The baby’s cries woke her up, echoing the thunder outside, as though they both were feeling angry and overlooked. She went over to the crib and picked him up, trying to calm him down before he tired himself out. A scrunched, red, angry face stared back at her in contempt, cheeks streaked with tears, lips wet with effort. It was remarkable how a rosy infant, a thing of beauty when at peace, could turn into a cacophonous crimson creature, when it wasn’t. She rocked him in her arms slowly, hoping that the mellow consistent movements would put him at ease. It only managed to lessen the intensity of his wails, nothing more. She put him over her shoulder and began to gently pace the room. The bright streaks of lightning, each one faster than the other; as though in a race to see who could light the ground on fire first, echoed outside; creating a painting with their reflections on the window pane.

The rain hadn’t begun yet but it was only a matter of time. And by the looks of it, it was to be a heavy, determined one. This town however was desperately in need of such a downpour. The crops were riding out the dry spell best as they could but even the hardest of soldiers tend to need a reprieve. The baby began to finally quiet down. She could hear his heartbeat next to hers, muted little beats of life, echoing alongside hers. She pressed her lips faintly to his forehead, knowing full well she wasn’t allowed too. She held him tighter and let her warmth engulf him, hoping that a feminine body, one that wasn’t his mother’s would still mimic the physical comfort it was supposed to offer.

This little boy would be deprived of what little affection noble families seldom showed. She sighed as she thought of her lady, his mother, and what would become of this family if she were to go. Of this little boy and the childhood he would be deprived of. A display of emotions was frowned upon, and so this was a lesson taught early on. She had seen the result of this. Noble men bound by their blue bloods to uphold what was right, even if it meant the loss of a love, or sometimes even life. She dismissed those memories harshly and began to lower him down to the crib. His eyes were hooded, still a few minutes away from falling asleep. She began to rock the crib very slowly, as though the faintest of winds were pushing it.
“Baby is drowsing, cosy and fair
Mother sits near in her rocking chair
Forward and back, the cradle she swings
Though the baby sleeps, he hears what she sings”
She began to sing in a subdued voice. Yes I am not your mother, dearest, but I can well make sure you’re being sung to like one, she thought wryly, as she went through the lyrics.
She heard footsteps outside, and it was probably the Lord, judging by the heavy sounds.
The door opened with a creak, and soft, yellow light poured in. Without missing a beat she asked in the same voice, “Couldn’t sleep, my Lord?” taking care to pull the words in the same tone as the song.

There was no reply and she continued rocking and gradually stopped. The baby’s soft snores filled the room. She covered him up with the blanket. She finally looked over and saw the Lord, standing next to the door, hair dishevelled, shirt undone. He was a fine looking man, and also one with integrity too. He was a kind benefactor of this little town, and so became one of the most looked upon people. And it wasn’t without hard work that he had earned his respect here.

“Did he wake you, my lord?” she asked again.
He shook his head and smiled, “No, I came to simply check on him. And found you already there, cooing him back to sleep. Truly we are grateful and lucky to have you.”
She smiled back and gazed at him, her heart sighing because had life been fair he would’ve been hers.

“Come back to bed wont you. The little thing has gone back to sleep hasn’t he?” a voice called from the doorway.
Her Lady stood in the corridor, with a small lantern of her own. She looked at her husband and her maid, standing next to each other, speaking in hushed tones. She tried to damp down the jealousy that surged. She was not this person, this paranoid woman who was constantly skeptical and doubtful of everyone around her. She made herself believe that she hadn’t changed, that the only change in this house was the snore coming from the nursery, not her.

