Mary-Cade Mandus - Skin Deep

Elena came awake with a start; a hand was tapping an insistent tattoo upon her shoulder. It was Filch, hopping agitatedly from one foot to the other. Seeing she was awake he whispered urgently, “Mirella!” Not bothering with a wrapper or slippers she sped to the room at the end of the hall, her heart in her throat. Her emotions were conflicted upon finding the chamber unoccupied. Filch tugged on her nightdress and stabbed with his finger toward the stairs. Unease replaced dread, if what Filch implied was true it could prove to be only slightly less damaging than what she'd actually feared. At the top of the stairs she forced herself to pause, and leaning over the banister, strained to hear. No sound rose from the second floor. Perhaps she'd misunderstood. Brows knitted she glanced down at Filch. The little man confirmed with a quick affirmative bob of his head. Signaling for him to stay put she tiptoed silently down to Crispin's door. Peering through the rails, hand clasped over his mouth, Filch watched her descent, concern manifesting through his fingers as muffled chirring.

The door stood open. Taking a deep breath, Elena stepped into the room. The bed yawned emptily. Her head swung quickly toward the window as something shifted. Crispin’s face appeared over the back of the chair, his eyes narrowed, blindly probing the dark, his voice breathlessly imploring, "Please, don't leave. Tell me who you are."

Elena's shoulders sagged. His words confirmed what she'd feared. Hoping she wouldn't betray her distress she answered back that it was only she. That he was thrown off balance was apparent by the shock that registered across his face. She took pity, fabricating a story that she had been on her way to investigate a noise downstairs when she'd heard him call out. Was there anything wrong?

Although anxious, she couldn’t help but smile at the comical battle of relief and befuddlement that distorted his features. He stammered a response - something about having dozed off and experiencing a particularly vivid dream. After a few awkward seconds, they bade each other good night. Closing the door behind her, Elena, so as to give credence to her fib, continued downstairs. The cottage's main floor was a single large room, sparsely furnished. Affording it only a cursory glance she opened the door and stepped outside. While the Shifting triggered no anatomical changes in humans it did enhance sensory perception so she was not handicapped by the dark. On the contrary her eyesight was essentially as unimpaired at night as it was during the day [Crispin's senses would develop similarly the longer he remained]. Therefore she had no difficulty in spotting the errant Mirella. Resigning herself to the argument that was shortly to follow, Elena strode purposefully across the grass.

Later, having reassured and dismissed Filch, Elena lay in bed. Her nerves were stretched to the snapping point. Tears, held at bay for so long, now slid unchecked in hot rivulets. She was confident that the choice she’d made all those years ago had been the right one, the only one. The flaw in her plan was in failing to take into consideration that curses will not be denied. They merely bided their time until a way was eventually found to carry out their assignment. And tonight, the nagging fear she’d carried had been justified – somehow Crispin would be the innocent agent by which Mother Llorona would triumph.

The blackness lightened to a soiled yellowish gray as dawn broke. Crispin sat slumped in his chair. It had been hours since Elena's footsteps had hesitated outside his door before continuing upstairs and he’d been immersed in a mental struggle ever since. His common sense deemed that his phantom visitor had been the figment of a dream - or a fever-induced hallucination, the swan song of his healing injuries - yet, how could it have been either one? Even now, long hours since, if he drew his tongue slowly across his lips he could still taste the sweetness of that kiss and with each breath the rich, delicious aroma filled his lungs generating a warm inner glow. No - his head underscored his conviction with a shake - it had been no dream or hallucination. An entity of flesh and blood had kissed him, there in the dark. Of that, he was absolutely certain.

The inordinate joy this verdict produced startled him. He had not realized just how much he’d wanted the encounter to be real. He grinned sheepishly, recalling how his mind had recoiled at the possibility that the phantom had been the motherly Elena. While his hostess had been and, he chivalrously amended, still was a very beautiful woman it was discomforting to contemplate that she might regard him in any way other than as a friend.

Wrapped in thought he failed to hear the door open and so let out a startled yelp when Mutch dropped to his haunches beside the chair. The hunter grinned widely, his expressive eyes dancing, body quivering with barely contained excitement. Pushing the crutch insistently into Crispin's hands Mutch gestured for him to stand. Crispin did as he was bid, assuming that his breakfast was on its way. While he paused to stretch his cramped muscles Mutch paced impatiently from his side to the door and back again. Hobbling toward the bed Crispin halted in surprise when Mutch huffed deeply, his head shaking negatively. Stepping to the door and through it he disappeared. Within seconds his shaggy head poked back around the doorsill. A hand followed, beckoning Crispin to come. Totally mystified Crispin limped slowly to the door. Feeling somewhat like an animal whose cage door had been mistakenly left open, he hesitated upon the threshold. Mutch chuffed encouragingly from the top of the stairs. Crispin joined him and his throat went dry. Although he had been chafing to leave the confines of his room it was a daunting prospect to contemplate negotiating down the steep stairs. Gently but firmly Mutch took hold of the crutch. Taking a deep breath Crispin relinquished it and looping his left arm over the hunter’s strong neck, grabbed the banister with his right hand. Mutch passed his muscular arm across Crispin’s back providing support and enforcing confidence.

