#jukebox 2018

Before

“You’re going to be amazing.” Dalia’s mother had stopped a boy in the street, short for his age and scabby-kneed. He looked startled and embarrassed by the frankness of her attention, but he didn’t pull his hand away when she took it. Whether he was trapped by some measure of ingrained politeness or he knew enough to recognize what the patterned trim of her mother’s robes represented, it was hard to say.

Dalia picked at the hem of her own, plainer skirt and sighed with exaggerated gusto. She briefly debated the merits of carrying the baskets of produce home on her own, but thought better of it. They were a heavy burden, even for the two of them and the tomatoes were already overripe, so the sun couldn’t possibly do them any worse. She tried not to be bothered by the dew seeping through her clothing or the promise of grass stains that would be next to impossible to get out later; it was difficult to be sure how long her mother would be when a Moment struck her and she didn’t much feel like standing for the duration.

She only became aware of how far she’d allowed her thoughts to wander when they were interrupted by a warm hand shielding her forehead. “There are better ways to track the sun than with your eyes, girl,” her mother said, an amused lilt warming her voice. “Though I suppose wiser folk have lost their sight to less worthy causes.”

“I assumed that you’d tell me if you saw me going blind at the bottom of your morning tea,” Dalia said, gently brushing her mother’s hand aside as she moved to stand. She half hoped her mother would let something slip; it was hard not to see the motions of the day as pointless when her mother could have just told her the outcome before they’d left the house.

“I don’t need portents of the future to tell me what common sense already knows. Come on – or else the tomatoes will be cooked before we have time to prepare them.”

The last time Dalia saw her mother, she did not realize it would be the last until she was already at the door, pack slung over her shoulder while her mother smoothed over the fabric of her scarf until it wrinkled anew. The aged lines of her face were deepened by sadness and Dalia wanted to reassure her that she would return soon; they would see each other again.

But her mother smiled gravely and squeezed her hand and Dalia understood that, no, they would not. She would not be coming home.

She wept bitterly for the realization and her mother hushed her, squeezing her hand tighter until both of their fingers ached with the force of the farewell. “You’re going to be so happy,” her mother said; the first and only prediction she'd ever made about Dalia's life.

Oh, Dalia thought, weeping like a child on her front porch, remembering all the unproven young folk her mother had promised greatness, is that all?

After

Dalia picked her way down the rocks slowly, even as Chance bounded ahead, eager to explore what new smells might decorate the world. She could be reasonably sure that her life did not end on this particular moment, but a fall would still leave her with a nasty headache that she had no desire to deal with. Besides, the dog’s lead would barely become worrisome before he’d peer around and reluctantly start trotting back, as if he needed to guide her.

Chance’s name had been a particularly capricious decision. She’d idly considered many possible contenders in the fortnight before she’d met the scraggly puppy who’d bitten her in an attempt to steal her lunch pack, but he’d been “Chance” from the moment she held him. The name had served well enough in the years they’d been friends since.

The flatter landscape of the ungroomed shoreline was a welcome respite and she carelessly kicked off her shoes before sitting on the damp earth. It was funny how dirt concerned her less the older she got – she had been such a fussy thing as a girl. Stains on clothes and wrinkles on skin, no different than footsteps on the ground; if you were going to leave your mark upon the world, it was only fair that the world leave its mark upon you in return.

Birds cried in cacophony as they circled over head and Dalia whiled away the moments by sketching the rough shapes of their flocking in the dirt beside her. She already knew what they would mean – she was still waiting on the last prediction to come to fruition, after all – but it never hurt to check. She was not as gifted in the Sight as her mother had been in her prime, but she could understand enough to trust her own interpretation when a sign was left for her.

The filmy, pale eyes that broke the surface tension of the water to peer at her were a welcome non-surprise. “Ah, hello, young lady,” Dalia said, smiling in greeting. Truthfully, she found it hard to estimate her sometime-companion’s age; the alien green undercurrent of her complexion bore none of the tells that Dalia had come to rely on, as humanoid as the woman otherwise appeared – from the waist up, anyway.

“Hello, Dalia,” the woman said, voice rasping in a way that always made Dalia’s throat feel vaguely sore. She had not told Dalia her name during their first meeting and at some point, Dalia had given up on guessing it. She figured that if it bothered the woman enough, she would say so. They talked very little in each other’s company, anyway; the silence never felt empty.

“I haven’t brought you anything today,” Dalia said, “but if you catch a fish, I’ll cook it for you.”

The woman dove back into the water without another word, Chance bounding gamely up to the shoreline to bark after her, but too wise to stray where the current could grab him.

Between

Dalia blinked the sun from her eyes, floating spots and the imprint of her own veins dancing across her vision. It seemed that there was no such thing as a good day for bird watching. Too cloudy and she could see nothing; not cloudy enough and she risked her vision entirely. She gave up for the time being, even as the birds screamed mockingly above her.

The weather was nice for walking, at the very least, making the river water glimmer as she unhurriedly made her way back. The sounds of people at work had its own sort of pleasant rhythm – the drum beats of hammers kept tempo with the melody of idle chatter. She had traveled a lot in the time since she had first left home, but this town was the first where she had truly considered doing more than passing through.

