Chapter 2, pt. 1-Birute

“You don’t have to get that for me,” I smile. “I’ve got it.” I yank my medium-sized, gray luggage bag into the trunk of my CRV, but Uncle has his hands on the second, larger one before I can stop him.

“This is nothing for me, stop worrying,” he smiles, his silver cross dangling from his neck and catching the light from the early afternoon sun. The happy mood’s ruined by his next sentence. “I still wish you weren’t doing this. You should wait until you’ve picked a decent university!” He says, glaring at me as though he could change my mind with his gaze. But no more persuading, no more waiting.

I roll my eyes back at him. “A university that I’m guessing is close by? You’ve known about the move for a while now, Uncle. And who says I even want to go to a university? I found a job.”

“But one so far away from me! I told you the bookstore here would hire you. Why didn’t you apply?”

“I did, but this job will pay better.” Never mind the fact that the old bookstore is centuries old and there are so few customers going there, the dust settles every day.

“I could find you a place much closer to me,” he insists.

“Uncle, we’ve been over this. I want to spread my wings and enjoy the countryside!”

“Must it be that specific country cottage?” He asks, mild irritation leaking into his tone.

“Well, it is rent free!” I joke. “Besides, Mom would’ve wanted me to have it. She left it in her will, and who can argue with that?” If anyone would have wanted to argue that point, he would have, but we both knew he had no ground to stand on there.

Uncle Peter is practically gnashing his gums, but he doesn’t say anything else about my new home. “How will I ever learn to live without my sweet little doe?” With that sentence, he crumples a little, his show of anger nothing more than an illusion to trap me here. As much as he sulks and glares, he’d never hurt a fly, least of all his only niece. “Couldn’t you look at the local colleges, at least? Broaden your horizon before engaging in this tomfoolery?”

“What, study nursing at Elgin Community College? You know I gag in hospitals.”

“Perhaps study writing? You’ve been venting about your novel you never get to finish.”

“A good old country cottage might do just the trick to jostle that writer's block away!”

“At least wait until summer!”

“And live here for another winter? You can’t keep me here forever, uncle. Come on, you knew this day was coming!” And only now, when we’re so close to parting, with only a parked, packed car and moving van standing in the way of my leaving, do I feel the finality of my choice. Choking up a little, I add, “I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“So you say now, but I’ve seen it! Once you leave here, you will stay away from this place,” he murmurs sullenly. “Away from the house. Away from me.”

I roll my eyes. “You and your dreams, uncle. How many times do I have to promise to visit on the weekends?” Or every other weekend, a thought I keep private as I hug him.

I sigh contentedly, inhaling the aroma of the church’s cedar incense and his tobacco smoke. His scent was almost enough to calm me. Almost.

“Your dreams aren’t accurate most of the time, so stop worrying! It’s not like you're the Second Coming.” He chuckles at our little inside joke-he’d be the last person I know who would consider himself that. But seriously, with that talk about dreams… It’s why I’ve stopped sharing my own with him.

Of course, now I’m worried for him. Because he’s right, I’ve no reason to come back, no desire to visit. He’s my last link to my parents, my rock. But he’ll live without me. No way am I admitting how hard this is, how nervous I am that this job won’t pan out. If he knew my doubts, he’d never let me leave. Ever. And I need to leave.

“You should let me go with you, just for the first week.”

“Remember that talk about my independence?” More like a two-hour long lecture and plea, but it worked.

“Do you remember my insisting this is a terrible idea? You haven’t been to the cottage since you were eight years old! The last time we all went was…”

“The summer before my parents died,” I finish.

“Yes.”

He really didn’t have to remind me. “Look, I get that you’ll miss me. I’ll miss you too! I also understand that you’re worried about me, that’s part of your paternal duties. But I’ve got to do this on my own, really on my own. And at least the cottage is free, my mom paid it off just before she died.”

“Free, but a run-down old shack. At least if you rented from my friend, I’d know your living conditions would be sound.”

“Eh, you don’t know if it’s run down or not. It’s probably perfectly fine! I doubt my parents would’ve left me a wreck.”

“No one has lived there for over a decade,” Uncle says firmly. “Your mother was too sentimental, holding onto that place just because of your grandmother’s legends and family history.”

