Of Bees and Mist (3 page)

“I was a maid then, and no one in those days entertained like your parents. The best food. The best wine. The smartest conversations. Clever and handsome, your father sat on one end of the table
while your mother ruled the other end with her grace and beauty. Even a stranger could tell how much they loved each other. It was said that an electric current jolted the room every time their glances met.

“When you were born two years into the marriage, your father threw a banquet that lasted three days. He covered your mother in jewels, took enormous pride in your survival, and proclaimed to the town that he was the happiest man alive. ‘My daughter, who has defied death, is the loveliest creature in all the lands,’ he said. It was not long before a handful of people took offense.

“What arrogance!’ they fumed behind his back. ‘His child is barely alive, and already he’s trumpeting his good luck to the winds!’ Your father dismissed this as idle talk, but the more he ignored it, the louder the rumbling became. Soon everyone in town was whispering, ‘Pull up a chair and watch. Heaven is bringing Gabriel down.’ Oh, those ingrates! How easily they forgot his dinners! I don’t believe in curses, but to this day I wonder if all their ill wishes contributed to what happened. By the time your father took notice, it was too late. The cold wind was already tearing the house upside down.

“It happened one night while the house was asleep. A gentle wind clattered the bedroom window, loud enough to wake your mother but not your father. Thinking the latch was unfastened, your mother got up to fix it. The instant she touched the window, the wind gathered force and flung her back against the bed. It howled like a beast of prey, ruffling the books on the desk, fluttering curtains, sliding your bassinet across the room. Your mother tried to wrestle it out the window, but the wind proved too quick and strong for her. She was on the brink of waking your father when the tumult died of its own accord. Shaking her head, your mother returned to bed. You and your father remained asleep.

“By then I had been promoted to look after you, and I was the first to notice the changes. The drop in temperature, starting in the master bedroom. The ineffectiveness of blankets and fire. The dusk
inside the house, even at the height of noon. Every morning the maids set about their duties grumbling and shuddering. Bathing was a torment. Boiling water grew cold in a matter of seconds. By the time I discovered ice on your lips, I decided I could no longer keep silent.

“To my surprise, your mother told me she had noticed some of the same things. She was a different woman then, gentle and confiding. She told me about the incident with the wind, and confessed that she was troubled by it. ‘A fluke in the weather, madam,’ I tried to assure her. ‘There must be a logical explanation for all this strangeness.’ She did not believe me. As I turned to leave, she said something that made my heart lurch. ‘No matter what happens, promise me you’ll take care of my child. Think of me as you do today, even if I become a stranger to myself.’ Stunned, I stood staring as if she had struck me. A part of me wanted to weep for I didn’t know what.

“A few days later, your father complained about the chill in his bed. All night long a slab of ice was rubbing against him, making him so stiff he could hardly stand in the morning. The next night your mother kept the fire up until dawn, but it only made your father shiver all the more. A building inspector was summoned on Monday morning. After a week of combing floors and knocking on walls, the man sent an enormous bill and reported that the structure of the house was as sound as the day it was built.

“The cold seemed to affect your father the most. The rest of us—including you—could sleep with a few extra blankets, but not your father. He tried sleeping in different rooms at different times of day, but the chill followed him wherever he went. The occasional rest he managed to get was short and fitful. He became extremely irritable, critical of everything, and before long, he stopped inviting guests to the house.

“Your mother responded differently to the cold. She grew agitated and withdrawn, lost her appetite, and frequently complained of headaches. Keeping a relentless watch over you, she seldom left her room, and I often found her crying for no reason. She had trouble
making up her mind, and in her frustration often harmed herself physically. Alarmed, I persuaded your father to send for a doctor.

“The doctor said she was suffering from an ancient feminine malady, ‘unpleasant but not at all uncommon.’ For remedy, he prescribed a combination of soft diet and pampering. ‘Horseshit!’ yelled your father before the doctor was out of the house. He stormed into his study, cold and weary, and ignored my petition for a second opinion.

“In a matter of days, the house bore witness to a series of unprecedented events. A plate traveled at breakneck speed and shattered over your father’s head. Doors slammed. Tables stamped against the floor. Arguments spilled from hot mouths and sullied the air. The dusk was by then a veritable presence, draping over the rooms like a funeral shroud. Your mother lost her gentle voice, your father his cool head. They bumped and pushed against each other, two creatures in splints and stitches. As time passed, they spoke less and less. When their glances crossed, the room thickened with frost. Finding no warmth in the house, your father went wherever he was invited, alone, and stayed out longer and longer.

