Ennah

Sentisse, 66 years after the Rise

Carefully, I sip a spoonful of the onion soup I'm making for dinner. Despite pouring all my love into it, it tastes like bland broth. I know I’m a terrible cook, but how does one spoil a soup, for feather’s sake? Admittedly, this soup would have been better if I hadn’t allowed my mind to keep wandering to the conversation I’m about to have.

As I was stacking barrels on the platform, I decided that telling Aunt Carme about my plans first is the best way to go. Uncle Aniol is still in such a foul mood I’m surprised the air is still breathable, but even if he was happy as a meibol flower in spring, approaching Aunt Carme about this first is smart. She has a way of breaking things Uncle Aniol doesn’t really want to hear in a fashion that leaves him upset and thrashing about the place for only a short while. My telling him about my decision to stay may upset him for days, weeks if it’s ill-timed. And with Damagic running amock up north, I think telling him now will be the understatement of ill-timed.

I take a deep breath. Right. Focus. Is there anything I can do to make this soup less hideous?

My gaze wanders over Aunt Carme’s herb collection, unsure which one might add flavor without worsening her symptoms — the Healer has her on some kind of concoction and I don’t want anything to interfere with is working. If Uncle Aniol had just been a bit more informative about what exactly ails Aunt Carme, but asking him was like asking something to the moon — pointless. If I had pushed him more, he’d only have started yelling at me. And Aunt Carme was asleep when I came to check on her just before starting this poor attempt at cooking, so she couldn’t help me either. It felt good to see her sleeping, though. I know she didn’t sleep well last night, and she looked so calm, that I know the Healer has done a great job. Thankfully.

Ugh, the soup. What can I do to make it better? Will Aunt Carme even taste if it’s bland?

Well, at least I made sure to chop all the vegetables finely to prevent any choking. She’s done enough coughing as it is.

I take one last look at the soup and decide there’s nothing more I can do. For Uncle Aniol and myself, I think I know what herbs to add to make the soup, well, sort of eatable. For Aunt Carme, I’m afraid this’ll have to be it. I’ve already cut off the softest pieces of bread I could of the loaf I baked earlier — it’s so hard I could almost use it as a weapon. I'll make do with the small pieces of hard crust today; Uncle Aniol will get the more edible stuff.

I clear the flat stone we use for hot items, making room for the soup pot. I meticulously place the lid on it so nothing will spill as I lift it. Liquid is tricky as it is. Hot liquid is downright dangerous, and it’s already coming up — I have to actively hold the lid down as I place the pot on the stone. If I do anything with haste or carelessness, it will surely cause a mess.

My fingertips are scorching and I try to flap some cool air onto them as soon as I let go of the pot. There’s a reason why I rarely cook. This is even more difficult than all the dust sent afloat in the air with every sweep that I make.

But it needs to be done. I don’t see Uncle Aniol chopping onions or kneading bread any time soon. Too bad I’m so awful at cooking and baking, it would have made a nice argument for me staying here if I could bake the best oat cookies in all of Sentisse.

I think Aunt Carme is awake. The sound of coughing pierces the silence. Time to pick up the pace.

Three bowls are waiting, and I fill all of them, deciding which one to give to Aunt Carme based on the amount of union floating around — the more the better, I guess. I cover her bowl with a plate for transport. Since I already tucked in the bread with a cloth so it won't wander off when I lift it, I don’t have any excuses left to dawdle. I place the bowl and the plate on a serving tray and make for the kitchen door.

Oh, wait. It would also be wise to take another cloth along — coughing and soup probably don't make for the best combination. Gracefully, I turn around, my ankle bracelets chiming sweetly. One piece of bread escapes the cloth and drifts through the air for about a heartbeat before falling prey to gravity again. When I extend my foot to return it to weightlessness once more, the chime of my ankle bracelet is more succinct. I catch the stray piece of bread and then quickly lower my hand onto the plate now wanting to drift away from the soup. Another bit of bread tries to follow its bigger predecessor, and after tugging both of them in again, I sigh. Granny has told me about jugglers, people who twirl balls and other objects around in their hands, throwing them up and always catching them. She's compared me to one of them on several occasions — and I can almost hear Granny say it to me now.

With a bittersweet smile of love and loss on my lips, I make my way to the bedroom, slowly and meticulously, making sure I don't send stuff flying all over the place again. The door to the bedroom is closed and my hands are full. I allow myself to fly up just a little, so I can lower the doorhandle with my buttock. It’s a good thing Uncle Aniol still isn’t around.

The room is lit with a single candle, on Aunt Carme’s bedstand. She’s laying down, but as soon as she sees me, she clambers upright.

“Do you want me to tug some pillows in behind your back?” I ask.

“Yes, dear, that would be very kind of you.”

I smile and make sure to place the serving tray on her bedstand carefully.

