Tears of Leyden (25 page)

I hate the words as they come to mind. I thrash out and burst into a fit of sobbing until my stomach hurts from the impact. My throat grows sore but I cannot stop it as it continues. I grab at myself and try to forget where I am, try to tell myself it won’t happen…but the words keep repeating themselves in my brain like a lost melody;
at least on his end.
I try to make it stop but the moment I do, it returns worsened and I am sobbing. I choke at least three times to the point where I can no longer breathe, but it doesn’t matter if I can’t…
he will not be able to either.

I sob until the breath I breathe feels hoarse and raw, ragged in my throat and shaking in my chest. My eyes burn and I am dizzy, but I keep myself from fainting by focusing on my stomach’s grumbling and the lightness in my thoughts. I feel tired out, like I just ran two miles, yet I feel I have accomplished nothing other than gnawing and pitying with myself. I reach for the sheets and pull them up beneath me, tangling as they wrap around my legs uncomfortably. I bring it up to my face and wipe off the remaining tears from my eyes, trying to unstiffen my lashes from the salty water.

When I am finished drying my face, I turn over and look up at the ceiling, wondering what purpose I have in this life without my timber to keep me and water to guide me. The ceiling starts to blur and I let it, taking the moment of relief to rest my nerves. Tears trickle down my cheeks and drip off. I listen to them fall and patter against the fabric of the pillow beneath my head.

I drift for what feels like a short time, letting my eyes close, but I fear even this much and wish to return. It is hard to when I am so tired, but the boards above my room creaking is all it takes to make my eyes open.

I have lain here long. I have slept, but restlessly. I woke up to the shouts up on deck sometimes and the moment I remembered where I am, I also remembered where I am not and tears would keep me from sleep. I end it.

I sit at the desk now, and having found paper and a pencil I write a letter. I don’t know to who, or for what, but it slowly unfolds as I try to practice letters which I learnt reading Nadeje’s scripture, rewriting them, awfully I admit, and trying to be patient as I make an A look like a Q. I flood the page with different lines of his work, spilling out heartbroken anecdotes as well as his beautiful writing. I can’t keep myself from thinking so I let the thinking come out of me. I figured it might be adequate, and it seems to work.

I praise myself inside as I write out a proper A.

I keep writing, unable to stop and unable to now get my hand to relax. I write out everything, slow and unsteady, ruining some letters, delighting myself with others. Also spilling some ink onto the page as I press the quill too hard. I grimace as I accidentally poke through a page, and silently carry on with the sentence.

I sit here who knows how long, my quill my tongue and distraction from my grief. The paper my vent and receiver of the blows I deliver with the words and scribbles of letters. By the time I find myself stopping, I have a pile, not just a pile but a couple of piles of stacked papers. I take the one closest to me, and slowly try to make out the words.

“And in time yu wil alwayse b the lite of God. Ggggggg f f f f f f f ddeded. Alwse remember my words. Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff ggggggggggggggggggggggggg h h h h h h h h h h h h bbBBBBBB Nnnnnmmmmmm uuuuuuuu rrrrrrrrrrrssssssss vvvvvv dddd ww”

I feel my heart break at every word of his book. I can’t read it. Yet I go on. I feel the tears blur my vision and I block out the apparent reason to stop. I pain myself, indulging with this much of him, at least his beliefs, his teachings, and his approaches about God. As much as I wanted the body that was the vehicle of these beliefs, I had at least something that could make up for part of him…
at least some of him.

The words pinch in my chest and I feel my throat tightening. I feel my chest shake as a sob catches in my throat as I don’t let it finish. I feel a tear stream down my cheek and it lands on the paper I read, wetting a word and blurring the ink.
It doesn’t make up for it.
I feel my hands absently grasp the piles of paper.
It doesn’t make up for any part of him.
I take both piles and standing, turn away from the desk. I can’t try to capture him in another object.
I can’t.

I suddenly have the urge to act violently and not willing to stop it, I grab hold of some papers and let them fly. They spew about and float until they reach the floor, where they land in a mess apart from each other. I do it again farther off and feel some release in my throat. I don’t understand it, but I don’t think twice to because I want it. I step closer to the door and throw another several sheets covered in scribbled alphabets and sentences, so that they are strewn over the floor.