I smile wistfully, recalling all the wild stories she used to tell me. “Well, I guess I’m finding out tonight. It’s gonna take me a few hours to get there, so wish me luck!”

Uncle Peter’s still hunched over, grouching as I grab my purse and backpack. “Well, at twenty years old, I can’t stop you anymore. You’re free to do as you like. Perhaps this way, you’ll learn the outside world isn’t always so kind.” This last part he says almost too quietly for me to hear.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Uncle. Please stop treating me like one!”

He shakes his head, as though I’m a naughty toddler. “No job, barely finished high school, and here you are lecturing me about maturity!”

I grit my teeth. One breath, two breaths, one, two, three. “Let’s not go into this again, Uncle. I know what I’m doing, I do have a job, highschool was a couple years ago, and I’ll be fine! So don’t worry.”

“Bartending is not a proper job. At least your mother worked as a librarian!” he replies, but then he deflates slightly at the look on my face. “Oh child, I just worry about you, that’s all. I want you to do what’s right.”

“I know, uncle. And right now, what’s right is me moving away.”

He doesn’t answer, but at least he hugs me goodbye. The first real acknowledgement of how much he’ll miss me, and I realize I’ll miss him, too. Then, as if a vacuum were inside him, his eyes suck up any moisture and turn into the stormy steel gray color I’m so very familiar with since childhood. Time to pacify.

“Oh, don’t be so glum!” I cheer, nudging his shoulder with my elbow. “You knew this day was coming. I’ll be fine!” Better than I am here, anyway, I think to myself. Better keep things positive. but with Uncle standing and looking at me and waving miserably after me, my heart beats faster with every mile I drive away from the only home I’ve ever known.

***

Every mile, every inch of gravel brings me closer to the cottage. The place where Mom grew up, the place she’d planned to raise me in. And now I’ll get to see it for the first time in over a decade. I try to urge myself to be excited, but my chest feels heavy when I remember the stormy gray my uncle’s eyes had become right before I left. I wish I could make him happier, but he’s gotta learn. I’m no longer the little girl he took in over ten years ago, I’ve grown up. I can do this! Or so I tell myself as I drive away. Not running away from this town, not running away from the stupid accident, not running away from the memory of my parents.

Hopefully I’ll like bartending.

***

When you’re eight years old, the whole world feels huge. Really big to our large, eager eyes and developing brains. Growing up, our tiny vacation cottage was a fantasy fortress, a place to roam completely free and unfettered by homework. The fairies lived there, and gnomes and dryads followed me on my adventures. In short, it was paradise! It’s the only explanation I have for why the cottage looks so miniscule to me now, as I analyze it through my adult eyes.

No sprites or nature spirits greet me as I walk to the front door, but I can’t help feeling lighter as I soak in the picturesque, fairytale setting. Sunlight filters in golden, amber, and green between the emerald canopy of the surrounding birches and evergreens. The cottage itself is imbued with a golden aura, as if it were waiting for me like a faithful fairy godmother. Nothing like the raggedy old shack Uncle Peter had been describing, but then again, I haven’t seen the inside yet. Luckily, the roof looks intact from the outside, nothing looks dilapidated or broken except a shattered window in front, but it’s already been boarded up. I can live with that.

Let’s have a look around.

***

I need a walk.

For the first time since coming here, I’m worried Uncle Peter was right. The roof leaks, my shower is freezing, and the kitchen faucet is dripping so badly, a puddle of grime and rust has collected in the middle of the sink! Not to mention it’s freezing; I roll my jacket’s collar up a little bit more, bracing against the suddenly bitter wind. Don’t know how or why, but out here, it’s a lot warmer than inside the house. I’m glad I brought Mom’s shawl with me, it’s just enough to stop me from becoming a human popsicle. I wrap myself up in it in addition to the jacket I’m wearing. Funny, every time I get upset, the wind picks up. Mama used to tease me that my tantrums extended to Nature itself. Sometimes, I can hear her voice in the wind as it flows past my ear, always saying the same thing: I miss you. Come home. Well, Mother, I am home now.

