Talitha

I watched as they all stood around the kitchen table, gently sobbing. The littlest raven-haired girl spoke up and said “Mama, it ain’t right that she’s not buried yet. I heard Cecil say so out at the harbour today, while we waited for Papa to come in on the boat.”

Cecil was standing next to her and shoved her hard with his elbow, muttering “Shut up, Sally," under his breath.

When he did this, Sally tumbled against the table and knocked it, causing one of the many, dripping candles to tremble and nearly tip wax onto the dead child’s long, white dress. The candlelight flickered and the soft yellow light bounced around the dark kitchen, like demonic fireflies trying to escape a tightly closed mason jar. As the light ricocheted around the sombre room, it made the flaxen curls spread out on the table dully gleam like white fire, and everyone in the room gasped.

Mama, a haggard but beautiful woman, laid the lantern she was holding on the thick, wooden window ledge. Sparkling frost covered the edges of the window frame, like silver spiders waltzing in a web. The spiders seemed to greedily suck away the warmth of the lantern as the wind screeched outside. At least this was what I imagined.

Isabel, dark-haired like her little sister Sally, stood trembling and tried to focus on the rimy picture in the window pane, but her eyes drifted to the grey paint chips scraped from the ledge by the lantern. She then stood taut as a fishing line and waited for what was to come next.

Her mother’s foot, clad in black, buttoned leather boots, slammed down hard on the creaky wooden floor. Cecil, now white as a ghost, looked down quickly at his scratchy grey wool socks. “Enough from you two now, you wicked, wicked children. Poor Tilly, your father’s favorite I might add, lies here dead right in front of us, and you dare cause such a raucous!” Mama said with a raised voice and narrowed eyes, as her eyes lingered on the two scallywags who sparked her anger.

Her look then softened as she gazed at the ethereal child lain out before them. Tears welled in her cornflower blue eyes as she spoke again, this time in a gentler voice. “We cannot bury this child without having her father see her off to the Lord, he would never forgive me. We expected his boat this morning, but the water’s running rough latterly. So we shall wait. Is that clear?”

She looked around the room at all of her children, cloaked in their long, grey cotton nightgowns, waiting for her to lead prayers before bed, before saying good night to their dead sister. Instead, she walked over to the angel child and curled a platinum-frosted lock of hair around her finger.

She turned to Isabel and said in a choked up voice, “Bell, please, could you?”

Isabel sharply sucked in a breath, but fearing her mother’s wailing would erupt again like earlier, she bowed her head, and her sisters and brothers followed suit. She opened her mouth and it barely formed an O, when the sound of a pony’s quick trot was heard approaching the clapboard house. No sound came from her mouth and it loosely hung open, resembling the sagging clothesline just after she unpins all the bed quilts on a calm summer’s day.

The familiar sound of those pony hooves normally brought happiness and excited giggles from the children, and even a toothy grin from Mama. An image of father, dark and handsome with his eyes shining like black mirrors, riding the pale pony up the snowy path to the house, was easy for me to conjure. It almost looked like he was floating uphill as the animal’s pearly coat and mane melded into the wintry background.

Mother’s hand withdrew suddenly from the tangled net of silken curls she had been desperately grasping. She took a step back from the table, and the children did the same, almost simultaneously.

Within a moment, not a breath was let out in the room as they heard heavy feet plunk down on the gravel outside, and a set of single footsteps approached the house. The storm door squealed languidly as father pushed it open and stepped into the gilded kitchen. All breaths escaped at once as his large, calloused hand flew over the place where his heart was.

“Oh no, not Tilly, not my Tilly!” he cried out as he looked at the petite and pallid body surrounded by burning candles, and heard a gutted moan slip from his wife’s lips. He then looked around the room at all of his children. He had six daughters and two sons, but none of them had the shining blond curls that his precious Tilly had. He loved her the best.

Suddenly a gust from outside burst through the storm door, and the room became much darker – not a candle remained lit. There was only the light of the solemn lantern left to illuminate the room.

It was at this moment I opened my eyes and gave them a feeble rub with my balled up hands. I propped myself up on my elbows and noticed that my mother had fainted to the floor, and little Sally was shaking badly and crying. My brother Cecil, though his face was frozen with a look of shock, put his arms around Sally and patted her head to comfort her. Bell was repeatedly blessing herself while saying “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” over and over.

I sat up on the table, straight as a pin, and smiled brightly at my father.

“Oh, Papa, you are finally here! I was waiting for you.”

THE END