The Lengths A Mother Would Go

1867

“MORGAN, you need to think clearly-”

“Quiet yourself!” She ripped her sleeve from her sister’s desperate grasp, in such a focus that she failed to realize that the cuff of her sleeve became partially torn. She continued her travel down the overgrown pathway, pausing only to retch her skirts and crinoline from the hold of the brush. Night was falling upon the quiet village, bringing with it the oppressive touches of darkness.

From where the sisters had traveled, the village’s lantern light soon faded behind the tree line. They continued deeper into the woods, their own swaying lantern being the only light provided to them as darkness stretched around. Hannah bundled her blouse closer to her chest, regretting that she’d left her coat back at the house. Her footfalls were unsteady as she tried to match pace.

Any further comment Hannah had was kept locked on her lips as she watched the way her sister was unraveling. Her black dress dragged without care through the partially dried mud, and the veil hanging from her crepe bonnet had been discarded after being snagged by a branch. Her well heated curls were frizzed and framed her tear stricken face like a wild woman. Morgan’s gaze was rather hallowed; her once warm brown eyes hardened into unfeeling stone.

The lantern light cast their shadows in violent dances across the tree trunks. As the trees pressed closer and closer upon them to the point where Hannah feared they may need to push their way through the bark, the path opened into a clearing.

“We’re here,” Morgan’s voice brought silence to the forest. It was not a welcoming silence.

The light she held seemed to shine dimmer when the home came into view. It was a shabby little shack, clearly no more than a room or two. Its tin roof sat crocked, a dented weather vane lazily rotating back and forth in a nonexistent wind. Black smoke poured from the leaning stone chimney. Everything about the place warned that a harsh wind might topple it over. Still, Morgan seemed to not pay any of that mind as she continued to walk forward.

As their shoes clacked against the warped porch, Hannah reached for her sister’s sleeve once more. “Sister, please, we need not do this. We can just go back home. Abraham will be waiting.”

“And I will return to him,” Morgan’s voice was stone, her gaze falling onto the golden doorknob. “And I will be bringing our daughter home as well. I will not argue with you on this further.”

The door began to open before Morgan’s hand could grasp the knob. Despite the further assurance they should leave, the woman crossed into the threshold. After only a moment of hesitation, Hannah followed.

The interior of the home was just as ramshackle, nothing more than a cluttered bedroom. The fireplace was burning, but very little warmth spread beyond the chairs residing beside it. A woman sat in the one closest to the fire, her bony black hands grasped around a steaming mug. The patchwork quilt bundled around body fell off her shoulders as she turned her aged face to the women.

“Ah, I see you have returned.” The elderly woman bent a finger towards them, beckoning they join her. Morgan crossed the space, smoothing her shirts as she took a seat on the couch. Hannah followed, grimacing at the deep stains on the torn armrest.

The fire crackled and seemed to bring a chill to the air as Morgan pulled a package from her pocket. Her hands shook just slightly as she unwrapped the bundle. It was a small clothe doll, with her bright blue dress matching her bright button eyes. The doll that had been placed in the recently lowered casket was laying before them.

She leaned close to her sister, whispering sharply. “How did you get that?”

“I did what I needed to do.” Morgan continued to unroll the fabric, placing the knot of light brown hair onto the doll. She withdrew a veil of thick liquid from her pocket, and placed it on the table.

“Dear God,” Hannah’s hand went to the cross danged against her breast. “You are playing with devils here, sister mine.”

“I’m doing what I must.” There was a hardness to her voice. The fire continued to dance beside them, casting her shadow long across the warped floorboards.

“You did well chi’l” the elderly woman spoke. She placed her mug down, and it took a great effort for her to lean forward. Her wrinkled black face was heavy in brow, and a white film laid over her charcoal painted gaze.

Morgan was ringing her hands together, eyes darting around as if she finally noticed the crumbling state of the place. “You can bring my daughter to me, correct?”

“No.” The woman spoke sharply. “I cannot bring her to you. But I will bring you to her.”