Cilla was in the garden when Dalia returned to the small house with the thatched roof that they had been sharing for the better part of six months. Face caked with dirt and sweat, she still found a smile for Dalia as she re-latched the gate. “Good evening, Dalia. Good news, I hope?”

“No news,” Dalia said, “which might be good news by some definitions.”

Cilla nodded. “Then we’ll have some of the smoked meat tonight to celebrate. Why don’t you start a fire while I wash up?”

Dalia did as she was asked and they enjoyed a quiet meal by the hearth, complemented by easy conversation. It made it all the harder when Dalia packed her bags in the morning, leaving behind more than half the items in the house that might have been considered “hers”. At some point, her life had become too heavy to carry with her and that was how she knew it was time to leave.

Hard as she tried, she couldn’t avoid waking Cilla up and the other woman watched her with dismayed understanding from the end of the hall. “You knew this was coming,” Cilla said. She probably didn’t mean it as an accusation, but it sounded like one all the same.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Dalia crossed her arms, suddenly self-conscious. “Since before I met you.” She'd spent the first half of her life certain that the Sight had skipped her generation, but the remarkably clear path her feet now followed had laid those doubts to rest. She wished the rest of her doubts were as easily quieted. She wished the stars would use plainer language and offer more coherent explanations. She sometimes wished she had enough ignorance to believe that anything would last.

Cilla stared at her, nakedly aghast. “Then why even bother?”

“Do you wish I hadn’t?”

“I should say ‘yes’,” Cilla said, in a tone that made it apparent that the real answer was “no”. “I think I could have loved you, if you had given me more time.”

“Then it’s for the best that I’m leaving now,” Dalia said. She hovered uncertainly by the doorway, deliberating between a handshake or a warm pat on the shoulder. Cilla took the decision away from her by pulling her into a gentle hug.

“Is it your mother’s words that drive you?” Cilla asked, like she had wanted to for some time, but only felt free to voice the words when there was no longer anything to lose. “Or the lack of them?”

“She had no more control over the path she saw for me than I do to deviate from it now,” Dalia said, the stiffness of her body bleeding into her voice.

“I wonder why you need so badly for someone to tell you that you’ll be amazing, when it’s plain to see that you already are.” Dalia started to pull away, not in the mood for platitudes, but Cilla held her fast. Her voice was fierce when she spoke again. “I wonder Dalia – have you ever been happy? Even once?”

Always

“Happy” was a wind at Dalia’s back, strong and driving. She wondered if it would ever feel welcome.

She followed the curves of the river, current rushing like blood moved by a heartbeat. She knew how to do nothing else.

Between

Accidents were never accidents in truth. A slip of the tongue or the foot or the memory was just a domino tumbling in an ineffable game that a select few people could (sometimes) see the shape of (maybe).

It was for this reason that Dalia felt entirely comfortable hurling every colourful insult that she knew against the stars as she waded into the river after a puppy that she couldn't afford to feed anyway. She had half a mind to let the stupid thing drown, but her fool heart wouldn't let the thought take hold.

She had just pushed Chance onto the bank, shivering and water-slicked to half his normal size, when a small shift in the riverbed upset her footing - it was child's play for the current to do the rest.

When she woke after, it was to filmy eyes and the feeling of a wet, rough hand against her face. Oh, she thought, I didn't know they came this far inland. And then she made an unattractive spectacle of herself, coughing and choking on her own breaths as her rescuer wisely snatched her hand away.

Somewhere, fate was probably laughing. Sometimes, Dalia wondered if her mother would laugh along.

After

Dalia cleaned the fish with practiced precision. Two pairs of eyes watched the proceedings with interest. If the woman was feeling generous today, maybe Chance would find himself treated to a slice. If she was not, well, the world was not always kind, even to mangy dogs who had mastered the skill of emotional manipulation. For her part, Dalia focused on the knife and her fingers and tried to take in little else. There were messier forms of divination and if she let her eyes make the connection, odds were she’d see the same message waiting for her. It was almost romantic, in a somewhat disgusting way.

“Why do you keep coming back?” the other woman asked. Somewhere in the midst of Dalia’s concentration, she had pulled herself closer to the shore, bare back dappled by flecks of water and sunlight.

"Do you not wish me to?" Dalia asked, feeling the echo of long ago conversations. Fate either adored patterns or Dalia was too lazy to vary her speech enough to avoid learning habits.

"That isn't what I said." The woman's mouth was a thin line to underscore the uncertainty of her expression. It was endlessly fascinating how many unconscious gestures their two peoples apparently shared. Dalia sometimes idly wondered if the woman had family or childhood friends that she might like Dalia to meet one day. Even more often, she regretted that she had kept no such connections and could not offer the same; a consequence of treating experiences as inherently transient, she supposed. "I just wondered if you thought you had to."

"Not that I'm not grateful," Dalia said, "but saving my life doesn't obligate me to cook for you for the rest of it, no."

"That isn't what I said," the woman said again; they both knew what they were dancing around. Dalia merely smiled and the woman narrowed her eyes before turning away, stretching her torso over the rocky shore as if it was no less comfortable than the finest linen. "Fine, what do I care what reasons you use to justify your nonsense."

“Because I’m ready to be happy," Dalia said, letting her eyes trail up towards the sun.

“That’s all?” The woman's voice rose sharply, unconvinced and uncomprehending.