Becoming Calder (A Sign of Love Novel)(71)

"I don't understand," I said, confused. My tongue felt thick and I worked to form the words.
Those crystal eyes met mine. "You were very young. You must not remember coming here."
I shook my head slightly, trying to understand. "Coming here? No. Me and Maya, we were born here."
Mother Willa laughed softly and shook her head. "Aye. Maya, yes. Not you, Calder. You were not born here. But you belong to Hector all the same. And now you've crossed him, threatened him, and he won't abide by that. And so if you want to protect the people you love, you leave here, do you hear me?"
"Why? What? I don't . . ."
Mother Willa nodded and patted my foot softly. "A gift to them—that's what you were. Such a perfect boy, so very, very beautiful, to balance the imperfection they were given in your sister."
It felt like fog was moving through my head, and I couldn't wade through it to grasp my own thoughts, or separate the ones that mattered from the ones that didn't. Surely this ancient woman was crazy, or suffering from some sort of dementia.
"You're really old," I somehow managed, my words slurring.
Mother Willa cackled loudly and continued wrapping strips of white material around my legs.
"Someday you will be, too."
I shook my head. "Will I? Will anyone?"
"I think so," she said, looking slightly confused before her expression cleared again. She nodded her head. "If certain things . . . yes."
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I didn't care. Nothing seemed to matter except for the warmth flowing through my veins and the absence of pain. I closed my eyes again.
"Do you like it here, Mother Willa?"
She took a minute to answer. "I suppose I do. There is room for me here. And," she inclined her head toward my legs, "I earn my keep. Here I'm useful."
I nodded my head. I'd never been doctored by Mother Willa, but I'd heard women who gave birth here sang her praises, and many wounds would have festered without her herbs, and of course, like Hector always said, the healing will of the gods. Only that part seemed questionable now.
"But you, Calder, there is no need for a boy like you to hide away in a place like this."
"Hide away? Is that what people here do?" My words seemed to run together.
"Aye. And sometimes we all need refuge. This world is painful. Some people seek to belong." She shook her head. "But not when there's a price tag attached."
I furrowed my brow, a new surge of warmth running through my blood. "What is the price of taking refuge here, Mother?"
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me, her pale eyes glistening. "Death," she said so simply the word almost didn't compute. "So much death."
The room pulsed around me. All I wanted to do was sleep. "And if we leave here?" I asked.
"Life," she said.
The words floated around in my mind, coming together, and then drifting apart again. I couldn't connect them, couldn't apply meaning. Instead, I closed my eyes and rested.
What seemed like a few minutes later, she patted my foot. "All done. This will keep the infection away. Keep them on, even if they itch—at least as long as you're in here—then remove the bandages, clean them, and reapply. If they get wet, apply new dry ones."
My eyes were so heavy, but I opened them anyway and made eye contact with her. "Thank you, Mother Willa," I slurred. "Thank you so much."
She nodded, looking at me sadly. And then she muttered as if to herself, "I tried so hard to help him understand his gift, not twist it." Pain moved across her features, making her, impossibly, look even more ancient. I frowned as she packed her things away in her bag. I wanted to question her further, but I was so tired. I let my eyes close again and this time, darkness took me, images seeming to come at me in the darkness of my own mind: large spitting snakes; Eden, arching her back in pleasure, her lips parted as she moaned out my name; and flowing water that turned from a trickle to a flood, dragging me under, into blackness so deep, I knew I'd never, ever surface again.

**********

I slept in that small box for most of that day. Mother Miriam, Hector's sour-faced mistress, delivered my meals. She set my tray on the floor, took the empty one, and then quickly left. I didn't attempt to engage her in conversation. There was no point, and she made it clear she wouldn't be receptive to niceties, anyway.
The next day, when my head was clear of the herbs Mother Willa had given me, Mother Miriam also delivered a copy of the Holy Book and set that on the floor along with my meal. I placed it on the bench, but I never cracked it open.