Beckoning of the Gate

The Apple and the Tree-2

‘Hello, Mama.’

Lilay Lathagin, her bonnet now removed and hanging by the back door, smoothed her hair as she always did when she was agitated. She wore an apron inside-out over her blue dress to ward off evil spirits, but by the look on her face, she was hoping that’s not all it would keep at bay.

She nodded and turned back to the bubbling stew.

Tread carefully, Santha, she told herself. Though they had clashed often in the past—Santha was willing to admit that maybe, sometimes, she could be just the littlest bit headstrong—she’d never seen her mother quite like this before and was unsure of her next step. She forged ahead regardless.

‘I was thinking I would stay for dinner,’ Santha said evenly. ‘I wish to talk to you and Papa.’

Mama sighed, bowing her head with a shake. Without turning around, she said, ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘I do,’ came Santha’s reply, firm if a little hesitant.

‘Fine.’ Mama stirred the pot and then turned abruptly, as if she’d had a sudden thought. ‘Sit. I’ll make some tea. Your father won’t be long.’

Santha sat at the small dining table as her mother hung a pot of water over the fire. From her cabinet, where she kept all her most valuable treasures, Mama took out two jars: a tea all the way from Nagha Haathee in Vaera, and chamomile, cultivated and picked from her own garden, dried and shredded. She placed a teaspoon of each into the water. The aroma was instant and filled Santha with memories of days when she could barely move, doubled over with her monthly pains and Mama bringing her a hot water bottle in bed and a cup of chamomile.

She poured the tea and they drank in silence, sitting across from one another, barely making eye contact.

After a while, Mama cleared her throat. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’

Santha sipped and swallowed her tea from the only fine porcelain they had in the entire house. ‘And why would you think that?’

‘Because you’—she paused, steadying herself—‘you said, “I’d rather die than live under the same roof as you”.’

‘You told me to leave, so I left,’ Santha said tersely. ‘And if I recall correctly, you called me selfish and “a disgrace to this family”. If that’s not an invitation to remove myself, I don’t know what is.’

Mama, eyes watery, placed her cup down in the saucer with a clank. ‘I never wanted you to leave. Never.’

Santha scoffed. She couldn’t help it. ‘You didn’t try to stop me. Never lifted a finger. In all the time I’ve been gone, you made no effort to see me. To talk things over. To ask me to come home. All those letters to Dandon and not one for me. Why?’

‘Because I …’ Her mother hesitated. ‘I couldn’t …’

‘You were ashamed,’ Santha said for her. ‘You haven’t been to the town centre in a month now, even before this all came to a head.’

‘Why did you come here now?’ asked Mama, her eyes already filling with tears. ‘If it’s to torment me, then—’

‘No.’ It came from Santha unbidden. That single word, as if it could sweep all the pain and anger of the past away, dangled hopefully between mother and daughter, allowing Santha a moment to rally herself and prepare for what she was about to say next. ‘I came because … I owe you an explanation. But it is hard to speak of. I cannot do it more than once and Papa needs to hear this from me as well. I will tell you both when Papa arrives.’

‘Tell me what?’ A figure emerged from the dimmed hall. ‘My goodness, that smells delicious!’

‘Papa! I didn’t hear you come in.’ Santha jumped up from the table and leapt at her father, who caught her in his strong arms. She had never been so relieved to see him in her life. Tomm Lathagin hugged his daughter fondly and she came away blackened with rich soil. Any other time she would have scolded him, but for now she was grateful he was here. He’ll listen to what I have to say. He’ll understand.

‘Sorry, my girl,’ Papa apologised.

He wiped his dirty hands on his long trousers. It did him no good. A long day assisting with his neighbours’ crops had left clods of dried soil clinging to his clothes, and they fell to the ground. As soon as the dirt hit the swept floors, Mama let out a strangled groan.

‘Hello, dear.’ Papa smiled ruefully, his thick beard moving as he spoke. ‘I’m home,’ he added unnecessarily. ‘Sorry about the mess. I will—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mama dismissed his apology, standing up from her stool. ‘I found Santha outside tending to the goats and chopping wood. Chores you said you had well in hand.’ She gave her husband a small smile to take the sting from her words.

‘Oh, I’ve been coming almost every day,’ Santha said nonchalantly, finishing off the last dregs of her tea. ‘Papa has known since the beginning. How else would he keep up with the workload? You’ve barely set foot in that pen in ten years.’

Mama’s eyes narrowed to thin slits in her daughter’s direction.

‘Oh.’ Papa glanced between his wife and daughter sheepishly. ‘Let’s eat and discuss it after dinner. I’m starving!’

