The Mask of White and Red - Part 6

thinknzombie (59)in #fiction • 7 years ago (edited)

The tiny roll of paper weighed nearly nothing at all, but Ilsa could feel the pressure of its presence in her pocket. She kept one hand hovering near it, occasionally giving the pocket a pat to ensure the scroll was still there. As much as she wanted to tell her father about the old woman and the scroll, it was her idea that excited her. What if they could support themselves without the hospice, without relying on Kerrie? Just thinking about it filled her with hope.

The hospice door was blue, but cracked and peeling, its doorway surrounded by a tangle of jasmine. Hanging beside the door, a weatherbeaten brass bell dangled from a rusty iron hook. A length of worn rope hung down from within the bell.

Ilsa hesitated. Pastor Beckford could be just on the other side of that door. No matter how much she loathed him or how much the thought of going into that dreadful place brought out gooseflesh on her arms, it was the only way to see her father.

She rang the bell, dislodging a mini-cascade of rain droplets, and waited. Her heart seemed extra jumpy today. Even more than it usually was when she visited.

Despite their smiling and all the good works performed by the Hospice, she couldn't bring herself to trust Pastor Beckford or any venture he was involved with. Not all the nuns and volunteers made her feel this way, which was a relief, but some had cruel eyes. She’d heard them laughing once and guessed they were laughing at her father. She imagined them as her father struggled with his clothes. It was embarrassing but she knew that his toilet was difficult for him. Her face felt hot with anger. Leaving him in such a place day after day was difficult enough, but leaving him with those that only wanted him as a trophy, or thought he was a joke? She was glad there were some at the hospice who genuinely cared, but the sooner she helped him move out the better.

Eventually, after what felt like an age of waiting, Matron Tettle answered the door.

“You’re early. He's barely up.” Matron Tettle seemed to gesture as much with her arched eyebrows as with her hands. She never smiled. Ilsa found herself wanting to lean away from the woman. Instead she focused on stilling the fluttering in her chest.

“He’ll want to see me,” said Ilsa.

“That he will, I’d wager. Alright, in with you, then.”

With her long nose and the various folds of her habit, the Matron looked more like a giant waterfowl than a woman. Her bulk filled a good portion of the width of the corridor, but the presence she projected seemed even larger still.

Behind the Matron where the wards began, Ilsa could make out the doorway to her father’s room. The polished floor reflected the wooden breezeways above and the profiles of potted plants set at intervals along the passageway. The reflections shimmered like the beach on a hot day.

“He's very weak,” Matron Tettle said, “so don't you go tiring him.”

Ilsa nodded, but planned to stay as long as she wanted. What right did they have to say otherwise?

She edged past the matron and hurried up the hall, hoping her father would be alone. Behind her the Matron called out, “No running.” Ilsa slowed to a brisk walk but even that felt as slow as crawling.

She found her father sitting in near darkness at a small writing desk. The curtains were fully drawn and in the dim light she could barely make out the shadows of furniture and the lemon yellow paint on the walls. His face was shrouded in darkness but she could guess at his mood. Ilsa knew that nothing of her father’s would be on display—even the few personal items that weren’t burned in the fire would be locked away. She'd tried to help with that once, but he'd rejected the idea out of hand. There was no joy in the room, but things would change when he heard her plan. That would definitely cheer him up.

She pecked a kiss on his cheek, then opened the curtains as far as they would go. Light flooded the room. She blinked in the sudden brightness. Motes of floating dust sparkled like tiny stars. Better already. But it was still stuffy and stale with something else…the sharp note of the apple cider vinegar the hospice staff used liberally on every surface.

Opening the windows proved more difficult, their brass mechanisms were corroded and hard to move, but eventually she was able to let some fresh air in. “That's better,” she said. The room already smelled cleaner. Outside, birds tweeted. The sound of the surf pounding the rocky cliffs was as regular as breathing.

The light also allowed her to take a better look at her father. He looked so miserable sitting there at the desk. Once the desk would have been covered with his books, sketches showing anatomical details, and letters from other physicians, now the desk was bare. “If you’re going to sit there, you should write something.” Lately, all he did was mope. Writing would be an improvement.

She sat at the foot of his bed, moving the crocheted woolen blanket that took up most of the space to one side. He’d barely spared her a glance since she’d arrived. Had he always been so thin? She could see the tendons in his forearms, the deep shadows where once had been healthy flesh.

“Are you eating enough? You look skin and bone. I hope you will do some writing. Is that why you're sitting there? When your hands recover you might write a teaching book. Isn’t that a good idea? Or you could send a letter to one of your surgeon friends.”

He snorted, a huffy grunting sound.

“I’ve been thinking.” What was the best way to phrase it? “I used to watch you and…you and Mother. Sometimes I even helped. Do you remember?” He’d shifted in his chair at her mention of Mother. It was the only sign he was listening at all. “Well, I thought that maybe you could tell me what to do and we can fix your hands. Together. Then you could help people again.” His back was ram-rod stiff now. Tendons twitched along the side of his face. “It wouldn't be…wouldn't be the same, I know. But we could try to make a go at it. And I’d help.”

He started to shake, making a sound that she thought might be laughter but realized to her horror that he was sobbing. She ran to his side, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and hugging him as if that alone could take away his pain. “It’s going to be all right,” she said. “You’ll see.”

