Chapter two:
Two voices overlap and ask, "Are you okay, sweetie?"
An unfamiliar face appears. It is round, sweaty, splotched with red, and surrounded by dark cloth. The eyes and smile exude a sad sort of kindness. She stares as though she is privy to knowledge of a sensitive nature. It is the type of gaze that makes one feel uncomfortable.
The face fades until another replaces it. An equally kind, though older, face of a mother who hides sadness behind a mask of composure. Recently, her reflection matches this woman's visage, this regal beauty who stands before her with a look of concern melding with wrinkles.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" she asks alone this time.
She nods and says, "Yes, mom, I'm fine. Just felt dizzy for a moment there."
Getting up from the ground is harder than it used to be. Yet she manages on her own because the women in the family are blessed with good genetics that keep them in pique physical condition. Other women of the island community refer to it as superior moon magic.
As she brushes her hands off on her night dress, she looks out at the sandy beach below.
"Beautiful, isn't it."
Nodding in agreement with her mother's assessment, she says, "One of the reasons this is my favorite time of the year."
Mamua is an annual event. There is a beauty revealed beneath the October full moon that never fails to impress her. It is the only time of year when resemblances of deceased animals become visible to the enchanted eye.
It is not their spirits that are seen, because the soul does not exist. This does not only apply to animals, for the same is true for humans. What is seen instead is an echo of the past momentarily converging with the present. Mamua is an animal signature crossing the veil of time while the similar human occurrence takes place at the end of the month.
Even the ocean beyond the island is filled with dazzling lights.
"Where is Misty?"
She looks at her mother and says, "She decided to stay inside this year."
The older woman shakes her head as understanding reveals itself in her eyes. "I wish there was something we could do to help her."
"I know mom," she says as she takes the older woman's hand in hers. "But she has to come to terms with reality on her own."
Feeling her mother's heartbreak inflates her own, because being incapable of aiding one's kin is an excruciating pain. And magic, being a conscientiously heightened manipulation of the natural world, unfortunately does not cater to any whim. No matter how meaningful the plea, magic cannot resolve everything.
They tried, but to no avail. Misty, her daughter, is incapable of conceiving a child of her own. But the family line is not going to end as a result. Most women on the island only bear one child per generation. The Ilargia family line, however, tends to bear twins. It skipped her for some reason, since she is an only child, but she bore twin girls more than twenty years ago.
Airee, Misty's twin, is currently three months pregnant. A cause for celebration, for sure, amidst the grief. In this world, it seems the both must coexist.
"Your Aunt Brooke keeps looking," she says as she gently retracts her hand and wipes at the tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks.
Except they both knew it was futile. "We all know fertility magic is a myth. Although it may pain us to see one of our own suffer, we can't cling to a fantasy for comfort."
"Be that as it is," says the older woman as her voice catches on a sob in her throat. "Your aunt seems to think a virile male witch can impregnate a sterile female witch."
Her eyes widen as she stares with awe at her mother. Male witches are believed to not exist. The community considers it more an improbability that men can wield magic rather than an outright impossibility.
Her mother looks out to sea, blinks rapidly multiple times probably to clear her vision, and then clears her throat to ask, "What's that?"
A wave rolls up onto the beach as she scans the general area. Only when the water recedes to rejoin the ocean does she see a body on the shore. Despite the distance preventing identification, she is certain the individual is male. They tend to frequently wash up dead onto the island due to the fatal siren song.
"Seems to be another man," she says as her mother walks toward the unmoving body.
The older woman looks over her shoulder and says, "We should check anyway."
Shaking her head with incredulity, she follows her mother onto the beach. The transition from grass to sand is an uncomfortable one, because the texture against her skin has always been an uneasy experience. If she had known she would end up on the beach, she would have worn sandals.
Her mother is still quite spry for a woman in her early sixties. When she catches up to the older woman by the water's edge, it becomes apparent that she had been half right. It is a man who washed ashore, but he is still alive as indicative of a steadily rising chest caused by each inhalation.
She comes to a stop beside her mother only to witness the woman back slowly away as she shakes her head in a form of denial supported by fear in her eyes. Does her mother know this man?
"What's wrong, mom?"
A sputtering sound draws her attention to the man, and she finds him sitting upright as he clears his lungs of the water that had tried to drown him. When he finally looks up at her, she momentarily loses her composure as she recognizes something familiar about his face. She cannot discern what it is as they maintain eye contact, but she eerily feels drawn to him as though they were destined to meet.
She stretches an arm out to the man, her mother's voice seems to yell something from far away, and she drowns in his eyes as though they were the ocean itself.