Santha had never loved her father more than in that moment. Normally not the most intuitive fellow, even he could sense the danger brewing in the room. He went to the kitchen, bustled around for a moment or two, and ladled them all a bowl of goat stew. It spoke volumes of Mama’s distress that she allowed a man in her kitchen, and she sat at the dining table as Papa served their meal.

Santha dithered. Although her idea, she had never actually expected to stay for dinner. It had been a mere excuse to get them both in the same room. Mama seemed to sense her hesitation.

‘Isn’t this what you wanted, Santha?’ Mama said archly.

‘Yes, but I—’

‘Sit,’ commanded her mother.

Santha felt a tinge of anger at the back of her throat. She would have retorted with a barbed comment if not for the precarious situation she was in. She sat down, keeping her animosity in check, and waited.

‘Here you go, my girl,’ said Papa, handing her a whittled spoon. ‘Tuck in.’

Mama and Santha either side, Papa sat between them. He wasted no time and plunged his spoon into his steaming wooden bowl.

Santha picked up her own spoon and dipped it into the stew, the fragrance of the hot meat whetting her appetite, in spite of the situation. For all Dandon’s luxuries and fine meals, she had missed her mother’s cooking. Blowing on it gently, the spoonful slid down her throat with ease, and so did the next, and the one after that. Before long, Santha and her father were mopping up the juices with torn crusts of bread.

Mama hadn’t touched a bite.

Feeling somewhat content, Santha tried extending an olive branch to her mother. ‘The dress you bought me is beautiful, Mama. The lacing alone must have cost a fortune.’

‘It was made in Calloway by a seamstress recommended to me by Master D’Avery,’ she said, arms still crossed over her chest but her expression softening. ‘The silk is all the way from Lysalle. Master D’Avery offered to buy it himself, but I couldn’t allow him to do so. He helped make the arrangements, but I paid for it.’ She glanced up at Papa, who had grown more and more alarmed as he listened to the venture. ‘It was a very good price, dear. Master D’Avery has his connections.’

Papa settled down, returning to the last remnants of his stew with a heel of bread and a renewed fervour, but her mother’s words had Santha puzzled.

‘I don’t understand. What would ever be the occasion for wearing something like that?’

‘I’d hoped you would wear it to the equinox festival after the harvest this year. For Master D’Avery,’ she said quietly. Mama’s expression hardened. ‘But things change, as they often do.’

The shift in mood almost had Santha somersaulting. It appeared her mother’s mind was never far from the town’s gossip.

Santha put down her bowl and bread. ‘Say what you mean, Mother.’

Santha watched as, arms still crossed, Mama’s nails dug into her upper arms. Her mother said nothing.

‘If you won’t, then I will,’ said Santha. ‘You think I’m a slattern, don’t you?’

‘Come now, my girl,’ said Papa, choking on his last morsel of bread. ‘We think nothing of the sort.’ His eyes turned to his wife, entreating.

‘Elysh tells me you’ve gotten quite comfortable in Master D’Avery’s manor,’ Mama said without glancing at her husband. ‘It seems you didn’t need the dress after all.’

Santha bristled. ‘Elysh McKascey is a lying wretch who would w***e herself to every man in the Valley if it meant getting even with me.’

‘Nonsense. We’ve known the McKasceys since before you were born. Elysh and you grew up together. By the old gods, you were best friends not half a year ago. She’s a good girl, well-bred. And she has to take care of her mother all by herself now with her father gone. She has no reason to lie …’ What she left unsaid hung over the dinner table like a wet blanket.

Santha laughed. It had no mirth in it. ‘What do you want from me, Mother?’

‘I want the truth,’ Mama exclaimed.

Santha shook her head. ‘You don’t want the truth. You want something that makes sense. You want to keep living in this fantasy you’ve created for yourself because the reality would undo you.’

‘Don’t you patronise me, Santhana Jayne Lathagin,’ her mother spat.

Santha’s reaction was sudden and involuntary. She shrank into her stool as if she were still a child. But then her anger flared, warring inside with the fear of finally telling her parents what Percival McKascey had done to her—and what she had done to him. Deep down, she hated that it had come to this. The longer she’d kept it inside, the harder it had become to speak of. And now, now it was too late.

But was it? Dandon’s words came back to her. Her parents loved her, she knew this. Then why was it so hard to say what needed to be said? Santha opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. Sticking her jaw out, she sat there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, eyes staring out the kitchen window. Gods, help me, she pleaded.

‘I never told you this before,’ Mama began softly, ‘but my mother and I were never close. She was never one for affection. I was an only child, as you are, and I had no one to confide in. I did not want that for you,’ she continued, tears in her eyes again and voice thick with emotion. ‘I tried to give you what I never had, so you felt comfortable coming to me with any issue, any concern. And yet …’ She sobbed, burying her face into her apron. ‘How could I have failed so miserably, so completely?’ Mama wept for a short while. Papa went and stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders. Santha remained seated and waited patiently, guilt now battling the fear and anger. Her mother’s sobs subsided. She wiped her eyes and nose on her apron.

