by Alexandra Lopez

Content Warning: Death

The cries of her son fill in the gaps of silence between her own wails of pain. She lays on her bed, sweat lining her body like a second skin. The cold cloth that the midwife had used to cool her fiery forehead lays dry and useless, tangled in her hair. With a shaking hand she rubs her neck, forcing her throat to swallow and fight back against the gag that would cause her whole body to convulse. Shameful tears roll down her cheekbones, burning her tender flesh. With her free arm, the woman wraps slender fingers around the moist sheets. She takes in a shallow, shaky breath before pulling her body closer to the edge of the bed where her sobbing son thrashes. A scream rips from her lungs as she tugs her body weight forward, abdominal muscles contracting, twisting her enlarged uterus. Lungs heave for air but the briny, putrid smell secreting from her infected body causes her to choke on bile, aggravating the sores the stomach acid had melted into the back of her throat. The woman groans and drags her eyes to her son who is now whimpering, his hazel eyes staring at her sickly figure. Though he is wrapped in cloth, she can still see his frail body poking beneath the wrappings. Despite how his intestines beg for sustenance from his mothers’ bosom, she is too weak to produce milk. The least she can do, she reprises, is to hold him.

The woman’s eyelids are like stone, but she does not let them shut, instead profusely rubbing them with her damp hands until her vision spots. The inside of her cheek rests between her teeth and she plants her hands in front of her, pushing her body forward. Blood pools on her tongue and she releases the flesh punctured by her canines. Fingers brush against her wailing child and she drags him into her embrace, her vision falling out of focus. Between the black that absorbs her room, she sees her midwife enter, a bowl of stew and bread clenched within her calloused hands. She urgently slams the wooden bowl onto the nightstand and rushes towards her. The cool hand of the midwife provides her skin some respite as she grabs hold of her, inspecting her limp body. The woman’s cracked lips upturn as the midwife calls out her name, holding her head up to her chest as she lightly slaps her cheeks. She smells of lard and flour, her bosom lifts rhythmically like that of the woman’s mother. The guttural noises leaking out her mouth cease. Looking at herself through her hazed vision, she no longer sees a woman but a girl, who is healed through the suffocating embrace of her mother, never imagining having to live years without her. She envisions her mother squishing her full cheeks against her chest while stroking the crown of her head, nagging at her about becoming a lady and embracing duty.

✿

The candlelight cast shadows of her hunched back, heavy with grief, onto dirt walls. With eyes that could no longer produce tears, she simply whimpers while holding herself within her arms. The woman could not appreciate the beauty of the quarters she found herself in when she first peeled her eyes open. The bed of moss is a lush green, with pillows and blankets weaved out of sweet grass. Vines climb the walls, blossoming white flowers. Yet, despite all the life surrounding her, she feels as if her soul had expired, leaving her body a husk. She had been entrapped within the realm of the fairies, forced to be a wet nurse for the Queen of Elfan. Her distress bubbles in her throat and she begins to moan, her arms feel too light without the weight of her son within them.

Reflexively, the woman’s back straightens as the wooden door swings open. Emerging from the illuminated hallway is the Queen of Elfan. On her head of golden strands rests a crown weaved from thistle branches. Blue bonnets outline the bustles of primroses that protrude from each peak. Dragging her eyes down, she sees the velvet mantle gripped in her first, contrasting her skirt of grass-green silk. She rubs her arm, silently admiring her milky skin, free from the mark of the sun that covers the back of her shoulders.

“Why do you moan, nurse?” The queen’s voice flows from her mouth as if it were the warm wind carrying forth spring. “Do you moan for a meal, or rather for compensation?” Tears well in the eyes of the nurse, anguish shaking her legs. She slaps her hands on her thighs, sinking her nails into the plump flesh to force composure.

“No,” she mutters, her head hanging from her neck.

“Very well,” the queen replies. Her thumb begins to rub against the velvet mantle. “Then do you cry because you received no bounty for becoming my wet nurse?”

“No” she croaks, her voice cracking as she swallows the sob that threatens to rattle her. The queen wordlessly walks past the nurse, the pads of her feet noiselessly gliding across the room. She lowers herself onto the cushioned moss and signals for the nurse to approach her. Exhaling lightly, she rolls her shoulders to rid herself of the annoyance that flutters in her chest, kneeling in front of the queen.

“Why do you moan, nurse? I have heard your cries from my castle, shattering my heart and I long to help you, but I dinnnae ken what bothers you.”

Tears, like the waterfall in the isle of skye, cascade down her cheeks. “I do not moan for meat, nor do I mean for a fee, but to return to Christen land and away from the land of fairies.” She hiccups, her sobs running through her body in waves. “I moan for my bairn, who I left at four nights old.” Her open palms reach to cover her face but the queen extends her hand down, pushing away the nurse’s self soothing.

“Cease your crying,” she coos with her hand now at her cheek, lightly stroking the bones in her face. “I hear your cries but I require your aid.” The nurse lifts her stare to the queen that gazes down at her, existing as if she were constructed from all the beauty in the forest.

“So you shall never send me home?” Her voice is tainted with bitterness but she pays no regard, the sound of her son’s cries ring in her ears, drowning out reason.

“Though I understand your grief, you must heed my words.” The queen’s tone did not shift but her eyes demanded reverence. With the nod of the nurse's head satisfying her, the queen begins to speak again.

“Nurse my bairn till he can stand at your knee and then you shall return to Christen land, and to your son that you had left at four days old.” The nurse’s eyes widen with thrill, never hearing of a stolen mother returning home from the fairies. Yet, still weary of the words shared by the queen, she bites her bottom lip.

“How should I find my way home when your wee bairn can stand at my knee.” A coy smile lifts the queen's cheeks and she reaches down for the nurse's hand. The fingers that wrapped around her palm warms her frigid skin.

