A Mother's Story [FICTION]

Once there was a fearful boy named Patrick. His father bent him. He whispered in his ear tall tales about rash lads. Patrick’s dreams were crowded with lost boys, broken bones, and blood. Often, my wide-eyed son trembled and pressed his head to my husband’s hairless chest. Julian believed he was raising a practical boy. I believed he was raising a coward. Patrick never climbed trees or explored the countryside. Instead, he hid inside our home. He peered through windows and watched the vertical boys play. Sometimes he stood stooped at the sill squeaking, "Those fools are reckless! They're going to hurt someone or get hurt!" One day, my brother came to visit. Columba’s black beard covered chiseled features. His face was baked brown. Below the cuff of his buckskin coat were two weather worn hands cracked and calloused. Someone at the dock said he had been at sea. Another rumored he had been at a forge. But when I smelled myrrh in his hair, I knew where he had been.


His first night home, Columba pulled gifts from his leather bag. For Patrick, a copy of Beowulf. My bent boy whispered the title and shuddered. Julian snatched up the book. "Not every boy must go on a quest, face dragons, and save damsels!" My brother’s eyes narrowed. He stared at Julian’s long delicate fingers. They were shaking. Columba said nothing. Time passed. Days gave way to weeks, and weeks became months. Green leaves turned yellow and orange. The waterfowl flew South. Columba was part of the diurnal order. He left early each day and returned late each night. He was as stable as the earth beneath him. So, the first time Patrick stayed awake to greet his uncle, I was surprised. The second time, I was pleased. And when it became his habit, I was comforted. Each night he stood and welcomed Columba. Then the three of us stood in the candle’s yellow light facing the images on our wall. I was not certain, but it appeared my son was straightening.



It was about this time that Patrick began dreaming. It was the same dream over and over. “Mother, in my dream a virgin in a shimmering white dress appears in my room. Her face is shining. She tells me the same story night after night. It is a story about a sealed door, a bundle of letters bound by a red string hidden in a locked drawer. I ask her to reveal the meaning of her mystery, but she presses her finger to her pink lips and turns to leave. Each time, I run to follow her through the door into the darkness. Then she disappears. But the rock path to the ancient grove shines, so I press on until I am lost in the dark wood. I sit and begin to sob at the loss of her. It’s then that I smell the trolls and hear the goblins. I shrink and curl as they draw closer. It’s then that I see a tall knight atop a snorting white steed ride into the clearing. He leans from his horse and lifts me to his saddle. ‘Where are you taking me?’ I ask. He whispers, ‘Shh. Not yet. There are dangers ahead and fears to be faced. If you are brave and patient, you will understand the mystery of her.’


“It is the same dream night after night. Then I wake up.” Patrick was quiet. Then he looked up at me. “Mother, please don’t tell father.” Early one morning before sunrise, I walked my brother to the door. I grieved as his wide back disappeared into the dark. Down the hall a yellow light glowed beneath my son's door. Was Patrick awake? Was he reading Beowulf? I wondered. Then I stepped into my bedroom and looked at my husband sleeping safely in our bed. And I sighed.