She went back to the bedroom with her husband. As she covered the sheets over herself, she listened to the rain beat outside and tried to calm the voices in her head, each one screaming something more violent than the other.
‘The maid, look at her, so pretty. And you, an old crone.’
‘Your own son will never recognize you with all the time she spends with him.’
‘Doesn’t the baby look like her; don’t they have the same eyes?’
They never stopped. She drank the sleeping draft the physician had prescribed her, and as the voices began to fade, she fell asleep.
The maid woke up to a chilly morning. The rain had done well. The fields were looking pleasant and it was quite a sight. As she began dusting the nursery, she thought of last night and how the lady had looked at her vindictively. Perhaps it was only her imagination. But there was talk that that the lady had become increasingly depressed after giving birth. Mood swings and paranoia as such. Despite being inclined to believe that, the maid also knew deep down, her lady was a good person. They both were. They both took her in, when they had no necessity to. They rested their on faith on a few words of a common street woman, who ran away from home and had nothing to her name. She could’ve been a thief for all they knew and yet they hired her. It spoke volumes of them both, these acts of kindness they kept bestowing. And that was how she found herself the lady’s maid. She was with her during her pregnancy, reading both her ladyship and the baby stories. Singing them songs, tucking them both to bed at night. Though the delivery had taken its toll on her, the lady went through it bravely. The last few weeks prior to it were tiring and yet she welcomed the baby with open arms and a tired smile. The entire town was festive that day, rejoicing the birth of the boy and the lord couldn’t have been happier. It was the perfect little family, the lord, his wife, their son and the maid.

It was the days that followed after that left the maid wondering and worrying over her lady. She was increasingly agitated, only seeing the baby when he needed to be fed. As time went on, she stopped coming at night to tuck him in. This sense of coldness and detachment left everyone in the household confused, but everyone knew better than to say a word. The lord, finally taking matters into his own hands, ordered a physician. A diagnosis was not arrived at but for the moment sleeping drafts and calming incense were given.

“We shall take a walk outside, dear. Bring him along too,” the lady spoke from outside the room with a smile on her face. She seemed in better moods today. They climbed the hill and spoke as they walked, the maid still carrying the baby, with no indication from the lady that she wanted to do so. They came across a tree with a sling of sorts hanging from it, “A makeshift cradle, you see. The lord had it made a while back, said something about how fresh air was healthy for the boy,” a pause, “and for me,” she said.

The maid stared back at her mutely and the lady gestured to place the baby in. “Don’t worry, it will hold. It’s not going to snap off. It’s made off sturdier material, you see. Sometimes I think you worry about my baby, more than I should.” The maid ignored the malicious tone and set the baby in the cradle, taking utmost care, still not letting him go. As she saw that, the cradle still held she lifted her arms out and stared in wonder, how a simple yet well thought contraption this was!

“You can rock him and sing as you do. It’s been weeks since I’ve heard you sing,” the lady said as she sat down on the ground, a blanket spread underneath her. “There’s food for later as well, so take your time about it. I want to get better,” she said the last part quietly. The maid felt a sense of pride for her mistress; here she was, doing her best to do well by her son and herself. She began to sing and cradle the baby. They painted a pretty picture, straight out of a fairy tale. A content mistress and her maid, with a squealing, adoring baby in a cradle.

Days passed, each more gloomily than the other for the lady. She had times when she wanted to rock her baby to sleep, and other times when she wanted him to be put to sleep, quite literally, forever. This sense of finality and darkness that was creeping upon her terrified her. What love she was supposed to feel for her baby was instead festering into something morbid. She did feel attachment to her baby, but it was more of a primal feeling, rather than something of a nurturing kind. She went through the day in various phases of jealousy, rage and despair. Her own husband couldn’t bring a smile on her face nowadays and she was as clueless as him as to the reason for her melancholy.

She was in her room. Despite it being bolted shut, she could hear the bawling and snivelling, and the maid desperately trying to sooth him. She should go shut him up, once and for all. It would be so easy, just a pillow over the face and it would be done. She pulled herself back; horrified that she was imagining smothering her own son. Silent tears started falling down as she thought of the monster she was turning into, rather than the mother she hoped she’d be. Her husband sat down slowly next to her, his arms circling her, trying to calm her down. He made small sounds of comfort. Both the lord and the maid, trying to quell tears and fears, yet neither successful in their mission.

