"Mother of Tears" by Peter F. Blair

“To Maryn’s embrace we commit this child.” The elder intoned as he lumbered into the surf bearing the body of a boy-child.  When he had moved out far enough to feel the tug of the waves, he relinquished his grip on the boy and let the strong waters pull him out.  The sea was calm, and as she bore the boy away from the village, the billows lapped tenderly at him.  The waters were salty like tears of grief, and the boy rested as one caught in a pleasant dream, while the water rocked him, like a mother would with her baby.

According to their custom, the people stood in the water with their legs bared from the knees down.  The only one permitted to speak was the elder, but they could cry; and they did.  Silent tears of grief bled down their faces, playing upon their lips then adding their salty tang to the bitter ocean.  The boy’s mother clung desperately to her husband for support, but for all her desire to; she could not tear her eyes away from the form of her son diminishing on the horizon.

A guest of the village had added herself to the funeral party, her glossy black hair glistened in the light of the setting sun.  As the heavenly light cast her dying rays down, the woman’s hair seemed to shift from a midnight black to a deep blue and back again.  Her tears were added to the waters with those of the village who knew the child, there was nothing so painful as the end of a child’s life…

“Where am I?”

“You are safe.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Maryn.”

“Why am I here?”

“I do not know…”

The woman paid the strictest attention to the customs of the people with whom she stayed.  Giving the proper time to the parents to grieve the loss of the boy, she paid them a visit later in the evening.  The boy’s father answered her knock at the door, and was wont to turn her away, but found himself instead inviting her in.  His wife raised her eyes, puffy and red, from her hands; she was going to upbraid him for his inconsideration at allowing someone into their house, but stopped short when she saw the woman’s eyes.  The twin liquid orbs set in her face were sad.  It was a sadness beyond anything the mother, even in her grief, could begin to fathom.  She did not speak, but ran to the woman and threw herself into her arms and wept.

            For a long time, they stood there like that; the mother clinging to this stranger woman and sobbing at the loss of her son.  Her composure came back to her, and she separated herself from the woman, who smiled indulgently, if sadly, at her.  Finally, the woman spoke.

            “Is not every sorrow shared halved?” The words were customary to the people, “I share your loss.”

            “You speak the words as if you mean them.  The weight on my heart is lightened in truth.  Thank you for coming.” The mother smiled for the first time in weeks.  Custom came back to her though, and she remembered the words she had dreaded speaking, but spoke gladly for this strange woman, “How can I lighten the burdens you bear, friend in woe?”

            The woman inclined her head slightly at the words, her glossy hair cascading on either side of her face, “You do me honour, kind matron.  I wish only to hear about your son.  What was his name?”

“His name was Pani, but he preferred to be called Flick.  I always hated the name, but I would give my life to hear him telling me once again that his name is Flick.”  The tears still came, but there was joy in the memory of her son now.

“What kind of child was he?”

“He was a joyful child, ever engaging in little pranks, but loved for the happiness that followed him wherever he went.”  She sniffed loudly, her smiling mouth was at odds with her grieving eyes, but she could not help to enjoy reminiscing on some of her son’s more daring pranks.

“Was he like anyone else in your family?”

“Yes.  When he was born, he was the spitting image of his grandfather, my father.  He never knew him of course.  He had the same form, right down to the wiry look and deep wells of strength, it was always a hassle controlling him when he wanted to do something else.  He even died the same way as my—” she bit her lip as she heaved another sob.

“It will do you good to say it.  How did they pass on?”

“It—” She chocked on her words and looked in askance at the woman in front of her, and continued at her nod, “he fell asleep and would not wake.”

“You are here because of the blue death.”

“What is that?”

“It is a deep slumber, from which few awake.”

“Will I wake up?”

“…  No.”

Having paid her respects to the grieving parents, the woman left their house and sought the village healer.  When she asked to be conducted to the healer, she was told that there was none.  The people of the village grieved much by the death of their little Flick, and mention of a healer was throwing salt on a raw wound.  She asked instead to be taken to see the elder who had seen the child in to the waters’ embrace.

