A Story about a Mother

This story is about a mother who, for many days, has kept watch over her sick child. She is poor, the mother, and the cottage she rents is small and drafty. Outside, winter is spreading an icy layer over everything living and drives the wind to the core of things.

The Mother pulls the shawl tighter around her shoulders and once again checks on the little one in his bed. His eyes are closed, and his mouth slightly open. She puts a hand on his small chest and receives the feeling of life from within like a blessing. The fact that the movements are slightly fainter every time, she refuses to acknowledge. The boy’s cheeks are colored rosy from the fever, and the down on his head is gathering in damp tufts. He coughs, whimpers a little, but does not wake up. Yet again, she tugs the blanket around him, then she gets up to poke the hungry embers. She feeds them another piece of wood from the pile that is diminishing at a despairing speed. She should be tired, but fear keeps her going. Food, she has barely touched, and just as well, as it too is running scarce. Normally, she sews for others and sells knitted goods and many-colored eggs from her chickens on the market, but not since the child got sick. The money she had managed to set aside for his third birthday, she had to spend on a doctor and the medicine he prescribed.

She runs a cloth over the unused table for the second time that evening. She idles and busies herself doing nothing. A light tapping on the door pulls her out of her thoughts, which are becoming increasingly darker. Cautiously, she opens the door a fraction. Partly not to let the heat out, and partly not to let someone unwelcome in. Outside stands an old man, hunched over and covered in a dark, hooded jacket and scarf. Only his eyes are visible, clear and blue as ice, regarding her solemnly through the layers. She is about to close the door on him, but her body won’t obey, and she feels herself opening up and inviting him in. He shakes the snow off his jacket and hangs it in front of the wood burner, and even though she does not want him in her home, she warms him a glass of cider and asks him to sit. He is not as old as she first assumed. Maybe he is older? There is something about him that seems older than time, but he carries himself like a young man.

While he sits at the table and warms his hands on the mug, she checks on the boy. Does he look a little better? Is his sleep more peaceful and his breathing less labored? Or is it merely hope that warps the truth. She sits down in the rocking chair where she can see the boy and keep an eye on the man. He is not evil, that she feels, but neither is he good. He simply is.

“Do you not think I get to keep him?” She says, not aimed at anyone in particular. The man just shakes his head, leaving any interpretation open.

If it is the warmth in the cabin, the rocking motion of the chair, or the fact that there is another person to dispel some of the loneliness, she is not sure, but she feels her eyes getting heavy. She fights to keep them open, as she does not trust the stranger, but the many sleepless nights win.

She did not sleep, she is sure of it. She only closed her eyes for a second, but when she opens them again, the fire is out, and it is freezing cold in the small cabin. She hears the noise again, it is the wind playing with the door, someone left open. At that moment, she remembers the man, she spins around, and sees what she already knows. The boy is gone. The only thing left is the imprint of his head on the pillow and a little warmth in the duvet from his body. And his scent. But that is not nearly enough.

She gets dressed, one layer at a time, her movements mechanical and her head empty of thoughts. She buttons and smoothes, combs and braids her hair, pulls the hat down over her ears, places a scarf over the hat, then wraps it around her neck. She puts on the new wool socks, which were not knitted for her, on top of her old, mended ones, before she pulls on her boots. Then she opens the door and steps out into the night. It is quiet and starry, the storm has blown itself out and taken the clouds with it. She can hear the moisture in her breath turn to ice crystals in the air. But that’s all she hears. No creaking footsteps in the snow, no whimpers from a child. At a loss, she looks in all directions. The stars and the moon light up the landscape in tones of silver, enough for her to see where she treads, but no silver tones tell her where to go. She decides on a direction, but changes her mind before her boot is free from the snow. When she finally chooses no direction, and just to walk, the darkness deepens in front of her and forms a human shape. The moon reflects in the old woman’s face, radiant and full of lines and craters, and the stars are in her eyes behind folds of skin. Her voice is hushed like footsteps in a pinewood forest and insistent like the cry of a night owl.

“Death has been in your living room. I saw your little one being collected and carried away.”

“You saw my son? Tell me in which direction he was carried.”

