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The drizzle outside is the only thing calming her fraying nerves.
It falls lightly across the treetops, just enough to shake them and let the water drip properly to the rich soil beneath. It flies on the wind when a strong breeze catches it, gliding on such gales to land inside the mouth of the cave. Behind the clouds that let their weight bear down upon the earth, the sun glows with a soft haze, translucent, like something bright viewed beneath layers of ice and frost. The edges of it are murky, but there enough to define the red hot star’s position in the sky.
She had looked up at it not too long ago, her hand placed over her eyes to shield her from the light that managed to shine past all the shades of grey. It was noon then. She supposed if she checked now, it might be just past four. Right about the time when she would be making dinner.
But the rain had not let up since the early morning, and Ama had not made the trek up the mountain path to deliver the day’s food.
There were still a few ripe shreds of lettuce from the past day’s basket, a dwindling assortment of carrots, ginger, potatoes, and radish, and a few slices of buckwheat bread that Ama had slipped into the basket as a treat. And it was. Freshly baked with a small amount of goat butter. It was the most lavish thing Marisa had eaten in her two weeks of being there. Though it was no longer warm, it still held the richness that only a well-baked bread could. She had thought, momentarily, that it was a shame that Lyra could not enjoy it, kept to a strict diet of vegetable soup as she was. But if she allowed her daughter to wake up enough to savor the village’s kindness as she did, then she would have no daughter to keep, for Lyra would bolt from the cave the moment she could stumble. A new-born fawn wobbling its way into the dangers of the world, heedless of the doe’s bleats and cries to remain close, to not run off, to stay. So she would remain asleep for now. And when the danger had passed, and she had successfully prevented Lyra’s fall, then her daughter would awaken and share a solid bite of food, and never mind the past months of deep sleep.
She could not stop the intrusive thought that such a day may never come. She could not hold off the deep-seated worry, the anxiety, that Lyra would be ripped from her again. Especially after what Ama had asked yesterday morning.
Marisa had found it amusing at the time, to give the little girl a morsel of truth, cloaked in layers of deceit and fallacy, and send her off to regale her father with a wonderful fairy tale. An enchanted sleep, a dangerous man seeking them out—half-truths to be sure. But there it was. Only half. And Ama had teared up and wished them well, touched by Marisa’s story of escape and new-found safety.
Now, though, Marisa wondered if even that had been too much. If she had jeopardized herself with just that miniscule amount given. Would the little girl and her father keep such a secret? Would they seek help for the mother and her comatose daughter?
The golden monkey watches from his perch as Marisa bites into her bottom lip, worrying it slightly as she watches the rain drip from the large leaves of one tree, down to another, and another, until it hits the ground and vanishes altogether. How she wishes it were just as easy for her and her sleeping charge to hide, to disappear as a raindrop would in the midst of a shower. If they could become so small and unnoticeable, if they could meld into the world a little deeper, finding still darker depths and crevices to tuck themselves into. Perhaps then her sleep would be more consistent, less fretful and sporadic. Perhaps she wouldn’t check the sky with dread already in her heart. Perhaps the golden monkey, her dear, wretched soul, would snatch at the bats in the cave less.
Though, she could not deny the deep release that such a violent act granted the both of them—how the tearing of the bats’ wings let the anger and tension leak from the very marrow of her bones, transmuted into the golden monkey’s hands. The weight on her chest was lifted, her lungs expanded gratefully with each snapped ligament, stretched muscle, and torn fiber. It uncurled her balled fists and eased her shoulders down from around her ears. When the wind howled and she could swear that it was a zeppelin touching down nearby, her damned soul slashed and clawed and marred his way through the living creatures around them. Those tiny black paws reached and captured the beating heart that could not escape the live wire he was, vicious and remorseless and without thought or feeling. Simply pain, and a need to see it, to cause it, to release it. Transfer herself into those small beings and pretend they are her.