“One day, three months after your mother wrestled with the wind, I sensed that things had turned for the worse. Your father did not come home until the cocks crowed. That morning, the mist appeared at the door and has stayed there ever since. That same morning, your mother, who had worn her hair long and unbraided since childhood, twisted it into that implacable knot. To this day she has yet to let it down.

“After the mist appeared, your father spent all his nights away from the house. While the temperature dropped, the arguments rose to a fever pitch. Your mother wept around the clock. More plates met their demise. More doors were banged and bolted. The staircase began its stretching and condensing, the mirrors their mischief-making. A string of terrified maids came and went, feeding the town with news of downfall. Then one day, your mother dried her tears and ordered dinner from the cook. At eight that night, she came
down the stairs in red heels and a low-cut gown, sat down to a meal of pressed duck, and pleaded with your father to stay the night. Thrown off guard by her downcast eyes, your father agreed. They ate in silence and stole glances at each other.

“Oh, your mother was a clever one! She had me so convinced that that dinner would be the end of our trials. Once again she was the calm and graceful lady of the house, incapable of a harsh or reckless thought in her head. Looking at the two of them then, I did not doubt for a second that they had found a way to defeat the wind. I remember telling the cook that the townspeople could just kiss their ill wishes good-bye. ‘We’ll show them what we’re made of,’ I crowed before dessert was served. ‘This house will be warm again, and those bastards will fight for a seat at the table.’

“After dinner, your mother gave your father a meaningful glance before taking you into the bedroom. Your father followed. Armed to the teeth with excuses, I installed myself in the hallway. My conviction that a reconciliation was under way grew stronger when I heard you laughing from behind the door. At ten o’clock, I left my post and retired to bed. For the first time in months, I slept soundly without need for a blanket.

“A few hours later, I was awakened by a scream. I jumped up, thinking of your safety, and ran out of my room. The house was dark and cold. I rushed up the staircase as fast as I could and made my way to your mother’s door. I hesitated a second, but then you started crying as if you were hurt and I burst in without knocking. Your mother was holding you next to the crib, sobbing without sound. Your father was leaning against the wall, shouting words I couldn’t make out. The window was open, and a powerful gust was blasting about the room. The moon gave the only light, and in the dark I could make out a broken lamp and an upturned chair. I remember thinking the house would never again be warm. Those damn fools had won after all…”

“WHAT HAPPENED THEN?” PURSUED
Meridia, wide-eyed at the edge of the bed.

Carefully, the nurse chose her next words. “That night your parents had their last argument. When morning came, they stopped speaking to each other. Your mother moved you to this room, and your father has never spent another night in this house.”

“But the bright flash—what was it that I saw?”

The nurse dropped her eyes and took a hard swallow. “It was the moon, dear. A silver light was shining from the window right onto your crib.”

Meridia shook her head with vigor. “It was no moon. You said it yourself that the night was dark and the moon was not bright enough for you to see. You’re hiding something from me. What was it, Nurse? Tell me what you saw!”

The nurse expelled a long breath. “You were so little then, not even a year old. How can you be so sure there was a flash, or anything for that matter?”

“I’m sure,” said Meridia firmly. “You’ve told me this much. Don’t stop now.”

Slowly the nurse took Meridia’s hand. Her gaze was sad and heavy, her grip urgent as it was unsteady. Again the air rang with that terrible appeal, the hard, savage cry for which Meridia’s trembling figure seemed the most improbable source.

“Heaven forgive me,” said the nurse. “Promise me you won’t think any less of your mother. She was distressed and hardly knew her own mind. Had she been well, she wouldn’t have done what she did. She made me swear I would never tell, but there is one thing you must understand—”

The nurse suddenly seized up with terror. Dropping Meridia’s hand, she leapt from the bed as if she had been scalded.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

The nurse had turned paper white. A vein on her forehead stood out and twitched with panic. She shook her head, muttered some chore she had forgotten, and walked quickly to the door. Before
Meridia could follow, the nurse stopped her with a whisper. “Stay where you are. I’ll tell you another time.” The next second the door swung open and she was gone.

“But you
will
tell me?” Meridia called after her.

The door shut with a dull echo. Meridia leaned back against the bed and searched the ceiling for clues. Then almost at once she sat back up again, pointing her chin toward the door. Two short sniffs confirmed why the nurse had left so abruptly. It was faint yet unmistakable. The scent of verbena was pervading the room.