“I hope you said your goodbyes, because Death never brings back what is taken.”

“Let me worry about that, Grandmother, far better let me know which way It walked. I swear, I will find my son and bring him back home, where he belongs.”

“So young to think that a single life makes any difference.”

“Who are you, old crone, to talk to a Mother this way? My son may not make a difference to you, but to me, he is life itself.”

“I am the Night. And you are right, child, I have seen so many lives being lit and extinguished, that a single life does not make any difference to me anymore.”

“But you have to help me, I implore you. Just point me in the right direction, that is all I ask of you.”

“Had you let me finish, I would have said that you have made a difference. I have listened to the song you sang for your little one when he woke at night. Your voice seeped through the cracks of your walls and found something inside me, I thought extinguished eons ago. Sing me all the songs you sang for him, and I shall show you the way.”

“Do not hold me back, I beg you! Do not let me waste time singing when my son is carried toward oblivion.”

“Time? What is time? You, who wants to catch Death, believe time matters? Your time is much better spent singing.”

So, the Mother sings. Shrouded in her breath that freezes into clouds around her face, she sings all the songs she sang to the boy. And while she sings, she remembers his eyes studying her face and the feeling of his little form in her arms. His smell, his laughter, and the immeasurable love he created in her heart. When she finishes the final note on the last song, she knows where to go. Through snow, sometimes reaching her hips, she follows Death. But when dawn breaks, Night must depart, and with the diminishing of the stars so fades her direction.

She is exhausted, but it is despair that takes her down. On her knees in the snow, she tries to will answers out of her surroundings. But no matter how much she listens and searches, the world is quiet and impassable. She lifts her arms in desperation and snags her sleeve on a small thornbush that was hidden beneath the snow. The wool is entangled in the thorns, and when she pulls, they rip out threads. She is furious with the thornbush for what it did. Holding her up, ruining things. Suddenly, she sees all the situations where her son wanted her attention, and she ignored him because she was too tired, too busy, too invested in something she deemed more important at the time. She recalls how she pushed him away, ignoring his need for her to be present. She winces. Because now that she has lost him, she knows that nothing could have been more important.

She sees the thornbush, now with very different eyes, and recognizes it as a wild rose. Every year, it will grow pink flowers for the bees and hips for the birds in autumn. This scrub is still young and so weighed down by ice that she doubts it will survive the winter. She pulls off her mittens and unbuttons her coat and embraces the thornbush. She does not care that its thorns puncture her skin, as long as it lives. She gives it her warmth and the strength from her heart, and when she looks at it again, the ice has melted, and healthy, fat buds lie ready for spring. She stands up and searches the white vastness, which has not changed, but looks different. Why did she not see it before? It is as obvious as the pale sun rising. Had she continued across the planes, it would have been a sure death. The forest, however, regardless of its darkness, will shelter her from the freezing wind and keep most snow and ice out.

Slim birches are replaced by firs, and the snow becomes a thick blanket of needles that steals the sound of her steps. She listens to the creaks of the trunks, the sound of hidden life, and a storm brewing on top. She follows animal tracks and her intuition into the heart of the forest and its unceasing dusk. She walks until time and space no longer matter. All she knows is one foot in front of another.

Maybe she slept, if one can sleep while walking, but she is stirred into wakefulness when she steps into water. She looks at the lake, as vast as an ocean, and its rising and falling, like a pulse around her boot. She needs to pass, but she cannot swim, and there are no boats, not even a plank she could use as a raft. She scoops up a handful of water and drinks. It is fresh and sweet and tastes a little like algae. Then she does it again. And again. And she intends to continue until the lake is empty. It may not be humanly possible to drink a lake, but what other options does she have? When she throws up algae-water for the second time, and the lake is just as full as when she started, she yells at it.

“What do you want from me? I cannot walk on water, nor can I spread it. But I am a Mother and even if it takes me until the end of time, I will continue drinking.”

“There is nothing for you on the other side, woman. Go back to where you came, and deal with what fate you were given.”

The voice comes from everywhere and surrounds her. It is neither high nor deep, male or female, good or bad. But it carries a tone of knowing that all life stands or falls with its presence.