“Why won’t I wake up?”

“It would be cruel to wake you now.”

“You don’t sound mean.  Why would it be bad?”

“To wake in your grave is a terrifying experience.”

“Oh.”

“Did you know his grandfather?”

“Yes, he was a friend to everyone.  Just like little Pani.”

“Was he a friend to you?”

The elder gave her an angry look, “He was my brother, and Pani was my kin.  He was more than a friend to me.”

“I was told they died the same way.”

The accusatory look faded from his face, he had seen the sorrow she bore upon her soul, “Yes.  It pained me to give him to the mother of tears when she took him from us, but customs are stronger than blood, even if blood is thicker than water.”

“Why do you say that Maryn took him from you?” She leaned forward, her dark hair tumbling down like a waterfall before his eyes.

“I thought you knew; it was the blue death.”

“Why was I sent here?”

“You were given to me because I care for you.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I knew your grandfather.  I was told you are much like him.”

The blue death was a sickness.  She knew it well; on its account some people reviled her.  She loathed sickness and suffering, but someone had given that malady the name of blue death, and it had stayed.  It was not unto death, but the people misunderstood, and took the deep sleep to be death.  To tell them they had committed a living child to a cold death at sea would be pointless and cruel; she could not bear to cause any further pain to a grieving people.  They could live in ignorance, the truth would be too much.

“How did you know my grandfather?”

“He was given to me, just like you.”

“Mother never told us about you.”

“She doesn’t know me.”

She swung her blue cloak over her shoulders and drew up the hood.  Tears once again made their way down her cheeks as she walked away from the little fishing village.  She bore the sorrow that they could not bear; it was not for nothing that she was called the mother of tears.

“I’m cold.”

“I am sorry, you will feel better soon.”

“I don’t like you, I want Mother.”

“She sent you to be with me, I must care for you.”

“Then I hate her, and I hate you!”

She walked into the surf, the waves crept up her legs like pets, eager to see their master home.  Her cloak billowed out, and joined with the water beneath.  There was no way to tell where the cloak ended and the waves began; they were one.  Her hood fell down about her shoulders, and her wavy hair cascaded out, tumbling down to the water below; joining the salty sea just as her cloak had done.

“I’m sorry that you hate me.”

“Let me go.  I’m cold!”

“I can’t, if you awoke, it would only be to witness your death.”

“Let me go!  I hate you!  I want to be warm, I want FIRE!”

A scant distance from where she stood, a geyser erupted from the ocean.  The water cleared away in steam as an intense heat seared a hole into it, leaving dry sand beneath.  Where the water was gone, there stood a boy, his hair the colour of the leaves in autumn, and his eyes white all the way through.

“Why did you want to kill me?” He practically spat the words out.

“I did not.  I wanted only to make your passing painless.”

He turned his eyes toward the distant village, snarling, “They wanted to kill me!  They just chose you to be the executioner!”

The sorrow in her eyes grew in intensity, “I am so sorry that you suffer like this.  They did not want to kill you!  There was no malice, only a mistake.  You were the cost of their mistake.”

The child was confused.  “At least I’m not dead!” he roared at her, his mouth blasting out heat like a furnace.

“No, you are not.  Instead of death, you have chosen doom...”

He scowled at her; what she said made no sense to him.  All that he understood was that he was alive, when she had wanted him dead.  He would make her suffer.  He would make them suffer.

“I hate you.  I hate them.” He hissed.  The words were hardly more than an angry whisper.  He ran to the shore, the waters retreated before his footfalls.  Soon, he was lost to Maryn’s view.

She looked after him, but knew that it was not within her power or her will to stop him.  He had chosen his path, perhaps at the end lay redemption, she could not tell.  For now, she knew what would come of it.

“You have chosen doom.  You are doomed to live a life of spite, malice and anger.  You are doomed to bitterness over what should not have been.  Flick, I am sorry; I don’t know what I could have done differently, but I have failed you.”

The mother of tears shed her tears in the salty ocean…