With time, both mother and son quietened. “I think of killing him, every time he cries,” the lady said softly, into the dark room. The lord hid his surprise remarkably, but he suspected something of the sort of his wife. Day by day she seemed more withdrawn from herself, and it broke his heart to see her so. His once vibrant, courageous partner, now an emotional time bomb. “There’s the annual town festival tomorrow. You should come. It might do you good, and the people have been anxious for you to be social again. Give it a chance,” he said. She whispered her assent quietly and both slowly drifted asleep.
The Town festival was one of the liveliest celebrations to happen, and it was so for good reason. All of them took part, and from the games to the food, it was bound to set anybody’s mood alight with happiness. The lady strolled with her maid, a glass of wine in hand. There was a bonfire and people were dancing a jig. The mood was set and drunk with revelry. Jubilance and gratification shone in everybody’s eyes and yet the lady stuck out like a sore thumb. The food that she used to once love made her stomach turn over and the townspeople she used to sit alongside with now looked like vermin beneath her, begging for her attention. She saw her husband and went and joined him, dismissing the maid and carrying the baby herself. He was supposed to be a welcome burden. But all she felt now as she held him was disgust. He felt like a warm rice sack and she was tempted to simply put him down on the ground and dust her hands off. She gave the baby to her husband immediately; appalled that she might suddenly do what she had thought.
As they sat down, the lady saw her maid among the crowd, dancing with a carefree smile across her face. She was beautiful. As the night progressed, she noticed how her maid was the jewel of the town. Loved by all, spoken so kindly about. She saw as she accepted a piece of cake from the baker, shyly grinning.
‘What a shameless flirt,’ thought the lady and turned, only to find her husband looking at her as well.
The lady rolled her lips in disgust and said, “If you planned on wagging your tongue at her like a dog, you should’ve at least left me home.”
He looked back suddenly and replied in concern, “What could’ve possibly gotten into you! You know full well I don’t harbour such feelings. And if I wanted to I would’ve taken someone else years ago. You and I both, employed her together. And look at how much she’s grown. I was simply marvelling at that.”
The lady knew he was truthful and sincere, but it seemed that the voice of reason disappeared. And all that remained her head was doubt, and some more doubt. She didn’t dignify him with a reply and left the festival, angrily trudging back home, taking each step with tenacity. She was the one who gave her maid a means to make money, gave her food, shelter. And she could just as easily take it back. And that was her son, which the maid kissed daily and sung to daily. This was her town and her people, not some runaway girl-woman’s. She would teach her a lesson, she decided.
She went back home and waited, for her patience would soon be paid. She waited until she heard the baby and the maid sleep, until their breaths came consistently. She watched over them in the nursery. The maid laying down in the rocking chair as she was, fatigued. What once was dedication and devotion, now looked like treachery. The maid was going to steal her family from her, she knew it. She could see it now as it became clearer. She would be declared mad and thrown into an asylum, and the maid would live her life. Sleeping next to her husband everyday and patting her baby as though he were hers. This would end now, she vowed.
She picked up the baby, for the very first time with a desire to hold him. He remained quiet as she padded out of the room. She went out of the door of the manor towards the side, where the nursery overlooked the garden. They didn’t put the nursery at a higher storey, for an irrational fear that the baby may fall down. But this would do as well. She put the baby down on the garden, in between a patch of rosebushes, knowing in time a thorn would prick him, the pain awakening him and his cries, the entire household.
A rosebush, how fitting. One often forgets how something as beautiful and innocent as that of a rose, could be barbed, drawing blood when it needs. As all precious things in this world, it guards itself with these thorns. Anything like a rose often gets plucked first and easily without any remorse, and it is then that these thorns are of use. These thorns of protest and protection that guards the rose. And so the infant much like the rose was placed there, but without the maid who, had she been there, would’ve protected him from the pain.
As she put him down, she opened the window and saw the maid still asleep, one hand on the crib as to comfort the baby if something had happened. Oh how disappointed she would be. The lady walked back swiftly to her room, and crawled back into sleep. A smile sat on her face, as the baby started screaming.