“That might be sound advice, but nothing I intend to heed. Fate has never been kind to me. My life’s only light was carried out while I slept. Without it, Death might as well have taken both of us. So, you see, I have nothing to lose.”

She dips her hand again, scoops up and drinks, one handful after another, while the Water watches.

“Cease, you crazy female. I have seen a thing or two, believe you me, but you are close to taking the cake. Life or death means little to me. Some grow, some perish, what does it matter in the scheme of everything? You stand there weeping over one life, as if it were the only one? I would easily watch as you drown yourself, but it just so happens that you have something I covet, and I shall offer you a trade. I find myself irresistibly drawn to things that sparkle, and your eyes might just be the most beautiful I have seen. If you cry them out for me, I will see you safe to the other side.”

It should not be possible, of course, but the Mother knows that if a heart can be shattered, then eyes can surely be cried out. She walks into the Water believing that the crying will appear by itself. But she has kept her tears at bay for so long, never allowing herself to grieve over anything, and now the sorrow is solidified. She pictures the boy. Recalls the scent of his head and the fuzz tickling her nose. His laughter when they fooled around, and his chubby arms around her neck, when he needed comfort. She remembers how the loneliness disappeared with his arrival. With him came the will to live, because life suddenly had a purpose and because his life depended on hers. The Gods know that she didn’t want a baby, or anything that had to do with his conception, but as soon as she had felt him in her belly, she had loved him with a fierceness she never knew existed. The memories warm her, and she smiles. Then reality hits, its aim ruthless and true, his little body is snatched from her arms and carried away. Something inside her breaks, and her screams ricochet across the waiting Water. She leans forward and sobs out all the pent-up tears. They fall into the Water’s mirror, where she sees her own distorted face, until she doesn't. Then she feels her body being lifted. Exhausted from grief, she curls up and lets the waves rock her to sleep.

She is stirred from sleep when someone gently shakes her shoulder. Her eyes may open, she is not sure, the darkness is the same. She senses what lies beneath her, sand and pebbles, and the wind that feels clean and mild, the rays from the sun drying her clothes and warming her skin. Then she feels a calloused hand on her cheek.

“Sweet child, what are you doing here? This place is not for you, it is not your time yet.”

The voice that speaks is so kind and compassionate that the Mother feels like crying again – but what is the use? So she swallows her tears, that stall in her chest. Instead of crying, she gets up and brushes sand off her clothes as well as she can.

“Where am I? What is this place? I breathe as I usually do, and my pain is still the same, but I feel with no uncertainty that this place is something other.”

“You drifted in where Death governs.”

“Then I am at the right place. Death stole my child while I slept, and now I have come here to claim him back. Are you Death?”

“I am not Death, I am the Gardener – the one who tends to the souls of the living.”

“Ah, I see. Will you take me to Death then?”

She can hear the Gardener sigh.

“It is not something we do gladly. At this place, we see death as an inseparable part of living, and that it needs to take its own course, without interference. Just imagine the chaos of comings and goings if it came out that I had helped you. But now that you are here, I shall take you to the greenhouses where human life grows. Hold my shoulder, and I will guide you.”

And they went. Up from the beach, through lyme grass and heather, and following paths filled with crunching pea-pebbles until they stopped.

“We are almost there,” the Gardener says. “You need to wait right here until I come back. Whatever happens, do not stray from the path!” Then the Mother is alone.

The silence around her is total. No sounds from man-made machines, from barking dogs, or children's laughter. Not even the buzz from insects or a single note from a bird. Only the gentle wind and the movements of vegetation. Now she truly understands that she has crossed a boundary by being her, and she knows, if need be, she will cross many more.

She stands very still, almost afraid of breathing. She tries to fit in and not be more invasive than she already is. At first, she stands in total darkness, only her own pulse as company, but slowly she lets go of being blind and merges with her surroundings. Then she sees. Not like she used to, she perceives with all her senses, rather than just with her eyes. And what she senses forms pictures inside her head. She sees the path because she feels the pea-pebbles under her feet, and she hears the sounds they make as they shift. She sees the vegetation surrounding her when the wind traces its outlines. In many ways, she sees more than she did when she was seeing. And now that she can see, she discovers the rhythms. First, the ones close by, then, one by one, them all. Some as loud and steadfast as timpani, others frail and faltering. She perceives them, the souls, growing in pots or directly in the earth. Millions of different notes placed in or around greenhouses. She sees them by the tone of their life-rhythms. Then she hears the steps of the Gardener walking toward her.

