LAME: April 2010

I've very, very sorry about the tardiness of the submission, but I hope you enjoy it!

Paint Me the Sky

Exactly where this story starts, I don’t know. It may have started during the days when grandmother was with us, when she sang songs from her golden harp. Or it may have started before that, when the Concotians took over Enora, when my mother married my father, or even before that when Enora was suffering the Depression. History never ends, it’s just a chain of ends leading to the next. We just happen to get caught in one of the links; what we make of it, how we change is up to us. I don’t believe in destiny. Whatever decisions I made, whatever things I did, it was not as if some star had destined for it all to happen. Though I’ve heard a seer in Alavanne claims that he had predicted the revolution, saying he could “sense the winds were changing.” I am sitting on the roof of a tower, glancing down toward a garden bursting with spring, and I can very assuredly say that winds are definitely changing, but it doesn’t take a seer to tell that. They will always change. Perhaps they will change again so drastically that all I—we—have done and accomplished may just be forgotten shadow in the books of history. I hope not. Much blood has been shed. I am a little tired, and relieved and just beginning to catch my breath. Age has crept into my hair and on my forehead and the backs of my hands, and I want it to mean something.

I think I shall start this story from Mother’s death. Many other people play a part in this, but I only started to become aware after her death. We all knew she was going to die. We were all aware. It's hard to cling to hope when a fact faces you so menacingly. The palace—the country in fact—had accustomed to running without Mother. Six months it must have been since she took to the bed. Leah, my five year old sister and I grew closer as we silently acknowledged the dark uncertainty we shared. Leah knew something was very wrong, and while we never put it to words in front of her, it became quite clear to her that something was very wrong with Mother it was indeed a change to be worried. I think Concotians had mixed feelings about mother, because many held prayer meetings and priests did long elaborate rituals which were supposed to quicken her healing. The physician said he had no hope for Mother. During her last days when he condition had taken for the worse, everything at the palace seemed to slow down, people lingered outside her chamber, and there was a heavy tension prevalent. We were all worried. We must all have had different reasons to worry, though. The Queen was a different person to all of us. For Leah and me it meant losing a mother, or finally being forced to grow up. For many it meant losing a sensible monarch. Father wasn’t much of a king. He was a gambler, liked to be entertained. There had been a plague in eastern Concota and people were rightfully worried what would become of things when Mother left. For Father, Mother was…she was—to this day I still do not understand their relationship. I know love did not exist in the last few years of their marriage? But before? I’ve always desperately hoped that Mother was at least in love at some point in her marriage, or even in her life. The last two years, especially were very difficult on their marriage.

I think they hated each other. They dined separately, slept separately, appeared at courts on separate dates. Only at dinner did they sit together, but that was only so could put up the act in front the court, of a united throne. Though I’m sure much of the court already knew.

The day before my Mother’s death I was sitting dining with the court, seated with father and the Aramintian ambassador, Vermudo, whom my father had taken a great liking to. For the fast few years they had bonded well, and my father thought highly of Vermudo, perhaps only because Vermudo made a whole show of thinking highly of Father. Oh,father, your vanity! It ruined you, and could very much have ruined all of us. Much could have been avoided had you not been so vain.

Dining in front of the whole court was always a challenge. Saying the right thing, eating the right amount of food, dressing, acting, sitting, standing just the right way, just trying to remember all the little rules kept me confused and paranoid through out the whole dinner. I’d say little for fear I’d the wrong thing, and eat little for fear that I eat too much. I was so tense, I’d drop my fork, and fumble with embarrassment dropping even more things, and inwardly frowning upon myself for being such a mess. Ever since Mother had stopped dining publicly, I had taken her spot, and I hated it. I was so horrible at it.

“Crown Princess, I hope your studies are going well,” Vermudo said.

“Yes, thank you,” I said.

Father spoke up, his cheeks large and pink gathering at the corners as he beamed, “She’s a bright one, Vermudo. Why clever as a fox. Last night she told me how she thought in the Battle of 1784, the Concotians could have attacked using the river. And I said to her, said I, “Well you’re right Erinara”, because by golly she was right Vermudo. If we had crept up the river, rather than through the mountains, we surely would have gotten to the fort.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s all and well, but the Concotians probably also had to take weather into account. There must have been a reason why they didn’t use the river. Surely though wouldn’t overlook a whole river!”

“I suppose you’re right,” my Father said, loosing interested in the conversation as he knifed his chicken.

Father was wrong, for I had never said we should have used the river for the 1784, rather I had asked why we hadn’t used the river. There was a clear difference, and my father was only making me—rather both of us—look very silly in front of our whole table. But I didn’t say anything. Forming my words, phrasing them, explaining it all, seemed too pointless a task so I quickly continued consuming my rice.

“What about the Queen, how is she faring? I hope I can greet her.”

“Ah, she’s a sickly woman, she is,”

I’m sure my father hadn’t meant to word that so, but both Vermudo and I flinched; Father continued as he picked at the chicken leg in his plate, “I mean the doctor’s haven’t got much hope,” he opened his mouth as he took a bite, chewing it quickly and drinking it down before continuing, “It’s all quite sad really.”

The worst and embarrassing part was that he didn’t even look sad when he said that. He only looked completely engrossed in his food, the topic of his wife life or death situation like mere gossip.

Chapter 2

Mother’s last night was the root of all this change. I wonder to this day, what if I hadn’t gone in spoken to her, or what if she had died without telling me about Kervin and Marcie. There are so many “what ifs” that I could gladly spend my time thinking how things would have turned out if they had been done differently at any small point in this whole fiasco. What if I had stayed in Concoto? What if Lielle and I would never have been friends so Mother’s information would have been meaningless. It’s quite fun to lie back and pick a the web of interconnected events. I do understand why people would believe in destiny.