Aunt Carme takes over plate duty, so I can retreat without still causing the soup to splatter. It wouldn’t be the first time things go sideways just when I think everything’s under control.

“Onion soup?” she asks.

“The Master’s orders,” I say.

“Hm,” she says, followed by a coughing fit that gives me just enough time to gather some more pillows. One of the better consequences of my condition is that I rarely have to ruffle them up; every pillow I carry immediately fluffs up.

“Better?” I ask when the coughing has died down and Aunt Carme is sitting upright.

“Yes, thank you, dear,” she says.

Before, I thought she was doing better. But now I find her looking frail and small below the sheets. Her breaths are shallow, whooping with every movement of her lungs.

She smiles, though. “Thank you for making dinner.”

“It was the least I could do.”

“I know what a hassle it is for you, so thank you. Have you also prepared the barrels?”

Even when ill, she still knows everything that goes on in this household and in the business. “Every order is ready to be transported,” I say.

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“And please remember to clean the area you took them from. We don’t want any dust to make its way into the wine.”

“Of course.”

“And the chickens need…” Her sentences are interlaced with coughing. “Need tending to.”

“I know where we keep the grain. And how to keep Brown Bollass out of it.”

“Don’t forget to make vinegar from the left-overs.”

“Aunt Carme, you don’t have to remind me of this. Please, save your breath. I know what to do.” I’m not sure what makes her so anxious about the running of the vineyard, but I know what needs to be done. The vinegar we make from the unsold wine is used to scrub the kettles and de-calcify the water reservoirs. These are things I’m well aware of.

“If Angeline starts producing less milk…”

“I’ll make sure to tell Uncle Aniol so he can ask the neighbors to bring their bull over.” I smile. This is the perfect opportunity to weave in my intentions. “I know how the business works.”

“And make sure you fix problems with the water and fencing immediately.”

“I’m fully supportive of it.”

“I labeled last year’s produce yellow. This year needs to be orange.”

“In fact, I don’t want to—”

“Follow the rainbow. Make sure to sell the last blue barrels quickly.”

“I don’t want to leave anymore. I want to stay.”

“In spring, when the blossoms come out, take out the ones that are overgrown by the bigger flowers. The bees won’t find them anyway.”

She’s not even listening to me. And why is she talking about spring, as if…

I look at her as she says something else about what needs to be done when the next spring comes around. It’s like she’s ticking off a list, as if she’s been thinking about this for a while and is terrified she’ll forget something.

“Aunt Carme?”

“Aniol forgets it every year, you need to remind him…”

A coughing fit makes her stop, and I take advantage of the moment to ask the question I fear I already know the answer to. “Aunt Carme, why are you saying all of this?”

“Hm?”

“Like you’re…” I can’t bring myself to say the words. Like she’s instructing me on what to do after she’s gone…

“What did Aniol tell you?” she asks, her voice suddenly hoarse.

“Nothing. That I had to make sure to make onion soup, and…”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. The movement makes another bout of coughing break free. “I’m sorry,” she mutters in between barks.

“No, don’t be.”

“He doesn’t… He can’t handle…”

Anxiety claims my stomach as if filling it with cold, prickly liquid that sucks all the life out of my body. “What?” This can’t be. Aunt Carme is known to sometimes overreact. This must be one of those occasions. She must have felt awful, really awful, and feared for her life. Maybe she was dreaming. I had a fever once and it got me so delirious that I saw every word that Granny and Aunt Carme spoke to me as colors and shapes. It was odd and at the time, it made complete sense. Only when the fever had broken and I remembered the beauty of the colors did I realize something odd had been going on. This must be something similar. She was sleeping so peacefully just now. She looks so much better than she did this morning. It must be a mistake.

I try to focus on Aunt Carme’s eyes, that still sparkle with life no matter the dark circles around them, or the pale face they glisten in. Then, she coughs even deeper as she sits up straighter.

How have I not seen this? This can’t be happening, right?

There’s a look I’ve never seen before on her face when she pats the bed beside her. A mixture of sadness, and courage, and, I don’t know, surrender. No dramatics. Maybe it’s compassion, but… Her voice is creaky. “Come… sit with me, child.”

Even though I know I won't dent the mattress, let alone rock the bed, I sit down very carefully.

“I love you, you know that?” Aunt Carme says.

Tears immediately blur my sight. I want to say that I love Aunt Carme too, very much, but it feels like saying it out loud would signify that this is goodbye, and I'm not ready for that. My lips tremble, and I clench them between my teeth, trying with all my might to keep the tears from falling. If I so much as make a sound now, I'll be lost.

“It's alright,” Aunt Carme says. “I'm not afraid to die.” Every other word falls prey to another cough, but she keeps speaking, even when her voice is reduced to a mere scratch.

