Spoon Makes Art

Leaving 

You are Elieen Saremont, your parents' only child, the eldest child in your family, your Grand-maman’s only student, a witch, a maiden.

Your family, the Saremont family, had founded a town that would soon be a city, on top of a small flat mountain on a forested island. Your family would be considered Nobles in a way; wealthy with reputation and an image to uphold. Your family has forgotten their roots, abandoned their connection to nature, their magic, to fit the expectations of those who think themselves better.

This never did agree with you. You and your jars of herbs and spices, your little charms of luck and protection made in the night. You who always listen to your Grand-maman’s wisdom and lessons, who watch her harvest herbs and make medicines in her cottage. 

 You were merely a maiden at the time, a child. You knew your parents disapproved of these lessons, of you practicing. They thought it evil, so you hid your herb, your charms, your little rituals. To please your parent, to avoid their scorn, you play the loyal daughter, the proper lady of the house they had always wanted. 

Though still, you, the maiden, would sneak out, dance around the trees, weave together your charms and protection in secret. 

You, the ever-curious child,  would wander the town, listen to chatter and stories between travelers. You learn about the world hiding in local pubs and the train station. You, the maiden, would dream of leaving your town, soon to be a city, and starting anew.

Once, on the train, talking to the passersby, you met a strange man. His skin was smooth like praline, his eyes reflective and glassy in the light, but still alive, magic buzzing off his body. He was a traveler, a guard, a researcher.  He had come to learn your history, this town's history. 

You offer to show him around the town, give him an insider look from one of the founders' descendants. In exchange, he tells you stories of his travel, his old compinse who he was made to protect, of a sister he thinks you'd get along with. Before he leaves for his next destination, he tells you to keep in touch. Gives you an address, his sister's tailor shop, to send letters, if you feel inclined. 

—-----

Soon, your parents found out. Of course they would. 

 They say you are not the girl they thought you were, you are not the proper lady of the house they had raised, that you invite evil into their home. They scorn you for your protections, for your supposed filth. They claim they love you, they are saving you, even as they burn what is most important to you. 

Maybe they truly believe that.

You're not sure if that's worse.

You have to leave, you can't stay in the family's empty, cold manor anymore. You can't live with people who look at you like you are filth, like you are evil. 

You leave in the night, walk off into the woods, off to your Grand-maman's cottage; you look back, but there's nothing left for you.

You make no plan to return to this town, that will soon be a city, for many, many years. 

A Letter

You are now Elieen Somerlet; you've taken your Grand-maman’s maiden name. You're now known as a Witch. You've built a life far away from where everyone knew your family's name. Made friends of your own merit.

And now you stand in a quiet shop, leaning against a wooden counter.  The sun hangs low in the sky, the fleeting sunlight filters through the large windows. The only sound you hear is of rustling fabric, your friend's wooden heels clicking on the hard floor, and your imitation of a heartbeat pulsing in your veins.

 Here, you stand frozen, a letter clutched in your hand with your once family’s seal staring back. 

The matriarch, your grand-maman, is gone. 

Grand-maman, the matriarch of our family. She was the only member left who was alive when our town, now a small city, was first built, had seen it grow into what it is today. She had watched as her children abandoned their tradition, no longer followed their rituals, and lose their connection to the land. She watched as they demonized and shunned the very magic that gave them their family legacy. 

Died in her sleep, found by your elder cousin in the early afternoon the next day.

You had just seen her just yesterday, as full of life as she's always been, joyfully making plans for your next visit. You'll have to continue your gran-maman’s teachings. Keep her practices alive, and fill in the gap of what she hasn't taught. 

But, the rest of your family, those you ran from, how had they known where to send the letter; were they even to look? Why did they bother?

The tears in your eyes burn. The all-consuming grief and panic is numbing.

The letter is taken out of your grip by cool porcelain hands. The Seamstress looks at the witch with concern in her glass eye.

 Come along, dear, let's get you somewhere more comfortable says The Seamstress, guiding you up the spiraling stairs to the apartment just above the tailor shop.

—-

The funeral was to be held in two days at the funeral home, back home, in that cold, empty manor. The family was so cold to you growing up; they were barely involved in your life. The people who looked at you like you were a bug digging in the garden, like you were beneath them for following your Grand-maman’s practice. People who claimed to love you as they dismiss your work, as they smashed vials and jars, destroyed your protections, your notes.

