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“Pick it up, pick it all up and start again. You've got a second chance, you could go home; escape it all, it's just irrelevant. It's just medicine. It's just medicine. You could still be what you want to. What you said you were when I met you.” - Medicine, Daughter
Alma did not want to carry her babies into the house- the sentient house. It had appeared in bursts and shimmers of golden light (like candle light) and waved a shutter at her in greeting, opening the front doors wide.
All around her, the survivors were whispering and staring. Some crossed themselves. They stared at the candle, her wedding candle, with bafflement; with awe, hope, reverence, fear, skepticism and curiosity.
They asked her what they should do.
Alma did not know what they should do. She didn’t know what she should do. Here she was, standing in the middle of the night, exhausted and in pain from childbirth and she was surrounded by injured, frightened people, all looking to her for guidance.
Because it was her miracle, they said. Her magic.
Yes, she thought wearily. Yes, it is my candle. But it is my Pedro who gave it to us, not me.
What had she done, besides scream for him? What possible use could she be? She hadn’t kept Pedro by her side, she’d watched him walk to his death. She’d watched…She’d seen…
Bruno sneezed and Alma’s grip on her babies tightened. Her tiny Brunito, who was born not breathing, whose breathing was still raspy. Pepa squirmed and Julieta slept sounding, but it was cold tonight, Alma couldn’t stop shivering. What was she doing just standing here? She needed to keep her babies warm, she needed to make sure they were safe. Had she squeezed them too tightly while they ran? Were they ill or injured? The idea of bruises on their soft, delicate skin, put there by her, was horrifying enough that it spurred her into action. Earlier, before…Before, horror had frozen her in place, but she couldn’t freeze again. She needed to act.
Dios mio, she was so cold.
Alma took a deep breath and stood as straight as she could, ignoring the pain in her hips and lower back, the ache in her heart.
“I will examine this…House,” she told the others. “And I will return shortly. When I do, we will come up with a plan.”
Perhaps most amazing of all, no one argued.
One woman, wrapped in a grey shawl, quietly offered to hold her babies while she investigated, but Alma shook her head. She wanted to jerk away, to scream Don’t touch them, don’t take them! She wanted to kick, claw and bite. Every instinct screamed at her to keep her children close.
Her babies. Pedro’s babies.
It took every ounce of self-control to quietly thank the woman and decline her offer.
The shutter waved again. Steeling herself, Alma stepped inside and softly closed the door behind her.
She stepped into a beautifully tiled courtyard, looking around nervously. The tiles danced at her feet, leading in a line to the stairs, to a glowing door with an A engraved in the doorknob.
Strangely, it felt like the house was encouraging her.
Alma had to put the candle down to open the door. As soon as she touched it, there was another burst of light and the door reformed under her hand; instead of glowing blankly, it was now engraved with an image of her, holding the candle. Her eyes were closed, her smile was serene. Her name was engraved on the door, just above her head. There were rays of light all around her.
The image of her looked angelic, utterly at ease.
Alma could not imagine ever smiling like that again.
With no one watching, she allowed herself to cry again. She stumbled through the door, stooping awkwardly to pick up the candle, fumbling with it, the strange magic that had summoned mountains and a sentient house…for her? From Pedro. But why? Why her, why them? Why not anyone else that was fleeing?
What made her so special?
She placed the candle on the windowsill. From her vantage point, she could see people milling around, wandering aimlessly. Some cried. Some simply sat on the grass and stared at the sky, or the ground, or the mountains. Even from here, Alma could see how lost they were. One woman was wailing, rocking back and forth as another woman tried in vain to comfort her. A trio of men were checking over a group of injured people. Children sobbed; someone fainted and while some ran to help, others didn’t even seem to register it, lost in their own heads.
And they all expected her help.
Because it was her candle. Her husband who faced down those soldiers, those monsters in human skin. Her miracle.
The tiles tapped again, a light little movement; it was gentle, as if apologetic for trying to gain her attention.
“...Hello?” Alma offered uncertainly. The tiles bounced more enthusiastically. They moved forward three cribs…Three cribs that looked just like the ones she’d been forced to leave behind. Pedro’s tio had carved those cribs, he’d done such beautiful work…
Sniffling, Alma shook her head.
“I’d prefer to hold them,” she mumbled. How bizarre, how utterly insane; she was talking to a house. She ignored the bed (why did it look like hers and Pedro’s bed?) and knelt on the ground instead, her babies cradled on her lap.