Mother was very much in her senses on her last night. She had spoken for long with my sister, which was a rare thing as Mother was hardly ever in the state to talk.

Lielle came to my bedroom to escort to my Mother’s chamber. Mother had called for me. Another rare thing, for I Mother was hardly ever in her senses to call for me. So there I appeared at her chamber door. Leslie ever present, her cold grey eyes staring at my every move.

“Please keep it quiet inside, Crown Princess. Her Majesty, the Queen is not feeling well.”

I nodded. Inwardly, of course, I stuck my tongue out, or perhaps I sneered at her, or even gave her a swift kick. I hate how Leslie patronized me. It was humiliating and embarrassing, worse that I was not as good at her games as she was. Actually, I always saw through her acts, her games. Was it confidence that I lacked in shooting back? Perhaps I saw no point?

Entering Mother’s look was like stepping into whole other world. It was so disconnected. The curtains were drawn, the air stuffy with the prevalent smell of medicine and illness. Life was drained out of that room. One wouldn’t be surprised if they we were informed this was the room of the deceased. Deceased in the past tense. I shivered thinking that. This dark creepiness was Leslie’s touch, of course. Had Mother been in her senses, the windows would have been wide open, sunlight dappling the room; fresh new flowers would be by her side. Flowers. I felt a pang of guilt. I should have brought flowers.

I went to the curtain, parting them, letting the sunlight flood in. Leslie scowled.

“Crown Princess, I have been trying to keep it dark in here.”

“I’ve noticed Leslie. I just thought the room could do with some cheer.”

“It’s hard to sleep in the sunlight. Surely you know that she needs her rest.”

“No,” Mother said, simply, finally speaking up, “Keep them open. Thanks for your concern Leslie.” Mother said politely—rather diplomatically. I knew she didn’t want Leslie to feel contradicted.

It was like this with Leslie. Every little thing became a matter of pride, of ego and proving to the other who had the upper hand. I tried sometimes to keep this duel up with her. But it would get so infuriating and pointless, I’d just settle for what she wanted. I didn’t understand why Mother kept her as her Lady in Waiting. Leslie had been with us for a year now. Mother’s previous Lady in Waiting, Lady Roup had been caught stealing and now sat in the dungeons. Her whole family and manor of course degraded and pushed down to lower society. It was a sad story. But Mother had a firm hand. She wouldn’t have stood for burglary.

Mother had taken a liking to Leslie. Her organized and prompt manner suited Mother, much more than the gossipy Lady Roup.

“Good evening, Mother,” I said taking a seat on the chair by her bed. She was seated up, her back cushioned by pillows. She looked frail and haggard, her eyes sunken, her cheeks sallow and yellow. She was dying very ungracefully.

“Good Evening Erin. I have called you today to talk of a most pressing matter,” she looked up and saw Leslie quietly standing in the corner, “Leslie could I please have a moment.” Leslie nodded and left. Mother let out a series of rough throaty cough, fumbling around for her handkerchief.

“When I’m gone, Erin,” She began as she recovered from her coughs, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief, “I want you to find Marcie and Kervin Faraeca.”

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Find them and tell them to take back what is rightfully theirs,” She looked at me for a moment, carefully, her eyes thoughtful, with a hit of regret. “You’ll find out more when you see them.”

“Why do you want me to find them?”

“To right a wrong, Erin. When death approaches, it’s hard to keep on being stubborn with your conscience. If you could do me just one favour it would be that you do not ask me to tell you what it is that I have done wrong. Take this burden off my shoulders and tell me that you’ll find them and tell them that I ask them to forgive me.”

“Yes, but how am I supposed to find them?”

“I don’t know, " she sighed, "I don’t know where they are but it is—it is very important that you find them.”

“Yes Mother,” I said. I wasn’t sure what to make of this information. On one hand there was the queer sensation I had gotten when she’d said, “When I’m dead”. The importance and urgency of her request. Her request. That she had selected me from all her messengers, and assistants, me to carry on this task. I felt a little closer to Mother. Not enough that I would lean over and squeeze her hand, or touch her face, of even plant her a kiss. But both of us were in on something. Just the two of us. And then the matter itself: Kervin and Marcie. It boggled me, why Mother wanted me to find them.

We spoke for a while longer. She continually reminded me of my palace duties of when she passed away. She spoke with such surety of her death, that I believed her. It was coming fast. I didn’t cry. It was not real enough. Just a haunting realization that kept sinking deeper and deeper very slowly, but hadn’t come to terms with fully. I knew when she was gone, she’d be gone and I would never see her again. It was rather surreal. A painstakingly real reality staring me in the face, and I seemed to be looking back at it blankly, nodding, eyes wide, understanding that I hadn’t comprehended the whole of it properly. I was scared of it, yes. But I never cried. I just went on nodding and accepting. Sometimes when it sunk deeper, I’d cling to hope, but even that hope was thin.

When I stood up to leave, Mother called out, “wait.”

“Yes,” I said looking at her hopefully. It was a little dramatic. Me leaving, after she’d made it clear to me that she was dying, our conversation having ended and when I’m at the door, she suddenly stops me for a final word. Was she going to tell me how much she loved me, and how much she’d miss me, or to be strong?

“Until I die, I do not want you to speak of Marcie and Kervin again,” she paused, “and forgive me.”

I paused at the door, my heart beating, eyes smarting. I nodded and left. I thought she was sorry for us never having gotten close, or if I had grievances against her to do with her parenting, I was to forgive her. Thinking along those lines, I felt a burst of love for her, walking out of the room. I forgive you mother, I forgive you. I’ll be alright.

But I had it all wrong. That was not what she was asking forgiveness for. Not by a long shot. She had much more to be repentant about, and I wouldn’t find it so easy to forgive her.