Nodding that he was ready, Crispin took the first tentative step down. As his foot came to rest on the stair he braced against Mutch and grimaced in anticipation as the leg took his weight. But, there was no flare of pain – in fact, hardly anything more than a disagreeable twinge resulted. Letting out a shaky breath he took another step and then another. Progress was slow but finally they made it to the bottom without mishap. Confidence growing, Crispin accepted the crutch back and, stepping away from the solid security of Mutch, stalwartly crossed the length of the hall to the door. Mutch hurried forward to open the door and Crispin let out a whoop - more for the feeling of freedom than delight in the scene - as he stepped into the yard. Although plain and depressing, its natural hues deadened by the dreary light, the yard with its covered well, flagged walk and separate kitchen-house was a welcome sight. Since his room faced the back of the cottage he had never seen where Elena and the others spent most of their time.

With Mutch hovering close, Crispin determinedly made his way to the kitchen-house. He had some trouble mounting the two stone steps, and a vision of the daunting mountain slope that awaited his return in the cottage flashed across his mind. That concern was quickly forgotten as he passed into the building.

Unprepared, he stumbled back, eyes and body assaulted by light and heat. He was vaguely aware of Mutch's steadying hand upon his back. Behind the shield of his arm, eyes squeezed tight, a multitude of tiny suns blazed across the backdrop of their lids. After a few minutes he lowered the arm and gingerly opened his eyes. So unaccustomed had he become to true light, the room at first appeared unreal, floating before him in a golden haze. It also felt gaspingly hot, the illusion heightened by a hodge-podge of candles, lanterns and a cheerfully crackling fire. Crispin became aware of the almost forgotten sensation of his pores prickling and opening, of sweat gathering and trickling.

Still squinting, he made out two women, one petite, the other large and widely-hipped, standing at a stone sink beside the hearth. They were paring apples and at his entrance had turned. Putting her knife down and wiping her hands upon her apron, Elena came forward to greet him. Crispin recognized the other woman as Amadeus’ adversary from the day before. Jaw rhythmically chewing she appraised him lazily with oversized brown eyes before turning back to her task. A rocking chair sat nearby and plucking a napping Toddy from the cushioned seat, Elena waved Crispin into it.

Once Crispin was settled, Mutch pushed a low hassock before the chair and he gratefully propped his leg upon it. In Elena’s arms Toddy stirred but did not awaken, just gave a wide yawn and snuggled his head into her neck. Resting her chin in the child’s hair she inquired if he’d suffered any difficulty traversing the stairs and yard.

Shedding his stifling jacket, Crispin replied with a hint of self-satisfaction that the "journey" had gone quite well. Elena gave him a congratulatory smile and asked Hyacinth to bring water. With never a pause in her chewing the maid lumbered over. For such an unwieldy – and ludicrously named - creature, Crispin was surprised to find that up close her eyes were quite beautiful. Luminous, offset by luxuriously long and thick black lashes, they were awash with serenity and contentment. As she offered the mug he detected the scent of clover on her breath. Grateful for something cold - the irony did not escape him - he drained the mug.

Handing Toddy over to his father, Elena rejoined Hyacinth at the sink. Mutch, satisfied that Crispin was comfortable and settled for a while, laid his sleeping son on the hearthrug and departed. Left to himself Crispin looked around. The room was a narrow rectangle. At one end gaped the hearth, at the other, its head against the wall, a rough trestle table jutted into the room. Rag rugs, once gay but now faded by wear and time, dotted the stone floor. Wall space was minimal as a pair of shuttered windows and a door mirrored each other from across the front and rear walls. Dangling from the low ceiling beams, bundles of dried herbs mingled with tarnished copper pots of various shapes and sizes.

Crispin stifled a yawn. After a sleepless night he was fast succumbing to the room’s coziness. His heat-starved muscles had relaxed, and his limbs felt leaden. His lids drooped. The heady perfume of apples was intoxicating and he grinned foolishly, remembering the time he'd snuck a mug of his granny's fermenting cider. Upon a lullaby of domesticity and well-being he drifted into sleep.