“Death is not here yet, but come with me, maybe you can recognize your son by his life-rhythm.”

“I shall, to be sure. But how can I thank you? I do not have much, but if there is anything I have to offer that would make you happy, it is yours.”

“I am not helping you to receive a reward, but I will not reject a gift. And if you truly wish to offer me something, I would say yes, and be grateful for your beautiful black hair. Once mine was as lustrous and raven as yours, but, even though I am still young by comparison, my time here has stripped it of its color. We can make a trade. Your black for my white?”

“Is that all? I shall happily do it.”

The Mother feels the Gardener’s joy with her new hair and rejoices on her behalf. She, herself, is content with the whiteness of her own, the weight of it suits her better.

The sound of life-rhythms grows louder, then suddenly, among the millions of others, she hears her son’s, irregular and brittle, but it is his, and he is alive.

“You are the Gardener, you could save him!”

“Oh… that is not what I do, I'm sorry. I merely keep an eye on the plants and make sure that what needs to happen happens. I enable life to unfold the way it is supposed to. I do not interfere. For example, I just repotted a plant that needed more space to grow fatter roots, while another needed to be cut down, so it could bloom. One plant needs new soil, one needs pruning or drying out, or maybe moved to another location. I listen to their needs and only do what is required.”

“But if you are not making the decisions, who is?”

“People themselves, mostly. Circumstances and the wholeness of everything, things must add up in the end. Preferably.”

“But Death then?”

“Also, only does what is required. No more, no less.”

They have reached one of the greenhouses. The Gardener holds the door, letting the Mother inside. The smells are green, like leaves and flowers, earth, and decaying plant parts. The greenhouse is rectangular with windows in the roof that automatically open and close, making sure that the temperature is always perfect. A watering system knows exactly how much water each plant needs and when. Here, order rules, noting happens by chance, and everything makes sense. The plants are grouped and potted in straight rows with no quantitative restrictions. Their life-rhythms may vary in strength, but their beating is almost synchronized.

“I still hear him, but not in here.”

“Let us move on then.” The Gardener says and closes the door behind them.

The next greenhouse is completely the opposite of what they just saw. The beautifully made iron construction is old and so neglected that the white paint remains only as a reminder. Most windows are broken, and a wisteria is weaving in and out of the construction, carrying fat trusses of blue flowers. Ivy, honeysuckle, jasmine, and climbing rose intermingle, and large palm trees unfold their massive leaves underneath the domed roof. Water lilies float in a small pond surrounded by papyrus, elephant grass, and cattail – some in pots, some directly in the dirt or the water. A small flowering shrub is happily growing in its smashed terracotta pot and the spilled dirt.

All types of plants, grasses, bushes, and trees are growing in between each other in different phases of their cycle. Shared by them all is their thriving in the chaos. Visually, the greenhouse is solid, but she senses it will stretch in all directions accordingly. This is where her son is, and she continues alone. She does not find it difficult to navigate among all the plants, as each plant lights up and clearly shows her where to step without causing harm.

She finds him, half hidden beneath a hazel. A purple crocus. His stem is bent, and his petals are almost see-through. The Mother kneels, as gently as she can, afraid that even the slightest stir will harm him further. She remembers how he loved it when she blew on his neck. How he squirmed away in laughter, only to ask her to do it again. With his laughter still in her heart, she bends down and very gently blows on the little flower. Only slightly less than a held breath, but she feels his life-rhythm recognizing hers and imagines the following heartbeats a little stronger and more steadfast. Filled with a frail hope, she is about to blow again when she feels a presence looming. She looks up and recognizes the man who came to her cottage, and his blue eyes watching her. He carries a bundle under his cape, and it is almost more than she can bear. His son so close, yet not hers at all.