The elder took the doll, holding up a hand to stop the women from speaking. Her gums sloshed together as she worked her jaw in slow rotations. A thin trail of saliva was strung between her two lips. As she leaned forward, her thin gray hair framed her face. She picked up the knot of hair, tying it loosely around the neck of the doll.

Hannah had to hide her face behind her sleeve as the elderly woman popped the vial of what she quickly realized was blood. It was a thick brown liquid that the woman drizzled over the doll. Morgan sat with her eyes directed onto the scene, saying nothing as her daughter’s blood flowed. Her hands were working against each other, a habit their mother had tried so long to break. Hannah contemplated reaching out to stop the fidgeting, but the oppressive odor in the air as her deceased niece's blood soaked into the doll had her sitting still. She looked at her sister briefly, barely recognizing what the older woman had become in her grief.

“Give me your hand.” The elder’s body had a vibration set into it as she held her arm with palm open to the ceiling. “I will send you elsewhere, a place where your daughter still lives.”

As Morgan reached forward, Hannah finally found it within herself to protest. She snagged her sister’s wrist, holding tightly.

“I need to do this,” Morgan’s gaze was not on either of the women in the shack, but the doll that seemed to almost be breathing. “This is the only way I will see her again.”

Morgan turned to the elder who sat with her hand still outstretched. Her face was blank, waiting patiently for them to finish. The blood coating her hand seemed to bother her not.

“When you say you will send me elsewhere,” Morgan asked, taking a second to look at the waiting hand, “what does that mean?”

“Your daughter does not belong to this world any longer. Her ties have been severed and as her body has been returned to the Earth, she cannot be stolen back from the spirits. However, there is a world where your daughter still lives. I can send you there.” The woman’s face held no hint of a lie, despite the strangeness she spoke.

“And what is the catch?” Morgan’s gaze was fixed on the woman.

“Your daughter will be there,” she directed her gaze at Hannah, “as will a version of yourself. You will need to take your place there.”

“And how do I do that?”

“That is of your concern. But to remain in that world, you will need to send that version of yourself back here.” She gave the doll a soak. “To dispatch of her, merely place the doll within her hold and your place will be secured.”

Hannah tasted bile. “And of the other Morgan? What is to happen to her after?”

“She matters not,” this Morgan snapped. She gave her wrist a tug, but the hold remained. “I will get my daughter back.”

“By ripping another version of yourself of her daughter! This is madness. Alicia is gone and all you will be doing is taking another daughter from her mother. This is cruelty.”

“You know nothing of cruelty!” There was a vile poison within her voice. “Cruelty was to hold my daughter as she died. It was carrying her for nine months within my womb only to get nine months of her within my arms. It was watching as her soul faded and knowing I could do nothing to relieve her pain. Cruelty is a mother burying her child. Why should another women have what was stolen from me.”

As if another wrapped their hand over hers and snapped the fingers back, Hannah found herself letting go of her sister’s wrist. The women spared not another glance, before reaching for the blood soaked doll. As her hand grasped the fabric toy, the fire smothered, casting the room into darkness. The air rushed from around them, and Morgan began to cough as the air within her lungs turned hard.

THE SOUND of a crying child danced through Morgan’s ears. As her lungs began to breath once more and her mind returned to her body, she was aware of the home she now stood in, the one that she and Abraham had built. The sun shown through the open window. She could hear the sounds of birds calling from the garden. The world felt light, airy, and without the smothering of grief she’d been drowning in.

The sound of an infant brought her focus once more to the cradle. Abraham’s brother had made it when they’d announced their pregnancy. The familiar carved ducks and soft cries encouraged her steps forward.

“Who are you?” Her own voice stopped Morgan’s movements. She turned, knowing she would see a version of herself, but still finding the sight startling. This women bore her own features, but there was a lightness to her – a shine to her eyes that Morgan had buried in the church’s cemetery. “What in the devil are you?”

The hefty skirt she wore tangled around her legs as Morgan dashed forward. She need only to secure the doll within the woman’s grasp and she would have all that she wanted. The other woman attempted to tear from the room, stopped only by Morgan grasping at her collar. She gave a tug of the blouse, crashing the doppelganger onto the ground.