THE NURSE DID NOT
appear at lunchtime. Sitting at the table opposite Ravenna, Meridia pretended not to notice her absence. Ravenna was her usual self. She lunched with her apron on, held grave conversations with invisible persons, gave Meridia a startled look when she noticed her, then hurriedly returned to her cooking before the meal was over. She made no mention of the nurse, the earlier incident with Gabriel, or the blood on the stairs, which the maids must have cleaned and reported to her.

As soon as Ravenna disappeared into the kitchen, Meridia went to look for the nurse. Without a noise, she crept past the kitchen to the narrow corridor behind. Located here were storage closets, the room shared by the two maids, a linen cabinet, and a bathroom. At the end of the corridor, across from the door leading to the garden, was the nurse’s room. Meridia opened the door and entered.

The room stood empty. The bed was stripped and all personal articles were gone from the dressing table. Despite Meridia’s frantic search, the drawers yielded not a thread of clothing. Grasping the situation, she flew at once out of the room. In the corridor she ran into one of the maids.

“Where is Nurse?” she asked breathlessly. “Have you seen her recently?”

“Not since breakfast, miss,” said the maid. “She’s probably upstairs in your room.”

Meridia ran straight into the kitchen. Ravenna was cutting up a fish, her implacable knot aimed toward the door. Without turning or slowing the knife, she greeted her daughter.

“I forgot to tell you, child. The nurse received news an hour ago. Her father is ill. She left for the train as fast as she could. I doubt she’ll be coming back soon…”

T
he days of Meridia’s invisibility began with the nurse’s departure. Ravenna, retreating deeper into solitude, remembered her less and less. Meridia was now thirteen, old enough to take care of herself, and therefore did not need another nurse. Instead, as a token of confidence, Ravenna assigned her a generous weekly allowance. “Buy anything you like,” she said. “I’ll never ask you to account for a cent of it.” Ravenna continued to prepare Meridia’s meals with exquisite care, saw to it that she had a lunchbox to take to school every morning, but asked no questions regarding her study, her friends, or how she occupied her time. Once a month Ravenna ventured into her daughter’s room with a most severe expression, but only to inspect if anything needed mending or cleaning. The nurse had become a buried matter. When one of the maids mentioned that the good woman had left her raincoat behind, Ravenna betrayed no recollection of who she was.

After the incident with the two scholars, Gabriel’s persecution abated to a degree. Though Meridia still dreaded their encounters, for the most part he now allowed her to pass without a remark. Every so often, the ancient hatred returned and he would glare at her with
scorn. “Go away.” He would spit the words with an effort. “Go before you grow as hateful as your mother.”

How did love die between her parents, Meridia frequently wondered. If the nurse was to be believed, how did two people who could not stand the sight of each other ever kiss, lie in bed, make love, beget a child?
An electric current jolted the room every time their glances met.
Did the nurse lie? Why did Ravenna dismiss her? One morning, dizzy from the questions in her head, Meridia ran into the kitchen and lifted her fist to pound on the table. Once and for all she would have it out with her mother. She would demand answers and explanations. But before her hand could strike, her heart failed her. What if the truth was so monstrous, so scarred and riddled with meanness she had neither the strength nor the courage to bear it? Slowly Meridia dropped her fist and left the kitchen. All morning long she sat in her room, alone and forgotten, and the questions clamored.

Between Ravenna’s forgetfulness and Gabriel’s disdain, Meridia found herself transformed into a phantom. Bereft of the nurse’s love, she was not heard, seen, registered, questioned, or attended to. Little by little her fingers ceased to leave marks on the surfaces they touched. Her skin no longer smelled of the powder she used. If she sat still enough in a room, she would blend in with the furniture and no one would notice her for hours. Though initially distressing, her condition also came with advantages. She was accountable to no one, and could act as her curiosity demanded. In this way, Meridia became determined to find the ending to the nurse’s story.

She began by studying the ivory mist that guarded the front door. She watched it from her bedroom window, from the living room, from the garden, far away from across the street. She watched it at dawn and at dusk, in sun and in rain, and followed its movement as the wind shifted. After a few days of observation, Meridia made the following conclusion: Although the ivory mist never left the front door, two other mists frequented the house at different hours. Every evening, shortly after Meridia finished dinner, a yellow
mist swirled up the stone steps and rubbed its nose against the study window. A few minutes later, dressed in a long coat and top hat, Gabriel slipped out of the house and hid himself inside the vapor. The yellow mist then traveled west along Monarch Street and gradually became thinner until it vanished with Gabriel. In the morning, it was a blue mist that appeared at the end of the street, traveling in the reverse direction and growing denser as it approached the house. At the porch it merged with the ivory mist, and out of the union came Gabriel, still clad in the previous night’s clothes. Quiet as dew, he would hang his hat and coat in the closet, brush off his suit, and take his place at the head of the table before Ravenna came in with breakfast.

