Chapter 3. pt. 2

It is another three days before my strength is sufficient for what I have in mind. Exploring our backyard had been out of the question, but now the burning and soreness have subsided enough to allow me out of my nest and the cottage. Regardless of the worth of humans, I am now duty-bound to serve this mortal until the day she dies, and then I will likely continue serving her family. At least I only have one human to contend with, for in the brief time of our acquaintance, she has never once called someone, never once had a guest or friend visit. Clearly, she does not desire company aside from my own.

I must get my bearings now, for soon I shall have no time for rest. Despite sleeping for what must have been twenty hours, I am exhausted. Dreaming did not help; I rarely ever dream, yet my sleep was heavily disturbed. I remember a girl and a place, both so very near and dear to me… Yet I can no longer recall them. A girl with ash blond hair… But no, the girl I always remember has golden hair, not a dirty shade of blond. Time to forget such reminisces, for I must become acquainted with my new quarters. A melody, once forgotten, follows me out the door.

The garden is nothing remarkable. No budding blooms, a couple of fruit trees with tiny, unripe fruit. The roses were lovely once, but now they are brown and withered, decaying on the trellis like ancient, bony hands. Internally, I cringe, for though I am not a gardener by trade, I despise waste. This garden, this small, pathetic garden, could become so much more! Humans and their neglect. Closing my eyes, I reach out into the soil, hoping against hope my surroundings are not as dire as I see.

Waking up from a long-forgotten hibernation, the plants respond to my call. The plight of the rose is so languishing and miserable that I almost suffocate by lending it some healing, but it is worth the effort to watch the pink bud blossom on the vine. A single, pastel pink bud, but hopefully there will be many more. Unfortunately, that assistance was more than I can sustain, and I curl back against the stony wall, gulping in the air. Not my area of expertise, truthfully. I will need to find some better help, but I cannot sense any local dryads. They would restore this garden in a moment!

The garden certainly has more potential than this cottage. I begin exploring inside the instant Birute leaves. Although she is human, she has bestowed upon me quite a bit of care. Enough for me to be able to move again without wincing, as if everywhere she touched I felt healed and soothed. The burning has vanished, replaced with the warmth of my inner fire once more. Dimmer than before, but present. Now, it is time for repayment.

Of course, the moment I begin exploring, I wish to gag. No organization anywhere! Her room is messier than a king’s chambers, though far less spacious. Even her bed frame is burdened by photos and novels, leaving it under threat of collapse. Her desk is shrouded by papers, writing sticks- pens, they’re called- a framed photograph, and more books. These novels are heavier than the Grand Duke’s bible. Speaking of which, her bible is buried beneath stacks of English and Lithuanian novels; I do not blame her, for the Bible is a mildly boring read.

The desk itself is an heirloom made of solid, deep brown oak, carved with ornate Lithuanian designs. Where did she inherit such artwork? Of all the furniture here, this desk and her hope chest are the only pieces I admire. Her hope chest is beautiful, the very symbols themselves seem to breathe in and out as my eye rolls across them, more lively than the Baltic Sea’s waves. Whoever carved them was a true artist.

Throughout my explorations, the familiarity of the place continues to settle on me like a second skin, clinging uncomfortably close. I have little idea of where I am, but I never left Lithuania. This is the old country, a place of magic and laughter, of light and darkness. It has not changed enough for me to forget its fragrance, its scent tickling my nostrils like an old, teasing friend. I have missed this, the tingling nature magic of the Old Country. But I am not home, not really. I will never have a true home.

***

I see him in the window. I smell him in the air. He’s one of them. I see it in those cold gray eyes, that coal black fedora, the black stubble. Around his neck dangles a large silver cross. I shudder at my memories of that symbol from my past, for all it has brought me has been pain and suffering. This man, rather than brandishing a sword, carries a heavy book and his pendant, along with an air of grief that sucks the breath out of those around him. His smoke-filled eyes glare at the house over his cigar, yet I see him smirking! Such dullness and smog are ill-fitting to his physique, and he seems very rough to be a man of faith. He knocks as I duck down. His eyes are as gray as the sky above us now, yet they hide a scarlet temperament. They perfectly match a featureless gray sky.

He is knocking again, and everything inside of me begs him to leave. Instinctively, I recognize he does not belong here or anywhere near here. Unfortunately, Birute hurries to open the door, hiding her surprise behind a sunny smile. “Uncle! What are you doing here? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have at least cleaned up a little!” The previously cool, stormy wind freezes instantly, as if time had frozen itself.

The stranger’s previously ill, cold demeanor brightens as he approaches. Ignoring me completely except to nudge me aside with his foot, he enters the house without so much of an invitation from Birute, embracing her. I alone notice his eyes roving the room over her shoulder; the ceiling, the worn door- nothing escapes his scrutiny.

Despite his friendly embrace, the girl gently pushes him away, keeping him at arms’ length. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you until a week from now!”

“What, I can’t check in on my only niece?” He chuckles teasingly, but the warmth does not reach his cool, gray eyes. I hate those eyes, but I shake that off. Clearly, this man is a relative of the girl’s, and so must be treated as a guest.