Two voices overlap and ask, "Are you okay, sweetie?"
An unfamiliar face appears. It is round, sweaty, splotched with red, and surrounded by dark cloth. The eyes and smile exude a sad sort of kindness. She stares as though she is privy to knowledge of a sensitive nature. It is the type of gaze that makes one feel uncomfortable.
The face fades until another replaces it. An equally kind, though older, face of a mother who hides sadness behind a mask of composure. Recently, her reflection matches this woman's visage, this regal beauty who stands before her with a look of concern melding with wrinkles.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" she asks alone this time.
She nods and says, "Yes, mom, I'm fine. Just felt dizzy for a moment there."
Getting up from the ground is harder than it used to be. Yet she manages on her own because the women in the family are blessed with good genetics that keep them in pique physical condition. Other women of the island community refer to it as superior moon magic.
As she brushes her hands off on her night dress, she looks out at the sandy beach below.
"Beautiful, isn't it."
Nodding in agreement with her mother's assessment, she says, "One of the reasons this is my favorite time of the year."
Mamua is an annual event. There is a beauty revealed beneath the October full moon that never fails to impress her. It is the only time of year when resemblances of deceased animals become visible to the enchanted eye.
It is not their spirits that are seen, because the soul does not exist. This does not only apply to animals, for the same is true for humans. What is seen instead is an echo of the past momentarily converging with the present. Mamua is an animal signature crossing the veil of time while the similar human occurrence takes place at the end of the month.
Even the ocean beyond the island is filled with dazzling lights.
"Where is Misty?"
She looks at her mother and says, "She decided to stay inside this year."
The older woman shakes her head as understanding reveals itself in her eyes. "I wish there was something we could do to help her."
"I know mom," she says as she takes the older woman's hand in hers. "But she has to come to terms with reality on her own."
Feeling her mother's heartbreak inflates her own, because being incapable of aiding one's kin is an excruciating pain. And magic, being a conscientiously heightened manipulation of the natural world, unfortunately does not cater to any whim. No matter how meaningful the plea, magic cannot resolve everything.
They tried, but to no avail. Misty, her daughter, is incapable of conceiving a child of her own. But the family line is not going to end as a result. Most women on the island only bear one child per generation. The Ilargia family line, however, tends to bear twins. It skipped her for some reason, since she is an only child, but she bore twin girls more than twenty years ago.
Airee, Misty's twin, is currently three months pregnant. A cause for celebration, for sure, amidst the grief. In this world, it seems the both must coexist.
"Your Aunt Brooke keeps looking," she says as she gently retracts her hand and wipes at the tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks.
Except they both knew it was futile. "We all know fertility magic is a myth. Although it may pain us to see one of our own suffer, we can't cling to a fantasy for comfort."
"Be that as it is," says the older woman as her voice catches on a sob in her throat. "Your aunt seems to think a virile male witch can impregnate a sterile female witch."
Her eyes widen as she stares with awe at her mother. Male witches are believed to not exist. The community considers it more an improbability that men can wield magic rather than an outright impossibility.
Her mother looks out to sea, blinks rapidly multiple times probably to clear her vision, and then clears her throat to ask, "What's that?"
A wave rolls up onto the beach as she scans the general area. Only when the water recedes to rejoin the ocean does she see a body on the shore. Despite the distance preventing identification, she is certain the individual is male. They tend to frequently wash up dead onto the island due to the fatal siren song.
"Seems to be another man," she says as her mother walks toward the unmoving body.
The older woman looks over her shoulder and says, "We should check anyway."
Shaking her head with incredulity, she follows her mother onto the beach. The transition from grass to sand is an uncomfortable one, because the texture against her skin has always been an uneasy experience. If she had known she would end up on the beach, she would have worn sandals.
Her mother is still quite spry for a woman in her early sixties. When she catches up to the older woman by the water's edge, it becomes apparent that she had been half right. It is a man who washed ashore, but he is still alive as indicative of a steadily rising chest caused by each inhalation.
She comes to a stop beside her mother only to witness the woman back slowly away as she shakes her head in a form of denial supported by fear in her eyes. Does her mother know this man?
"What's wrong, mom?"
A sputtering sound draws her attention to the man, and she finds him sitting upright as he clears his lungs of the water that had tried to drown him. When he finally looks up at her, she momentarily loses her composure as she recognizes something familiar about his face. She cannot discern what it is as they maintain eye contact, but she eerily feels drawn to him as though they were destined to meet.
She stretches an arm out to the man, her mother's voice seems to yell something from far away, and she drowns in his eyes as though they were the ocean itself.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
~ Erin Hunter