How did Gabriel spend his nights? Meridia imagined places—silver hill, velvet river, warm meadow—where Gabriel could go to escape the cold of Monarch Street. For despite his cruelty, her heart never turned against him. On the contrary, the nurse’s story had awakened Meridia’s tender sympathy. She pictured Gabriel as a man fleeing from a broken dream, a father and husband cast out of his own house to seek happiness elsewhere. She watched him intently whereas he did not see her, and although she was not old enough to call it by name, it was desolation she glimpsed beneath his hardness.

In those days of invisibility, Meridia also tasked herself to observe Ravenna. Her mission: to unravel the dark and private language her mother used to vent her grief. Thus, before and after school Meridia planted herself inside the kitchen, crouching between two cupboards as she absorbed the furious deluge of Ravenna’s words. Whether steaming snow peas or chopping red peppers, Ravenna spoke rapidly in an odd, guttural voice. Meridia wrote down everything she heard phonetically and later went over her notes in her room. With a red pen she drew arrows and circles, and in an attempt to impose patterns, she liberally excised vowels and transposed consonants. Some words were repeated over and over, some phrases uttered before others. Beyond this, there was no meaning she could extract. A fundamental element was missing, a key to
unlock the code. After a time, Meridia stopped going into the kitchen and buried her notes in a drawer. And there they rested, bleeding with questions, an undecipherable tongue from an unknown land.

ONE AFTERNOON IN EARLY
October, Meridia overheard the maids whispering in the garden. The two were but lately hired, the previous pair having lasted six weeks before Gabriel’s terror drove them away. Meridia was doing schoolwork on the sun-warmed veranda when a breeze brought the whispering to her ear. The maids, pruning daffodils not ten paces away, were unaware of her presence.

“It was a beast. All night long I heard it stamping on the front lawn.”

“What beast is capable of swearing? No, it was a ghost all right, and it was doing something awful to this house. I checked the ground this morning. Damp, but no footprints. It was a ghost, I tell you. And not a friendly one at that.”

“We should have looked. If only you hadn’t been so terrified.”

“I wasn’t the one ducking under the blankets!”

“It’s true then. No maids could bear to stay here more than a few months. The house is always freezing, Master is a terror, Madam has all but lost her mind, and there’s pitiful Young Miss, who skulks around and never says a word to anybody. Now we have a ghost added to the bargain. Do you think the other maids left because they saw it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Why else would Madam pay more than other mistresses? Better stick to our business. Save money and quit before we wear out our welcome.”

Meridia sat petrified, her schoolwork forgotten on the table. This was the first she had heard of the swearing, stamping ghost. The night before she had slept soundly, though her windows were opened to the front lawn. Was this the first time the ghost had appeared, or had it frightened other maids before? The nurse had never mentioned it. And during her observation of the mists
a few months earlier, she had not crossed paths with a single apparition.

Meridia resolved to stay awake that night. She sat up pinching her arms, solving mathematical puzzles at her desk, and drinking untold cups of water so as to use the bathroom every half hour. Still, she fell into a dream not long after midnight. It was the same dream she had been having for years. The bright flash of light traveling at great speed, followed by a thump and a dreadful scream. Then came Ravenna’s arms, squeezing her while a burning liquid fell over her cheeks. This time, she managed to peer into the darkness and catch her mother’s face. To her shock, it was not Ravenna who stared back at her. It was the ghost she had first encountered in the mirror more than a year ago. The dirty yellow eyes spun and exploded out of their sockets.

Meridia woke up in an instant. For a minute she lay still, afraid to open her eyes for long, but when no ghostly hand alighted, she pulled herself up and adjusted to her surroundings. A faint ivory light was illuminating the window, but the room was otherwise dark and cold. Meridia ran a hand over her face and her fingers came away moist with sweat. She tried to remember what she had been doing before she fell asleep, and suddenly a fresh wave of fear broke over her. She had been sitting at her desk, working on a particularly difficult puzzle, but now she was lying in bed. The light had been on then, and now the room was dark. Someone had entered, carried her to bed, spread blankets over her, and turned off the light. Was it one of the maids? But they had retired hours ago. Ravenna? Her mother only entered her room on inspection days. Someone else—something else—had been present in the room and come into contact with her. Meridia had no time to think further, for a hissing, stamping noise began sounding in the dark. It was coming from the stone steps below her window.