I wish I could say I’m finally happy. This place was meant to be our home, the place we could all live together forever. But that didn’t happen. Mom had just finished up the interior design work to make the cottage a permanent, year-round living space; father had done the estimates for her. They were on their way to a party when they were killed by a truck driver. Lucky for me- or so everyone else said- I was sick with the flu at the time, so I wasn’t in the car with them. Maybe if I had been, we’d still be together. One way or another.

These woods feel so right, so familiar, like an old friend I haven’t seen in a year. I’ve got my little pocket knife, I’m not afraid of anyone in these trees. Not that there’s anyone here. I’m at least a few miles from town, and my closest neighbor is too far for comfort. Makes me almost miss suburbia.

I’m better now, but I’m not happy. Things will get better, they have to get better.

I think back to Uncle Peter. I kind of wish we were still together, just hanging out with a cup of tea and him with a good old Bible quote. He always loves sermons. Damn, I won’t be able to go to church for a while, not until I’m settled in. He’ll understand that, right? Wow, I’ll miss that. Not enough to stay with Uncle, but whatever. As soon as I’m done unpacking, I’ll start going again. Mom wouldn’t like that, but it’s not up to her anymore. He always lectured me whenever I wanted to sleep in on Sundays, waking me up before the sun had even fully risen. At least now I won’t have to deal with that! Not that I’ll be sleeping much anyway.

Much as I love sermons, I hate how often Uncle would put a negative spin on things, always focusing on the unkindness of the world. A little depressing, but there was light at the end of the tunnel. He always preached that our Lord is a forgiving one, and that sinners will be welcome in Heaven if they repent everything. But one time, I asked him about gays, and he spluttered, unable to say a word for the next fifteen minutes. He didn’t seem to have an answer for that sort of thing.

Well, time to shrug that off now, I’ve got a new job! That should feel good, right? I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be feeling like I’m dragging a lead weight around everywhere. Must be the old preachings cementing in my soul. I shudder in the cold twilight, watching the ever-cheerful sun disappear. Suddenly, I’m wishing I wasn’t alone anymore.

The forest now looks like something Snow White would be running through, terrified as she escapes the hunter. Suddenly, the sun fades away completely, and I’m alone in the dark. Instinctively, I pull out my dad’s old compass, and for a split second, I think it’s glowing. But that’s impossible, right?

As soon as the pointer clicks north, I somehow feel where I’m going. I sense the cottage is due north. Behind me, not much farther than a mile and a half. Wow, that was specific, I think to myself. I’ve always had a good head for directions, but that’s ridiculous. I turn towards the house when a bird cries out to my right.

So far, farm country is as beautiful as I’d hoped it would be, I ponder as I go toward the sound. Nature, rolling woods, a lovely cabin all to myself. I couldn’t have asked for a better, fresher start.

“You’ll never make it on your own,” Uncle’s words echo through my brain.

“Shut up, please,” I hiss back. I trudge on through the brown, withering leaves on the path, and the further I walk, the less I hear his voice. Perfect.

The bird cries again. A rooster? It sounds miserable, something in its cry screams lonely and desperate. Then I hear the wolves howl, and I freeze- that’s a sound I’d only want to hear in a sanctuary, not when I’m walking alone in the woods! I stand still. There are no further animal noises, so I backtrack. Definitely time to go home!

I turn around, but then I hear the rooster again, softer now, more tired. Something yanks me toward the cries, like a cord pulling on my core, and I turn to jog down the path, into a forest glen, to the huge, ancient linden tree, center stage in a clearing. A weird bundle of feathers is curled up under it, and I can’t help but feel drawn to him. Somehow, I know it’s a he.

“Poor little guy, you must be lost.” He barely gives me a glare before lunging towards my hand, but I don’t care- I’ve helped hurt, scared animals before. This one looks like he’s been through hell and back. I wonder if he has an owner. He looks like some sort of exotic rooster hybrid. Then I notice his wing is bent at an odd angle, and think of the wolves. He’s too weak to even try to peck me from his curled up body.

Before he can attack me again, I unwrap my scarf and scoop him up with it; hopefully this’ll keep him warm until we get to the cottage. Unconsciously stroking his dull, black feathers, a ripple of electricity shocks us both. Just static, probably...