I step further and do it again, and again, and again, and again, until finally I splay the last few out at the side of my bed by the mirror. I look at the soft covers and I feel that to release further, I need to rest. I do as my body tells me and climb into the covers. I lay down and for once I am able to ignore the shouts above. I close my eyes and pretend that the pillow is in Nadeje’s room, that the bed is Nadeje’s, and that the sounds above are Nadeje cooking dinner in the kitchen just outside the door. I relax. I don’t know how it works, but somehow I find myself able to drift.

I bolt upright, breathing hard.

Nadeje.

It is all I can think of and all I can bear to think of.
He is gone.
I feel exhausted and yet too angry to sleep. I sit up all the way and try to make myself get up. I can’t; all I can do is sit at the edge of the bed with my legs hanging limply off the side of the mattress. I stare down at the white floor. Then, I realize that it isn’t white, that it is just the papers. I look about me at the many lying with ink inscription across the floor. I notice that to the right the letters are lame and scribbled, messy, and illiterate. And then to the left they become better, readable, and satisfactory. I wonder if Nadeje had to go through the same practice. I wonder if he would be proud of me. I wonder if he would care.

A knock at the door sends shivers down my spine and though I know I shouldn’t, I pray for it to be Nadeje. I pray for it all to be a dream, a not so delightful nightmare that I could wake up from when I open the door. Or that he found me.

I rise from the bed and slowly make my way over the papers to the door. I wait a moment where I get there, breathing and trying to not look flustered.
What if it is him? What if he came for me?
I slowly open the door. The moment I look out though, my heart falls ten feet under the ship.

“You should eat something,” it is Zenith. Steam rises around his chest and then wafts beyond him into the hall. I smell the hint of parsley and carrots and beef broth. It makes me feel nervous and starved all over again. I look down to his hands at his waist, holding a bowl of soup. When I do not respond, he tries again. “Did I wake you?”

I take a moment then shake my head.

He sighs and holds out the bowl to me. I do not take it. I will not eat if Nadeje does not eat, and if he is here in Leyden I doubt he has.

“Lyra,” he holds it out closer, insisting.

I look up and see the worried frown on his brow. When once again I do not take it, he gently brushes past me.

“I will leave it here then…in case you change your…” he stops. “In God’s name...”

I have turned and watch him. He seems to notice the papers across the floor.

He is frozen for a long moment, and then gradually takes a step toward the pages. I almost stop him, not wanting him to know Nadeje,
my
Nadeje,
only
my Nadeje, not to be shared with anyone, especially not Zenith, but I hold back. I watch as he passes by a few pages, gazing over them with what seems like interest and disbelief.

“What...you write?”

I do not answer, so he turns to look straight at me. He looks stunned and almost upset. I shake my head.

He frowns. “Then where did this come from?” he demands it as he arcs out his hand to the papers in the room.

I look at him. “Me.”

He sighs, and then sets the soup on my desk. He seems to try to ignore the empty ink bottle. “I can’t believe it.”

I frown a little at the tone of his voice.

He turns back to the papers and then chuckles. “Girls aren’t supposed to write.”

It stabs me. I feel my chest heat up with a flame inside, while at the same time my heart is breaking in half with the insult and calmness of his voice as he says it. Maybe I have been spoilt by Nadeje’s equal nature, maybe just sheltered from the truth, but for all I know, I could never live with someone who wouldn’t allow me the privilege to empty out my heart in a unique or unexplainable way. I also know Zenith wouldn’t.

“Leave me,” it is a command, gentle, but also firm.

He turns and seeing my face actually smiles. “Lyra, this is one of the things he believed differently from the rest of us? Spain isn’t acquainted with woman’s flaws?”

I feel my heart drop even lower and my throat tightens. I can hardly word it. I avoid his gaze. “Zenith, leave me.”

He takes a moment, but then quietly exits the room, the obedience of his rank the only thing keeping him from staying. For once in the past several hours, I am thankful for my royalty.

Chapter 24

I wake up to a thudding on deck. A moment after there is a knock on my door. I frown, and then remembering where I am, I draw myself out from under the covers.

I open the door a minute later, and find my vader outside. I cannot think of what to do a moment, and his speech is what wakes me.

“Lyra, are you alright?”

I hesitate a moment, then nod.

He is calm. “May I come in?”

Once more I take a moment and then nod and open the door further. He steps past me, and as I close the door, I hear him stop.

“Lyra,” it is a breath, half an exclamation.

I watch his back as he views the room. The papers still lie out. I had left them, almost as a revolt against people like Zenith. Now I hope my vader isn’t one too.

