The Beautiful Lady

From the moment her seed sprouted into life inside me, I could feel her tendrils growing.  Day by day, creeping and clinging, like the ivy that destroyed mama’s garden.

*

I light a candle in the turnip I’ve carved earlier in the day, and place it by the cracked window. The glass is dirty, cloudy so I have to squint to see outside into the black, moonless night. The wind sings its sorrow, wailing and whistling as it pitches dead leaves through the air, scratching at the window.

I feel her move inside me, jostling and prodding, prying my ribs apart, reminding me of the day she was conceived. I feel a wave of nausea, but it quickly passes.

Shadows from the candle move like fairies in a bizarre ritualistic dance across the walls of the darkened room. She is telling me she’s ready.

*

Mama’s garden was her pride and joy. Flowers and herbs and healing plants flourished in abundance, surrounding our cottage like sentinels. Every day she planted and nurtured and tended with love. In turn the plants allowed her to use the power within them.

Women from the village, even with their scowls and scepticism, came to our cottage for help when the village physician couldn’t provide it.

From the tenderest age, I watched mama relieve the pain of the disease that turned fingers into gnarled, knotty branches. I saw her take fever and rashes and empty them into the earth. I witnessed her wipe away maladies of the stomach, and heal disorders of the blood.

One night she brought out her bulky leather-bound book, filled with the notes and drawings she had made over the years. It contained recipes, pressed flowers and herbs – and journalised records of how she had used the gifts that Mother Nature had given. I called it her spell book.

Mama brought new life into the world too, and I watched many small fat babies, like seal pups bark their way into our living room. It was times like these that mama shone most brightly, the light inside her illuminating everyone she touched.

But not all the women who came to her wanted to keep the new life within them. So mama helped them too. I didn’t understand at first, but she explained it to me.

“Sometimes Shona, love is not present when new life is created. Mother Nature herself knows nothing of love. Her only purpose is to replenish and to recreate all things. But a child conceived out of violence or hatred, or destined to be born into a world of poverty and abuse is sometimes more blessed not to be born at all.”

I asked her if I was conceived in love. She smiled and hugged me tightly, the sweet scent of her settle over me like a protective shroud.

One day, a stout angry man from the village came pounding on our door. He called himself a doctor and shouted at mama for a long time. He ordered that she stop delivering ‘useless panaceas’ to the people, and to stay away from the womenfolk – or there would be consequences.

Mama didn’t argue back. She just nodded and closed the door in his face.

Later that afternoon, we were in the greenhouse and mama was teaching me about the plants.

“Always watch for ivy, Shona. Ivy is a greedy, malicious plant. It needs ultimate power and if left to its purpose, it will strangle almost everything that thrives in its path.”

What she said frightened me.

“But we don’t have any ivy growing here mama. We’re lucky.”

“Yes we are. For now.”

More men from the village came to our cottage. We knew they were not looking for help or healing. It started in the night. Mama and I would hear sounds in the garden, and in the morning, plants had been ripped from their beds and trampled.

One morning, we found several panes of glass in the greenhouse broken, and the pots inside smashed.

Once, we found two rabbits hanging by their necks from the oak tree.

“They’ll get tired of bothering us Shona, don’t worry,” mama said.

But worried I was…even while she kept calm, tending her garden, repairing the damage.

On the afternoon that changed my life, mama was in her greenhouse. I was in the cottage cleaning coals from the fire. A man appeared at the door. His bulk plugged the doorway, blocking the light from the room. I fell backwards in fright.

“Who…who are you?”

The man didn’t speak but in his face I saw evil for the first time.  I screamed, and moments later, the man stumbled forward into the room and fell, revealing mama in the doorway with a shovel in her hand. It was as though she had felled a tree.

The man groaned on the ground. He rubbed his head, then clambered to his full massive height. He reached for mama, wrapped his giant arm around the tiny frame of her shoulders, and with his other hand, snapped her neck.

What happened then is not something I want to say here.

I buried mama in the outskirts of the garden, or what used to be the garden. Since her death, ivy has somehow found its way into our peaceful, beautiful sanctuary. It has destroyed her life’s work.

*

The child is pushing from me, eager to enter the world.  I think about the violence in which she was conceived and the ugly life into which she will be born.

Sometimes I speak to mama in my dreams. She says that no matter what, my role is to protect and nurture her, show her life’s beauty, as she showed me. But I can no longer see any beauty.

Some of the women that mama helped came to see me. They tried to be kind. One of them said I could come live with her in the village. I told them to go away, and never to come back.

*

I brave the wind, wrapping myself in layers to ward off the cold. I stumble to the greenhouse, now entirely suffocated by ivy, all but one of the plants inside choked to death.

Belladonna. The beautiful lady. Green, defiant, heavy with ripe, luscious, deadly berries. I take the pot and make my way back to the cottage.

I make tea from the leaves and roots. While the kettle boils, I strip off all the plump berries and stuff them into my mouth.

The child inside me kicks ferociously in protest.

As I sip my tea, I wonder what the villagers will be discussing tonight…

Dora Bona

©2019