful to see another human being, I stop. He has not shunned me. He is not laughing. It can only mean word has not reached him yet from the village. I cannot tell him why I am here or, surely, he will think I’m insane as they do. “I have a long journey ahead and need a place for a short rest.” I stop to catch my breath and am pleased with my quick lie. “Would you be willing to put me up for the night?”

“Come along. A blanket and a bale of hay, if that will do you. I’ve a loft in the barn with some space.”

“You are most kind.” I follow Mr. Ferrik. He hands me a tattered cover and points across the field toward his barn. As I near the barn door, I see two small, blue lights in the distance. No, No, No! I hurry inside and close the door. The night descends, and not even a splinter of moonlight slits the darkness. Suddenly, a cold wind materializes and two, blue lights form at my feet. They come closer. A form takes shape, a hooded figure, an arm extends as if to reach for me. Horror ropes my body and chokes my voice to silence. She approaches. I keep my eyes on her as I crawl along the floor toward the door. I run leaving the door ajar. Breathless from exertion and fear and confusion I dare not look back. I should have known nothing would keep her from me. I had found her once, not by intent, and now I cannot lose her.

Day after day, I run. Night after night I dare not sleep. I cannot sleep. They will not let me. Haunting and trailing and reminding me they are in pursuit. Should exhaustion overcome me, my rest is brief. The shadow man invades my dreams, threatening, urging me to follow the woman with the hood. They leave me no peace, no escape. Battered, I am at their mercy. Why? The torture is more than my soul and sanity can bear.

Weeks have passed. I still run. She, with her hellish features and hunger for death, haunts me – steps behind me, across the path, waiting on the road ahead. I am far from home now. I stop strangers to ask if they see her. They never do. I close my eyes, and she is there. When I open them, she is there. When she is not present, the shadow man haunts me. Together, they torture me. Awake, she is my predator. Asleep, he invades my dreams and works to break my will. It is as if I hear his voice coaxing me back to the swamp. No sleep, no rest, I will never be at peace while he squirms within my very thoughts, a tormenting seducer luring me to follow her. He is her partner. They want me. Whatever their purpose, they want me as they wanted my mother. It is hopeless for they will be wherever I am. I hide but will always be found. I run but will never escape.

Either I will lose my sanity or my life. I angst, weighing which fate is worse. They’ll put me in an asylum, they will, if I tell anyone of the shadow man and this cloaked creature who rose from the swamp. And if I sit and wait, confront them, what will become of me? Likely, I will become nothing more than new bones to sink in the mud. I will join my mother.

They are out there. I know this truth but can never tell. Shrouding what I know only doubles the burden. If I am not insane at this moment, surely, I will become insane. Why have they chosen me? Because I am my mother’s son? Will these unnatural creatures return to wherever their unworldly souls were born? I mourn the burden of living with a secret. Lord, have pity on those who live with a secret they cannot share.

How long must I live haunted and hunted? Fear is of no help. Yet, what will courage do against something so unnatural? I wish for death, but only God knows when that will come. There, a bush of poison berries. Maybe God Himself has sent it. I sit beside it and finger the thick, waxed leaves. The grey clouds above exhale, and their breath of rainy mist, soft but chilled, surrounds me. I sit until my clothes are as damp as my spirit. The wind stirs and carries the vibrant perfume from a nearby patch of lavender, a reminder of life. I reach for it, desperate to hold this beautiful fragrance, but the scent is fleeting. I look up. Before me, she stands. She allows me not even one moment of beauty. She is always there, but never with her dawn lips. She has worn only her demon face these past weeks. Her mouth, always the color of night, never speaks but tortures me just the same. The shadow man does not come in my waking hours anymore. They have made a way to torture me day and night, from without and within, and he is my night predator now.

By what method will they do me in? I will die. We all will die. That I know, but the lucky are spared the pain of knowing how. I am not one of the lucky. I know for me there are two paths to death. Do I run the rest of my days tormented by these spirits until I am driven to collapse to the earth? Or do I die by my own hand to be tortured by the devil below it? No answer comes. With one hand gripping the thick, poisonous leaves of the berry bush, I turn my face toward the lavender. I meet her stare. I do not look away anymore.

A chorus of hydrangeas sing along the path ahead as if they mean well. I know they are traitors. That day I held one and made my wish, it worked against me. Wishing my life would change brought me this. It is true: be careful what you wish for.

At this moment, I don’t know if I am death’s disciple or foe, but I do know death will come with or without my help. Will they be on the other side when my soul arrives? I pray not. In the afterlife, there I can tell my story. Surely, the devil knows them. There are no secrets in hell.

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