He steps forward, kneels and picks up a piece of paper. After a moment he questions me. “You know how to write?”

This time, I answer. “Yes.”

He is silent a long moment. “Who taught you?”

I take a moment. “Self-taught,” it is honest, but also safe.

He shakes his head a moment, and then takes another to read. “You believe this?”

I don’t know what page he holds, and I don’t know what words he read, but I know that they came from Gilch’s teachings, and so I know I do.

“Yes,” I respond boldly, firmly and with passion.

He stares out across the room a while, and then begins to reach for another. “Help me clean this up Lyra.”

My heart stops.

I had expected he would believe in me. That he would take interest, that at least my own vader, who taught me how to read, would encourage me.
Be proud of me.
I feel my eyes and throat battle with tears. He turns to look at me and I cannot reply.

“Dear?”

I feel my throat tighten.

Nadeje would be proud.

Suddenly, I collapse to the ground. I land in a heap, slouched, crumpling papers as I land sobbing.

“Lyra?” it is uncertain and careful.

I can’t stop. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

I want to be left alone, want to wallow in my sorrow, want to be taken away to leave, to die, and to rest my heart…but I know that I can’t. I also know that he isn’t here. He left. Nadeje left and isn’t coming back.

I hardly feel it as two arms surround me and I am brought close into the warmth of his broad chest. I don’t react to it, and definitely didn’t ask for it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t accept it; especially from my vader. I feel him gently stroke my hair, and hear him whisper and hush me as I cry, promising me ease, promising me vengeance on those who I was hurt by, promising me wealth and safety and his fortune and care, promising me everything except for what I want. What I truly want. What I need. What I now need to breathe. I cry moaning and can’t stop it even as he tells me how much he missed me, how much he loves me. I can’t stop even as I feel his warmth a comfort to me, and even as I feel my own warmth returning as his encourages it. I do not try to stop it either. I let it out and don’t care if it bothers him anymore.

“Hush, Lyra…I will be here for you now…you’re safe…with me…with me, dear one…” he hums it against my ear, holding me to him amongst the many scattered pieces of my heart on the floor. “I love you, don’t worry, I love you and am proud of you.”

I lean against him and quiet down after a long while. When the tears finally stop, there is a lengthy silence and he shifts his hold, cradling me closer to his chest. “Are you any better?”

I grimace into his chest and almost want to push away, but also don’t want to; his embrace being the only other place than Nadeje’s that has made me feel at ease in the past few months. I shake my head and push closer, wanting to be held as long as possible, but also wanting to be alone and cold, to feel the full load of the solitude that would be the rest of my life. He sighs and I feel that I am tiring him, making me sob harder against his chest.

“Shh…shhhhhhh….you’re alright…” he once more assures me.

I curl close and sigh out shakily, tears dripping down into his coat.

“Hush now, are you better?”

I shiver a little, but nod once, letting him know just for his sake.

He sighs, and thankfully still does not release me. “The reason I came to speak with you, is because I need to know if you want to stay with me, or to stay in Leyden.”

Everything shuts down inside.
How could he do that?
I feel my heart sink.
How could he so quickly think I could make this decision? Expect me to make this decision after what happened? After this has been my home for my eighteen years of life?

I shake all over. He feels it. “Lyra…you are ill.”

I shake my head as I rock against him with another sob, but he is slowly pulling me out from his chest. I whine in protest, but he rises and lifts me with him, taking me and setting me apart from himself.

“Do you wish to lie down?”

I shake my head and sob again, but he does not listen and takes me in his arms again. I am lifted and he steps to my bed, and here lays me down over the cover. I resent it, but do not fight it, not wanting him to do something else unwanted.

He watches me a moment, and then brushes his hand across my forehead and leans close. “It is your decision to make; I will not force you either way,” the words are meaningless to me, for it gives me no decision on the worry I have.

He kisses my forehead, and for a moment I feel like that child again, him tucking me in for the night, reading to me and then turning out the light. As he rises though, I come back into myself, and remember everything on instant.

“Rest,” he orders gently. Then he starts away.

I do not protest, do not ask for more, and do not speak my heart. All I do is lie here sickly. All I do is wish instead of act. I ignore Nadeje’s first teaching to me as we met:
“It is the act of doing what is right, not just thinking, or doing wrong that matters. Always…”
I turn my face into my pillow, blocking out the pain.

He was wrong. It didn’t matter always. It didn’t matter to me now.