The next morning the house was in uproars. The maid stood in the middle of the hall, her face a mixture of confusion and fear. Fear not of herself but of what happened to the baby. He might not have been hers, but she loved him as if he were. It was difficult that, living in the shadows. But she did love this boy like her own.
The lady sat, expressionless, with no indication that she was affected by yesterday’s events. Her hands were tightly wound, her face a blank mask. The lord looked distraught, his logic stating that the maid could’ve made a mistake but his faith arguing back that she was a good person.
He tried again, “It is quite possible, you might’ve made a mistake. It’s all right. These unfortunate things happen. We were all drunk last night. Perhaps you left the window open for a bit of air and left it at that.”
The maid replied vehemently, “No, my lord. I would never do such a thing. Never! I love and care for your child like my very own.”
So she does want my child for herself, the lady thought viciously. The physician came out with the baby, swaddled in bandages and ointments. Red welts were dotted across his pale, unmarked skin when the maid found him. And it broke her heart to see him hurt so.
“He will be all right. Their just scratches, refrain from being outdoors for the fear of contracting any infections,” the physician said and gave the baby to be taken to the nursery. The maid knew, she would no longer be allowed to be close to the baby. The lord voiced her thoughts, “You’re now to be banned from the nursery. You must not be seen in it at any time. I will ask for you to be stationed elsewhere in the house.”
And as the days passed, misfortune began to court the maid with even more fervour than before. It seemed almost constantly that she was being held responsible for something or the other. She knew for a fact that if this kept going on, she would have to run away again. Either on her own or she would be banished. But before then if by some miracle, faith in her was restored, then there might be a chance. Missing food, stolen utensils and other grievances kept piling up. Added into it was an absurd rumour that she could be practicing witchcraft. Absurd it was to the maid, but not so to the rest of the town. They were faith keeping folks and they believed that if there was Light, then there had to be Dark. In this town, Dark there was, but not in the heart of the maid as most suspected.
The maid began to visit the child in secret. Though it broke her heart to do so, it hurt her even more when she couldn’t see him. She did love that boy, like her own. And she knew his mother didn’t. And so if she could, she would go see him, at least until she was alive.
The lady began to grow more impatient than ever. Something inside of her demanded reward, and demanded it soon. It got sick of these trivial games of get-the-maid-in-trouble and wanted something real. She stopped caring for the baby all together. She had begun to grow as a manifestation of the darkness inside her. And the Dark wanted blood.
That very night was ominous in itself. Ravens took shelter in the town and wolves howled, both sensing doom nearby. A fire which started in the nursery engulfed the house, burning it down, flame by flame. As the townsmen doused it, they found all the members alive and unharmed. The lady however was still in shock.
“She did it. I saw her standing over my son, muttering words of gibberish. She started this fire. I know it. She has been a jealous, thieving miscreant and I demand a trial. This harridan must be executed for her witchcraft before sundown tomorrow,” she screamed.
The maid had nothing to say. She knew this was coming. It seemed silly; she ever thought that things could get better. Or that this would stop. But when the lady herself was behind this, was it any surprise that this didn’t happen sooner. The lord took his wife aside and tried to talk some sense into her. He saw her no longer as his wife but a raging bloodthirsty creature. Her eyes were devoid of emotion.
“Don’t do this. Don’t break this family apart. How could she be a witch, when all she has ever done is be faithful to us? You know full well as I that it might be someone deliberately blaming her. She loves our son, as much as I do, “he said.
“Oh you think I’ll let you get away that easily. By all means go support her and I will scream to the town of your torrid affair with the little servant maid. And who do you think this town will be more inclined to believe. A distraught protective mother or a rambunctious lord who couldn’t help himself and a witch who tried to take my life. I will mark my neck if I have to. Or I will strangle my own son. I will do anything to see that witch gone,” she replied calmly, as though she were talking about the weather.
The lord watched in horror, what his wife had now become. Her once admirable stubbornness became reckless endangerment. She was determined and nothing could stop her.
#horror #fantasyfiction #LoveVsDestiny