Gertrude
Gertrude knelt in her garden, one of her favorite places to be. She bent over and patted a mound of dirt into shape over a newly planted seed. It was a little late to be planting, but she had a good feeling it would take.
She had been sleeping poorly. So instead, she put a little extra time into all her chores. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she had better make herself useful. Besides, working helped her forget the dreams.
She picked herself up slowly. Her old bones resisted, whining with creaks. She grabbed the basket and made her way back inside. The fireplace was alive and shifting quietly. Morning fires always had a better spirit than night fires; they were docile and comforting. Nighttime was for the quiet and dark. Gertrude needed to feel the wind, or lack of it, and see all the stars as clearly as possible. The eyes were corrupted by a night fire. Luckily it wasn’t cold enough to need one these days.
The kettle, hung over the fire, was leaking steam; she had caught it before a violent boil took. No need for the first tea of the day to be scorching. She poured herself a cup and started chopping up the carrots she had just picked. She diced up a couple of potatoes and added them all to a pot with some spices and water. She set it farther from the fire so it could slowly cook throughout the day. Gertrude had learned that the cost of doing things quickly was rarely worth the time saved doing it right.
She loaded a basket with onions, fresh carrots, leeks, a can of beans, elderberry, and thyme. She added a few logs to the fire and finished her tea. The black tabby cat had woken up and watched her scuttle about before sauntering to its dish for a breakfast snack. She gave it a good scratch behind the ears before taking her things and heading out the door.
Eliza hadn’t woken up yet. Gertrude walked down the path, the Raven circling above. She had sent the Raven to check on Eliza, and the woman was still in bed. Her condition was worsening.
Gertrude distracted herself from the lingering thoughts of her dreams to consider Eliza’s position. The woman had fallen ill and skimmed the surface of life and death every day. Gertrude kept her strong enough to keep fighting, but she hadn’t improved for two weeks. She thought Eliza would surely pass one of these nights, but every day she woke to battle. Gertrude would try to convince her again, same as every day, to come stay with her. But Eliza was stubborn and wanted to die at home. Gertrude respected that.
Gertrude didn’t understand her Queen sometimes. The people of the village called Gertrude a witch; they thought her mysterious, hideous, and unnatural. Gertrude had worked hard for that reputation. But the truth was that she was chosen, and had accepted her fate to serve a Queen of another realm. Her Queen was fair, if not somewhat unpredictable. In exchange for profound knowledge of the Arcana, Gertrude ran errands and fulfilled the various requests made of her. The Queen spoke to her through visions and whispers while she slept. And now Gertrude was thinking about the dreams again. She shook her head to rattle away the thoughts.
Death was a funny thing, and its perception lie with the beholder. For some, Death wasn’t fair. For a few it was elusive. But Gertrude knew there was a proper time for all life to end. Her Queen sought to ensure that mortal life didn’t tamper with that timing too much. So Gertrude walked the long path to Eliza’s.
The woman was slouched by the fireplace when Gertrude arrived. “Oh good,” Eliza said through laborious breaths. “Make a fire, will you?” Gertrude set the basket on the table and went over to the woman. She grabbed Eliza under the arms and helped her stand, shuffle a few paces, then gently set her down in the rocking chair.
“Always a fire at mine,” Gertrude said. She got a blanket and set it across Eliza’s lap. “Getting too old to walk here, my knees are locking up.”
Eliza scoffed; her eyes barely open. “Locked knees, she says.” Eliza managed a chuckle. Gertrude made a fire and started tea. She felt Eliza’s forehead. She scuttled over and wet a cloth, rung it, and placed it on Eliza’s head. Gertrude unloaded her basket and started making a healing water: lemon, salt, elderberry, more salt. “Did you dream last night?” Eliza asked.
“I did.” Gertrude wished she hadn’t mentioned her nightmares, now she’d never hear the end of it.
“I dreamt a beautiful dream,” Eliza said. “That your potions were palatable.”
“Whatever’s in you needs a firm burning.” Gertrude handed the woman the water mix and moved to check on the tea, it wasn’t ready.
“Sit, woman,” Eliza said. “You’re tiring me,” Gertrude grumbled. The tea wasn’t ready. She needed to tend to Eliza’s bed, but there weren’t many things to do. She obliged, taking a seat on the couch. Eliza rolled her head toward Gertrude. “Bad?”
Screaming. Families separated. Crying. Bodies floating in darkness. Pain. Evil. Darkness no eyes could see through. Monstrosities not meant for this world.
“Bad.” Gertrude nodded. The two sat like that for a while.
Next Chapter: https://therealzsmith.com/2023/01/25/resistance-chapter-3/
Previous Chapter: https://therealzsmith.com/2023/01/27/resistance-chapter-1/
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