She felt so cold. Were they cold? They weren’t shaking like she was. Bruno coughed and Alma tensed, her wide eyes pinned to her youngest, but he continued to sleep. He didn’t feel too warm, there was no flush to his face.
She needed Pedro. She needed him like she needed air. He’d know what to do. He’d soothe her fears, he’d reassure her that the babies were just fine, safe and sound. They were in their mother’s arms, where could possibly be safer?
How was she going to keep them safe?
She looked at the candle. It had been normal less than an hour ago. Now it shone with an unusual light, sending out little sparks; a sparkling butterfly was engraved on it.
She’d always loved butterflies.
The floor moved ever-so-slightly, nudging the bed against her back and her eyes caught on a black shawl folded on the end of the bed, just by her shoulder. It looked expensive; silky and soft, with a barely visible pattern of butterflies and swirls, and fringing. The type of shawl she never could have afforded back home; the type she’d look at longingly in shop windows. Black was never her favourite colour though, she preferred warm shades of pink. Pedro said it brought out the blush in her cheeks.
Black for mourning. A shawl to keep her warm.
The bed nudged her again.
On shaking legs, Alma stood and gently placed her babies on the bed. Her hands trembled but she picked up the shawl and draped it over her shoulders. The shutters stayed open, but candles in black-iron sconces lit themselves, casting a soft glow on the room.
There were soft, thick blankets in the cribs. This room was an exact match for her one at home, right down to the pattern on the tiles and the colour of the walls.
Alma wasn’t sure what to make of that yet.
One thing was for sure though: this strange, living house was trying to help her.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, unable to raise her voice. She swallowed heavily, her throat tight and her heart breaking.
The shutters waved slightly. The tiles danced and the wardrobe swayed. Alma was aware of a faint sense of welcome, love, sorrow, protection.
This house was not natural. Nothing about this night was natural. Pedro was dead, her babies would never know their father; so many of her friends and neighbours were gone forever. She didn’t know what happened to her parents. Everyone outside was expecting her to help them, to guide them.
And this house wanted to help her.
She looked at the candle and wrapped the shawl tighter around herself. She looked at her babies and shuddered as she fought back more tears, swaying on her feet.
She could do this. She had to do this. She had to be strong for them. They’d been given a miracle, a second-chance. They’d been saved. Alma couldn’t waste that; she couldn’t let Pedro’s sacrifice be in vain.
Whether it had been Pedro’s sacrifice or an answer to her desperate prayers that came moments too late, Alma didn’t know. She just knew it was there and it saved them.
She had a new home. The men who chased them had been blasted away by that magic. (Perhaps they were dead. She hoped so.) She couldn’t lose this.
“Will you help me?” she asked, feeling more absurd by the second, but the furniture bounced (always so gentle, always so careful not to disturb the triplets) in agreement and Alma could feel the house’s enthusiasm.
“Thank you,” Alma said again, more firmly.
She would be strong…And it seemed she would have help after all.
Alma picked up the candle and her children. The house nudged the cribs along in her wake. Once she was downstairs, the stairs turned to a slide and the cribs came sliding down; the house brought them to a surprisingly careful halt and then carried them into the living room. Alma followed and placed her babies in their cribs, in these magic replicas of their great-uncle’s hard work.
The house lit the lamps and closed the curtains as Alma placed her triplets in their cribs. She could dimly hear everyone speaking outside, arguing over who should speak with her, who should help be in charge of planning.
She would have to invite these people inside. She couldn’t leave her babies unattended, even if it was a sentient house.
She wanted to go to bed. She wanted to lie down with her children and stay there until morning. She wanted to rest.
Surely the same could be said of everyone waiting outside. There were people bleeding out there, bruised and battered; they needed medical attention. They needed to think about food and water, shelter and warmth.
As she picked up the candle again, the house gently began to rock the cribs. Her three babies slept soundly (apart from Pepa’s surprisingly loud snores) and Alma could feel love, love, love from the house.
Perhaps she should give the house a name. But that could wait. For now, despite all the terror and the unreality of it all…It was a comfort to know that someone was helping her.
Even if it was a magic house.
Alma did not smile, but she laid her hand on the doorframe and, with a soft sigh of relief, rested her forehead against it. The wood was surprisingly warm.
She didn’t feel quite so cold.
“Thank you,” she said again, softly, her eyes stinging. “Thank you.”
A pulse of love, welcome, love and the house continued to look after her triplets as Alma stepped outside, head held high and candle in hand to face her new role.