“But you’re not dying,” I blurt out. “You’re just having a cold, a severe one, but you’ll live. You’ll get to see spring and remove the blossoms that are falling behind and…”

“Honey… The Healer couldn’t help me.”

“Because you’re strong enough to get well on your own?” I’m clinging to straws, I know it, but I’m still shattered by Granny’s passing. Losing Aunt Carme on top of that is unthinkable. Soon, I'll have nobody left I can be myself with.

“I know,” she manages. “For you and Uncle Aniol, I would stay, without a doubt. But I fear I have no say in that.”

“You must have a say.” Tears are now rolling down my cheek. “There has to be a way. Another Healer, perhaps? There has to be a potion, something…“

“There is not,” Aunt Carme calmly says, her voice so fragile now. “I can tell.”

“No, we…“ I think of Granny’s book, all the way up in the recess in the wall. “There must be something…“

“Oh, Ennah.” She puts her arms around my shoulders and pulls me against her chest. The cool crystal leaf and the golden chain of her necklace will leave a mark on my face, but I don’t care. She struggles to speak. “I wish… I really wish… Knowing that I have to leave you and Aniol behind is my deepest sorrow. I want you to know that I… I love you dearly, Ennah. As if you were my own.”

I swallow. As a child, I had wanted Aunt Carme to be my real aunt, or even my mother. I had wished it with all my heart. Aunt Carme saying this out loud, even though in a way I’ve always known she feels this way, both lifts and sinks my heart simultaneously. I'm so grateful to know that I'm loved, but Aunt Carme’s words also shine a light on all the empty spaces in my heart I hold for my real family, for those Granny has never really told me about but who have to be out there somewhere. It makes me miss everything I don't even remember even more.

“I love you,” I whisper.

“Oh, darling,” Aunt Carme says, her words strained and her breaths shallow from trying to stop the coughs from ripping through her. The tears in her eyes glisten like pearls in the candlelight. “I cannot express how… much that means to me. You will always be loved. Will you please remember that? A love as powerful as mine… and I know your Granny loves you even more… Love like that cannot fade. They will forever be with… you, alright?”

I nod, my throat too clogged up with tears to even utter the slightest sound.

“Remember that… whenever you feel alone… because you… are not alone. Love never dies.”

Aunt Carme’s coughing increases. The sound pulls at my very core, making me feel sick as well. “Do you want a sip of water?”

“No,” Aunt Carme gasps from behind the hand she catches the coughs in. “I'll be… Fine… I just…“

I look at her, knowing Aunt Carme hates the look of deep concern that’s radiating out of my eyes right now, but I can’t help it. Aunt Carme’s arm slides from my shoulders as if it’s nothing more than a limp cloth, and I quickly take Aunt Carme’s hand into mine. “Can I get you anything else? Maybe…“

“No. Just…“ It seems to me that Aunt Carme wills the coughing to cease, seeing the way her face is contorted in a painful grimace.

“I should leave you; you should rest.”

“No. Things… Things aren’t always… as they seem. You… must remember that. Ennah.”

“Things aren’t always as they seem,” I repeat, not sure how to interpret those words but I will keep them in mind. I cannot ask her to elaborate, she's barely able to breathe as it is. I squeeze Aunt Carme’s hand in reassurance. “I'll remember.” And I pray to everything dwelling on the fields that she will get a chance to tell me what she means by this when she's better. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, as if a part of me knows that prayer is in vain.

Aunt Carme presses her free hand against her lips, still willing the coughs to stay away for a bit longer, but now losing that battle. I can hear the fluids in her lungs, hear the rattling of each strained breath Aunt Carme manages to take. Time is running out; I can sense it with all of my body. It feels as if I'm being turned inside out, as Aunt Carme is fighting for the smallest bits of air to hold on to.

When she coughs into her elbow and releases it, dark spots stain her skin. Blood.

Mine seems to run cold in my veins. “Aunt Carme? Shall I fetch Uncle Aniol?”

The nod is barely visible. I press a kiss on Aunt Carme’s pale, sweaty brow and wish I could give more love, be more of help to the frail woman that seems to be nothing more than an echo of the Aunt Carme she used to know. Then I push myself off the bed and reach for the ankle bracelets.

“No…“

“I'll be faster if I…“

“No… Càgil… Aniol…“ The words are barely audible in the chaos of coughing and wheezing, but tear through my heart like a knife. No flying. Even when she's this ill, she tries to keep me safe. Even when there is no one around, even when her life…

“I'll be back soon, with Uncle Aniol,” I say, my throat all but clogged up. “Don't go anywhere, Aunt Carme. Don't…“

Don't die alone…

And then I run, my toes barely brushing the floor. Run as fast as my feet will carry me, as fast as my muscles will allow, as fast as the winds in a hurricane or the thunder in a storm.