She knew it was illogical—-her father would have rejected the idea as fantasy—-but Ilsa knew the very moment her mother passed away. Her mother had been poorly for some weeks, barely eating, slowly growing weaker. On that day Ilsa had been altering a vest for Old Man Sandler. She was sitting in silence, pushing a needle that seemed to rebel against piercing the thick fabric, when the realization appeared in her head the way a memory might, or a daydream. There were no bells, no visitations. The knowledge was simply there: it was the second day of Spring, and her mother was dead.
Confirmation of the news hit Ilsa like she'd been stabbed through the heart.
After the funeral Pastor Beckford pulled her aside. His eyes seemed to linger a fraction too long on places other than her face. Every time he did that a queasy feeling rose from her gut and rose rapidly towards her throat. Then there was his scent. Sweet, like honeysuckle, but too much. Ilsa used to love honeysuckle; now it made her want to vomit. She held her breath. What did he want? There was nothing she wanted to say to him.
Beckford maneuvered himself up beside her. That cloying scent was overpowering.
“How are you doing, dear?”
“As well as you'd expect.” She hoped the words sounded as grating to his ears as she intended. How did he think she’d be?
“It's not really the time or place for this, but…have you put any thought toward your future?” He leaned forward, frowning slightly. “It's just that the hospice is short of hands and we've no local surgeon anymore…and your father is going to need a place.” His lips made a smacking sound. Ilsa leaned as far away as she could. “I’ll just come out and say it. If he's to stay on at the hospice, you'll need to come work there. His room, board and care in lieu of pay.” He smiled. “It's more than you’ll get from anyone else given your…situation.”
Then his hand was on her shoulder, pulling her into an embrace. “We can work closely together. You'll need support,” he said. His face was at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She wanted to push him away, but her arms felt weak, as if they were arms from a different body, not her own. Maybe all of this was happening to someone else. He sucked in a long breath through his nose, and made an appreciative sound.
“Think on it,” he said, pushing her away, but his hands remained on her shoulders. “Just think on it.”
After he left, she ran. Head down, barely seeing a thing through the veil of tears that flooded her eyes. She doubted they would ever stop. She didn’t want them to.
When she finally realized she'd stopped running, she found herself in front of the makeshift tin-roofed market stall Kerrie rented as a shop front for her clothing alteration business. Behind the weatherbeaten trestle table that served as a counter, tucked up against the back wall, Kerrie had piled scraps and remnants into a broken wicker basket. Ilsa wanted to bury herself in that basket, cover herself in the musty fabric and sleep it all away. Instead she walked by the trestle, rather than scooting under it as she usually did, and sat beside the basket, resting her head on her drawn up knees.
The world had changed. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but it had. Her mother, her father...it was all wrong. Everything was wrong. Tendrils of fear were spreading through the city, transforming everything they touched.
It was everywhere. She sensed it in the marketplace. Even on a busy day the once-bustling city center was now only a third as big as it had been. The pears and woolen things in bright colors she’d loved so much were gone. The jugglers, knife dancers and her favorite snake charmer, all absent. Where once had been loud haggling and braggadocio there were now only furtive glances and quick, cold exchanges of coin, as if the merchants and the shoppers were worried it might all be taken from them at any time.
Most frightening were the roaming groups of men. They’d taken to wearing black armbands, and while at first they'd been content to gather together and chant slogans while they roamed the streets, now they were visibly armed. There was even a permanent roadblock on the Fourways intersection, within view of the town hall. Ilsa avoided them where she could. She went right around the roadblock, using other ways, but she saw them somewhere nearly every day.
It was as if the light had drained from the city; spring had fled, to be replaced by a long winter freeze.
Author's Note:
I hope you enjoyed Part 3 of The Mask of White and Red. Stay tuned for the next episode to be released soon. If you did enjoy this, please do upvote, resteem and comment.Part 1 is here, please do go and check it out: https://steemit.com/fiction/@thinknzombie/the-mask-of-white-and-red-part-1-make-a-minnow-sbd-pledge-special-edition
Part 2 is here: https://steemit.com/fiction/@thinknzombie/the-mask-of-white-and-red-part-2