Would it be better to go and face them? Perhaps they regret it. Perhaps they feel the same tightness in their chest when reminded of her, the same tightness she felt when thinking of them. 

If nothing else, she could give her grand-maman one last goodbye in person. 

A Bitter Reunion

You step off the train alone in the quiet of early morning dark, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring your features from any passerby. 

Best not to be recognized, as unlikely as it is now. It's been so long since you've been seen here, and it is still so dark.

You walk onto the stone streets, the air is warm, it smells of the old wooden rot and rain. The sky was full of stars, lighting the path; Grand-maman would have loved it. You walk slowly,  passing through the marketplace. It has been so long. You pass by a group of overnight workers just getting off their shift, and they're causing quite a racket despite the hour. She hears chirping birds and beetles, the wind whistling through the air, the chatter of the few people left on the streets, and splening their night in a bar. 

You continue walking through he city, observing all the new buildings and the people still up at such an early hour. You walk, bundle the amount of buildings begin to become less dense. 

Until you can see your childhood home in the distance, even as the sun rises, it looks exactly as you remember.

—----

It's still very early; the gathering won't start for another hour or so. You're not sure you can, so you decide to sit in the garden, you sit where your grand-maman used to tell you stories of a time long past. You sit in the early morning dew just to breathe. You already feel choked up, your skin pricking with. Something. Nerves perhaps.

You finally stand and realize others have already started arriving, filing in through the front door. You slip in, and there's already quite a crowd. You can see a few cousins, distant relatives you met once or twice, but many more faces you don't recognize as part of the family. Possibly you've just never met them, but likely they are politicians and nobles. 

The room feels more like a quiet, tense social gathering than a remembrance of a woman's life. You feel incredibly out of place already, while the other guests wear muted suits and business attired, you wear orange shawl with red and white dress in Grand-maman honer, they were her favoire. 

As people notice you, recognize you, you can hear the not-so-subtle whispering. You can see the judgment plain on their faces. The strangers here just to earn favor are more polite than the little family that realizes who you are.

You walk deeper into the manor, passing through the growing crowd. You don't want to stay here long; you don't think you can handle scutney much longer. 

—----

You walk past a nearly empty corridor. Your mother stands by herself, about to cross the threshold of the doorway. You can tell that she sees you as she quickens her pace toward you. Something in your chest feels tight as you greet her. 

She has eyes are wet when she turns to you, she smiles and says she was relieved to see you had come. That she could see your face again, how much you've grown. Your mother reaches out and cups your face in her hand. 

It's nice to see her again, you think. But when you separate, and she looks over the rest of you, you can see judgment in her eyes. A bit of disgust as she sees your charms and jewelry, draped in your shawl. 

You know, suddenly, that as much as you've been missed them, they can't exept you. Once, you've tried before you left, you don't think you'll be able to try again. 

You slip away further down the corridor, as your mother is briefly distracted by a few loud guests coming down the hall.

—-----

You round the corner, in the greenhouse, you find your grand-maman’s casket. It made sense that they put her her, the greenhouse was her favorite part of the house. A glass room full of large plants with a small table set for tea. She sat in a small gazebo where she would spend the day on colder days.

Her casket was open, made of polished wood and far more ornate than she would have liked. 

Your Grand-maman looks peaceful, like she's sleeping in a bed of flowers, her hand crossed over her heart. Your eyes sting. 

You stand in the silence of the empty greenhouse for a moment before taking out a pair of metal scissors and a locket from your skirt pocket. You lean over your Grand-maman, stroke a hand through her hair, tie a small lock, and carefully cut. 

You place the lock of hair into the locket. You hold the lecket to your face and breathe a prayer before putting it on.

Just before you slip out of the greenhouse, the manor, the city, you lean over your Gran-maman for the last time, kiss her goodbye.

—-------

The sun is high in the sky; it is just past noon now. 

No one seemed to see you leave the manor, or at least they didn't stop you. You don't look back either way.

The numbness has alleviated somewhat, just a phantom pain in your chest.

The buildings become more dense, the streets grow crowded with people, you hear children playing, and people gossiping as they meet for lunch. 

It's such a lovely day to be out; the world and the people feel so very alive, she would have loved it.

You walk briskly to the train station. 

You must leave, your skin feels tight. You don't turn back, you can't.