The confusion and the begging on the woman’s voice was not heard. All Morgan could hear was the sounds of the baby – her baby – in that cradle. She grabbed the doll, doing all she could to place it within the woman’s hands. Those familiar hands were slapping about, making abrupt contact with Morgan’s face. She was putting up a fight, but Morgan was determined. As the two woman rolled along the floor, trading blows upon the other’s face, the baby continued to cry.

“Please,” the woman gasped as Morgan slammed a fist into her stomach, “leave us be. Take what you want, but spare us.”

Morgan clambered to her feet. She stood over the version of herself that belonged to this world. Her gaze was drawn away as the baby’s cries grew desperate. She saw a little hand sticking from cradle. As she took a step towards the rocker, the other woman pounced on Morgan. They were once more a tangle of skirts and crinolines as this woman attempted to keep Morgan from the child.

The stumbled, and Morgan screamed as the woman grabbed a bundle of her hair and gave a tug. They rushed backwards, the other woman slammed against the wall hard enough to break her hold on her hair.

It was the cries of the child that caused Morgan to do what she did next. The hefty wooden figure of the Lord on the bookshelf had also been a gift from her brother-in-law. Morgan grasped the statue, and struck the mother down.

The weight made contact.

As it cracked against her skull, the woman dropped like the strings had been cut from her. Morgan stood breathing heavy, as she watched for any movement. The woman was still. As the adrenaline left her frame, she fully took in this version of herself. They wore the same face, lived in the same body, but there was a clear difference.

She had a weight to her face that Morgan had lost. Kneeling, she felt the neck of the woman. There was no pulse. There was nothing to be done of that now. Placing the now dried clothe doll into the woman’s hands, Morgan let the breaths pass heavy from her lips.

A vacuum overtook the small nursery as the air seemed to disappear around them.

There was no pulse to the woman, but as she began to fade from this world and into another, Morgan felt a movement in the woman’s stomach. She placed a hand in that familiar location – the one where her daughter had loved to kick – finding a sob gracing her lips as the infant moved within the woman’s cooling corpse. Before another thought could be had, the babe and its deceased mother were ripped from this world.

Morgan looked at the now empty space on the floor. She remained kneeling there, until the remaining infant’s cries caught her attention.

“It’s okay Alicia,” she soothed as she stumbled across the room. “It’s okay baby girl. Mommy is here. Mommy will always be here.”

She reached the cradle, looking down at the little cherub face. The heavy cries had soothed themselves, as the infant merely whimpered. Among the quilted blankets of blue and yellow, an unfamiliar face looked at her. The baby was older than nine months by a rough estimate of seven, and in the place of slightly curled brown hair, a bundle of black locks sat. The curve of those tear drenched eyes was wrong. The nose had a too sharp an end. The ears were all wrong.

This wasn’t her baby. This wasn’t her Alicia.

She looked at the head of the cradle, where an unfamiliar boy’s name was carved.

Morgan stared at this baby that was not hers. The air within her lungs once more turned heavy. She felt as if everything within her sunk through the floor. The sun outside burned too brightly as it passed through the window.

The world felt wrong. Of course it wasn’t the world, but her that was wrong.

She hadn’t heard the front door open, nor the heavy footfalls of the man entering the home. She stood, unable to take her gaze from this strange child, as a pair of arms wrapped around her torso. He smelled the same in this world as her Abraham did – like cigar smoke, coal and hard labor.

“Hello my lovely wife.” His voice was deep against her neck as he peppered it with kissed.

He leaned forward, dangling a finger for the infant to grasp. The baby brightened at his father. “You’ve grown so much since this morning. You’ll be a man before we know.”

As his hand left the infant’s grasp, he placed it upon Morgan’s too flat stomach. “And how is our little girl doing?”

Morgan placed her hand over Abraham’s as he felt her stomach. She chocked back a sob as the unfamiliar world closed in upon her.