“Well of course you can! It’s just, I wish you’d have let me know you were coming,” Birute stutters. She flushes, sweeping her hair to her right shoulder unconsciously and shuffling her feet in discomfort.

“Nonsense, I’ve seen worse, dear. Fetch me a cup of coffee.”

Practically bowing before him, Birute dashes to the kitchen for the pot while Uncle Peter settles down beside the fireplace, where I do my best to hunker down unobtrusively. As if sensing my unease, he looks down, sniffing slightly. We both appraise each other silently, him squinting, me uncertain. Finally, he deems me uninteresting, instead looking up at the roof and clicking his tongue.

“Tut tut, child. You gave up the comfort of my home for this?” he says under his breath. Out loud, he asks her, “When did you acquire this fowl?” Before I can move away, he grabs me, pinning my wings to my back as he lifts me in the air, visually grazing me all over and ignoring my squacks of protest.

“Oh, that’s Albert, don’t mind him! I’m watching him until I find his owners.”

“He’s awfully scrawny.” he mutters distastefully.

“I found him in the forest; I doubt he found a lot of food out there, especially if he’s domesticated. Stop patronizing me!” Clashes and clangs resound from the kitchen, and for an instant, I battle with my servant instincts to go see if she needs help, but I could not even had I wished- he still has me pinned.

“Hmm, you’re a male,” he mutters, as if this information somehow cements some value to him. My squirming does nothing against his metallic grip, and all I can do is pray she will soon return with the beverages.

He hastily drops me before she emerges with two steaming cups of coffee, and he is not even remotely remorseful! Instead, the pair sip and chat like old acquaintances.

“So how have you been?” She asks politely, stirring the sugar in her Earl Grey for slightly too long.

He laughs. “I’ve been better. You left me all alone, you know, all for some bartending job in this God-forsaken countryside.”

“Oh come on, don’t be like that! It’s not just for the job. You know I’ve wanted to move here. You just can’t stop me anymore.”

“I have my reasons for avoiding this place, child, not the least of which would be the isolation.”

“And Mom’s death wouldn’t happen to be another reason, hm?”

Silence follows, broken only by the swishing of the linen curtains and the strengthening wind whistling outside the windows.

“You know deep down that’s why you hate it here. Why we stopped visiting after the accident.”

He bristles. “I’m only concerned for your welfare, child. Think about it: what would happen if there’s a robbery? The police are an hour away!”

“I’ll manage.”

However, her body language speaks differently- her shoulders are hunched forward, her body tense as a cat prepared to spring. Were it not for the delicate teacup she is holding, her hands would be forming fists. She does not appear calm, despite her easy tone of voice.

“And what are your prospects here, in this worn out husk of a house with no money or means?!”

“It’s her house! Her childhood home, and yours! How can you hate it here so much?” Struggling to compose herself, Birute adds, “She used to tell me all about your childhood adventures. The ‘secret’ shed, the tunnel, all those make believe games. But you’d leave this cottage to rot in the ground, and all those memories with it.”

Outside, the wind howls into a gale. How very odd, there was not supposed to be a storm tonight.

Peter does not relent. “We were children, and this place was different. She was a free spirit, your mother, but that willfulness led to her undoing. You would be wise to take caution from her tale!”

“Oh believe me, I know, it’s all I’ve heard about for the past few years, how wise I’d be not to follow her example!”

“You have no idea what I’ve kept you from! Believe me when I say it’s in your best interest to return home with me.”

“So basically, you came to talk me out of staying," Birute retorts. "Well, I’m sorry you wasted your time and gas, but I’m already here! I'm am staying!”

The gale outside, already powerful, bashes open the windows. Peter moves to close them, but Birute reaches them first, snapping them shut and locking them. “Sorry,” she mutters.

“And you wonder why I’m concerned about you,” he says.

“It’s an old house, it’s gonna have some problems.” Although she is calmer now, she does not look prepared to back down.

“This building isn’t the only reason why I want you to come back. Your dreams-”

“Are no longer your concern.”

“Based off your reaction, they haven’t stopped. Your therapist is back in your old town! Who will you find in this God-forsaken country?!”

She clenches her fists again, and before he can scold her further, a photo flies off the mantlepiece, making all of us jump. Eyes wide, she looks back at her uncle once before fleeing to the kitchen. Unfortunately, he follows her there.

“I see your little poltergeist has followed you.”

“Poltergeists aren’t real,” she replies, eyes trained upon the dishes she is washing.

“You’ve claimed otherwise before. I just wanted to beat you to that old explanation. You always blamed such accidents on the supernatural.” His tone is jovial, yet she does not laugh, nor does she turn back to face him. He continues, “Do you remember your night terrors, when you were convinced your parents were haunting you? Who did you turn to for help?” The unspoken answer hangs in the air between them. “Will you leave me so easily now?”

“I’ve already moved, Uncle. And I’m here to stay, poltergeist or no.”

He glares at her back for a few more moments, but in the end only replies, “As you wish.”

He says it in the same tone of voice one would use to describe a foul smell, nose wrinkling.

He does not even say goodbye before stepping through the living room and leaving through the front door. The brewing storm follows him out.