Fear strapped her from head to toe, but a power outside and beyond her was steadying her legs and pulling her toward the window. In a dizzy roar, blood rushed to her ears, so loud it almost
drowned the snorting, stamping noise. Meridia drew back the illuminated curtain by an inch. Trembling violently, she thrust an eye into the gap and looked down on the ground below.

The moon was hiding behind a veil of clouds. The ivory mist obscured the light from the street lamp. Yet in spite of the dimness, one look was sufficient to confirm Meridia’s fear. It was indeed the ghost in the mirror, stumping up the stone steps as if her legs were made of metal. Her yellow eyes were no longer dull, but glistened like gold. The rest of her face remained in shadow. What at first sounded like hissing was in fact a chanting, directed at the glass and steel of the house like a malediction. The ghost was cloaked in black from head to toe, with a long train dragging heavily behind her. Even if she was human, the train would sweep away her footprints from the damp earth.

Pressing her head against the window, Meridia struggled to think clearly. Her breath came short and stifled, her bladder screamed to be relieved, and the cold of the house had mingled with fear to rattle her bones. She was sure that at any second the ghost would turn those yellow eyes on her, enter the house, storm up the staircase, and break down her door. What could she do? Where must she hide? As the thoughts clanged in her brain, a curious thing was happening on the ground below. The ghost, having reached the topmost step, was glaring at the mist. Her yellow eyes were sharp and burning.

Then the ghost charged. Like a hawk on the wing, she tore at the vapor, her fingers beaked like talons, her arms slashing, quartering the air. Her chant leapt into a battle cry, while snakelike, her train jerked and slithered along the ground with each blow. The harder she hit, the thicker the mist grew. The vapor appeared to have become solid, more robust than a wall of steel. Losing her ground, the ghost backed down the stone steps and fell to the grass in a heap. The ivory mist swirled around her, claiming victory, then retreated to its post. The ghost unhooked her cloak and muttered a curse. Meridia gasped and yanked the curtain open.

A strong breeze blew from the east and shifted the mist from her view. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, and for a brief second poured its light unobstructed upon the ghost. First there was the face, severe and angular; then the nose, long and generous. The yellow eyes had faded to gray, restive with fatigue and anguish. A cry broke from Meridia when she glimpsed a bonelike structure projecting from behind the head.

In a second she was out of the room. Night shadows roved the hallway, but Meridia pushed past them without stopping. Reaching the whimsical staircase, she struck her fist against the banister and in two steps made it downstairs. The front door opened with a grunt and let her out into the mist.

“Mama!”

She could not see a thing. The ivory mist roared at her, a thick powdering of flakes that stung and blinded. Meridia shielded her face with her arms and advanced as best as she could. It was deathly cold inside the mist. The hard hand of the vapor spun and tossed her, muddling her sense of direction, closing every path of escape. Then all of a sudden the commotion died. Meridia opened her eyes to an aching white silence. She had fallen into a place where time was suspended. Everything—her movement, the swirl of the mist, even her heartbeat—slowed to a deathlike pace. From inside this vacuum she could see Ravenna clearly. Foiled like a mad prophetess whose desires were lost in their own labyrinth, her mother sat on a stump of grass, less than three feet away, but worlds and worlds apart. The ghost was, and had always been, Ravenna. That night in her infancy, after the bright light flashed and the crash followed, it was this ghost who had snatched her and held her. Ravenna had worn the same expression then as she did now, one of absolute terror and hopelessness, bleeding out life from every crevice in her soul.

The shout Meridia gave was a forceful one, but not enough to penetrate the mist. Trapped in that vacuum without being heard or seen, she was suddenly seized with a painful affection for her
mother. She longed to run to her and bury her face in her neck. She longed to feel, even for only a moment, warmth and guidance, acceptance, comfort, and, above all, forgiveness for the tumult that raged in her heart. But cold and impregnable, the mist stood between them and would not let her go. Sinking her teeth into her hand, Meridia wept quietly. She told herself that any other daughter would have found a way to drive back the mist.

The words that finally pierced through the vacuum were the same ones that lay in the bottom of her drawer. A dark and private language, expelled in a deluge from Ravenna’s mouth with a furious passion. The mist carried the words without distorting them, forcing Meridia for the first time to hear them in their purest rudiments. Long after Ravenna rose from the ground and went back inside the house, Meridia stayed still. She was now free to move, but something kept her paralyzed. She had located the missing key, the fundamental element to unlock her mother’s words. There inside the mist, she at last understood that for almost as long as she had been alive, Gabriel had been keeping a mistress.