“Follow me nurse, I will show you.” The queen lifts herself from the bed and guides the nurse through the winding halls. They step outside to a sky wrapped in night, and the queen mounts on her dapple-gray horse, beckoning for the nurse to mount behind her. As they ride, her hair, full and loose with spirals like strings of gold, whips behind her, the ends caressing the face of the nurse. They reach their destination as the horizon births the early morning sun. Hopping off of her stead, she offers the nurse a hand and leads her deeper into the meadow they had arrived at.

“Nurse, come lay your head upon my knee.” The queen lowers herself onto her shins, tapping her thighs lightly as if she were coaxing a dog to sit in her lap. Apprehensively, the nurse approaches the queen. She bends her legs, feeling the long grass kiss her kneecaps as she plants them onto the ground. Extending her limbs out, she places her head on the lap of the queen. She hears the queen expel a breath of satisfaction before she strokes the nurse's mousy, disheveled hair. Her throat swells, not with the same pain that is brought forth by the memory of her son, but rather with wistfulness. Her lungs are tight as she remembers from the days of her youth and she realizes how joyous she felt during the ride to the meadow. The queen narrated their journey, explaining the breathtaking Elfan views while the nurse gasped, her joints aching with juvenility. Closing her eyes, her mind wonders how she would act if she was brought here as a girl. The nurse smiles softly, imagining her small body rolling in the meadow, staining her skin green, and wearing it home a souvenir. The memory of her son’s hazel eyes interrupts her merry imaginings and she snaps her eyes open.

“Queen of Elfan, where is the path?” She whispers. Her hand anxiously makes its way to blades of grass and she weaves her fingers between them.

“Do you see that narrow road, up by that bonnie tree?” The queen extends out her arm, pointing to a path dense with darkness. Briers and thorns twist and extend along the path, slicing out the maternal sun rays that desire to feed them. The queen’s hand temporarily ceases its movements on her scalp.

“This road is the road the righteous takes, the path to heaven.” Swinging her arm, she redirects her finger.

“Do you see that road, where the sun falls, fully enveloped in its warmth?” The nurse squints her eyes, making out the broad road that at first glance appears simply as land. Lilies spring from the path, as if clouds leading to heaven. She feels her heart flutter, and her skin wonders how the warmth would feel on her shoulders as she journeyed through this path. The queen unexpectedly reaches to pull at the nurse's ear, redirecting her attention back onto the queen.

“The road your heart seems so content venturing upon is one for the wicked, as it leads to hell, though many mistake its beauty to mean heaven.” The nurse's skin pricks, repulsed by the deceptivity of the devil. She reaches her foot to her other ankle and begins to scratch her skin. Her face grows tight with concern but the queen resumes running her fingers through her hair, offering momentary comfort.

“Once you journey on the path of righteousness you shall return to where you desire to be, along with being reunited with your bairn.” Before the nurse can respond, the queen’s palm flows from the crown of her head to her eyelids, pushing them shut.

“But for now, you will remain here as my nurse and at this moment, you will rest.” The nurse opens her mouth to protest but the queen’s finger presses up against her lips, commanding her silence.

“Now, you must rest.”

Reluctantly, the nurse allows her body to melt into the tender pets of the queen. Her breathing matches the tempo of a song the queen sweetly hums, sweeping her body into sleep.

✿

Her arms are crossed in front of her face as she pushes herself through the thicket. She feels thorns dig into her skin, ripping through, leaving jagged wounds. She lowers her torso and lifts her aching foot, checking on the sore that festers on the bridge. Exhaustion has made her limbs heavy and tears are caught by her bottom lashes. She is unsure on whether her will is strong enough to haul her decrepit body through the path. Interrupting her moment of self doubt is a familiar cry. It fills her ears and echoes within her mind. The nurse flinches, spinning her head to find the source of the wails. As the cries persist, recognition makes her lips quiver. This is the cry that accompanied her misery after birth and now resided within her memory. This is the cry of a hazel eyed boy whose tears could be lulled from a poke from his mother. With determination numbing her physical pain, she pushes through the wires of thorns, her heartbeat traveling into her throat, beating against her esophagus.

Stumbling out from the path, scratches cover her arms and legs like the stripes of a raccoon tail. Her body sways but she catches herself, kneeling on the ground. With a hand on her chest to slow her rapid breathing, she raises her eyes. The nurse’s throat constricts as her vision lands on the expansive fields of dancing wheat, welcoming the wind that carries their seed. Turning her head up, she admires the clear sky, mimicking a seafoam ocean with birds passing along their song. Her chest swells and she folds at the waist, covering her mouth to muffle the wails that course through her body, expelling the torment that ate away at her intestines. With her body cleansed she lifts her head, spotting a stout body in front of her. Her arms quiver as she reaches to latch onto the forearms of the person in front of her, holding something compressed to their chest. The nurse carelessly pulls them down to her line of vision, too desperate for politeness. There, compressed to the bosom, is her son with his big hazel eyes opened wide and his gummy smile widening at the sight of his mother. Shifting her eyes upwards, she lands on the face of her mother. Her eyebrows are furrowed with concern but her smile is full and welcoming.

“I have returned,” she weeps, as she pulls them onto the ground, shifting to wrap her arms around them both. She feels the vibration of her mother’s voice against her cheek.

“You have returned, Elspeth.”

❀✿❀

Alexandra Lopez (she/her) recently earned her Bachelor of Arts in English at the University of Calgary. Inspired by allegorical storytelling, her writing hopes to explore ways in which storytelling can be used to disseminate feminist theoretical thought. Alexandra finds that going on long walks with her dogs Koda and Arlo is when she comes up with her best ideas.