Another sob, then, “No. It isn't.” His voice was soft and strained. The timbre all wrong. He sounded like someone else. Another man had taken over Father’s body, someone sad and weak, someone lonely and small.

He held up his hands and she could see where the flesh had melted together. One looked more like a claw than a hand. They no longer resembled the sure, skilled hands of a master physician.

“There is no one alive who could fix this,” he said. “I’m not even sure I could have. These fingers will never hold a scalpel again. The sooner you realize that, the better.” He said the last with such force that she gasped.

What was he saying? That there was no hope? That they would always have to live like this, scraping together meals and relying on friends and neighbors? She felt tears threatening.

“You’re giving up,” she said. He had turned around now, watching her. His face was puffy from crying. She realized in that moment that she was angry. The butterflies in her tummy were gone, replaced by rage. This was her father, the greatest surgeon in the entire land. There was nothing he could not do. How dare he wallow in self-pity!

She pulled the scroll from her pocket and tossed it onto the desk it. “Well you might have given up on yourself but not everyone else has. This is for you.”

The scroll rolled into the center of the desk. For a second he seemed to watch it. Then his eyes widened, and with a great intake of breath he shrank back. As he stood his chair fell backwards, clattering to the floor.

“Where did you—” Gone was any trace of self-pity. What was it she could see in his eyes now? Her heart jumped in her chest. It looked like fear. But why would such a tiny thing make him scared?

“Ilsa, who gave you this?”

“An old woman. Up by Bakers Lane.”

He took an unsteady breath. “Old woman,” he said, as if to himself. “But why now?” He turned to her. “Did she say anything to you? Did you speak with her?”

“She didn't say much. She said she would wait for an answer. She said—”

“An answer.” He seemed to think about that for a moment. Then, “I am so sorry. I never thought…after all this time.” He gestured to the chair. “Could you be a dear?”

Ilsa picked up the chair and righted it in front of the desk. Her father sat down again.

“I'm going to ask you to open it for me,” he said. “But you’re going to have to promise me something. And Ilsa, this is the most serious promise I can think to ask of you.” He swallowed. “You’re going to have to promise not to tell a soul about this. No one. Not even Kerrie.” He looked deep into her eyes and she could see the concern there. The fear was still there, too.

“I promise.” Of course she promised. If that's what he wanted.

“No,” he said. “I need you to swear. Swear it on your mother’s grave.”

She swallowed, then nodded. If this would stop the tears and bring back the father she loved, she'd swear on anything, even Mother’s grave.

In the corner of the room was a low-set, wooden three-legged stool. It doubled as a bedside table and barely fit in the narrow space between the wall and her father ’s bed.

She crossed to the corner of the room to grab a three-legged wooden stool, the box in her pocket feeling like a brick. She sat the stool down beside her father, pulled out the box and placed it on the table.

“What's this?” he asked.

“The woman gave me this, too.” She watched her father’s face but if there was some significance to the box it did not show in his expression.

“What's in it?”

She flipped up the lid revealing the carved interior. The small black beads rolled around from the jolt of her hand, bumping softly against each other for a moment before once again coming to rest.

“Seeds?” he said. “Beads?”

Ilsa shook her head. “She said I'd know what to do with them.” And there had been something else. She thought back to the strange encounter. “She also said not to eat them.”

“What do they smell like?”

They didn’t smell like anything Ilsa recognized. The woman had smelled of spices, she would never forget that smell as long as she lived. But the box didn't smell the same. She gingerly picked it up, bringing it closer to his face.

“Too close,” he said. When she moved it back he said, “There. Now wave your hand across it towards me like a fan. Just once.”

She did as he asked. He seemed to consider for a moment.

“I don't…there’s something…” he wrinkled his nose. “It smells faintly of spices.” He moved his face away. “Best not to touch them. Any idea why she gave them to you?”

Why had she? “I don't know.” She pointed at the scroll. “She gave me that, then the box.”

“The scroll first. Perhaps there will be a clue in it. Please open it for me.”

The scroll was bound by a thin thread that had been wrapped around its center and tied in a neat knot. A daub of wax sealed it. She untied the string and broke the seal. Inside, a thin card sheathe protected a tightly wound scroll of fine paper so thin that Ilsa could see right through it. The handwriting was small and delicate. Penned in violet ink, the words appeared to be a foreign language. There was something familiar about the writing, but she couldn’t place what it was.

“I can’t read it,” she said. She expected her father to make some comment about not having studied enough, but he said nothing. When she looked at him to see why, his face was as pale as the day they found out her mother had died. “What is it?” she asked.

His reply seemed to take an age. Finally he said, “The past.”

Author's Note:

I hope you enjoyed Part 6 of The Mask of White and Red. This part took a lot longer than I anticipated. Sorry! Life got in the way (as it tends to do) but I am well on the way with Part 7 so if you did enjoy this episode, please do upvote, resteem and comment and come back for the next bit.

Part 1 is here, please do go and check it out: https://steemit.com/fiction/@thinknzombie/the-mask-of-white-and-red-part-1-make-a-minnow-sbd-pledge-special-edition

You can check out the rest of the story (as well as find some of my other works) by clicking here: http://www.steemshelves.com/the-mask-of-white-and-red/

-- @thinknzombie