With no penthouse balcony to idly contemplate death upon, this would have to do.
Her eyes find his, and the two remain silent, staring at one another. He nods his head at Lyra, and with a deep and heavy sigh, Marisa pulls her body from the reclined chair and stands, gracefully wilted, upon her feet. A stretch above her head, a pop of shoulders and the satisfying release that comes immediately with it, and now Marisa straightens and steps deeper within the cave. With one final glance to the outside, the golden monkey leaps from his solitary stone and pads across the cold ground, behind Marisa. Always some distance behind.
The routine of peeling and chopping the simple vegetables given, the motions of dropping, pouring, and stirring the pot over the single travel burner she has—there is some comfort here. The survival element that came with journeying had not always been a joy of hers. There were far more exciting moments to be had, as when you found some new, unknown thing out there in the wilderness, and you swore you might be the first to discover it. She loved the thrill and exhilaration that came with a misplaced step that choked her heart momentarily and made her head spin. The danger, the threat—all those parts of survival were near and dear to her. But of the minutiae? The quiet gave her time to think, and to plan, and to discuss her findings. It gave her muscles a reprieve, it gave the task time to breathe and extend beyond her. The simple parts, the basics, the things that could not be left behind lest you had no more exploring to do—that was all they were. Necessary. There was no one without the other.
She felt a motion in her body that could not be carried through to fruition. There was an itch in the soles of her feet that told her to move, to run, to gather and go with Lyra. Some action to be taken, someone to meet and talk to and allow her words to curl around like smoke and her hands to grip and to touch and she could feel the bunching of her muscles in her upper arms and her neck—
Here in the cave, it was more than necessary. It was needed.
Into a small beaker she pours the steamy water and broth, and with it a small sleeve of white powder. With a swish of her wrist, the liquid sweeps the dry particles into itself, and they dissipate until there is nothing to be seen. She lets it stand, to cool and become more potent. The golden monkey sweeps along the ground quietly, rising up just behind Lyra’s head, crouched and poised to lunge for the little ermine at her neck. The child shifts in her sleep, her breathing hitches and changes for a moment, and Marisa can see the fluttering of her eyes as the last of the previous concoction releases its prey. Lyra stirs, and Marisa sits nearby, glass in hand, watching carefully.
A murmur slips past dry and cracked lips. Arms encircle Lyra carefully, reverently, holding her close but not too tightly. Her head hangs low until Marisa tips her child’s forehead into her shoulder. She gathers the girl up entirely against her own body, as though she could subsume Lyra once more. Lyra’s brow creases as the warmed rim of the glass touches against her bottom lip. A tongue darts out, questioning, tasting, and Marisa allows for a few small drips before letting those drips become full drinks. Lyra’s hands twitch with a need, and Marisa’s heart aches for it, but she presses on until there is nothing left in the beaker to be sipped.
Slowly, Lyra’s body unclenches, and she shudders and slumps into Marisa’s arms, asleep once again. Breathing in time with this girl, slow and deep and at ease, it is now that Marisa can begin washing her. The golden monkey hands her the warm wet towel, and sits and picks at the rocks and grass shoots springing up in between the cracks in the cave. He is weightless and yet so incredibly heavily.
Marisa, towel in hand, passes it over Lyra’s unburdened expression and feels it reflected in her own. Peacefully, safely asleep. Marisa tucks and smooths Lyra’s hair, feels her own tension flow out of her in this small moment. She rips the wings off bats. She holds her drugged and sleeping child. Violent. Selfish. Consuming. She hums as she washes and dries and lets Lyra settle back into her sleeping bag. Gibberish and nothing words fall from her mouth in sweet, dulcet notes, hitting the ground and dissipating, as she stands and returns to her seat at the cave entrance.
She knows of no lullabies.
There were none given to her in her girlhood.
And likewise, there are none given to Lyra.
In this, and so many other ways, they are the same.