The pain and guilt she’d swallowed for months now was too much. She couldn’t keep it down. And in that moment, she didn’t know she wanted to. Maybe Dandon was right. Maybe it was time. ‘It was just after the alban-eiler equinox when he—Elysh’s father—forced himself on me, Mama,’ said Santha, her own voice hollow and strange to her ears. ‘And when I tried to fight him off, he beat me and r***d me anyway.’

Mama reached out to her. ‘Oh, my girl. My little girl.’

But Santha flinched away, the stool screeching on the floor as she stood. ‘Stop. Let me finish, or by the old gods, I will leave here now and you’ll never see me again.’ Her mother’s hands dropped to her sides and Santha relaxed, allowing the story to come. ‘I couldn’t tell you. The shame was too great, and before long it was easier to say nothing. But then the rumours started and I knew you would see my silence as admission. And our fight two weeks ago proved it.’

Mama lowered her head in shame and Santha started in surprise. She had strongly suspected … but to have it confirmed right in front of her … Hot, angry tears sprung to her eyes as she fully comprehended her mother’s words a fortnight ago for what they truly were: disgust, denial—a mother’s grieving.

But Santha was feeling relentless. It all needed to come out. ‘I thought a mother was supposed to be on her child’s side. No matter what others might say, I thought you would stand by me. Protect me.’

‘But you never came to me,’ Mama stammered. ‘You never told me—’

‘Nor did you come to me,’ Santha interjected, then sighed. ‘Perhaps we are both to blame, but there is one more thing I need to know, to understand. New rumours have been spread, Elysh no doubt has informed you. About me and Dandon, but more importantly, about Percival’s death.’ She took a deep breath, then said, ‘Do you believe what they’re saying?’

Mama didn’t answer straight away. When she did, it made Santha’s heart ache. ‘Why didn’t you come to me? Have I done something so wrong that my own daughter won’t confide in me?’

‘Answer the question, Mother.’

‘No,’ she cried. ‘I am your mother. Tell me what happened. Did you go to that man’s house, after he …? And why have you been staying with Dandon? He is unmarried, Santha. The impropriety …’

‘And I am your daughter.’ Santha breathed slowly, stepping over to the older woman. Santha took her hand, forcing her mother’s gaze up to her own. ‘Dandon is a good and honourable man, as you’ve told me time and time again. Now answer my question: do you believe what they’re saying about me?’

Mama looked away. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ She couldn’t even say it. Wouldn’t even look at Santha. Her apron was on her face once more and her shoulders were racked with sobs. ‘My little girl … my little girl … If I’d known the truth of it, I’d have killed him myself!’

Santha flinched, pulling away as if she’d been burned. Whatever resolution and clemency that might have been gained this night were gone in an instant. ‘If you want the truth so badly, then you shall have it. Percival McKascey was a liar and lecher, and I am glad he is dead. Take that as you will.’ She flew from the kitchen and out the back door.

Santha raced across the paddock, leather-bound feet skimming the tender grass. She met the well-walked path to the goat pens and hurried towards its sanctuary. Inhaling the comforting smell of barley and goathair and sawdust, she opened the gate. Many white, brown, and black heads lifted in the shadows before resting again when they sensed it was their caretaker. She latched the gate and sat down on a bed of straw, curling her legs under her and letting silent tears fall. Constable bleated beside her and butted her gently in the shoulder. He sat beside her and patiently let her hug his neck and breathe in his musk, as she’d done so many times before.

Crickets chirped happily, the only other sound to break the stuffy silence. It was like a symphony to the ears, too soon disturbed by the crunching of feet on wet grass. Milky bleated in alarm. Santha stroked his head and he settled. The footsteps closed in and stopped outside the pen.

‘Santha?’ a low voice called anxiously. It was Papa—always the peacemaker. ‘Santha, I know you’re in there and I don’t need you to come out, but I do need you to listen … please.’ When no reply came, he sighed. ‘Santha, please. This is important. I just need you to listen, that’s all. All right?’ Santha held her breath. ‘Very well, my girl,’ came her father’s sad voice. ‘Just know this: your mother and I love you very much, but she’s confused, we both are. We don’t know what has happened, and the talk around town isn’t helping. Though for some reason, your mother has forgotten something I never will, that you were brought up right, and nothing will convince me otherwise.’

More hush, then the slow crunch of grass and gravel from Papa’s feet as he walked away.

Santha remained where she was, haunted by her father’s words. She had done this to them, and she had to make it right, no matter the cost to herself. But could she do it? Could she tell them everything?

Tomorrow. I’ll tell them tomorrow, she vowed, and hoped the truth would not ruin them all.