“Others have said this before I, you do not belong here, woman. Your presence should not be possible.”

“I am a Mother!” And in those words lies all the explanations required. But what does Death know about giving life? So she continues: “Since my son was born, I have known that it was my responsibility to guard him. He came to me for help and comfort, in safe reassurance that I would always be there for him. He blindly trusted that as long as I was near, nothing could ever harm him – as I would never allow it. But then you came along. You tricked me, made me sleep. Then you grabbed my child and hurried off while my eyes were closed. How wretched an act!” She is angry, the Mother, but the anger is not truly aimed at him, she blames herself. Death is merely doing its job, while she failed hers. “You see,” she says, quietly, “He trusted me to walk to the end of the world for him, so here I am. And now I would like my son back.

“I see.” Death says, but she doubts that he does, because he just stands there while her son’s life-rhythm fades.

“Give me my child!” She repeats. But death is not easily altered, it keeps what is already taken. In desperation, she grabs hold of two random plants.

“If you do not give me back my son, I will rip up these two plants and squash them.”

Her words hang in the air and reverberate from leaf to straw. In the following silence, she feels the life from the two plants beating in her palms – so sturdy and full of vitality. And so utterly different from the one coming from her son.

“Do not think that I am blind to your pain, Woman, but you puzzle me. In your pain, you are ready to inflict similar pain on two other mothers. Where lies the love in that?”

Startled, she looks at her hands and immediately lets go.

“Forgive me, I was not thinking clearly.”

“Here are your eyes back. They were at the bottom of the lake, but they shimmered so brightly that I could not help noticing. I understand you traded them for help? That was rather tasteless of the Water, but you will have to excuse it, Water has no concept of good or bad. Now, with your normal vision restored, look into the pond, and I shall show you something.”

Very reluctantly, she leaves the small crocus that needs her strength, but she does as Death tells her. At first, she sees her own reflection. The silver hair tucked behind her ears, the gaunt cheeks, and the dark circles underneath her eyes, which, sure enough, seem to shimmer – why had she never noticed? The surface flickers, and an entire life is displayed in front of her. From birth to death in key moments. First one, then another. The first life makes her happy and lighthearted, such a life any Mother would wish for her children. A life full of beauty and love. The next life is the opposite, so desolate that she hardly manages to watch. So much fear and misfortune, so much pain that the Mother must weep. Her tears make rings in the water, which erases the misery. She turns to Death.

”Why must you show me such things? What is the meaning of it?”

“I have shown you two lives right on the cusp of their beginnings, now you know what awaits them. One you just threatened to destroy the other is your sons. I cannot tell you which one is which.”

“Cannot or will not?”

“One and the same.”

The Mother is petrified. The horrible life she just saw, she would not wish on her worst enemy. How can she allow the one thing she holds above everything else to have to live through it, only because she cannot let go? Because she cannot accept that life is not fair. Because she would rather see him suffer than herself? Could that be it? This journey was something she had done for him. For his sake alone. At least that’s how she saw it. Now she senses that that might not be the whole truth. It is she who cannot fathom a life without him in it. She who has been refusing to face the reality and the consequences of his death. Her little one is gone, and she is doomed to stay behind and live out the rest of her life with the pain and the loneliness, with only her memories as comfort. He is gone, and she is alone, yet again. But that is her cross to bear, not his.

“I should not have come, I realize that now. I could not let him go, I could not face a life without him. Maybe the best I can do for him now is to remember him with all the love that was his, for as long as I live. That way, he will live on through me. Just tell me, will he be happy on the other side? Is there someone to take care of him? Sometimes he wakes at night and is frightened by the dark, then he cries and will need me.”

“No one can answer those questions, not even I. What happens on the other side will remain a mystery for us all, until it is our turn. I would advise you to pick whichever version gives you the most comfort and ease and then hold on to it as your truth. It will give you freedom to live your life.”

The Mother nods, then pictures her son joyful and vibrant again, and that he will be waiting for her when it becomes her turn to cross. When she looks up, Death is gone, and the little crocus lies lifeless on the ground. She picks it up and wraps it carefully in her handkerchief.